Sunday morning, 0600 hours. All is quiet in the respective Vale households. Slumbering forms of the now overweight brethren of might could be seen, swollen bellys and rotund arses peeking around the now seemingly hankie sized duvets… the result of several weeks of self enforced recreation and over indulgence. As the alarms sounded some three hours later in time for the obligatory colon cleanout, the wives and girlfriends swore and started giving it the “how nice it’s been the last few weeks with a free Sunday” and “do you have to go? We could do a bit of god loving if you don’t” but nay the men weren’t swayed and off they popped to the lav for twas a game afoot.
Come quarter past ten the team were still waiting for the school gates to be opened, no sign of the opposition when finally some bright spark chirped up with a “oh, we moved pitches didn’t we?”. Off to Mostyn, and memories of no showers and bogs and a mouldy, dank changing room came flooding back. Suddenly even given the missus a bit of loving seemed like a good idea. Not to worry though, who’re we playing… SHITE HORSE? The 3-2 up away from home on a sub-aqua pitch and they equalised with no minutes to go shite horse? The Sherminator shite horse? ROIGHT!
As usual the ref didn’t turn up, so a bit of cajoling left their gaffer to referee. “There’s no animals here are there?” said he “Laan’s a bit of a sloth” said Stu. “Hardy ha ha” said everyone else… somewhat forced humour this morning. No whistle, no coin. Dan proposed the old faithful scissors paper stone on three. Danbo went on four and still lost. Shite Horse kicked off and it was a fairly shakey start. The only thing of note was the absence of the Sherminator, nineties relic and self proclaimed faith healer to the Horse. Has he actually been sent back in time for one lucky lady? Oh and Camo playing himself up front, much to everyone’s agreement. “Well if I was the gaffer I’d play myself up front as well”. Anyway, a few defensive errors gave the lads the early squitters, Pete ‘mistakenly’ passing to Brew after he called for it, then giving the ball to the opposition, only for them to shoot wide. Calm down lads.
Eleven minutes in the Vale magic finally starts. Danbo laid the ball out wide to Gougey with capital use of the toe. Gougey, his first and only kick of the game, crossed for little Matt five yards out. Despite desperately trying to jump over the ball, excessive pie eating over the festive period left his jumping ability somewhat lacking. The ball carooned off his heel and ballooned in the goal. 1-0 Vale.
All was well in the world and the lads finally started to settle down. Somewhat too much it would seem. Five minutes later, the chalk still dry on the scoreboard, Steve had the ball on the edge of the box. A girly call from Andy asked for the backpass, but clearly trying to demonstrate his lack of ability in the centre half position and seemingly wanting his place back from the gaffer, Steve elected instead to mazy dribble past the Sofa, nutmegging in the process, then calmly side footing the ball into his own net. Oh and I think the bald chap up front for the Horse might have got a touch on it… dubious goals panel anyone? 1-1.
Back straight on the offensive the lads looked bright. Some lovely football around the whole team (except Mr Gouge, the ginger outcast) again found Ratboy in the middle. A smart looking ball out to the pirate down the right came back in with interest and through someone’s legs to find Laaner in the middle hungry for some action. Bish bash bosh, back of the net. 2-1.
Six minutes later and it’s a carbon copy chance, only different, and its Stuey down the right to Gerry, laid across again to Laan and bangadiddlee it’s bloody in. 3-1. It looked like the Horse might just fold quicker than Superman on laundry day, but then it was half time and the pace was quickly taken out of the game.
Second half kicked off and nothing really happened. The Horse clawed their way back into the game slowly. A few half chances saw Andy dirty his shirt for the first time in ’06 with an athletic dive to the left after another Mophead fuckup. The Sofa raised his game once again from a corner, this time enrolling the ninja patty cakes moves to twat the ball out of play. Smudger nearly blotted his copybook for the second time with a seemingly innocuous Bobby Moore-esque tackle just inside the box, a slight use of the arm to wrestle the ball out of the attacker’s reach. Finally it happened. Baldy slipped in again due to lax marking and although Moppy ran alongside shouting insults about his attitude and cooking abilities, the striker slipped it home past the newly upgraded Rocking Chair. (Come on Andy, it’s slightly more active than a sofa) 3-2.
The second goal however seemed to take the wind out of the Horse, and the lads started again to remount and pound away at their collective asses. Gougerella took seventeen corners, knowing this would be his only chance to touch the ball, and Laan headed every one over the bar. All realised the pace had slowed. It was time for the secret weapon Camo decided, release the gimp… sorry ginger whippet. And out he popped, hind legs lean yet powerful, in a two drinking straws kind of way. And Alex as well. And so off went the whippet down the right wing till he was nought but a blur. Realising he had forgotten the ball he was back in an instant to receive it, then like a flash back down the right. So fast he was going… but wait, Laan, aka slothy, overtook and swiped the ball over into the middle, Alex was there but he’s still stretching, the ball bounces off his knee and pops into the net. 4-2.
And so on went the game and then it was all over. Five weeks of waiting, of frustration and lust building up to a frenzy of Sunday morning action then it was gone. The Vale were left with wet pants, partially fulfilled but somehow deflated. A week to wait before the next fix. Can we play the Bailiffs? Yes you can.
Attendence 13
