"And lo, ye shall see the abomination of desolation, spoken of by Daniel the prophet, flee into the mountains... woe unto them that are with child... For there shall be great tribulation, such as was not seen since the beginning of the world to this time... there should no flesh be saved", chanted the baying masses of 'Warrior' fans that had turned up expecting a routine demolition of the miserable 'Anonny Jonny's XI'.
But instead of routine victory these fans witnessed the 'End of Days', as the 'Warriors' goal was ransacked 6 times, condemning them to ignominious defeat and quite probably condemning the rest of us to a fiery doom.
Indeed 'Death' himself presided over the occasion, looming over the shoulder of psychotic rage-muffin and befuddled first team manager Sam Thorpe for most of the evening, his palid grey face almost as hideous as his blood curdling choice of Hi-Tek footwear, indeed so hideous that the meer sight of them forced mercurial wingman Harry Thorpe to tear at his own eyes thus rendering him blind, deaf and dumb.
Amidst the chaos Thorpe's wheelchair burst into flames as he could be heard screaming incomprehensibly to his players "whosoever was not found written in the motherfucking book of life I shall cast into the motherfucking lake of fire!!!" So enraged was the manager that he didn't notice his own hands had melted to the chair, the stench of burning flesh strong enough to cause spontaneous mass vomiting from players on the adjacent Littledown pitches.
But this was no unreasonable response from Thorpe, as the Anonny Jonny's continuously found a quick route to goal, exposing a soft core with the simplest of counterattacks. Indeed they took the lead in the match, but at such an early stage the Warriors laughed it off as a hilarious statistical improbability, before bulldozing midfield bastard, Tim Clarke, Akinfenwa'd his way through 3 challenges with all the certainty of Jimmy Savile waltzing through a children's ward.
Before the Jonny's could whinch their sobbing captain's grotesque girth back to standing, substitute Christian Smith had burst through on goal, seducing the goalkeeper with a rogueish smile, before finishing sweetly between his legs. At such a moment of glory and homo-erotic, pseudo-sexual conquest, nobody could possibly have expected the way things would unravel over the remainder of the match. So pitiful are the Johnnies and so remarkable were the ensuing events, that it would cause one to go perfectly insane even attempting to recollect how they came from 2-1 down to 4-2 up at half time.
Confusion reigned as defensive stalwarts Puglianini and Milne, so isolated by the rest of their side sang prayers to God asking "why hast thou forsaken us?", only to be struck dumb by terror when finding goalkeeper Robbie Johnston had shrunk half a foot, all colour drained from his skin and hair burst into demonic flame.
Instilled with that terror, Milne, like a startled race horse, galloped forwards from his defensive position flailing wildly at the air with both arms and legs, and by some perverse fortune struck the ball as it got in his way, hitting it hard and true, straight into the back of the net, taking half of the Jonny's goalkeeper's face with it.
Confusion and madness was so deeply engrained that not even the angelic presence of the Boy-Prophet George Wheeler, now playing more centrally, could help proceedings. His glorious finish for an equalizer instantly made redundant by a defensive evacuation akin to that of the evacuation of the Titanic, leaving Puglianini chasing balls like a dog chases balloons. The rest of the team lay wasted about the pitch in foetal positions, blocking their ears to the deafening chorus of angels, matched only by the mad baying of loon-box manager Sam Thorpe whose words had become little more than the gutteral sound of a water buffalo being eaten alive by lions. His eyes straining out of his head, lip half chewed off and legs now melted and fused to the pitch.
As the fans trudged off to face their last hours of life on earth, the players shook hands and split up into search parties to try and find Jon Milne who had been spotted running along the Wessex Way, entirely naked but for a pair of Sondico socks. Manager Sam Thorpe remains rooted to the Littledown pitch, still shouting and pointing at players that only he can see now.
Weep ye, for all hope is lost.
