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Algae poisons Geese as no-fun-guy clings on.
Dec 3rd - Cannyknockers 3 Rottingham 1
A rolling ball gathers no moss but will flick around lots of algae if it’s at Cannock…
There are currently few things more turgid, moribund or slippery than this waterbased pitch. Trying to clean the algae from one’s shirt is a tale involving a Vanish bar, soapy lather and scrubbers. Rather like the clean up operation after a night out in West Bridgford. The pitch seeps into the soul, as surely as polonium-210 wipes out stubborn KGB stains of the most troublesome variety. But as regular readers of these ridiculous musings will know, I will not be blaming the algae for the defeat or indeed on the delusions of the no-fun-guy at the bar because neither are to be taken seriously. By the end, the green splutterings up the backs of the players were not the sign that an extra-terrestrial had been flicking his milky way over them but a telling mark of who’d run the hardest. After 70 minutes of incoherence, Y I I N G E’s shirt was spotless. Make of that what you will…
Team 4 were missing several key players but into the void stepped the redoubtable Hannam, the emerging Henry, the encouraging Bett and a triumphant MVP in the shape of Walker, our lastest custodian of the net. Three of these players have come through Team 5 and if the Goose’s spirit is questionable elsewhere, there seems little wrong with it in the so-called lower reaches of the club. All played their part in a game of dour pattern, little fluency and a smattering of niggleyness, but it was the Yorkshireman in goal who was immense in the face of some decent pressure from the home team. In fact, he kept a clean sheet for the first half hour with a series of kicks, blocks and good positional play that frustrated the green pants off the opposition.
So, at half time, and just one down, the Geese were still in it. But I really can’t be arsed with telling the tale of the missed chances and the penalty corners, and how it went to 2-0, then 2-1 (when Byrne deftly touched home a Young hit for perhaps the sweetest goal of the game). Neither have I any interest in saying Rogers was full of running but needs to attack and shoot more on sight or how many ‘if onlys…’ I could summon to assert that this was a game we could have won, given a bit more support in the way of personnel. Yadda yadda blah blah blah.
However, it was, as always, a pleasant day out under a wide Staffordshire sky, with a south westerly wind dancing around the naked trees and a lusty looking tart astride a 4 wheeled buggy on the A5. Quite how she maintained her smile and composure as the icy breeze blew over her goosepimples is beyond any powers of understanding I could muster. There was also some surprisingly reasonable umpiring from the Cannock MIPPs. Ah, the romance of it all - the Morris Ground, home to the National Champs and this team 4 who are the current title-holders of the Central Premier Division. Another away defeat is disappointing but the side can console itself with the prospect of the return fixture up at Glorious Goosedale next March. We have a few scores to settle..
MVP – Robin Walker. Well played, sir!
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Knockers out as light fades and chicken comes home to roost
Nottingham 5 Cannock 4. - 25th Nov
In the garden of the house adjacent to the pitch, there is hen-house. It’s a brave chicken that ventures out when David ‘Goalmachine’ Rogers is in the vicinity, but there she was – a marvellous russet hen, clucking and pecking contentedly, blissfully unaware of the presence of the Chicken Assassin himself. I’m not one for placing too much store in omens but the presence of a live hen seemed to give the plucker a lift, surrounded as he is for most of the week by the milky-white carcasses of all those bloated fowls. But I swear the hen was chuckling to herself as the he limbered up like the domesticated primate we all are, with a series of those knuckle grazing movements so dear to the hearts of the girls of Newark.
With the Herts-breaking Bull returning and a reluctant Lagerberg lured back from his offspring’s footie game, there was something of the whore about both teams and the harlot that is Team 4 started it when she pulled up her skirts and flashed the slut opposite her most repugnant grin. This infuriated her and she replied in kind, lifting her skirts and bending over to reveal a behind tattooed with a fulsome breast on each buttock. And people ask why they’re called the Knockers…
Our young left back seemed rather flustered by the prematch posturing and when a ball drifted harmlessly into his D, Bo dillied and dallied, or rather, Bo diddled and somehow conspired to hit the ball against his own post thereby allowing the forward to score. Oh dear oh dear!
But this Cannock is not the tart that took third place in the league last season and like a gnarled weazle, Rogers sensed blood. (Though not of the menstrual variety – that would be taking it too far) The pleasant fucker followed Young’s strike with a splendid 4 goal haul. Some may say “About fucking time too”. But I would distance myself from comments like that. Yes, after several weeks of huffing and puffing and much threatening, he finally came back to the sort of form we’ve been waiting for. And yet and yet… the penalty stroke. A lovely cameo. With the Herts Bull striding forward to take it, and Llewelyn almost screaming, “Don’t let Rogers take it! No! Not him!” some would have been discouraged but no not he. For once more he was brimming with confidence after a peach of a team goal following a swift interchange with the irrepressible cunt kaye and the young Oliver. But if Kaye is Fagin, then this Oliver and the artful dodger Pang had best sharpen up their skills and start picking a few more pockets.
What colour ball does the keeper of the knockers prefer? Well, not orange that’s for sure. Can anyone explain why about 1 in every 50 players claims not be able to see this colour under floodlights? Why should the other 21 on the pitch have to accept a change and what colour does this minority actually see?Well maybe it should be brown, with a red stripe running through it. like the stool of a haemorrhoid sufferer. . .and a bell inside it for good measure.
But back to the penalty. If the ball had had a bell in it, then nothing would have rung out for it narrowly squeezed under the keeper’s body at the speed of a slug. This, however, did not prevent the kind of over-exuberant-tub-thumping-chimpanzee celebration which followed. Yet it would be churlish to complain – the release of pent up emotion, the sheer passion and catharsis had a primal quality that swept along before it.
Indeed, the MVP (most valuable primate) goes to Rogers – the goose came home to roost. Ho fucking ho. He was, however, pushed close to it by Gallagher, who offered creche facilities for the three Sisson kids on an afternoon when their mother had gone shopping. At one point I looked over to see him holding the baby in his left arm and gesticulating to a player with his right – all those who have enjoyed a tussle with Gallsy this season, would have done a double take: the grizzled midfield maestro left holding the baby?
So, the season continues to roll on – the Geese may have been expected to migrate south but are currently roosting in the northerly reaches of the division and, as the cliché goes, it’s all to play for…
Team: Alban, Kaye, Buxey, Pang, Llewelyn, Young, Sisson, Willott, Rogers, Lagerberg, Oliver.
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Cold Fayre at Goose. Ho ho.
Notting Ham Force 0 Sour Port 0
Thees week my Uncle Mikail in bed with cold mutton. I watch game hockey for first times last weekend at verry strange place. How say Gloosgay? So, I Elspeth froom Macedonia Federal Republic write what I saw.
To begin he take me in car and hump over 14 times. My back hurt like ride when I ride Donkey man in mountain. Why this hump? I like smooth surface ride – this backward place. Why lump on smooth road? Breastwood I think it called.
So we get out car and it very cold with wind and sky all grey and streakback. Like pig? Bacon? Of course, these words metaphorical. I no like to go with court. So, first he introduce me with friend who boy play in match. He stubbly man with glasses but not I think beeg cook. These strange game for man. I no understand.
For instance, I watch game before Uncle play. It Team 3. “Is thees better than you team?” I say.
“No.” say uncle.
“I no understand. Why like thees?”
“Speak to Yun Gee.”
“where thees man?” My uncle point to beeg man in t-shirt and how you say, bold head? But he too blow with whistle noise.
The game no 1 score. I yawn and Uncle say it half time so we go for vodka. In bar, near fire, there are men in suits, like Mafia, seeting together. “Are these mens gangsters?”
“No,” say Uncle, “ they Mans Feeled, like homosapian but different.”
“What? “ I ask him but hear man from goal shouting loud and beating chest.
“Who he?”
“He is Neekpar.”
“I think I see him on DVD, ‘1001 great hockey girls’.”
“No. you’re thinking of Leek Ladies’ calendar, “12 Months of Mediocre Minges.”
Man (call David Roger?) laugh but I know understand.
Next, he seet me with silver man with black glass and lovely Inglees voice.
“Hi, I’m Mick Ellan. I travel through former soviet pub licks, great umpire and delighted to teach you Inglees.” He say.
“Oh, you teach lick foreign?” I ask. He spit out drink.
“I say, who’s been talking?” he ask but wink at time. I like heem very much. He like man from old Inglish film, Terry Thomas. But he dirtier.
So I drink with Mick and then we go for watch game out in cold air. I seet on bench with Yun Gee. I like him - him look like Buddha. They have beeg light on poles. And man is carried in men’s arms with ham string for meat.
The game drag and team miss many many shot on goal for many many minutes and near end when, suddenly, Yun Gee, he take off clothes and run out like bear after honey. Boom boom boom. He run under light. He pull off David who look sad but I give him kiss and he get hard, so it okay. But thees shit for me. I see no goal for all game and Uncle Mikhail, he look sooo serious. The team in white, man have number say 100 but I think this his age not number of lady hockey player he, how you say, shaag?
The whistle blow and I hear grunt from men like cattle when winter come and only hay in barn for cow eating. This mean I watch fool game and see no goal. It sheet. But afterwards I eat three pie and wink with sheep behind bar who wink back and we laugh and drink speckle cock which taste lovely. I feel like special hooker and we take home Daveed Roger to his mother who love him but say he cannot sleep home till he score goal. Next day I see him asleep in shelter for bus. But no key bab. Maybe I go one time more. But I doubt it.
Uncle Mikhail ask who best man for Not Ingham. I smile. “Mikhail Ellen,” I say. He laugh. I laugh louder. “He beeg player.”
“Like Terry Tom!” he say.
“Yes. He funny. And he buy me vodka.” So, I think most valuable person this week (MVP) go to Mikhail Ellen.
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The Herts Bull pulls calf but still grabs the horns
Or, if brains were shit, some of us would have heads filled with diarrhoea. *
Edgbaston 0, Nottingham 1.
The author of all this hogwash went to watch Beeston take on Cannock last Sunday at High Fields. A 5-4 win for the home team and what anyone with a brain would regard as an absolute classic in which Beeston came from 2-0 down to grab the points. The technique, the movement, the levels of athleticism, the hand-eye coordination – all of it – was of the highest quality. The pitch was immaculate – no watering for this one – the umpiring of a light touch and the whole spectacle enjoyed immensely by a captivated crowd. In short, it was a long, long way from the game I’d taken part in 24 hours earlier.
Ah, Edgbayston in the autumn. Edgbranston, second in the league before this, are an apple, a russet, succulent, ripe and about to drop. Edgbastion were still in shock after their first loss of the season, the previous weekend to the Beesknees. The Geese, meanwhile - the gunslingers, mudflingers and shit-stirrers of the central league prem division - rolled into the second city, understrength for sure, but still strong and buoyant after their win against the Lobrow studs.
Sometimes a team will not play well. In times like this, it has to grind it out, boss the midfield and simply be more determined to win than the opposition – “Sort it out, 62 and 88 are taking the piss,” said their bandanned pirate, at half time, adrift, in a sea of mediocrity on a plank of wood. He was referring, inevitably, to the double axis of Sisson and Gallagher – if there’s a more combative duo in this league, I’ve yet to see them. Gallagher, especially, was once again a playful puppeteer pulling the strings and, indeed, taking the piss. He was a combustible high energy octane, just like the expensive juice he fills his car with and his game was a subtle combination of guile, controlled agression and expansive hockey. It’s fifteen years since he made his debut for the club and he’s now growing into the sort of player he has always threatened to be. Masterly, Mr G, masterly. There was another splendid performance from the nimble-footed-barrel-chested-doctor. In fact, if he’d passed the ball intelligently after a couple of mazy, crazy runs in which he took the ball past several startled Edge players, he’d have got the award for MVP. But no, the Doctor got cocky and this was reflected in his hockey. Cocky hockey Doc, eh? The other member of the Dirty Thirties Club, Sisson, similarly, enjoys playing on the Edge – this was the fixture in which he dislocated his little finger last season and then played on – had a unfussy, tidy, effective game.
Whilst I’m on the subject of digits, the umpire noticed Buxey caressing the post at a penalty corner with the sort of touch he usually saves for his cat. “Player, take your hand off the post. You can’t have it touching the net either. Do you know of the new rule whereby a sixteen can be hit from anywhere? Have you seen my new whistle – I say new but its second hand. It’s a classic ACME THUNDERER – I got it on e-bay. The wife of the umpire who died with the thing stuck to his frozen lips had to prise it from him with his red card. She said it’s the 1957 model. Look at that for a pea, as dry and wrinkled as a dried pea can be. Be sure to listen to its delightful resonance echoing around these fields. But above all, heed my words of caution, you dirty Nottingham twat.”
Ah, the MIPP, the MIPP, we love you, as much as you love us, as we love you. Custodian of the game, headmaster to recalcitrant boys. The vicar amongst the choir boys. The Gander amidst the Geese.
Tight, hard-fought, the game dragged on as an umremitting stream of effluence. Or, to put it another way, the play was cagey, error strewn and one goal was always likely to settle it. Bo Pang in for Marksy at the 11th hour - considered MVP by some – responded to an early call to get him out of bed - no breakfast, no porridge, not even the chance of a wafty crank before club captain Young was round his house, banging, bellowing and revving his engine, urging him to “get a move on!”
But in a tight call, in which the club captain himself was consulted (?!), the honour of MVP goes to the Bull. Even with a strained calf he thundered home a shot to clinch the points. He’d also put out the call to Pang after the non-show of Marks and picked him up. Influential, inspirational and irrestible, yes, indeed, the Mighty Phil Young is this week’s MVP.
Team: Thompson, Kaye, Bell, Buxey, Young, Llewelyn, Gallagher, Sisson, Pang, Rogers, O’Keefe.
* Wouldn’t they, James Marks?
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The Season of Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness…
Nottingham 3 Loughborough University 2.
The classic Shoot comic strip, You are the Ref detailed bizarre football incidents and asked the reader to decide what the decision should be from the man-in-black This week, I’m introducing Chump or Ump! In which the reader has to put himself in the role of the ManInPinkPullover . You are the MIPP #1: Which of these comments, if heard by you as the MIPP, would merit a green card?
1. “Get used to it – there’s plenty more where that came from.” – a comment made to a complaining LoBro student about a challenge he took exception to.
2. “You’re a pussy, 55.” a comment made to another complaining LoBro student about a challenge he took exception to.
3. “Umpire, the language is disgraceful – I’ve never heard anything like it on a hockey pitch.” A Saint from Northants, the Rev, Ben Tover complains aloud in a Team 3 game.
4. “Fuck off,” - the instant and well-received reply from the player the Rev was complaining about.
Well, to make it easier, none of these comments were actually made but the second one did reach the ears of the redoubtable umpire, Mr Peter Jones. Once a poacher, now a gamekeeper? Well, that would be a touch simplistic but it works nicely in an ambiguous way that any lawyer would appreciate.
How he kept a straight face only he will know. “Come here, Captain,” he beckoned Kaye in his dulcet West Midlands brogue, “ I’ve had enough of all this verbal intimidation.”
“That’s a bit rich isn’t it Jonesy?” remonstrates the captain who is old enough to remember how the Ump used to play.
“I’m not joking. This isn’t banter. I don’t want you calling players pussies. I don’t like it.”
“What, pussy? That’s not what I’d heard.”
“Piss off,” and out comes the green card, waved with a flourish best described as theatrical. Of course, the author writes this reasonably secure in the knowledge that Mr Jones will probably never read this – he is far too modest and focused on higher matters of employment law to have time for anything as low brow as this. However, in the unlikely event of him taking umbrage at any of this, may I respectfully draw the reader’s attention to the fact that all this is clearly made-up: none of it really happened.
So the MIPP gifting two penalty corners to the EALSCOGS (Elite Athletes of Loughborough Suck Cock Over Girls Snatches), like the non-existent acronym, didn’t happen either. It was simply imagined, made up, and we can let it go. There, it’s gone. Adrift in the ether. And at no point was one of their players wrapped up in the netting of a 5-a-side-footie-goal like a crispy deep fried piece of haddock. With vinegar, if not sour grapes.. Battered? Well, I wouldn’t go that far but they don’t do narcotics anyway. At least not according to an insider who assures me they are all Adonises, like the Greek athletes of Olympus and their athletic prowess, like their bodies is to be worshipped. Their bodies, to them, are temples. The only trouble is they can’t find any fucking worshippers. But that would be unfair because they played very well yesterday and this was an enthralling game, especially for those who love to see a competitive, combative but always creative performance from the Goose’s Golden Eggs. Please forgive the author any hint at triumphalism for it is not his style, but some results, win, lose or draw are to be savoured, and this was one of them.
Fantasy Hockey becomes fact when Phil “Young 1” turns up in the carpark in a Merc with a personal numberplate reading what appears to be “MIINGE.” The Herts Bull is surely the most selected player in what is rapidly becoming a major source of conversation in Blidworth Bottoms. I refer, of course, not to the ignoble art of Dogging, but, like the Team 3 Christmas Curry, to another of Sellsy’s great contributions to club culture, Fantasy Hockey.
I once had the dubious pleasure of watching a highly talented Lady (and I choose the word deliberately) stand on a bar in Bangkok and insert 10 goldfish inside her beautiful vagina (count them in, count them out). This was surprising enough but when she proceeded, using nothing more than her pelvic muscles to fire them out into a bowl of water some 2 metres from her bombdoors, I was staggered. By the time I had helped her pull out the wriggling, slippery tenth, I had fallen in love. It was just such a feeling of astonishment that seized me when the MIPP awarded LoBro Students the first of their penalty corners. Here’s the scenario – what would you do?
You are the MIPP # 2: A shot is fired in from the top of the D. It is going wide but hits the defender on his shin. What is the correct decision? Ball out of play, a 16 hit for the defence as the shot was going wide anyway. Or, more controversially, a penalty corner?
Sadly, the decision was the latter and it lead to the students equalising, somewhat fortuitously towards the end of the first half in which Sven Lagerberg had wreaked havoc in their defence with a series of bursts through their defence that lead to Young opening the scoring with a spanking hit and the Kenyan himself smacking one into the students’ goal. 2-2 at half time.
The irrepressible Lagerberg finished off another sweeping move from the Golden Eggs to make it 3-2 and, despite a series of near-misses from both sides, the game finished that way, much to the delight of the crowd and the dismay of the elite athletes.
Team: Fogwell, Kaye, Sutton, Young, Buxey, Gallagher, Sisson, Byrne, Marks, Largerberg, Rogers, Yallop S
MVP: our Kenyan cousin. On a glorious Goosedale autumnal afternoon in which the whole team raised its game, Sven Lagerberg’s trickery and movement lead to all three home goals. Two of which he converted himself. Sven, we salute you and every other man, jack n ass in Team 4..
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