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14th Oct
BELPER’S VIRTUE IN TATTERS AFTER MAULING.
NOTTINGHAM 9 BELPER 3.
Back at Goosedale for the first time in a league game since March 11th - an outrageous statistic best explained by our erstwhile fixture secretary – the jewel-encrusted team 4 put on a sweeping and consummate display of hockey to brush aside Belper.
Whilst a certain captain claims Team 4 will be happy with “mid-table respectability” (shame on you, sir!), this performance would suggest the team might be well-capable of improving on last season’s 4th place.
As a happy prologue to the swelling act, an impromptu round of applause rang out for the returning Britton and Lagerberg. It was rather sweet but after 20 minutes, with the side 5-0 up, it seemed justified. Kaye and Young left the pitch to nurse their sore digits and hamstrings – with Gallagher, Britton and Lagerberg running the show, there was little for them to do.
If Belper were a lady, then this amounted to an assault of some magnitude. With Gallagher prompting and probing, Lagerberg repeatedly lifting her skirts and penetrating the rearguard where it hurts and Britton metaphorically emptying his sack in their faces, they were left with little dignity. Goals flowed like jism and shots were raining in from all angles, with Llewelyn, Rogers and Byrne all keen for their slice of the pie.
Little wonder the Belper custodian of the net – at 9-2 down! – vented his frustration at the umpire, Mr Sells (who it has to be said, officiated in the style all players appreciate by allowing the game to flow and not stopping it for pedantic nonsense) for his defenders had not upheld his virtue. The final score could well have been higher and it would have been gratifying to keep a clean sheet but they’re an eccentric bunch these goalkeepers. Last Saturday, I arrived at the Lizard Lounge club door where Paul, team 5s sometime keeper, and professional doorman said,”You can't come in without a tie.” So I went to the boot of my car and got a pair of jump leads, wrapped them around my neck and went back to him. "Can I come in now, Paul?” He looked at me and said, 'Yeah, but don't start anything.”
The MVP this week goes to the irrepressible Mr G – another of the old guard who continues to mature into a player of considerable status and elan. Focused and creative, he covered more of the pitch than most and chipped in with a pair of quality goals.
Goalscorers: Britton (3), Young (1 ps), Gallagher (2), Rogers (1), Lagerberg (1), Byrne (1)
Team: Thompson, Kaye, Barber, Young, Buxey, Gallagher, Yallop M, Byrne, Britton, Lagerberg, Rogers, Keating, Llewelyn.
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7th Oct
Herts Bull Grabs Students by the Horns
Nottingham 4, Nottm Uni 4.
The Club Captain has, down the years, travelled many many miles in search of sporting glory. From his humble origins, the boy who once milked cows on Popsy’s farm in deepest Hertfordshire, to the full-blown bull who snorts his way round the splendid arena of our beloved Goosedale, he has variously played for Stevenage HC, Hudds HC, Hudds Poly HC, Wigan HC, National Polytechnics, Ben Rhydding, Yorshire Stags, Wigan, Skegness, and Pontins HC. He has toured in the Bahamas, Scotland and, most famously, Kettering. He has tasted victory, ignomy, humble and hair pie in a plethora of club houses, the latitude and longitude of the globe and Greater Manchester. And, in all that time, he has slaked his thirst in myriad pubs, hostelries, bars and, occasionally, boudoirs, across the UK, some as far away as Thirsk, Edinburgh or Blidworth. In almost 30 years of bullish prowess, he has bludgeoned, bellowed and barged his way to some magnificent goalscoring moments. And he knows when to pass the fucking ball.
Rarely, though, has he been more resplendent than in last Saturday’s competitive contest with the Uni Boys. With a booming voice that worries sheep as far off as Kimberley, a resolve as steely as a brillo, an uncanny resemblance to that greatest of Chancers, Sergeant Ernie Bilko, and a three goal, one assist performance, this was a timeless, at times, epic show from our treasured 16 stone colossus. In the style of an old school housemaster, he dominated the undergrads, spanking away at the arses of the boys whilst his corporal, Buxey, performed the metaphorical fellatio: lapping up where Phil let off. If Young was Dracula, Al was Igor. It is was a d to d performance that belied the laws of physiology, biology, gravity and belief, and made you believe in what a Crabtree calls “the power of the Goose”. Well, maybe if it hadn’t been held at The Natural High School for Global Love in Hucknall.
Still, this was a stonking, high-tempo game, with, Gallagher, Heeley and Llewelyn playing with verve, nous and youthful abandon. Though not necessarily in that order.
Thommo, our keeper? Some decent stops but the whiskey-fuelled evening of the previous day played havoc with his timing.
“When is the forward going nowhere?”
“When Kaye keeps his gob shut and our goalie stays off the JD.”
Until a hit on his fingering digit, Kaye was good too – but then again isn’t he always? The twat.
“You’re a better player now than 13 years ago,” observed the astute umpire, Mr Peter Jones. And who, realistically, could disagree with him?
There was still time to win it: like a tight though now slack vulva, this bruised game offered up one last vinegar stroke. Quite how Bell failed to pull the ball back from the by-line to his teamate Mr G is as big a mystery as the award of the ensuing penalty corner. An impossible angle? Probably, but it would have meant the author resorting to cheap gags about Bell ending it or how Bell’s tinkering was an act of magic, so maybe we’ll put it down to an act of providence.
Sadly, the moment passed with a whimper - there was to be no Buxey-student-Young spit roast despite Alan’s attempt to penetrate their last defence with a cheeky little slap as the ball pinged out. Still, it was edifying to see him sliding in where some forwards fail to dabble.
“The pads, Buxey, the pads!” cried Rogers. But the damage had been done: RedBull sweat stains Audi seats.
Vorsprung durch technique, Mr Young, for you are this week’s MVP. Not only do you plough the fields and scatter your good seed across the land, you dollop it over the wayward sons of itinerant Irish potato pickers and bourgeois inbreds. (Byrne, if you’re reading this, you’d better watch out – after that I might just demote you to play midfield in the 3s*).
“Awesome,”commented Mr G and, for not the only time that afternoon, Mike Allen was speechless.
Team: Thompson, Kaye, Llewlyn, Young, Gallagher, Buxey, Byrne, Weston, Heeley, Rogers, Barber T, Bell.
Footnote:
If there’s one thing this author knows, it’s that all is impermanent. The more astute reader will realise that any satisfaction Team 4 took in coming from behind on three occasions evaporated into the blue sky over Goosedale as they witnessed Messrs Jones, Yallop, Snelus, Marks, Sells and Cole all play at a lower league level against Northants Pussies. Come on, James: do the right thing – with a little cooperation, the 4s can improve on last season’s 4th place whilst the 3s can win Div 1. In style, too…
*Only kidding: you remain the Club’s most valuable right winger, which means you’d be wasted playing below Prem Div standard…
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Only in the leafy confines of south Nottingham…
30th Septermber - West Bridgford 1, Nottingham 3.
It’s half time at the Bridgford Sand Bowl. “Quite how the home team has managed to score is beyond the comprehension of even the dumbest,” I muse, as I watch Byrne and Buxey wander over to their bottles of stout. “Quite how Nottingham haven’t scored six is another neurological mystery,” I ponder, as I see Heeley and Rogers, respectively, skip and stagger for a perch on the backboard. “And who put that fish in the goal?” I wonder.
Suddenly, these philosophical meanderings are interrupted by the umpire’s voice. I look up to see the avuncular one, striding my way.
“Captain, would you mind asking your team to mind their language? Especially number 17.”
“Oh? Has he said something that’s upset your delicate sensibilities?” I ask, for the first (but surely not the only) time that afternoon, marginally interested in what he has to say.
“Yes and the plucker at centre forward.”
“Really?”
“Yes – his cursing is quite dreadfull – and he reeks of ale!” I agree but are there really two els in that word?
I’m, momentarily, confused but regain my poise. “Unlikely, Peter. None of this lot would do that before a game as keenly contested as this. Mind you, fair play to him if he has. He’s missed just as many as he would sober or high on RedBull.”
“If you could just have a word…”
“I will. Pray tell me great (ch)ump, which word has caused you particular offence?”
“His use of the F word.”
“That’s terrible. I quite agree and I will speak to him immediately.” (For the adventurous grammarians amongst you, notice here the exciting, possibly even controversial, use of the apostrophe). For the rest, forget it: you’ve quite literally, missed nothing
“We can’t have language like that on a hockey pitch.” continues the MIPP.* “This is West Bridgford. Our-9 teams-don’t-you-know-lardy-dah-hockey-club.com is steeped in the noble traditions of what is quintessentially a middle class sport and we have a zero tolerance club policy towards bad language.”
“That’s a fair point, Ump, nearly well-made… but Nottingham Hockey Club is a curious hybrid of ex-public school boy lawyer types and hairy-arsed chancers who are from cultures which remain remarkably tolerant of foul language on the field of play. Please accept my sincerest apology for any offence – it’s cultural, that’s all. ... I’ll have a word with the cunt.”
On the albeit rather limited evidence of this, our Mr G will do well not to upset his neighbours in Wilford if this is typical of the tolerance levels of Anglo-Saxon vernacular south of that slow moving slurry, the Trent.
Rather conveniently, it also sums up most about a one-sided contest which the visitors could have won by 3 or 4 more goals than they did. However, some, but not Llewelyn - never he! - will be nearing match fitness in 3, maybe 4 weeks and for that, we can give ‘em some rope on which to do the honourable thing.
The performance? With Young in the team, Gallagher back in all his focused pomp, and Byrne providing some classic right wing play (no, not Julius Caesar), it had the required levels of beligerance and, it’s no exaggeration to say, excellent 1-2 touch hockey that not only Team4 but the Club generally has in abundance.
The next item was not invited but ordered by the Herts Bull himself, Mr Young. It is an award for the team’s most valuable player, based on a conversation on Thursday, 28th September:
“We can get the team to vote or we can call on the captain to give it.” explains Phil over the phone.
“OK. I’ve done enough phoning, texting and e-fucking-mailing this week. I’ll call it.”
“Fine.”
Sunday. 1st October. “And this week’s MVP award goes to… Kaye. On Tuesday, they only had 9 players. Calls, texts and e’n’shemails were put out to Anderson, Nosely, Britton, Heeley and Jones. But then again, the fucker is out of work - what more could he do with his time? Such was his desperation that, at one point, a call was made to the double herniaed (and barrelled) Hulme.”
YES! Kaye is this week’s MVP. It may sound audacious, considering he’s the author of all this nonsense, but he genuinely talked a good game, hit the post with a stonking shot, bossed the right side, had time to speak a few words in dedication of Noel Bexon, sort out the white shirts, take the piss out of their umpire, recycle more match tax, grant Youngy a goal as his behest and even set up the nearly-sober-Rogers to score the third. Priceless - the more silver he gets, the more precious he becomes.
Or as the MIPP might never say, “The cunt.”
Team: Thompson, Kaye, Llewelyn, Young, Buxey, Bell, Gallagher, Jones, Byrne, Rogers, Heeley.
*MIPP– accronym: Man In Pink Pullover.
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21st Oct: Geese drown in watery grave as Bees make honey.
Beeston 3 Nottingham 0
The author wishes it to be known that the following is not sour grapes. The piece may be soaked in conjecture, heavily doused in metaphor, even brimming over with conceit, but it most certainly is not to be read as a letter written in vinegar on a parchment made from raisin. And yet, maybe, just somewhere in the river of words, there is a golden nugget of truth. The truth! Ha! Who knows what that is? I make no claim to speak it – take the following times, for instance: they may have the semblance of accuracy but really they are nothing more than flotsam and jetsam, bobbing around on a sea of nonsense.
Saturday, 1715 – five minutes before the game and the water cannons drench an already saturated pitch with tens of gallons of water and any practise time gets washed down the gutter, like a paper ship adrift in an ocean
1800 – 1815 – a torrential downpour floods the pitch with more Hfucking2O.
1725- 1835 – a game of hockey is reduced to a stop-start-turgid match on a suet pudding and the author struggles to find anything of interest in a game notable mainly for fine performances from debutants Pang and Humphreys and the Doctor. Team 4 has somehow lost to a very young Bees side.
1850 – the Doctor vanishes.
1910 – Beeston bar. “Fair play, Phil,” I say to their Captain, “You took your chances, you deserved to win. Did you plan that then?”
“What do you mean?”
“To water the pitch like that.”
“ I didn’t think it was going to rain.”
“The pitch was already waterlogged when we began. If it was gamesmanship, nice one. If not, then nice one.” But I don’t think it was. Ambiguity, I love you, you capricious whore!
He looks bemused. Mind to motion. Correct me if I’m missing the point here, but isn’t the water-based pitch at Beeston meant to be a quality pitch? With excellent drainage, and a surface that suits the quick passing game, isn’t it supposed to be a pleasure to simply step out onto this luminous turf? Like my wonderfully-stacked Aunty Dorothy, surely it should be gorgeously bouncy and a delight to play on?
“Why was it watered?”
“Well, I was given the option.” And it was taken. Without consulting the opposition? Definitely. Why should he? If we had the facility to change the pitch to our advantage, wouldn’t we take it? All conjecture, my friend, but - in some quarters - it would be reasonable to suggest that the turning point in the match came a full 10 minutes before the game started. And it killed the game - the ancient mariners from Papplewick sank in a watery cemetary.
Beeston (100 years in existence-cum-2007) remain the sharp-suited city-slickers to the cuntry-cousins from Goosedale and late on Saturday evening, it was as though the naïve bumpkins of Nottingham had been drawn in by the penny booths and the pretty girls to have their pockets pinched and their arses kicked With around 9 penalty corners to their 2, and a plethora of chances spurned in the first ten minutes alone, it had seemed only a matter of time before Team 4 equalised. But they didn’t score and went chasing the points on a surface that the amphibious Buxey excelled on. He produced an excellent stop on the line, distributed the ball well and displayed a remarkable level of tackling, the timing of which would lead anyone to believe he plays, in Wellington boots, on such a surface every week . But it wasn’t enough to prevent more goals being shipped and although I’ve really had enough of all this watery nonsense, I’ll continue some more for yes, the Doctor was a dolphin and how the admiring seals clapped and slapped their flippers to see him splashing through the puddles to come out with the ball, seemingly glued to the nose of his stick.
If there is any consolation lurking in the desolate beauty of all this, and, believe me, there usually is, then it lies in the prospect of showing the busy Bees some Goosedale hospitality next February. Perhaps we can help ignite a flame under the beehive of their Centenary. Not to mention their vanities. Figuratively speaking, of course.
Team 4 : Humphreys, Young, Kaye, Buxey, Barber T, Gallagher, Sisson, Fairbrother, Britton, Rogers, Llewelyn, Pang.
MVP: Buxey
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