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The last laugh.
24th Feb - Stourport 1, Nottingham 2
There is a Tibetan saying, “when the wild geese fly over the lake, the water does not intend to reflect them and the geese have no mind to cast their image.” My friend Wan Kin U, of the Happy Mandarin shared this with me as I bemoaned the Lowbrow Pseuds underhand appeal and the MRHA’s bizarre decision to accept it and deduct 4 points from the Geese’s total. But more on this later, for I’m going break with recent tradition and begin this week’s ‘report’ with the game itself.
It has been some two years since Kaye’s last league goal but when it came, how sweet it was for it proved to be the winner at Stourport and it came at the end of a week when the league docked points from Nottingham to put the Lobrow Pseuds above them in the table. With the Welsh border hills beckoning in the background, a westerly wind blowing over the wide spaces of the surrounding countryside and a steely resolve in the heart of Anderson, we stepped out for to play the beautiful game. With the Geese laying on and spurning a series of chances, it was a little surprising to be 0-0 at the break. An injury to the Doctor meant a reshuffle, with Bo Pang slipping confidently into the right back role. Stourport, like hyenas, sniffing round for a bite, sensed this might be the chance for them to record a first win in a while and duly took the lead in the second half. The game seemed to be receding into the mists of obscurity when the ball fell to the wily Anderson who, celebrating his 42nd birthday and a (finally) successful vascectomy, slotted home with precision to make it 1-1.
There were barely two minutes on the clock when Rogers picked up the ball on the left. As his cross bobbled across the D and through a bemused gaggle of defenders and attackers, Kaye timed his run perfectly to breeze through, and with the deftest of touches, guided the ball home to the great relief of the Geese. Byrne’s claim that his captain manhandled him out of the way is worth noting, if more for its creativity than accuracy. Still, these musings have never been about anything resembling the truth and I won’t let it get in the way of the legend now.
William Blake, one of poetry’s great grand-daddies, wrote, “The fool who persists in his folly will become wise.” So, with that thought holding it together, let’s hurl ourselves into the swirling maelstrom of our collective and individual folly. The reader will forgive me the luxury of a rant this week. But before I go any further, I wish to state clearly that as a foolish cunt of some standing, I am well-placed to comment on the folly of other cunts. So, here we go.
Folly # 1. Myopia. The player who complains that he did not see his team mate in space and therefore did not pass to him is indicating several possibilities: 1. He is has yet to fully grasp the understanding that in team sports like football, rugby and hockey, the winning teams are those that pass the ball quickly and show good movement throughout the game 2. The most successful players are the unselfish ones – they put themselves second to the team – this may mean playing in other positions or passing the ball to a better-placed team mate when the chance to score materialises. 3. In the spirit of the game, the individual plays for the team and when someone points out the error of his ways, he takes it as a chance to improve as a team player. He does not complain because this is not about him. It is about what is good for the team - for where are any of us without our fellow players? The player who complains that he is being unfairly treated does this is only out of self pity: it is as simple as this.
That is not to say that one should discourage flair and skill –far from it for a good team is made up of players whose individual talents and skills combine to produce fluent, coherent and supportive hockey. They know too that possession is precious and should not be given up cheaply but that if they do lose the ball, then the onus is on them to work for its retrieval. Sometimes it takes a while for this to come but if you haven’t grasped it by your mid-twenties, it could be you are myopic and are unable to admit this to yourself, let alone others, because you cannot see it.
But love and patience always win through in the end and so a fool who does continue in his folly may indeed become wise. He’ll piss off a lot of people on the way, though. Either that or the individual who cannot play for the greater good should fuck off and play chess, tennis, darts or simply masturbate himself until his dick is so chafed the flaky skin is red and yellow with puss, his helmet resembles rotting liver and when he ejaculates he releases only air.
Folly #2. Whingeing. I will, at this stage, resist the strong urge to comment on how such masturbators should kindly piss off and ejaculate into their own faces rather than those of others for they make an unholy mess of things. Figuratively speaking, of course. Some might say the MRHA’s earlier decision to attempt to overrule the International Hockey Federation’s ruling that teams can now play with eleven outfield players on the grounds that it would be dangerous was an act of supreme delusion, made by those who believe in their own self-importance and are unable to act on that which is known as the greater good. Others may say they are way way out of touch, so far out of touch they are operating in a netherworld of their own making which is as weird as that depicted in the tv series Life on Mars where the hero is really in a coma but imagines he’s living in a 1970s fantasy world of his own dreams. But this is what others might say and I will distance myself from such comments. After all, amateurism is what hobbies are made of and that’s all it is and that’s what makes it funny.
Folly #3. Felching is the act of sucking semen out of someone’s anus, with or without a straw. To pass it on, mouth to mouth, is apparently referred to as snowballing. Such a poetic term for such a ridiculous act. What is the biological urge behind it? What evolutionary purpose does it serve? For instance, is it particularly nutritious to swallow semen that has been mixed with excrement in the anus? Is it to show the depth of one’s devotion to one’s sexual partner? If so, why the fuck would a person need to be with another who places affection on such a low level of personal gratification from such bizarre sexual behaviour? Would Jesus have done it to say one of the disciples or to Mary Magdalen? Or does it aid one’s constitution in a way that is of benefit to humanity? Or is it a form of human behaviour that is as pleasant to the participants as it is for dogs to smell and lick one another’s arses? I for one have no idea – the whole thing is dependent on sodomy and for that alone, I have little interest in it as a hobby, an amusing sexual peccadillo or indeed as a career choice. Readers who require further explanation should write to J Cole c/o Lobrow University Department of Anal Studies, Leics. Ho ho hokum all you faithless, loathsome and untriumphant. Let it be clear, I am not saying Christ was a felcher and I am as reluctant to draw the reader’s attention to the fact that JC is God (as he states in his email address) or indeed that it refers in any way to Mr Christ. Equally, I am reluctant to state that such an act of felching when performed so willingly and expertly on one’s captain would guarantee one’s selection in the side. At no point will I be implying that a former custodian of Nottingham’s net did not felch for his current team. Neither as a form of inadequate sexual experimentation nor merely to secure a place in a captain’s black heart.
But it is true to say, metaphorically, we have had our points felched from us and the lake of our resolve is rippling over the injustice. Fowl play? Maybe, but for now, things are as they are and we will rise above to glide beyond such matters for this is how Geese are: epic travellers of land, water and air…
MVP – Kaye. And who could argue with that?
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Parallel Lines
17th Feb - Nottasmayseem 1 Edging Where? 0
In a parallel universe, rarely glimpsed but frequently sensed, for it exists on the periphery of this, there is another world and another Goosedale. This one has an oak pannelled library, with a rotating observatory and a telescope for galaxy gazing. In this library are the collected works of some of our more learned players, men who have turned their eyes towards philosophy, religion and psychology. Great men who have left their mark not only on their opponents but on the world of culture too. And in this parallel library, the custodian of the knowledge is, of course, Sutton Bonnington’s once most eligible bachelor, Edward Cursham, the great grandson of W E Cursham ex Notts County and England who with Ian Rush is the FA Cup’s top goal scorer. Which quite possibly is the only moment of truth in any of this. But I digress. Back in the parallel matrix I was browsing through the fictional bookcase this morning, seeking inspiration, not finding it but amongst the imaginary titles are the following –
“My secret life as the Buddha.” An uplifting, deeply spiritual guide to life by the enlightened one, P Yiing who in this parallel world became the Guru of Goosedale, a leader in the mould of Lao Tse Young. His other works include – “Yes, yes, yes – the art of positive thinking.” And “the Kimberley Karma Sutra” – (illustrated) – in which he takes the reader through the 143 ways of pleasuring the ginger muff, a subject on which he has a masterly and expansive knowledge.
In the sporting section, there is “The Freddie Flintoff Fiasco” – a heartbreaking hubris of alliterative alienation in which a captaincy is offered and spurned. By A Crabtree, it soars, metaphorically speaking, across the Himalayas, north through a Siberian winterscape before ending its 1200 mile journey in a pond in Papplewick.
The flora and fauna section includes that classic, “A Twitcher’s guide to the UK’s Greatest Tits” by J Starling, a horny theologist and curate who waxes on and over some of the deepest cleavages ever seen on these parallel shores.
The much misunderstood practise of frottage whereby sexual gratification is achieved by the subtle rubbing up of one’s dangly parts against strangers in crowded places is laid bare in “Frottage –the loving stroke of luck. An insider’s story” by Dr A Buxom in which the hero recounts his epic journeys on the Northern Line and the Circle before a final arrest is made on Brighton pier.
There is also “Diamond in the turd,” in which a hoodie writes of his fall from grace, of life in a world where the hooded monk is a much misunderstood, outlawed and frequently reviled figure - indeed, the diamond that gleams in the brown turd. It is a work of fiction which offers an intelligent, thoughtful insight into the shallow depths of the asbo generation. By M Abhort.
But my favourite is the heart-rendering tale of corrupted childhood, “A Cock Ring for a Knave” – it’s a reworking of that classic, Kes, in which a young lad from Sutton Coldfield, not Barnsley, escapes his modest beginnings to become a be-wigged libertine with a penchant for feathery pillows, justice and a willingness to explore the clandestine world of sexual aids. By J Snelus.
As I say, it is occasionally necessary to slip into this parallel world in search of inspiration – especially now, dear reader, as we slide gently into the final quarter of the season and I’m faced with another game to pass comment on. Yes, as the beef curtains of time drape languidly across the boards of depravity in the theatre of absurdity, I struggle on manfully, one hopes, to the final act of retribution. Over the last few weeks we have been nailed at Belper, buried by Beeston and, not for the first time, stoned in Bridgford. For some, it’s been a case of karmic retribution but, of course, like a bisexual Orang-u-tan, it swings both ways. And on Saturday, well, I simply loved it.
There was pleasure amongst some in seeing Anderson step out for his first Team 4 game of the season. He arrived early, as his wont, for he is well-aware that Goosedale’s plumbing is able to cope with his gargantuan stools of excrement and he loves the release that comes with his first movement of the day. Baffled by this? Don’t be – for I am speaking from a position of surety, having once attempted to release one of his early morning blockages from the toilet’s u-bend. With my bare hands. Don’t ask – just hold the image of syrupy oxtail soup with sweetcorn and carrots floating over its scummy surface and you’ll understand. But enough of his movements through the waste pipe , I come to praise them not bury them.
His game has always been categorised by his hipsway and, in this game, his easy movement, awareness of those around him and willingness to receive the ball in a variety of positions meant that Kaye had a partner with whom he could play – this pair’s ages add up to eighty-fucking-four, which is four times the combined age of some of the team. “You’re old enough to be my father, “ claimed a rash Sisson. Anderson looked at him and retorted instantly, “I’m older than most but I’m most certainly not that fucking old, you cunt.”
But this team’s forty-somethings are of a fine vintage and although one, Llewelyn, complained that as sweeper he wasn’t seeing enough action, they were all on form. It was no surprise that, consequently, some of Nottingham’s play down the right was as one knows the best sex to be –balls were being gently caressed and guided on, there was lots of fluid movement and several carefree moments of deep penetration. In short, this was hockey at its most enjoyable. You see, one may take the piss dear reader, but one may still hold an immense affection for the sport and this is how we all like to play.
On the day when Gallagher rolled back the years and took up the centre forward role, on a morning of light cloud, on a Saturday when the chickens once more seized on Rogers’ absence to confidently venture out for some clucking on the adjacent football pitch, and with Edgbaston as opposition, this was destined to be as tight as surgically enhanced labia. And I have that on good authority (thank-you, James Snelus, QC).
With Gallagher peppering the goal from a variety of angles, Edgbaston threatening (one open goal yawned but spurned) and Sisson relishing his central role, this was a grand game between two old rivals. A fond farewell goes out to Owen, the bearded captain, who is sailing to Australia – I wouldn’t be the one to suggest he’s following in his ancestors’ wake, though he does have something of the pickpocket about him. (By the way anyone who sees Anderson’s pink silk hanky should contact the police. Do not approach it under any circumstances) So God bless Owen and all who sail with him or in him.
Gallagher roofed a very cool goal shortly into the second half and the game moved into what seemed like the longest second half I have played. The timelessness that drifted in seemed borne of the game, one of those when you are so utterly absorbed by it that it doesn’t seem to sail by but, rather, it seems to expand into something vaster, greater and so compelling is it that part of you wants it to end, whilst the other longs for it to last forever. However, we needed 3 points, so we took the former.. Team 4 continues to play quality hockey – just as we love it for as Mr Yiing, the buddha of Goosedale observes in his parallel universe,
“A sacred peach that waxes green with heaven’s dew,
An apricot favoured by sun and clouds are you.
But we, hibiscus, by stream, for autumn wait,
Nor blame the tardy east wind that we blossom late.”
Team: Fogwill, Kaye, Keating, Buxey, Sisson, Llewelyn, Sells, Marks, Gallagher, Bett, Anderson, Bell, Young T
MVP: Anderson. Quality. If only his organisational talents could match his game, the Vets would probably be in the next round of the Plate by now. Hohum. Hokum.
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Cole buried by Natty King of Goosedale.
10th Feb: Lowbrow Pseuds 3, The Peppered Goose’s Flange 4
Many games were cancelled in the Midlands last weekend - some for good reason, others out of panic. Whoever cancels games on a Friday in advance of the weekend appears to understand little of the English climate, the nature of all-weather pitches and, it would seem, is incapable of reading a 5-day weather forecast on the BBC web pages. They are also in danger of receiving a large dollop of sloppy egg on their faces. For Nottingham 1s to be playing at Highfields last Sunday was little more than an embarrassment, especially as the Goose was perfectly playable, the pies were in and the club should not be pouring money into Beeston’s coffers – the fuckers have enough already.
Still, Team 4 did get a run-out at Loughborough where they halted a recent decline of 2 defeats in the last two games. Joe Cole, custodian of the Lobrow goal, was in decent form but a hat trick from the Goose and a neat Gallagher goal put paid to his ambitions of pulling one over on his former teammates. But the fantasies of young men are regularly disappointed. I’m sure he’ll get to pull one off later and I wish him well in his venture.
It’s Tuesday 13th February and I’m back in the squelchy subterranean student union to see Goldie. Gold toothed, a piratical spinner of drum n bass, with a penchant for pale-skinned women, he reminds me a little of the 18 year old Herts Bull whom I first encountered in a West Yorkshire alehouse in 1982. How lucky some are - for here is a man who enjoyed a collaboration with the Icelandic Chanteuse herself, Bjork. That’s Goldie, not the HB. But this is not a homage to her or him. Instead, I write in praise of a team performance to savour. With Llewelyn and Sisson, respectively, out playing 3s and child-rearing, Yallop M and the timeless Jan Ahmed stepped in with comfort and quality.
Thrice the negative, half the fun? Try your hand at ambiguous blackjack, and see who gets the joke. The Herts Bull – no ‘I’ in ‘deal’.
Meanwhile, another diva sings in an altogether more earthy style, “They tried to make me go to rehab… I said ‘No, no, no.’”
Not only a reference to the Amy Whinehouse song, but an oft-repeated favourite phrase of the Herts Bull (a character who the more regular, astute and intelligent readers will notice has been absent from these ridiculous outpourings since the New Year). It usually pops out over a request that he considers unreasonable. For instance, “Can’t we phone up the Leicester Vets captain and tell him to get it back on? The forecast for Sunday is mild.”
“No, no, no – it’s done now.”
“Don’t you think Belly had a good game?”
“No, no, no – a fucking shocker.”
“Can I only pay a 100% mark up on that bottle of Old Speckled Cock, rather than the 150% you’re charging?”
“No, no, no – come on, it’s £2.50.”
On Saturday, though, it was as much fun off the pitch as on it, with another absolute classic, Viva Las Goosedale Casino night. It would be churlish to complain that it deserved better support so let’s celebrate those that did make the effort to go for we had a wonderful night. The event opened with the most audacious game of the evening – a real test of the artistic, aesthetic and observational qualities of Heeley and Yallop S.
It was The Great Flange Challenge© – using a selection of dried fruit, nuts, berries and coconut hair (thanks to Theresa for the inspiration), the contestants were required to construct an artistic representation of a vagina. Two teams, one lead by Heeley, the other by Yallop, were set the task and away they went. The judges were all women ( a big thank-you to the delightful Ashfield Aztecs) and were amiable to the task. Perhaps surprisingly so. The prize? The Philip Young Hockey Masterclass, a triple DVD collection (Disc 1: Blocking and Twatting; Disc 2: Spanking the Monkey;. Disc 3: Umpiring: how I have my cake and eat it. Regularly.)
Heeley’s entry was judged the winner on aesthetic and artistic interpretation and whether or not an absent Cunningham could get his tongue inside it. Does such a vagina actually exist? One wonders. All I know is that I’ve never seen one like it. But then again I am, for now at least, unfamiliar with the minges of Mansfield.
The winner of the 2007 Great Flange Challenge, Ben Heeley. So young, so imaginative, so simian like.
Ridiculous and peurile, for sure – the set up lead to a humorous denouement with plenty more comic possibilities. Theresa heckled that old line about those who never get any being obsessed with such matters. As if I never get any and as if it is an obsession. Mind you, it has been some time… . Still pressing her luck, she interjected when the author was spouting some more nonsense on the subject of primates – particularly the orang-u-tan and the gibbon – in fact, all those with ginger hair. And just who was the Aussie with the burning quim that pressed against Hillier’s leg as he sat at the bar? Tamara never knows. Tamara never comes. There is no Tamara . Really? I do wonder, however, at what might make a cunt so warm. Apparently, he even had to take his jacket off.
I let the Herts Bull have the last word last Friday: “He’ll offer nothing. And there’s no ‘I’ in team.”
How true. But now it’s Tuesday and whilst there certainly is no such vowel in ‘team’, there is in ‘HAT TRICK.’ Ho ho ho (which in my game, always trumps “no, no, no”)
Oh yes, dear reader, the game was most definitely ON.
MVP – nearly blew it by not playing a decent pass to his captain and then having the audacity to complain to him, but, overall, he played his heart out for the side, defended from the front and made, as always, a massive contribution to the success of Viva in the evening: “Ra, ra, let it loose, Alex Crabtree is the Goose!” He continues his return to fitness and on this form will surely be up for some dog-fighting with Team ½ in their relegation battles.
Team: Fogwill, Kaye, Hannam, Buxey, Gallagher, Ahmed, Byrne, Yallop M, Bett, Crabtree, Rogers, Yallop S.
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