Welcome to the first of an irregular feature: Match of the Day. (I can't be bothered to come up with anything novel at the moment.)
Yesterday was, for me, the beginning of a new season of top-quality (ahem) football. And what a start. I was almost worried as I got a lift to the 'ground' with my new manager. We picked up a young lad who was training with Charlton. Out of my depth, I thought. Still, back to that later.
Why a new team? Well, the creaking joints and Andy Capp-esque rolling-pin domestic set-up of my former team-mates has diminished the mighty Stonewood to a 5-a-side team. Rest assured, we are just as bad - and just as (un)succesful - as we ever were, only now I have 80% burns on my body thanks to the astroturf. So, I was traipsing off to Roehampton (via Golders Green, obviously) at the crack of a sparrow's fart on a Sunday morning.
And what a debut. In spectacular Sunday league fashion: (i) we arrived later, (ii) we had no ref and (iii) they only had ten men, so we had to lend them a player. Fortunately, we had changing rooms, so I was spared the indignity of changing in a car park.
On the pitch, I didn't disgrace myself. My strike partner may have been playing with Charlton, but apart from his pace (and this was only up against old men, as virtually all Sunday league defenders are; they were once lightning quick like he: now, they are slow but brutal) he was rather a disappointment. I was expecting fireworks - excitement, unbelievable skill, vision and all that jazz. Mais, non. Fair enough, he scored four. But his touch was good, but not great, and his vision was somewhat lacking. Without his pace, he would have been far less succesful. And, as with all players who have (or think they have) a modicum of skill, he (in the language of the playground) was a hogger.
But, I can't complain. Unlike last season - and the season before that - I had players around me willing to run and - get this - tackle. Fuck me, I didn't know other players did that... Anyway, I felt as if it wasn't going to be my day when I dinked the ball over the keeper from 20 yards only to have it rebound off the post. Having had him pull two great saves off my two fine shots in the first half. Added to a defender getting his sizable rump to a beautifully struck first-time volley from eight yards (hell, at least he felt it) and being clean through on goal and being given offside, despite being about five yards behind the defender (no ref, or linesmen, remember), it was all a bit frustrating.
Still, I did what all good Sunday-league strikers do, following an up-and-under towards the opposition keeper, and sure enough, he dropped it. I scored. We won 5-4. It's just a shame it took me 3 hours to get home.
And, dear God, I feel like shit today. I think I've been 12 rounds with Tyson...
Monday, September 26, 2005
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Fear and Lothian
We were somewhere ouside Glasgow...when the drugs began to take hold...
No, that's just too lazy. And totally untrue. Let's do this chronologically; boring, but better.
The Glasgow public transport system is just the place to meet stereotypes. And the two lovely ladies who got on a few stops after us were neds - as the local vernacular has it - of the highest order.
Fourteen, maybe 15 years old. The eye-catching one at first was the taller of the two, for she had squeezed herself into a top about three sizes too small. She probably imagined, if she enough mental capacity for imagination - that she was displaying a fine bosom. The effect was more akin to someone shoving two small carrier bags full of half-congealed animal fat into a small bra - complete with ripple effects when she walked.
It was she who answered the phone. The conversation was unremarkable - at least, I paid it no attention - until the immortal line, "suck yer own fuckin' dick."
The small one took the phone. With an accent so thick it was difficult to follow, I caught the following: "I'll fuckin' kill the wee sprog you put in me;" "I'll slice yae from arse to elbow; and, "I'll give yae a tan line like Tony if yae don't delete my number from yer phone."
Unfortunately, the rest of the evening was not so entertaining. We went to see Mother and the Addicts, a beat combo from Scotland inspired by, get this, Gang of Four. I say inspired, but I really mean ripping it off. They didn't even add anything new, different or original. I was, however, introduced to the culinary delight of pakora. Like all Glaswegian food, it is deep-fried, but it wasn't instantly heart-attack inducing. Which must be a positive thing.
Is Edinburgh the least rock n' roll city in the UK? It certainly pushes Cambridge close. This was meant to be the evening of debauchery. Of messy, dreadful behaviour. It started promisingly: a bottle of liquid LSD; just a dab, a third of a dose each. To liven things up a little. And what did it do?
It woke me up, certainly. But it didn't turn weird. No. I got the fear; the paranoia; the queasy feeling in my stomach, prior to coming up. And then...
Nothing. Still, I wasn't really up for this. I'd geared myself up for dancing, and disco biscuits were, according to my host, to be order du jour. Mais, nothing. In fact, the nightclub had more bar staff than punters. And I'm only just joking. It was embarrasing. I retired to bed early, at 4am. Still, it was fun; just a little disappointing...
No, that's just too lazy. And totally untrue. Let's do this chronologically; boring, but better.
The Glasgow public transport system is just the place to meet stereotypes. And the two lovely ladies who got on a few stops after us were neds - as the local vernacular has it - of the highest order.
Fourteen, maybe 15 years old. The eye-catching one at first was the taller of the two, for she had squeezed herself into a top about three sizes too small. She probably imagined, if she enough mental capacity for imagination - that she was displaying a fine bosom. The effect was more akin to someone shoving two small carrier bags full of half-congealed animal fat into a small bra - complete with ripple effects when she walked.
It was she who answered the phone. The conversation was unremarkable - at least, I paid it no attention - until the immortal line, "suck yer own fuckin' dick."
The small one took the phone. With an accent so thick it was difficult to follow, I caught the following: "I'll fuckin' kill the wee sprog you put in me;" "I'll slice yae from arse to elbow; and, "I'll give yae a tan line like Tony if yae don't delete my number from yer phone."
Unfortunately, the rest of the evening was not so entertaining. We went to see Mother and the Addicts, a beat combo from Scotland inspired by, get this, Gang of Four. I say inspired, but I really mean ripping it off. They didn't even add anything new, different or original. I was, however, introduced to the culinary delight of pakora. Like all Glaswegian food, it is deep-fried, but it wasn't instantly heart-attack inducing. Which must be a positive thing.
Is Edinburgh the least rock n' roll city in the UK? It certainly pushes Cambridge close. This was meant to be the evening of debauchery. Of messy, dreadful behaviour. It started promisingly: a bottle of liquid LSD; just a dab, a third of a dose each. To liven things up a little. And what did it do?
It woke me up, certainly. But it didn't turn weird. No. I got the fear; the paranoia; the queasy feeling in my stomach, prior to coming up. And then...
Nothing. Still, I wasn't really up for this. I'd geared myself up for dancing, and disco biscuits were, according to my host, to be order du jour. Mais, nothing. In fact, the nightclub had more bar staff than punters. And I'm only just joking. It was embarrasing. I retired to bed early, at 4am. Still, it was fun; just a little disappointing...
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Cleaning out my closet
As you might have guessed from my previous post - and the general scarcity of news - there's not a lot going on in my life at the moment.
In fact, it has got so bad that The Boy & I were arguing via instant messenger about who had had the dullest weekend. I think it was me, but the ennui is so much, I can't be sure.
Work is obviously getting in the way far too much, but that is no excuse. I do think, however, that it is slowly sucking the humour out of me. I've not seen much recently that makes me smile in an offbeat way to write about; nor have I been so angry that I have had to vent my spleen. I'm sure my fire and bile will return once I've recharged by batteries.
Speaking of which (what a link, eh?), after a quick bevy with Miss Hazy Shade... for a gossip and a bitch, I'm off tae Glasgae for some heavy drinking and synapse abuse. Which means, sanity depending, I should have something to write about next week. Even if it is just the inane and self-absorbed rambling of a dull man.
We shall see. Watch this space...
In fact, it has got so bad that The Boy & I were arguing via instant messenger about who had had the dullest weekend. I think it was me, but the ennui is so much, I can't be sure.
Work is obviously getting in the way far too much, but that is no excuse. I do think, however, that it is slowly sucking the humour out of me. I've not seen much recently that makes me smile in an offbeat way to write about; nor have I been so angry that I have had to vent my spleen. I'm sure my fire and bile will return once I've recharged by batteries.
Speaking of which (what a link, eh?), after a quick bevy with Miss Hazy Shade... for a gossip and a bitch, I'm off tae Glasgae for some heavy drinking and synapse abuse. Which means, sanity depending, I should have something to write about next week. Even if it is just the inane and self-absorbed rambling of a dull man.
We shall see. Watch this space...
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
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