"...Brent maybe crude but Wokingham pay the price for all that gas..."
Oil fields are a lot like hockey fields. You dig deep all season and find nothing, then suddenly you strike in the Winnersh Triangle and its Goals, Goals, Goals!
Brent Bottoms is just one of those Canadian players who turns up as regular Celine Dion does to her husband's weight loss class. Brent passes the ball, Brent admires the ball, and sometimes when we sit on the bench together he looks under my blanket just to check on my lily white legs. It certainly was a little snappy today; and I suppose that did explain some of the injuries.
We started with 16 and very soon were whittled down to 12! Gosh!
HP came off with writer's cramp in the leg and thyroid. Johnno came off because his beer gut was causing a negative butterfly effect in the Polynesian Islands, Tom Toffee Pat Carney was on and off, and I almost managed to get the oppo's best player stretchered off by hitting the ball directly at his synovial fluid around the side of his now cracked knee as I attempted yet again one of my Strange, yet beautiful, trademark right wing to centre passes. Still I had just received an aeriel squarely on my left man boob which really stung. There will be no appearance in the dungeon for me tonight, although HP still tried to have a yank at it in the showers much to his amusement and my grimmace.
Nip and Tuck was the story of both halves. The opposition looked really Poo Pooped that they couldn't penetrate our defence and stand in goalie who had long druid hair and a reason to love Hawkwind.
Half time, no oranges; but we did all have a cuddle in the summer house and congratulated ourselves that we were two nil up. To be honest, I can't remember our second goal, only that I had set up the first for Nigel with one of my cross D bullet accurate Sturgess seeking missile passes which he duly put away and then we kissed mid field in a frenzy of pre xmas wonder.
Jesus loves Veteran hockey chums; so doubting Tomas tells me!
Wokingham had some pretty nifty players of their own. A left back who stuck to me like glue, convinced I was the tender son he never had. Then there was the dwarf centre back which Nigel towered over. There was one point when Nigel and Noddy had words; I think only the second time I have heard Nigel swear and Noddy told him to bog out of Toy town. Bless.
But from Toy Town to Lazy town, for all that gas in the field, no amount of (Forties)atude could swing it for Chokingham. Guildford started looking quite slick mid to final third of the field in the second half and out came Brent with a slick cross goal pass to yours truly.
I was later told that everyone witnessed the apocalyptic moment as time simply slowed right down. The ball came right to me and I was in just the right place at the right time - with Tom no where to be seen. Hallelujah, all those hours of training finally came together in that organism of a moment. I stopped, felt the goalies fear and then put my little pretty ball away into that heavenly thud of a place:
The back of the board!
My hands, my eyes and overweight torso all raised heavenward in a proud salute and the entire team let our their rabalasian refrain! Legions of angels and panzer divisions raised their wings in an encore. Guildford High Street came to a grinding halt as the news of my goal was made public and a national holiday announced to replace the previous one to Martin Luther King.
Even Tom confessed that he would be converting to Protestantism or was it Prostratism, by way of celebration and repudiation of his cumbersome potatoe heritage.
The drought now over, my ball in the right place finally, stick in hand we held the oppo off and made it to the bar to applause and adulation.
Wokingham were so enthralled by the news of my joy that they even made up a cock and ball story about their showers not working just so they could come and be near the winning team, and me.
When Mari asked me in the bar afterwards what the score was, I had to ask her to repeat the question three times. I couldn't believe it was actually three goals to Nil and I couldn't hear properly but for all the shrieking and ecstasy that had preceeded that moment. If only Andy Roberts had been here to partake in the toffees also, particularly as Tom eats the Tommee Pats as if they were bird seed.
There were the typical confessions in the bar afterwards and it was nice to see Nigel stick around. Gouldie is a perfect gentleman, how he managed to eat a Quality Street Fudge in two attempts is beyond me. Regan was cool as the sweeney should be, and Tonks looked chilled enough. Even Peter Ump promised to meet me at St. Nics midnight mass Cranleigh on the proviso that I wouldn't be too rowdy.
Mmm, we will see.
Jason Leigh Strange: we're cooking on gas now!