Prologue - a likely spectator's recollection of the game (ie close to reality): a game Guildford should have won by several goals against a much weaker Winchester; a multitude of missed opportunities by the forwards; an early HP injury; a squad of 14 resulting into too many unsettling substitutions; a sterling performance by our stand-in Goalie, the much slimmer medicated Dr Pain Jenkinson himself (many thanks for making the difference!).
Our newbies managed to get good pitch time: Jason achieved a 50% success ratio of hits at open goal, a technique he has been mastering at Wednesday training sessions; Brent, sporting new yellow luminescent shoes, confused the umpires and ended up kicking the ball more often than he wished; and Alistair (our defensive dynamo), who has achieved the dubious honour of getting sent off in his first game, showed reserve this week but still displayed good levels of commitment.
And now we enter the alternative reality of Jason with its overtones of fantasies/phobias mashed up with meaningless sexual references and obscure literary quotes - all designed to confuse the reader .................................
Winchester Wanderers, Guildford goes 'a' poaching.
I have an ashtray at home.
I don't use it; it sits outside in the garden for the moments when I imagine I might smoke again and enjoy stubbing out in the tin like rim with circumferenced lettering,
The colour is burgandy, like our shirts today and the message is clear: if you drink Poacher Bitter, you will be able to avoid the cashless society blues and trap your own food in years to come when the supermarket shelves are empty to all those who do not wear a chip under their skin.
Also, and perhaps more relevant, by drinking 'Poacher Bitter', you will know when to take your chances in the 'D' and score the most silly of goals and win the game others (Mark) typically would throw.
Very early in our game, Nigel 'Gazelle' Sturgess proved yet again his prowess at scoring something out of nothing. That is what we pay him to do, run up, run alone, run baby run, and keep running in a Forrest Gump kind O' way and execute opposition with a flurry reminiscent of any Mark Twain moment.
Nigel scored, Winchester looked crest fallen and it seemed all we needed to do was replicate the action again.
But for some reason our traps went slightly Awol. By half time, having been moved around into more positions than a mongolian vibrator, I lost the plot.
I even got offered advice from a newbie who doesn't even attend Wednesday training: Go right wing, Go left wing, come off the field, go on the field, wear a tampon, go dutch, go bare all, go skinny dipping, go to hell, go back, go forth.....
You get the picture?
Instead I did what I do best and completely ignored the idiotic advice I was being given and instead looked up to the gallery where our new 1st Team coach (Jason) was sitting and listened to his advice.
He advised me to get into position, go poaching and score the most unlikely of goals.
Fascinatingly, the likes of Sturgess, Kissenger and Holness (Bob) would say, " No do it this way, do it that way, no, don't do it at all!" The reality is that everyone else's excuses finally ran out and they were left with no option but to pass me the F@£$%^& ball.
Result: I scored and we drank our fill at full time.
Not quite before the oppo stole a goal which made my laureate all the more important. Even Tom, Tommy; asked again to touch my gel in the showers to ensure he reached the climax of mutual and spiritual togetherness. Bi-partisan and Bi-lateral irish/anglo relations continue to improve, sealed afterwards in the bar with a solemn spud you grope kiss, (there you go BOTTOMS, a homo erogenous moment as requested).
HP gave a stimulating half time talk. He came out, and came out with some useful analysis. The more injured his leg, the more his tongue talked sense. Tom looked on nonchalantly. HP continually praised the Umps for some cracking decisions. I often wonder why he does this, but now finding out that HP loves tractors more than me it makes perfect sense. He is the ultimate Prime Cut, Cattle meat, Girl meat its all the same to me, said the late Gene Hackman once upon a time.
Back to the hockey, can I just say that I think Chris Bel, fel, mel, tel, wel, eel, teal, teak, seek, feat, shaw had an abbo fabbo game. I was suprised that he came out of his shell and made and received some superbly consistent passes. He later admitted to me in the bar that he was married to a Brazilian. Top guy!, how he does it with a poker face?
Tom tried to cuddle up, but the oppo were more interested in touching me, the game winner, and you can understand it. There is an assimilation in all things youthful and opportunist.
I shall finish where I started.
There were goals to be had. There were goals that should have been slammed home. Their goalie was too good at times; but ultimately, the poacher laid his trap and got position, the poacher waited and ignored until the whistle; the poacher waits and plays the law of averages, and eventually, by sheer default my team members finally got so bored with their own game - they eventually passed the sodding ball and I covered your sins with the winning goal.
Poacher always wins.