Like an asthmatic using satan's recently used but unwiped anus as a source of inhaled therapy I was dissappointed in my selection of friday footie as a source of stress relief. I gagged on the torrent of increasingly visceral outbursts that ushered from my own demoralised corpse. Frustration was a muscle bound inmate at a high security prison and I was his bitch. I felt abused, misanthropic and ashamed.
Despite the general consensus that today's game was 'good' I felt obliged to stay in the shower afterwards for an extra 5 minutes scrubbing my body like an OCD sufferer. This ultimately futile attempt to remove the putrid stench and sticky residue of a poor game did not work. Like a child's visit to Jackson's Neverland ranch I will endeavour to banish these memories to the nadir of my soul and hope that they don 't spawn a future desire to buy a rifle, rent a hot air balloon and hover like a 'Demi God of Football' over the astroturf taking out all those that don't track back, follow runners from midfield, or merely look around them to see that the masticating maestro, that was Rich today, was 4 furlongs ahead of them. I saw him finish a chapter of War and Peace, indulge in onanism and compose a sonnet before he worked out the applied physics involved in his scoring of an unchallenged goal.
At the end of the game I was informed that it finished as a draw....I scoured my nipples with course sandpaper and rubbed nettles laced in chilli extract into them just to ensure that I was not dreaming. This is was as shocking as not finding a buggered, drowned body at a Michael Barrymore pool party. I suppose that I should pay tribute to fantastic forward play by the green's who managed to net goals that brought us back into the game. Pete was in inspired formed. One got the feeling today that even if he lost his arms and legs in a tackle he could have still scored with a well timed erection volley into the net.
Despite the Green's goals there was a lack of unity and structure about the team. There was a lot of talking but no implementation. Personally I felty a bit like Skippy the bush kangaroo trying to tell someone who was not au fait with my click-click speech that a small girl had fallen down the nearby well, had broken her leg and that the man who thankfully rescued her was, by deepest of misfortunes, an unregistered paedophile with a cabin in a remote part of the bush. I have the licence plate number from his car and a GPS position for the cabin so if you wouldn't mind putting down the f*cking camera and desist in trying to feed me a eucalyptus leaf we can go rescue her........I digress.
My rage has somewhat abated since I indulged in some take away Thai (food, not an oriental pleaure mistress). I am as stuffed as Gordan Ramsey's swear box.
My bleak outlook, however, remains steadfast. Badges of honour tonight are hard for me to attribute. Let's face it turds manifest contrast on a black background. That said, Pete and Rich were clinical in finishing for their respective teams. Billy's workrate all over the pitch was a key facet to the colours tactical advantage and the (mainly uncontested) interplay between Dan, Guy and Rich was efficiently executed.
For the green's I'm opting for Geir, Zac and Pete.
Next week I might give football a miss. I need to rest some tendons and anyway the News of the World is handing out pieces of wood with nails in them and organising mini-buses on Wednesday and Friday to go to the homes of Trisha Goddard and Jeremy Kyle...now that's sport.
