Quotes
Moyesy
said:"This is a win that can help consolidate a Uefa
Cup spot for next season but our aim is still to catch Chelsea.We
have come a long way since we were beaten six two by Newcastle a year
ago."
"Before
today I couldn't honestly think of any crucial decision which had
gone our way."You look at Charlton, at Arsenal and other situations
in which decisions that should maybe have gone for us have gone the
other way."Today's one was a foul, but we still had many men
to beat and a lot to do before the penalty was awarded."
Lard:
Are yer staying out?
Jogger:
I don't know. Oh ok then
Lard:
What are yer singing on the karoke
Jogger:
Forever in Blue Jeans
Howay
the lards
By
Mickey Blue Eyes
Spring
does funny things to people. For example at such times you know what
Oscar Wilde meant when he said, “Women are meant to be loved, not
understood.” I’m sorry if this sounds salacious – but what did he
have to say about understanding men? Well, those of us outside Reading
gaol?
Take
the Hall of Fame night at the Adelphi main function room. The place
was awash in Evertonia and raucous unashamed singing deep in male
diaphragms. Ladies were in distinctly short supply. The chandeliers
tinkled and swung minutely in rhythm as though to a distant bombing
raid.
On
our table Jogger was in fine form and joshing our gentle and lovely
septuagenarian blue-rinse waitress no end. Grins all round, none wider
than hers. But she got her own back in the way only Scouse gerls know
how. I love ‘em when they deliver like this.
Jogger
had already been busy telling the table how, hohoho, he kept trying
to get an elderly boob in his elbow. Some people will laugh at anything
when they’re drunk. Anyway, he pushed his luck even further as she
came around collecting the soup plates. Leering, he said, “An’ I want
yer phone number too.”
She
paused, a tubby juggler with a pile of tottering plates. “Oh really?”
(Actually
she said , “Oh rerrlee?” but as a Scouser you knew that already. You
know the score.)
“Oh
aye yeh,” smirked Jogger. Loving an audience, he knew by now everyone
was listening. He’s a performer alright.
“Oh
alright, then,” said the waitress. I closed my eyes because I was
near enough to see the twinkle in hers. Incoming! I wanted to shout.
Military training tells you you never hear the one that gets you or
you’d duck out of the way sharpish. But as a smart lad from Scotty
Road once asked, “How the fuck do they KNOW?”
The
smirk got wider and more smart-ass. “Well. Worrisit then?” Patronising
with it. He had it coming. I could almost see the shape and trajectory
of the missile.
“Nine
nine nine,” she said and swayed off balancing the tottering plates
against a gale of hysterical guffaws. Jogger should have worn a flak
jacket. He looked terribly wounded.
I
retired giggling to the toilets. As I emptied myself into a convenient
stall, two rampant thirty-somethings occupied the next two.
Mildly,
right out of the blue one said, “Twat of a gaff that Southport last
night.” Grammar notwithstanding, Scouse surely is the only English
accent which can make vehemence sound acceptable and even entirely
appropriate to the subject.
His
friend was concerned. “How’s that, Jacky? Thought you copped off,
like?”
He
was dismissive. “I did, no sweat. But it’s not that, it’s what you’ve
gorra go through with their cheesy women first.” A chauvinist saga
in the offing. “It’s not that they don’t bang like a shithouse door
in a gale either, ‘cause they do. It’s just the way they look.” Obviously
a sensitive aesthete. “Christ, they’re all skinny, middle aged, cold,
manky short hair, reek of gin, talk shite an’ ‘ave rouge lippy that’s
been daubed on wirra fuckn mop. An’ they’ve all gorra stick up their
arse an’ no roof in their fuckn mouth. Come to think of it, I’d rather
shag a jelly fish. Next time, I will.” I was almost overwhelmed by
the vivid imagery. I admired and envied the use of “rouge,” “daubed”
and “mop” in the same context. Human imagination fired by temporary
insanity. Don’t you just love it.
By
this time his friend was nodding vigorously. I imagined his urine
stream splashing in sync. “Yeh. I’ve had the same experience, onny
I reckon it’s like screwin’ a loofah. I’d rather go the Hall of Fame
Do any day.” Mercifully, they washed and dried their hands before
weaving out with arms around each other. Greater love hath no man
than one chauvinist drunk for another. What’s lurv got to do with
it?
Back
at the table, Mike was planning a Kipper Away Weekend for the Fulham
match. I have decided to join this despite my inability to keep up
with fearsome mass quaffing talents of the Kipper Boys. I have never
equated the capacity of a bladder with intellectual capacity. To be
fair, neither have the Kipper Boys. They’re just pissheads. My well
tended innards quail at the thought of the projected alcohol flood.
Put me in a difficult flanking movement with a supply of stick grenades
and a functioning shoulder weapon and I’m okay. Leave me in a trench
with a bunch of alcoholics and I’m not. I console myself with the
thought that we’ll turn over Fulham’s notoriously fractious play and
mash their crabby debt-ridden Lahndan fans into a whimpering lower
middle class bowl of milky muesle.
Then
a moment to savour, a demonstration of the evening’s unity. Dave Watson
was walking past and Kipper collared him (Kipper knows him, you know)
and said, “Dave, ee are, sit ‘ere lad.” Without hesitation he went
to sit in the proffered seat. Well, he did until he saw Phil and the
Edam. As a preliminary, let me explain that Phil once had an inspired
inebriated moment in a Chinatown restaurant when he tooled around
with a young Chinese waitress and asked her, “Hey! What mean ‘Li Tie’?”
Straightfaced, she said in a perfect Scouse accent, “It means ‘Fucked
Up Mong.’” Amen, comrade. Stuffy self-righteous PCs could learn something
human and vital from this encounter, but they probably won’t. This
is the same Phil, pissed as a fart, with a melon sized slice of Edam
edgeways in his mouth, red edge curved outwards coquettishly, who
was grinning at Waggy like a female Martian in one of those old Smash
Potato TV ads. Waggy took one look, grinned back and said, “Get the
fuuuck!” and retreated to the top table shaking his head. And his
shoulders. I cackled with vicious satisfaction. After all, this is
also the same Phil who accused me falsely one night of “………gettin’
off wirra prozzy………” after I rescued myself early from a looming hang
over via a Kipper Boys night on the town.
By
now Jogger had recovered from his ordeal by fire. He glowered around
the room and then brightened. He’s the only man I know who can swagger
while sitting down. “I reckon, “ he said with loud and utter self-confidence,
“I’m about third cock in ‘ere.” Thank christ for that. We were all
contemplating a military funeral. He’s like one of those ingeniously
designed subbuteo footy players, you knock him over and he always
ends up on his feet. Except if anyone actually tried to knock him
down it would be them on the floor first. Real Scousers will not need
to be told “cock” means hardest man in the locality. Hence, “cock
of ar skewl” means you can beat anyone in a fight in your school.
Those who wish to expand their understanding of Scouse are recommended
to the work of Fritz Spiegel, lately deceased and much missed.
Kipper
decided Mike’s five minutes of fame had arrived. He called over a
floodlit camera crew with a short boom microphone sheathed in a hairy
lamb’s wool condom. They were interviewing sentimental-looking passing
drunks. To our amazement, Mike ceased his impression of an urban yeti
long enough to deliver a quite brilliant and passionately lucid explanation
of why he’s an Evertonian. The camera crew went away and Mike instantly
happily reverted to being bladdered out of his head. It was an impressive
moment.
Over
on the head table, Moysey was greeted by the fans like a conquering
hero. Loonies like me were everywhere on their chairs singing and
shouting fluent gibberish. The Royal Blue Mersey………Moyesy………The Golden
Vision………Wayne Rooney’s Mam – ”The most precious womb on the planet,”
said the MC. Tables were pounded, cutlery and crockery leaping in
perfect two-three time. It was wonderful. Moyesy looked like he reveled
in it, if at first slightly unbelieving. Ex-players came and went,
a stream of sparkling legends and folk heroes. Believe me, chauvinism
was the least of it. Everywhere gruff and beery male voices were saying
things like, “I LUVVED ‘im! I remember the time when…………………” and then
out would come the story of some long relished saga of a goal or brilliant
phase of play. If men were groupies they’d be sleeping with an ageing
Tony Kay. Yes, it’s raw. Yes, it’s mushy. Yes, it’s self-indulgent.
A tiny part is even hypocritical. But so what? It’s a harmless and
healthy obsession if sensibly regarded. If footy has any usefulness
at all it is surely such escapist times. It is the fans and the players
who make the game, nobody else. At times like this, the ones you have
no time for, the moaners, the self-styled know-it-alls, the cynics,
the cheap gossipers, the hangers-on, the book-keepers, the TV-watching
“coaches,” the administrators, are all distant unwanted flatulence
and nothing more.
The
weekend arrived sportswise with nothing more than a Euro qualifier
against Lichtenstein (Lichtenstein!) and rugby in prospect. Anyway,
I could only half watch it on TV while working. The Lickies (I can’t
think of anything better to shove to useless and humourless Politically
Corrects [PCs] who do more harm than good) were disposed of in yet
more gloomy sub-mediocre fashion. Even The Duke couldn’t dispel it
in his allotted ten minutes though gawd knows he came precious close.
Meanwhile The Taffs beat a collection of hapless comedians named Azerbaijan,
or it might have been Abba or even Zimbabwe, while the Jocks were
not-exactly-thrashing mighty Iceland, The Paddies were winning in
Georgia (not the racist USA one), and Norn Ireland were crashing to
an umpteenth pathetic defeat in Mongolia or somewhere else famous.
The sooner The Paddies and Norn get together the better for history,
peace and their joint playing prospects.
The
rugby was its usual disgusting and thuggish self, players raked routinely
with studs while on the ground in a maul etc., the kind of stuff you’d
get arrested for in a street scuffle. When Celts gash this kind of
mayhem it is called “celtic fervour.” When an Englishman does it,
it is called “nazism.” It’s the same with flags and banners. You have
to get your terms of reference right. The ones who don’t like this
being drawn to their attention are the one-dimensional second or even
third generation Plastic Celts who wouldn’t know one end of a torc
from the Book of Kells let alone a paragraph of Celt history. But
you tell them anyway on the basis that someone has to set the record
straight.
Saturday
night brought our club’s formal dinner celebration of one hundred
seasons of top flight footy. It was held at a sheeted-up, scaffold-enclosed
St. George’s Hall, currently being rehabilitated to coincide with
the City of Culture 2008 bid. I couldn’t take up my invitation but
wouldn’t have gone anyway. The price was an insult, few ordinary fans
were invited and in any case I get enough of this kind of thing throughout
the year. After a while formality gives you indigestion. My spies
tell me it was brilliant nevertheless, that the club for once got
everything spot on and that it perfectly matched the occasion. Hallelulia!
It
was hallelulia time on Sunday too when Tommy English rugby finally
won the Grand Slam and worked it up Paddy Irish on his own potato
patch for the cross of St. George to stand proud and gloriously triumphant
over inconsequential Six Nations wrestling-on-wheels. Of course this
was only a minor compensation for the lousiness of our performance
in the REAL game the previous evening but it was worth it if only
to give a smooth pasting to the Plastic Celts (i.e. not the REAL ones,
they’re fine and self confident) and the PCs. It might even be possible
to get the latter thick bastards to laugh at themselves and humanity
without an attack of the vapours. Depending on mood next week I might
just launch an assault on Gaelic “football,” curling, hurley, kilts,
bagpipes, druids and leeks. Anything to keep the melting pot stirred.
I tell you, nothing is more pompous than a stiff-faced Plazzie Celt
full of phony “ethnic” bullshit. Except maybe a cracked mealy-mouthed
PC on a phone-in telling everyone else they are “unfair” or “vindictive”
because they have a point of view different to theirs, perhaps vehemently
so. You long to say, “Ah fuck off and have an operation for removal
of the bug up yer arse.”
The
internationals coincided with a TV documentary on Sven Eriksson, England’s
Swedish manager/coach. Like all paparazzi the programme makers left
themselves a quick exit available with, “Maybe Sven will make it/maybe
he won’t in the Euro and the World Cup.” Useless journo hacks like
Piers Moron and Clive Tidesout queued to kick him while he was on
the floor of defeats and then went on to claim the credit for any
victories with which he is associated, particularly the brilliant
5-1 away mauling of The Krauts. The way those scum tell it they should
be managing the national team – except most of them couldn’t empty
a bin unaided by a bottle of plonk or two. Footy really must be the
worst served sport of all when it comes to quality journalism. The
Beautiful Game around the globe is beset by these unemployable wankers
and the worst of the lot are located right here in Blighty. They give
nothing and steal everything not bolted down. Their demise via the
internet can’t come soon enough.
Then
the second week opened up with (honestly, I can hardly hold me sides
together) Suit Ridsdale finally doing a bunk as chairman of Leeds
PLC, only to be replaced by some prof or other talking fluent ordeur
about returns on expenditure and all the rest of the standard commissar
book-keeper right-wing muck. The problem is, he’s about three hundred
years old and looks like he’s never kicked a ball in his life. One
commentator suggested if Leeds get relegated they’ll go into administration.
Meanwhile Chelsea’s debt increased three fold and Huddersfield are
done for, financially speaking. So are Ipswich, in administration
and who offered us almost their entire playing staff for nothing two
weeks ago. You will recall David Sheepshanks of Ipswich was recent
Flavour Of the Month with his brilliant Five Year Plan – except, er,
no it wasn’t, it was the same kind of codswallop Suit Ridsdale was
peddling at roughly the same time. Oh well. Maybe the lesson will
be learned one day and all those useless hacks in the Business Pages
will be exposed for the arse-licking establishment bandits they are.
The chickens are coming home to roost, no thanks to the book-keepers
and their “business plans.”
Gloriously,
England V Turkey, and The Duke on from the start, and a tremendous
2-0 win against a strong team who finished third in the last World
Cup. It was terrific seeing all those England banners and favours
in Sunderland, if only to piss off the Plastic Celts, Melledrew Tendency
branch. The Mackems were superb in their support for our national
team. Quite right too. I wouldn’t give a bucket of warm spit for anyone
who denied their roots. The Duke was so good it was once again difficult
to recognize he is only seventeen. The only people who would deny
this are dickheads like those strange, distraught pinkies who say
things like, “He’s promising, that’s all.” Poor bastards, they’ll
never shake off the trauma of those eight years in the second division
all those years ago. Fact is they’re shit-scared of the lad. Exuberance,
flicks, back heels, wide-eyed instinct, strength, determination, lightning
turns, first touch brilliance, passing, it was all there. I tell you,
and I couldn’t give a flying fuck if you believe me or not, this lad
is better than Pelé at the same age. The only thing he lacks
is heading ability. Me, I’m an Everton, Rooney and England fan. If
you’re not, screw you, he’s one of us. I hope it chokes you – and
if you’re a pinky it probably will.
Next
day the inevitable happened and there were media interviews with assorted
gobshites talking about “increased brand awareness” of Wayne Rooney.
So much for simple sports glory. What they meant was they wanted ten
percent of his earnings. It’s an unfortunate fact of life we are stuck
with these greasy bum-boy leeches until such time as you and the game
reassert better qualities. In the meantime, months ago, The Duke’s
dad put the phone down on an illegal approach from somebody allegedly
representing Monaco. There may have been others. Likely there will
be more, usually preceded by a bought-and-paid-for-hack with a planted
newspaper story paid for by some deadbrain full of “Estuary English”
and a line of chat from the Terry Venables and Rick Parry School of
Lying And Corrupt Bullshit. Friends, our game is riddled from top
to bottom with the dry rot of institutionalized corruption. NEVER
believe the book-keepers, NEVER believe the agents, NEVER believe
the media. Do your own research, make up your own mind.
Despite
all of it, Wayne shines as brightly as a supernova. He’s potentially
one of the greatest players who ever lived. He’s irresistible. He’s
terrific. He’s every bit as good as his mam and dad want him to be.
He’s a Scouser, an Evertonian and an Englishman. And if you think
that makes me fit to bust with irrational tribal pride – you bet your
cotton-pickin’pluckin’fuckin’ cotton socks it does. It has nothing
to do with hype but everything to do with the evidence of your own
eyes. And screw all this “objective” garbage – if you stand in the
middle of the road all you get is run over. Go for the jugular every
time. When Wayne turns for goal, that’s what he does without hesitation.
Ask the Arsenal defence. Ask the Turks. Ask anybody who really knows
about football. Leave the half-arsed moaning and mithering to The
Melledrew Tendency. Celebrate human sports genius when you see it
once a generation. With family guidance, David Moyes, reasonable luck,
freedom from serious injury and the ability not to fall among corruption,
young Rooney will become one of the greatest players you have ever
seen. Treasure every second of it. You won’t see it again for another
generation, anywhere.
Match
eve was Grand National Day, a gorgeous sunny event, thousands of suckers
betting loadsa money they don’t have on horses that haven’t a chance
in hell. It also gave yet another twist to all this nationalist nonsense,
the sort which has me mostly chortling at the weirdness of human nature
– except for times like the illegal and immoral murderous invasion
of Iraq. At the finish of the race a group of exhausted sweating horses
stumbled down the final leg of the course, the way you would if you
had just done two circuits jumping fiendishly cruel obstructions on
the way. As the winner crossed the line, the TV commentator said,
“………and it’s (damned if I can recall the name) finishing for Ireland………”
Christ, I thought, even the bloody horses have a country now. I wonder
if the horse knows its nationality? If so, it’s going to make it very
difficult for me on one of my wind-ups. You can’t take the piss out
of a horse the way you do with loony nationalists or Plazzie Celts.
After all, horses have more sense than cracked second-hand nerds with
a plastic shamrock, joke kilt or blow-up leek. Come on England, I
say, let’s get the Grand National back next year the way we’ve vanquished
everybody at rugby. And the way we will in REAL footy when The Duke
gets into full stride. There was a minor and humorous diversion at
lunchtime when the Mancs slaughtered the pinkies without mercy. I
heartily recommend the final Solskjaer goal to anyone who wants to
learn how to score through a nutmegged defender beyond a static ‘keeper,
hoho.
Match
day morning, an ironic interview with George Best on Radio Five. A
generation ago George was one of the world’s great players. He was
asked his opinion of The Duke. Amongst other things, George said,
“It all depends how he looks after himself.” This from a raddled man
who should know: health collapsed through alcohol addiction, sadly
mistook clubs and pubs for the only source of friendship and company,
old before his time, basically finished in his mid twenties, nothing
but an itinerant playing curio in his later years, self confessed
self-indulgent narcissistic, permanently surrounded by hack hangers-on
for reflected glory, finished well before he should have been. All
in all a truly tragic sight and sound. Wayne should listen seriously
to him. But I have an instinct he won’t because he has all the kind
of right influences around him poor old George didn’t have.
Match
afternoon, assembly in The Spellow sans Kipper who was in Florida
trying to avoid all those Cuban drug dealers who want Fidel dead so
they can restore child prostitution and organized crime in the Caribbean.
If loony right-wing Texans like the appointed arsehead in the White
House have their way it won’t be too long delayed. Kipper missed Bristol
City V Carlisle United in the LDVD Vans Trophy final on the big screen.
At least that’s what I think it’s called. I hope it doesn’t sound
too patronizing when I say it might as well be called the Robin Reliant
Final for all I know. At any rate, a generous crowd viewed it from
the magnificence of the Millenium Stadium and enjoyed the occasion
as much as any of the so-called “big” games. Good on ‘em.
There
was a real pre-match buzz about the game versus The Skunks. A smattering
of deck-chair shirts everywhere, far too many of them trying and failing
to cover disgusting beer bellies overflowing comedy trousers embedded
in brothel creepers – hence the headline to this piece. If there’s
one thing you can say about that kind of Geordie it’s that they’re
doing their level best to promote England’s new obese generation of
shaved heads and earrings. Gawd knows what goes through their “mind”
when they look in a mirror.
Gratifyingly,
our fans have not gone overboard about our progress this season under
Moyesy. By far the majority have a proper sense of what is and isn’t
possible. Euphoria is not taking precedence over understandable “feel
good.” The whingeing Melledrew Tendency is still there – they always
will be even if we get to the top of the league – but they don’t really
matter in relation to the majority. So, another full house and a sense
of expectation.
For
us, Joey at right back and a Twin Slaphead Centre Midfield of Carsley-Gravedigger
with Stevie wide right and Pembo wide left. Up front, SuperKev and
The Duke. Basically nobody gave a shit who The Skunks had playing
for them. Few Blue Bellies have forgotten the league match at their
stadium when they had a flukey win and Joey got sent off for something
most people don’t even break wind for these days. But they say these
things even themselves out and so it proved.
Within
twenty seconds The Duke almost gave the crowd a collective orgasm
with a near miss in the Park End. Sadly it was fractionally just behind
his right foot and he couldn’t hook it enough from just inside left
penalty area. He was offside anyway. It doesn’t bear thinking what
the crowd reaction would have been had it gone in and been allowed.
The Skunks fans, a notoriously fickle and odd lot, early on hooted
him every time he went near the ball. You knew, just KNEW, they’d
rue it. Great players couldn’t give a shit what the crowd say or do.
The players do it first and take the plaudits afterwards. This is
exactly right.
For
the first thirty minutes it was all us. The Skunks didn’t get a sniff
thanks (and I have to do a doubletake as I type this) to our centre
midfield. Slaphead and The Gravedigger were indomitable, won almost
everything and passed it around as though it was a stroll. It wasn’t
of course, because Shearer and Bellamy were up to their usual nark-and-elbows-and-moan-to-the-ref
shite almost from the off. There’s no question Alan Shearer is a great
player but his main default is that he’s a pain in the arse. Bellamy
on the other hand is a little prick from the same sink school as Savage.
That said, neither of them got an ounce of change from Davey-Stubbsy
all afternoon. Nor did The Skunks create much.
Most
of the first thirty minutes were played in their half without many
shots or direct attempts on goal. Nevertheless, it was still us who
looked much more likely. After twenty minutes we got the goal we well
deserved. Who else but The Duke. The Gravedigger got a cross in from
the left, Davey took time off from crushing Shearer-Bellamy and nodded
it on, and steaming in just inside the penalty spot came Rooney, a
stooping header out of nothing and it was home, ‘keeper’s right side.
The Crocky Cannonball strikes again. Skunks fans lost heart with him
after that, probably fear in case they provoked him to even more effective
play. Thing is, Rooney never wastes his time with mere spectacular.
He prefers a knife thrust to the telegraphed swing of a clumsy axe.
Which is why he’s so deadly.
While
we were still marveling at the center midfield transformation, suddenly
it went out of us. Gawd knows why but the Twin Slapheads suddenly
went AWOL with about ten minutes of the half left. Shearer missed
a right side close in chance he would normally bury, Woodgate (constantly
referred to as Woodhead in the Street End) had a tremendous header
hit the bar after a great deflection from Wrighty, Robert tried a
praiseworthy distant snap shot with Dyer screaming at him for the
ball, and then the same player scored a superb world-class goal from
slightly wider left after Woodgate played a great defence-murdering
pass through to him. Unfortunately he had much more time than he should
have because Joey allowed himself to get sucked into the middle and
left him unmarked. Some fans muttered about Wrighty for the goal but
frankly that’s a load of bollocks. It was magnificent. No ‘keeper
in the world could have kept it out.
The
Skunks took over where they left off and for ten minutes of the second
half and had most of the play. Even though we had gone erratic we
were still giving their midfield a hard time. The result was they
weren’t able to create much. For a third place team they just weren’t
that impressive. So we battled our way back into it and got one after
twenty minutes of the half. They attacked down their right into the
Park End and it resulted in a clash involving The Gravedigger. From
where I was sitting, The Skunk went in two footed and The Gravedigger
could and should have pulled out. Instead he put his foot up and went
over the ball to make sure it wasn’t him who got hurt. Any lower and
there was a finished footy career. Fortunately, relatively, contact
was “only” just above the knee. No question, there should have been
a red card. Instead, play got waved on and the ball was played down
our left to Rooney, slightly in the clear and totally focused. He
cut straight across the park pursued by a couple of Skunks. Virtually
dead centre he did one of his astonishingly casual changes of direction
without altering his body. He knifed a pass straight through the middle
to SuperKev with only Woodgate preventing a straight run on goal.
Kev tried to brush past him on his right and got brought down. Penalty,
no sweat.
By
this time Shearer was waving his hands like windmills and mithering
the referee the way he always does. Meantime, the prone Skunk looked
in bad order. Unsy had the ball on the spot and Robert the Skunk Frog
was standing two metres in front of him. The Street End screamed advice
not inadjacent to, “Stick it down his fuckn throat Rhino!” while the
maelstrom swirled. Eventually, order restored, Beloved Lard Arse battered
it straight down the middle and we were overall in a deserved lead.
There was perfect symmetry in this after our experience in the league
match in the nazi north east. What goes around comes around.
This
provoked an excellent ten-fifteen minutes from us. SuperKev kidded
their defence brilliantly right side acute angle but could only hit
the ‘keeper. A couple of minutes later a long cross from our right
got through to left side angle of the goal area where leapt Rooney
and Pembo with but a solitary defender. Pembo got their first with
a clear header and headed it over. Honest, you or I could have scored
it.
At
various times there were other incidents, such as a clear hand ball
from a Skunks defender which should have got a red card, and another
clear opportunity for Pembo to give the ball to Rooney in the clear
on our left. Instead, he inexplicably hit it out for a goal kick.
Then
they got back into it in the closing ten minutes with some tremendous
pressure but again only one clear cut chance, a close in header in
the last minute which Wrighty kept out with an incredible save. Apart
from that there was a Robert free kick which looked perfectly placed
for such a magnificent striker of the ball but thankfully he wasted
it. We were home and dry.
The
defence played really well when required, though there was a rare
patchy performance from Unsy. Overall, midfield was staccato. I am
mystified as to how they could be so good and then wilt so easily.
Stevie had a quiet game by his recent standards, while Pembo’s free
kicks and corners are quite exceptional and make up for his lack of
pace. Once again service to SuperKev and Rooney was less than good,
especially to the former who hardly had a good ball to deal with throughout.
The latter was himself, which is just another way of saying magnificent.
Given
our meagre resources and spending power this was a terrific, hard-earned
victory. We have now beaten most of the top teams and might well add
to the tally during the run in. If so, maybe Europe isn’t beyond us
after all. Fingers crossed.
Afterwards,
we repaired to the pub with Terry, Les and Dave, three genuine Norners.
Not a Plastic in sight and all the better for it.
Fifth
place. Whatever next?
