Fenians Trample Easter Day Accord - Season 37 Game 2

Golgotha is only a state of mind, unless you're Son o' God or any other piece of undesireable,semi-ambulatory real estate known, colloquially, as a Bomber.

Karori Park. 12.30.  'Good' Friday. v Karori Irish. 

Despite drunken advice from my proctologist , I deigned to accept executive transport fromElRaggolino ('the drooling one', in Catalan dialect). Ourprofessional Microsoft apologist andvillage idiot manque.

After dropping a blender off to Stella, my beautiful and gifted daughter, Johnnie Boy slewed the middle-age -crisis Jeep into the handicapped parking spot inches ahead of a very convincing StephenHawking impersonator and his elderly mother. (they were both driving).



Just past mid-day, and time to kill. We find a small blue Hansie thing contemplating p-zombies, the fraudulent present, epiphenominalistic paradoxiiand selling his children to swarthy Iron Curtain n'er do wells (ed. see Zel) for anight with Elle Macphearson. 

en minutes of well-constructed and deceptively perceptive banter later, the other gay stragglerser  straggled in (ed. fix this later if not too stoned).

There was El Stenterino, who over-shot the Huntleigh Assisted Living Villas, but decided to stay and play anyway. Daniel, reeking of piety and Homme Sauvage. Jackal, connoisseur of married life with children and other algal blooms. Big Unit, still agressively marketing tomorrow, while his wife hits him with heavy french kitchenware. Our gerontological freak (ed. See Marky, see powdered rhinoceros horn, see a therapist)  Assistant Gardener, with his sac of wrinkled, under-inflated balls.

Oh dear. 

See Tiberius, fresh from another night of pleasure in the coma ward. (favourite film: Kill Bill 1). (ed. thisis way too easy.) And a trinity of three brave newSpartans, come to Thermopylae...Mark, magnificent in defence, and seems a sound chap.

Big really tall nice guy who's played for us before, with distinction, but I can't remember his fucking name. And Ignacio, Argentine wizard, who has my spare socks.

Cutting to the chase.  A very sound first half, well played by all. Ming the magnificent. Jackal and Tiberius as relentless as uranium-depleted dildos. New Mark and Big Tall Guy, composed at the back. Stenter, the Phar Lap pin-up boy for early-onset dementia. Ignacio, a swarthy trickster. Every disdainfull flick, revenge for the General Belgrano misunderstanding.

We think Marky was somewhere way way out on the left. Like Trotsky left, like up a tree left, like (ed. enough already)...

They got a goal from a very dubious free-kick situation, involving an absence of whistle, and native Catholic guile.

HALF-TIME SCORE: Irish 1 v Bombers 0

Thank you to my beautiful son and handsome ex for turning up to knit before the tumbrils. Marky's very own tricoteurs. 

Second half sucked donkey dick.

Ming left. We lost a step. They gained a step. Put 3 in, in a Bermuda Triangle-like 15 minute period of collective unconscious.

FINAL SCORE:  Karori Irish 4v Bombers 1

That's it. Not going to dwell. We are still pregnant will potential. Well done Irish.

o quote Tiberius: 'Revenge is a dishy Swede best corn-holed.'

Dictated by Special Rapporteur, Marky Mark, from a CIA -approved black site somewhere in Khandallah