Reporting by Calamari
Viscount Kelburne was born Patrick John Boyle in 1874. He was the first-born son of David Boyle, the 7th Earl of Glasgow, and soon to be NZ Governor. The Viscount also was by many accounts, a bit of a cunt.
He was a land owner (quelle surpris) and had ties to fascism during the 1920s. Being of wealth and privilege, he clearly had it all. Then he didn't. Probably through greed and mismanagement of his estates, he found himself virtually bankrupt. But being an honourable man, he worked hard to re-establish his finances and duly settle the debts he owed. The previous sentence is of course a load of bollocks. The real story is the fascist prick took off to France faster than a cheetah on steroids.
When Boyle was 22 (and only a young fascist) he got a suburb named after him. The Upland Estate Company bought land off a chap called William Moxham and established a new suburb, naming it ‘Kelburne’. They eventually dropped the ‘e’ at the end to avoid confusion with Kilbirnie. Now it seems that even though one suburb was on a hill and had a few different letters in the name was not enough to distinguish the two suburbs. This tells us that the good people of Wellington at the end of the 19th century were easily confused.
The phrase ‘easily confused’ brings us to 21st century and The Bombers. 18 men (and whatever Marky Mark is) who turned up on a relatively fine Wellington winter’s day to play the simplest game in the world and then proceed to overcomplicate it.
The opposing team (Brooklyn) all had nicknames to do with pasta – though ravioli and tortellini were stuffed early on and farfalle was clearly overdressed (look it up). They also all had the same strip on. Conversely, The Bombers had nicknames that were a range for the clever (Assistant Gardener) to obvious (Doc) to dumb (you know who you are). The Bombers also had a combination of tops and shorts that made them look like a group of homeless people had got together to go for a walk with a football.
The Bombers warmed up as they usually do. Standing around, talking and occasionally blasting shots over the bar. This is why AG doesn’t warm up before the game because he is not required to save anything.
Eleven Bombers take the field. JB is the ref. His command of the whistle is admirable, as is his laissez-faire attitude to the rules. The game flows like a river. Or it would if The Bombers could string more than 3 passes together. The word ‘altruistic’ comes to mind. The Bombers give the ball away often and never expect to get it back in return. However, there is always an exception to the rule, The Irish Rover, clearly a selfish prick, holds the ball and refuses to let Brooklyn have the ball by passing to another Bomber. What a wanker. Amazingly Gene blasts the ball into the net after a rare sequence of passing and the Bombers go 1-0 up. Unsurprisingly, the pasta ponces draw level soon after. Seeing the benefit of passing the ball and then shooting on target, they do it again and at halftime it is 2-1 to the macaroni men.
Changes are made. With 19 Bombers nothing can ever stay the same. This includes the score line. In the early stages of the second half, the ball heads down the left-hand side of the pitch. The ball is played in the air for Doc at right fullback to easily head away to safety. Doc heads the ball - with his feet. This was funnier to watch than it sounds. He falls over, tries to get the ball, fails to do so. The rigatoni runts get the ball back and before you can say “mark that guy! yeah the one all by himself in the box”, the lasagne lads are now 3-1 up.
With the game in the balance, the Irish Rover, and clearly the only one who understands the simplicity of football, takes himself off and runs away. Ragg Boy, positioning himself well at left fullback, seems to be under instruction to kick the ball away from any other Bomber. The word ‘control’ is not part of his lexicon (though he is not alone in this team). JB comes on for his 945th cap and begins to bark orders along the lines of ‘here we go lads! Up and over the trenches!”. His accurate pass to Calamari, who is in the attacking box with a shot on goal for the first time in a decade, goes unrewarded. The shot is on target but a defender does defending work and blocks the shot. Shortly after, Tiberius shoots right at the vermicelli varmint’s keeper. This time a defender gets in the way and a nice deflection helps the ball in the in net. 2-3.
Suddenly the bombers are passing the ball. Moving forward. Shooting. But nothing is getting through or on target. Calamari decides that his nickname is more in keeping with the likes of fettucine and spaghetti and in a sign of this new solidarity decides to pass to them on a couple of occasions. This, unsurprisingly, does not help. For the last 5 minutes, the Bombers are all over the tortellini twats but just can’t get the equaliser. Whistles blows. Game over. 3-2 to the penne people. The bitch goddess of football chuckles to herself and then goes back to making her spinach and ricotta cannelloni.
A team photo was taken, to be found on the Posers page of this website.
Once at the pub, all is soon forgotten. Beer and fried food is consumed. Stories are shared, and men are men. These are good people. Calamari declines to buy a round of $400 calamari micro-nibbles, thereby adopting the new sobriquet Wedge. It is oddly fitting (unlike his shirt: ed). The world could do with more of them and less Viscounts.