As dictated by Special Rapporteur Marky Mark from underneath the SH1 overpass. Or, as he likes to call it, “Mon Repose”.
Easter Friday, and the Hikoi of the Hopeless wend their way over the hill, past the Wainui Tavern, where Lancie was born, to Richard Prouse, sylvan and sundrenched. Scudding clouds, and willows that would be weeping harder after the second half. But we get ahead of ourselves, munchkins.
Travelled out with Ragg and Tiberius, Crown Prince of Darkness, still reeking of the Asti Spumante he shouted the office with after corn-holing CGT and the pesky spectre of fiscal fairness.
Largely ignoring their capitalist preenings, I soon realised that their lips weren’t moving and we were in fact listening to a greatest hits mix tape of their various interviews on Rich Cunts Radio.
Chilling. I know, because I was one, before I saw the light. Or, as Shona so elegantly put it, “ That’s not the light of redemption. That’s God with a torch and a machette, and he’s coming for you, you grotty little man.” How true.
Fears of the dreaded Easter curse of no-subs-itis, were soon pleasantly crucified as the gay stragglers limped in to form a baker’s dozen of hot cross bumblers.
Smug in the knowledge that the men of Wainui had gone dowm 0-9 last week, we greased our metaphorical love harpoons for 90 minutes of prison sex in the sun. And so it was to be in a spirted first 45 of total Bomber football. Goals to Raggster (briefly emerging from near-perpetual fugue state to elegantly poke one home), a brace to Gene Gene goal machine, and a single to the wandering Finnish maestro of goalmouth mayhem. We passed, we ran, we were semi-ambulatory photo-voltaic cells of excellence. Wainui sadded off after the first 45 like special needs sardines, seeking safety back in the tin of anywhere-but-here. 4-0.
Having learned our lesson last week (to background animal noises (ta Raggster) from the zoo) about slick mutterings of cricket scores in the off’ing, the team talk was laconic and manly, straight from the pages of Roy of the Rovers. I got a small erection. Is there any other kind, I hear you ask? No-one noticed.
JB turns up in support, in comely autumn tones, nursing a ravaged crotch ( “leave my crotch alone”, mutters Nintendo) and memories of post-wedding, high-society, badinage at the sister city, Eastbourne. Or, as we insiders call it “Wainui super-mare”.
The second half is still a blurr. The near mythic coherency of the first half vanished in a deformation of the space-time continuum as we crossed the non-event horizon to revisit our distant youth and play with all the nous of ritillin-deprived problem children. That is to say, we sank to their level, minds diverted by the victors’ spoils to come that night as wenches apply balms and oils to tender parts in supplication to their sagging Achilles. Anyway, it all got a bit chaotic as the sun took its toll on aging legs. 0-0 second half. Full-time 4-0.
With Giles largely untroubled, no panic skidmarks on that man’s tech-heavy (nas)daks. Boom boom. Apart from two world class fingertip saves from corners. Well done that man.
Man of the Match: Bruce “The Destroyer”, in a tie with Ming (in absentia).
Three in a row! Momentum is slowly gathering for a title bid. One stinky pinky on the Chalice of Dreams. Though, with Wainui losing by 9 last week, and us only putting 4 past them, then, according to the Goering-Rosenberg football probability matrix, seasonally-adjusted, there is at least one other team in the league that is 55.55% (recurring) better than us at this stage. If we want it we must fight like sperm-drunk salmon swimming the last swim up-river, past the paws of hungry grizzlies, to mate and then to die.
But if the unthinkable should happen, and the Bombers trophy cabinet remains silver-free at season’s end, we still have the nuclear option to follow JB’s brave lead, and, en masse, self-identify as female. This could work on so many levels. Think it through.( Think steamy shower rooms. -calm down Hansie). We all know how hard it is to be an aging male at the beginning of this brave new century. Here is a way to support our sisters AND cast off the patriarchal burdens of moral and thought leadership that have oppressed us for so long! Gender re-assignment may be the only smart play left. And it’s the right thing to do. (If we hit problems, Danny can probably get us a Papal Indulgence.) Rise to a new inclusive challenge! Rise sisters rise! Hear us roar! Goodbye Bombers, hello Beckford Wives!
Bitch Goddess Haiku: pass, run, dribble, shoot
twenty beers and have a root
spoils go to the brave
Next week 2.30 at Nairnville. Bring cojones and ripe banter. And be careful out there.