Interview with Gyles Beckford, football quantum mechanist, thinker

As we go about our daily lives, on and off the football field, stumbling and soaring, we tend to assume that our perceptions—sights, sounds, textures, tastes—are an accurate portrayal of the real world. Sure, when we stop and think about it—or when we find ourselves fooled by a perceptual illusion such as a Bomber sprinting past an opponent —we realise with a jolt that what we perceive is never the world directly, but rather our brain’s best guess at what that world is like, a kind of internal simulation of an external reality. Still, we bank on the fact that our simulation is a reasonably decent one, despite 32 years of observational experience of the Bombers. If it wasn’t, wouldn’t evolution have weeded us out by now? The true reality might be forever beyond our reach, but surely our senses give us at least an inkling of what it’s really like to be a Bomber.

Not so, says Gyles Beckford, a seasoned Bomber. Beckford has spent the past three decades reflecting on perception, evolutionary game theory and the Bombers, and his conclusion is a dramatic one: The world presented to us by our perceptions is nothing like reality. What’s more, he says, we have evolution itself to thank for this magnificent illusion, as it maximizes evolutionary fitness to play football by driving truth to the byline and winning a metaphorical corner.

Getting at questions about the nature of reality, and disentangling the observer from the observed, is an endeavor that straddles the boundaries of neuroscience, the 4-4-2 formation and fundamental physics. On one side you’ll find researchers scratching their chins raw trying to understand how a ninety kilogram lump of decaying matter obeying nothing more than the ordinary laws of physics can give rise to the impression of a footballer. This is the aptly named “hard problem.”

On the other side are quantum physicists, marveling at the strange fact that midfielders don’t seem to be definite objects localised in space until we come along to observe them. Season after season has shown—defying common sense—that if we assume that the Bombers that make up the midfield have an objective, observer-independent existence, we get the wrong answers. The central lesson of quantum physics is clear: There are no midfielders sitting out there in some preexisting space.

As the Bomber Hansie put it, “Useful as it is under ordinary circumstances to say that the midfield exists ‘out there’ independent of us, that view can no longer be upheld.”

So while neuroscientists struggle to understand how there can be such a thing as a mobile defender, quantum physicists have to grapple with the mystery of how the midfield fails to track back, when all known laws suggest this should happen. In short, all roads lead back to the goalmouth. And that’s where you can find Beckford—straddling the boundaries in neoprene leggings, attempting a mathematical model of the observer, trying to get at the reality behind the illusion. 19bombers.com caught up with him to find out more.

19bombers: People often use Darwinian evolution as an argument that our perceptions accurately reflect reality. They say, “Obviously we must be latching onto reality in some way because otherwise we would have been wiped out a long time ago. If I think I’m seeing a fast, skilled Bombers forward but it’s really a fat old man, I’m in trouble.”

Beckford: Right. The classic argument is that those of our team mates who saw more accurately had a competitive advantage over those who saw less accurately and thus were more likely to pass the ball to Gene, who may be coded for those more accurate perceptions, so after thousands of matches we can be quite confident that we’re the victims of a mass illusion, although we think we see accurately. That sounds very plausible. But I think it is utterly false. It misunderstands the fundamental fact about football, which is that it’s about fitness functions—mathematical functions that describe how well a given strategy achieves the goals of passing, tackling and scoring. The mathematical physicist Fish Boy proved a theorem that I devised that says: According to evolution by natural selection, a Bomber that sees reality as it is will never be more fit than a Bomber of equal incompetence that sees none of reality but is just willing to run around a lot and fall in the mud. Never.

19bombers: You’ve done computer simulations to show this. Can you give an example?

Beckford: I’ll try. Suppose in reality there’s a resource, like beer, and you can quantify how much of it there is in an objective order—very little beer, medium amount of beer, a lot of beer. Now suppose your fitness function is linear, so a little beer gives you a little fitness, medium beer gives you medium fitness, and lots of beer gives you lots of fitness (we call this the JB paradox)—in that case, the Bomber that sees the truth about the beer in the pub can win, but only because the fitness function happens to align with the true structure in reality. Generically, in the real world, that will never be the case. Something much more natural is a bell curve — say, too little beer you die of thirst, but too much beer you drown, and only somewhere in between is good for a Bomber to survive, albeit a minimal existence. Now the fitness function doesn’t match the structure in the midfield at Nairnville Park. And that’s enough to send a Bomber to the pub. For example, a Bomber’s perceptions will be tuned to fitness, but not to truth. It won’t see any distinction between forwards and midfielders—it only sees large immobile masses—even though such a distinction exists in theory.

19bombers: But how can seeing a false theory be beneficial to a Bomber’s ability to pass to a teammate under no pressure at all, and still fail ?

Beckford: Our evolution as a team has shaped us with perceptions that allow us to draw some games. Experience of failure and mediocrity drive some adaptive behaviors. But part of that involves hiding from us the stuff we don’t need to know, such as how to pass. And that’s pretty much all of reality, whatever reality might be. If you had to spend all that time figuring it out, the opposition would walk right through you.

19bombers: So the midfield we see is one big illusion?

Beckford: We’ve been shaped to have perceptions that keep us alive, so we have to take them seriously. It’s our instinctive threat-logic. If I see something that I think of as a midfielder, I don’t pass to it. If I see a defender, I don’t pass to it. I’ve evolved these symbols to keep me alive, so I have to take them seriously. But it’s a logical flaw to think it will make any difference.

19bombers: If midfielders aren’t midfielders and defenders aren’t defenders, what are they?

Beckford: Midfielders and defenders, like the particles of physics, have no objective, observer-independent features. The midfielder I see is a description created by my sensory system to inform me of the fitness consequences of my actions. Masters 4 shapes acceptable solutions, not optimal ones. A midfielder is an acceptable solution to the problem of telling me how to act in a situation. It tells me to stay on my line, and pout. And don’t get me started on forwards, because there aren’t any.

19bombers: How did you first become interested in these ideas?

Beckford: As a young man with a Che Guevara beard, a rough wooly mum-knitted jersey and a copy of Mao’s little red book, I was very interested in the question “Are we footballers?” My reading of the Laws of Football suggested that we might be. I decided I needed to figure it out for myself. It’s sort of an important personal question—if I’m a footballer, I would like to find that out! And if I’m not, I’d like to know, what is that special magic beyond the football? So eventually in the 1980s I went to Kelburn Park and worked on becoming a midfielder. The field of Kelburn Park was enjoying a newfound success in developing footballers with specific – very limited - abilities. Nintendo, JB, Wriggley, Marky Mark, BJM. The late Melling and Moysie. I noticed that they seemed to share a common structure, so I thought it might be possible to write down a formal structure for observation that encompassed all of them, perhaps all possible modes of football. I was inspired in part by Alan Turing. When he invented the Turing machine, he was trying to come up with a notion of football, and instead of putting crazy Continental formations on it, like wing backs, he said, Let’s get the simplest, most pared down formation that could possibly work. And that simple formalism is the foundation for all logic since. So I wondered, could I provide a similarly simple formal foundation for the Bombers?

19bombers: A mathematical model of football consciousness.

Beckford: That’s right. My intuition was, there are conscious experiences near the halfway line. I have pains, tastes, smells, all my sensory experiences, moods, emotions and so forth. So I’m just going to say: One part of this consciousness structure is a set of all possible experiences. Passing, tackling, heading, running, blaming teammates. When I’m having an experience, based on that experience I may want to change what I’m doing. So I need to have a collection of possible actions I can take and a decision strategy that, given my experiences, allows me to change how I’m playing. That’s the basic idea of the whole thing. I have a space X of experiences, a space G of actions, and an algorithm D that lets me choose a new action given my experiences. Then I posited a KP for Kelburn Park, which is also a probability space. Somehow the playing surface affects my perceptions, so there’s a perception map P from Kelburn Park to my experiences, and when I act, I lose the ball, so there’s a map L from the loss of the ball to the sidelines at Kelburn Park. That’s the entire structure. Six elements. The claim is: This is the structure of football consciousness. Then I moved into goal so people have something to blame.

19bombers: The six elements still persist ?

Beckford: I call it Bombers realism: Bombers reality is just unfit men, just pointless midtable protein strings, albeit with a fine line ofbanter. Interestingly, I can take two Bombers and have them interact, and the mathematical structure of that interaction also satisfies the elusive definition of incompetence. This mathematics is telling me something. I can take two Bombers, and they can generate a new, unified single incompetence. Here’s a concrete example. Mingus has two hemispheres in his brain. But when you do a split-brain operation, a complete transection of the corpus callosum, you get clear evidence of two separate consciousnesses. Before that slicing happened, it seemed Mingus had a single unified consciousness. So it’s not implausible that there is a single conscious Bomber. And yet it’s also the case that there are two conscious Bombers there, and you can see that when they’re split. I didn’t expect that, the three decades of football forced me to recognise this. It suggests that I can take separate Bombers, put them together in a midfield, and keep doing this ad infinitum. It’s out of position midfielders all the way down.

19bombers: If it’s bewildered midfielders all the way down, all first-person points of view, what happens to football? Football has always been a third-person description of the world.

Beckford: The idea that objectivity results from the fact that you and I can measure the same Bomber in the exact same position and get the same results — it’s very clear from quantum mechanics that that idea has to go. Physics tells us that there are no Bombers. So what’s going on? Here’s how I think about it. I can talk to you about my astute positioning and believe that I am communicating effectively with you, because you’ve seen me play. The same thing is true as apples and the moon and the sun and the universe. Just like you have your own astute positioning, you have your own moon. But I assume it’s relevantly similar to mine.

19bombers: It doesn’t seem like many people in football or philosophy of mind are thinking about fundamental physics. Do you think that’s been a stumbling block for those trying to understand 4-4-2?

Beckford: They don’t avail themselves of the incredible insights and breakthroughs that Bombers have made. Those insights are out there for us to use, and yet my team mates say, “We’ll stick with Jackal, we’ll stick with Tiberious, Son of God, Stent Boy, thank you. We’ll stay 300 years behind in our football.”

19bombers: I suspect they’re reacting to things like Sceatsy’s and Hilda’s model, where you still have a physical Bomber, it’s still standing on halfway, but supposedly it’s performing some football feat. In contrast, you’re saying, “Look, 10 losses in a season is telling us that we have to question the very notions of ‘Bombers’ standing on ‘halfway.’”

Beckford: I think that’s absolutely true. The neuroscientists are saying, “We don’t need to invoke those kind of standard Bomber processes, we don’t need confused midfielders, collapsing fullbacks, we can just use a confident goalkeeper to describe processes in the goalmouth.” I’m emphasising the larger lesson of total football: Forwards, midfielders, defenders, brains, space … these are just symbols we use, they’re not real. Total football, and quantum mechanics says that classical objects—including midfielders—don’t exist. So this is a far more radical claim about the nature of reality and does not involve the Bomber pulling off some tricky pass and movement. So even Hilda hasn’t taken it far enough. But most of us, you know, we’re born Bombers. We’re born into this. This is a really, really hard one to let go of.

19bombers: To return to the question you started with as a young man, are we footballers?

Beckford: The formal theory of Bombers I’ve been developing is conceptually universal—in that sense, it’s a football theory. And it’s because the theory is universal that I can get all of the goalmouth scrambles and Danny’s missed penalties back out of it. Nevertheless, for now I don’t think we are footballers—in part because I distinguish between the representation and the thing being represented. As a Bombers realist, I am postulating conscious experiences of defeats and draws snatched from the jaws of victory as ontological primitives, the most basic ingredients of the world. I’m claiming that post-match beers are the real coin of the realm. The experiences of winter Saturdays —my real feeling of a sack of flat footballs, my real sight of hundreds of bits of tape stuck to a crossbar, my real surprise when we score —that really is the ultimate nature of Bomber reality.

Game of Groans

Game of Groans

The ‘Bombers’ alliance

House Beckford (sigil: a wing and a microphone)

House Boyd (sigil: a small book of poetry in a large glass of beer)

House Hutcheson (sigil: plate of fried calamari next to a Hawkes Bay chardonnay)

House Tomuri (sigil: face of a man with no mouth)

House Carruthers (sigil: a bald man wearing 5 pairs of trousers)

House Ragg (sigil: the word ‘cunt’ written many times to form the shape of a cock)

House Simmonds   (sigil: stents in arteries in the shape of a stick-man)

House Ridley-Smith (sigil: lone worm separated from another group of worms)

House Morgan (sigil: A crucified football player)

House Bruce (sigil: A blind fish)

The ‘Waterside’ alliance

All from House Karori (sigil: a turtle fucking an old woman)

Prologue

Winter is coming” someone had announced as if it was the prophecy of the century rather than something happened every time autumn had ended. In fact winter was here, being mid-July and all that. The morning dawned clear and cold and alliances were about to come to fruition. The great houses of Wellington and beyond were about to gather and meet on the battlefield. Blood would flow, guts would be spilled but friendships maintained. In the game of groans you win…or you don’t win.

The Battle

House Beckford had assembled the best army they could muster. Of course ‘best’ is a relative term and while this army was better when compared to the ground floor of the Malvina Major retirement resort, it was a close call.  Noticeably absent were House O’Donovan (sigil: a man in a hammock) and House Marshland (sigil: a stethoscope wrapped around a salmon fillet) were missing. Wankers.

The sun shone of the battle field. House Bombers (HB) rested on the bank. House Waterside (HW) warmed up with drills and passing. The classic David/Goliath battle awaited. HW had superior numbers, weaponry, strength, skill, height and probably cock size to boot. HB had a bare eleven, a youngest player of 47 and an average age of somewhere around the mid-50s. Beaten up in a previous battle and undermanned HB didn’t stand a chance. But HB had beaten the odds before (the great 8 and ½ who stood tall at Hutt raceway was legendary) and the future is always unwritten so why can’t HB write the version that suits them? King AG gives a stirring pre-battle speech. “Let’s have fun out there”. He possibly lost all respect at that point.

The rope-a-dope tactic is employed. Let them come at HB and tire them out, defend like crazy and land the knock-out punch when they least expect. The plan worked like a charm until the battle actually started.

Wave after wave of attack came from HW. Yet HW were repelled time after time and there was frustration and tiredness setting in. The bad news was the while HW were frustrated the aforementioned tiredness was coming from HB. HW landed a significant blow to go 1-0 up and King AG had injured himself selflessly trying to repel the invaders. Most of HB were too tired to give a shit about how King AG was. But as the Japanese quote goes “fall down 7 times, stand up 8”. That quote was to be more prophetic than HB imagined.

The battle took a break for what was called ‘half-time’. King AG rallied the troops, telling his warriors they were fighting the best he’d seen them fight in a long time. Some HB warriors were inspired by this speech. Others secretly thought “that was the best we could do and we are sure as shit are going to be worse in the second half. We are truly fucked”.

The second half kicked off. History is replete of glorious battles won against the odds. Armies hanging on and then at the last minute reinforcements show up and vanquish the attacking army. So… as HB was tiring House Marshland appears! But wait….he’s not preparing for battle. Clothed as a civilian he stands by the HB final line of defence and just laughs as goal after goal is inflicted on HB. He didn’t even drink with the team afterwards. What a cunt.

This was no remarkable fight. This was an army lacking in everything except the thought that surely it must end soon. And end it did. 7-0. HB did fall down 7 times. But they stood up the 8th time. They took their beaten and bruised bodies to the pub where, in the way a right back stands on the corner post and lets the ball go under his foot, House Boyd orders a jug of awful beer.

“You know nothing John Boyd” thinks House Hutcheson.

Epilogue – House ratings

House Beckford – King AG 5/10. Carried on even under the cloud of injury. Was really good until the opposition started shooting at him. Prince Nintendo 7/10. Gave his all but his all wasn’t enough. He needs to give more than his all.

House Boyd 4/10. Saved a goal on the post, then let one in. Had dizzy spells. Tried to boost his performance with 3 glasses of Rose before the game. Possibly the source of the dizzy spells. Ordered shit beer at the Pub. He will be back. Just watch him.

House Hutcheson 5/10. Played out of position. Couldn’t pass the ball to save himself. Gets one more point than House Boyd because he’s writing this and wants to be better.

House Tomuri 6/10 Solid as usual. I want to see him get angry.

House Carruthers 2/10. Not sure if touched the ball much and 3 marks off for football fashion faux pas.

House Ragg 5/10. First half was poor. Panicked when passed the ball at left back. Second half much better at right back. Aggressive and full of running. Best of the two right backs on the day.

House Simmonds 8/10 Loved Stent Boy’s work. Great player. (My favourite player and I hope I get a good room at his house in November at the BBB)

House Ridley-Smith 7/10 Not his old self but had beer for after the game. Two bonus points for that.

House Morgan 7/10. Ran and ran until he fell over. This actually happened.

House Bruce 4/10. They should change their sigil to a chicken with its head cut off.

Game 1, Season 36 Vapours of memory from a Paris garret

Trudging slowly over wet [grounds] 

Back to the sideline where we all belong 

This is a crap suburb

That they forgot to close down 

Uni bombers come uni bombers 

 

Everyday is like Saturday

Everyday is olden and grey

 

Anyway, so we rocked up to Raroa, a circle jerk of svelte middle aged dadbods, collectively frothing over the start of yet another season AND the return of Stevie. Having finished his love affair with the couch, reality TV, and his research into the the birth of the fuckknowswhat movement out of Greymouth, and hes back. He's also sporting a stiff as a board quiff that Mozza would be proud of, Stevie's back in his spiritual homeland (the Bombers, not Raroa). Cue endless slandering, more groaning than a room full of school boarders, AND a pair of new fucking boots. Welcome back welcome back welcome back. 

The whistle blows. The new boy Paul looks good. troubling them at the back, the side and sometimes on top. We don't hold anything back here so this is a welcome development. The usual suspects kick shins, dirt, and sometimes the ball - we are doing it more than them. Danny and Gene look good in the middle. Carl looks back to his 2014 best after recovering from a group sex addiction, which in turn had led to a long term foot injury. We look leaky but solid enough at the back. JB stands out in his circa 1998 gray polo shirt, whilst the rest of us sport our slimming full black polyester. We almost look like a proper team, but then Ragg boy makes a run and we break through because their back four are still giggling and snorting, and are distracted by the dribbles of snot. Then he unleashes a shot, all canonball. they stop laughing then. My memory of the game gets murky here, mainly because I'm on the sideline talking to Marky about his injury sustained in an effort to complete a little known and extremely complicated sexual manoeuvre with a large Polynesian transvestite. Whilst he was laughing, I could see the pain in Marky's eyes caused both by the loss of a true love, and also in his words "four or five cracked ribs". Awful stuff, and as a key member of the squad we can only hope he is able to make a full recovery and get back on the paddock, and into the saddle. Enough of that though and back to the game. A bit of ping pong as the A listers come off having owned the opposition, and the dirt trackers have a run. Having been sent into the central midfield I am instantly guilty of a range of footballing inadequacies (poor execution of skills, lack of commitment etc) and Nintendo rightly gives me some well deserved advice, which I wont repeat here. 

We let them run a bit, and Ross is under pressure but we hold out. Danny is telling everybody what to do, but no one is listening. It's a circus. There is some confusion, it's pinball, the ball bobbles and dribbles, Carlos is screaming, I think it's the hangover from his therapy session. Actually, the ball is right there. Their keeper is busy talking to himself and has drifted beyond where he should have. Fuck it. I lob it over his head and it dribbles into the back of the net. Equalling an entire seasons tally in the first game is epic, I'm so excited I fart. There is whooping, the boys are looking for a party and there are some sad hungry eyes staring out of the windows of the rest home next door. Marky looks longingly at those windows, those eyes, he's focussed, hard. 

Back to the game. They score. That wasn't in the plan, but to be fair, from what I can remember it was a good goal stolen from our as always brilliant back line. Mike, a genuinely quiet nice guy who no one has a bad word to say about swears. This scares Hanse, but Nintendo exercises his right to agree. The kids on the sideline start crying. O'D is solemn. Maybe he's too close to the retirement village and his mind has wandered...if he's honest with himself he might be hard too. Stevie is wailing on the sideline - someone comes off. Sceatsy, Doc and Carl press on the flanks causing trouble. JB is present.  A moment of rare cohesion results in Carlos receiving the ball in the box, and collecting the shin of a fasta pasta masta. The boss blows the whistle. Rossimar steps up. Drills it. 2-1. Since this took place on April 2, and it is now 31 May I can really remember bugger all else about the actual game except for two or three things. I vaguely recall Gene setting the standard and running the equivalent of a half marathon during the game. To be fair, playing for the bombers is his community service, and since he is actually retired he has to do some sort of exercise, so it's good that he did run. That leaves me with Stevie, and his quiff. In the last act of the game Stevie received a wonder pass - ready to be sent into the back of the net. Any real striker would have nailed it, and after a season on the couch wrestling with his inner demons, contemplating the setting sun by the fire, and thinking about trudging slowly over wet grounds, Stevie very nearly did. Onya Stevie. 

Writing this 10 weeks it is useful to reflect that this was a promising start to what has ultimately been a season which has exceeded expectations. 

* To those I have maligned, or missed mentioning even in passing, please accept my apologies. I'm sure you were magnificent. 

Insightly Gmail Gadget

 

Game 18, Season 35 Nipple milks it

When everything has meaning, nothing means anything.  If any phenomenon perfectly characterises this Derridean paradox, it must be the Bombers. If the Bombers exist as a material truth. Which, of course, they don’t. There is no truth. There are no absolutes, which is in itself an absolute, but we’ll ignore that. The Bombers are the poster boys of postmodern football, and there is some beauty in that, relatively speaking.

As all Bombers know and cheerfully embrace, most things aren’t. Il n’y a pas de hors-texte. Nothing exists outside the text. Indeed. All is relative, and one man’s truth is another man’s deconstructed unbeing.  Godot, and all that. Post-modernism has its uses, and no-one can sniff at the signifier-signified theory as a crutch to lean on as we saunter though this pointless existence, mud on our knees and horror in our eyes.  It is through this lens of absurdist subjectivity that we can apply a valid review of the 2015 season. Which only happened if you think it did.

First, the final game. The field was wider and longer than the combined egos of Worm and Nipple.  That’s pretty fucking big.  Nipple Boy, who may or may not exist, pranced onto the sward like a million dollar baby, all spine and jism. The arrogance of the man continues to delight. His blended whanau stood confused by the swings.

Meanwhile, the Bombers, that loose assembly of affluent, worldweary, velvet-breathed white men (and Hansie), were peeling destiny’s panties down her long, tanned thighs one last time in their pre-game ritual. Pleasingly, Gyles had abandoned the karitane yellow blouse for something in more old-man-death mucus tones.  Further delight greeted the news that Jackal would not be playing, and that Tiberius would be. It’s always fun to watch this wannabe small nation dictator humbled by physics and fitness.

The game started and 22 men who should not be doing this were doing this. The Bombers played with poise, power, purpose and JB was there too. After a lot of running around and shouting the prodigal Nippler looked up, saw JB in yards of space dashing/trundling towards the far post, and tried to cross to him. Sorry guys said the enemy keeper. 1-0. Nipple punched the uncaring sky with his little Auckland arms.

Then they scored, and Nipple nippled another goal, this time from 1 yard. “I feel like a god” he screamed. "I'm here" called out the late arriving Worm. In 45 minutes the Crown Negotiator had outscored 16/19ths of the Bombers over the whole season. That’s probably not a good thing. Yes we are looking at you Tiberius.

More running around and general cleverness and hopelessness. Hilda turned red. Nintendo called for people to ‘get stuck in’, but never defined his terms. Get stuck in debt ? Get stuck in a loveless marriage ? Get stuck in Taihape? It was confusing. At some point Worm came into the game, missed a sitter and failed to read any of JB’s exquisite lay offs and runs. Plus c’est la meme choses. Bodo scampered around, Sceatsy and Zel darted about and fell over in the endless empty acres. SoG kept passing when he should have shot. Tiberius swung the other way. Smut was lost. Doc was florid. The sun gave up.

The whistle blew. We were magisterial. Gyles got the cap.

As an exercise in pointlessness, the 2015 season failed to transcend its text.  Jackal scored a number of goals that might have been 9. But four happened in one afternoon, which is like stabbing a corpse. Fun but fruitless. JB scored 4 absolute sitters, 3 from outside the box, and was ever-present in a never-there sort of way. OG was on trial this season but after 3 pearlers the gaffer is entering into negotiations with his representatives for a permanent move. Fish eyes the door nervously.

The defence can only look at the midfield and wonder how so many highly opinionated men can provide such thin resolve. The midfield – all 12 of them - can look back with satisfaction at a season when they held their own while thedefence succumbed to glaucoma and the attack fell over a lot.

The 'attack' meanwhile held tight to their firm tactic of standing elegantly on half way, looking towards their own goal and saying ‘this reminds me of the butter scene in Last Tango’. Small pleasures.

Of course the Derridean analysis requires that we define things by what they are not. We cannot say what a Bomber is. That is meaningless. But we can say that a Bomber (2015 version) is not a woman, not fit, not early for games, not tall, not a chair, not dead, not onside.

Deconstructive implications aside, there were two moments in 2015 that almost created the proto-text moment we all yearn for in a cruel unanchored universe.

The Mingus/Hansie soixante neuf was a suckface slurpfest that brought out the crowds and sent the kids home happy. Bitch stole my height. Mingus/Hansie II next year should be a cracker.

But the moment that will live in the memory happened when the flaneur’s flaneur, Marky Mark, the joupe lupe, the Bombers’ very own Benjamin Button, somewhere in Whitby, some time in September, late in his childhood, gathered the ball on half way and in the twinkling of a Syrian swimming lesson performed a Cruff turn with a double pike and a half hitch cliterodectomy,  slipped away from his marker and played an inch perfect pass two yards to Hilda, who – sensing in his bones the unarguable nihilism of time lost – kicked it out. The perfect motif moment.

Now we put 2015 behind us.  It was over too soon. It dragged endlessly. It was beautiful. It was pointless. It was magnificent. It was meaningless.

The legend rumbles on.

Game 17 Season 35 Hangry Hansie hates on halfling Mingus. Who knew ?

I wish to pass a motion', snorted the Bombers Tyrion Lannister at the pre-game ritual. I initially thought he wanted to drop Obama off to the Whitehouse, but no. To quote Renly Baratheon, "You have to give it to the Lannisters - they may be the most pompous, ponderous cunts the gods ever suffered to walk the world, but they do have outrageous amounts of money."

Tyrion continued,  'I would like to suggest that Hansie is given the Horses Arse trophy for being the cause for the teams poor performance this season'.

I don't know if the undersized has outrageous amounts of money, but I know who I will be voting for on this upcoming Bombers trip. Fucking turd. He should have been thrown over the fence to join his pink-arsed baboon mates. Did you realise, Roger, research has shown that men who feel least masculine are at risk of committing violent abusive acts? Sometimes called the Napoleon complex, small man syndrome supposes that men who feel the least masculine seek power, war and conquest to make up for their physical shortcomings.

But being the better man, I accept it is a disease you have carried with you forever, and will continue to do so until to are stubbed out, and therefore forgive you for falling short of traditional masculine gender norms. But just to be clear - make sure you stick to the righthand side of the field.

Anyway, to the game. Pretty limp-wristed first half to be honest. 'Playing like a bunch of children', I think was the call from camp leader at halftime. Forgive me if I have misquoted the bellowing voice from the back, but it was something about playing with children. Not that anyone particularly listens.

However, something worked. The passing seemed to have improved and before we knew it, Danny's attempted chip shot over the defence for our strikers to run onto was met by the head of a Seatoun wannabe and sliced passed the stumbling keeper into the back of the net. If only our strikers could do that. 1-0.

When JB donned the hi-vis, I knew the game was ours. Not saying JB is a cheat but he won't give the opposition any leeway. And true to form the puritanical match official blew his whistle for a spotty for what must have been their eighth handball. The ever-dependant Hilda mis-shot directly at the keeper who had already dived to his right. 2-0.

The third goal was pure class. The CE of the BA was on form. Must have been his guilt of being absent from the previous weeks matches or his prolonged, unfaltering coition with one hot brunette, but his skills that day were beyond belief. Holding onto the ball until he saw Doc make a blistering run into space, the ball was delivered to near-inch precision, for the quack to slip the third inside. 3-0.

Then they scored. Fuckers.

It was great to finally have a win. Our fifth for the season. One to go.

Game 16 Season 35 Gonzo whorehound assesses Anderson Park crime scene

I am no stranger to death, but this was the worst I hadn't seen. Blood, everywhere, and mud. Some weird music was playing on the gramophone . Or maybe it was just a muffled Iphone 6.
Intense deja vu nearly me made me pass out. I vomited in my mouth a little bit. Crimes didnt come weirder than this except in pornography. The senseless murder of a collective ego. The smell of bacon and eggs wafted from the toilet. My partner Roger was in there with his friend Marky - a swarthy cokehead. They were likely bantering in their usual homoerotic fashion, or possibly just going at it. I suddenly felt tired. We had a scene. We had blood. But no body. Even the scene was sketchy, as if it might have been staged. With an eerie backdrop.

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is the strange and bitter crop.


rasp rasp rasp.

The breeze block building smelt of used vaseline and socks. There were cars everywhere and I was trying to secure the non scene. I had no chance, events were against me. I asked Ken Ring about the weather he told me he wasnt up to telling what the weather had been, was going to be, or anything else. You can never rely on those scientific types when you really need their help. A well known local hispanic rentboy Carlos sauntered across the wet muddy field. What the fuck was he doing here. He's got no business here. then it dawned on me. He was Probably looking to score off Marky. More senseless crime I was powerless to prevent. Carlos winked at me. i told him to fuck off. He scored.

The Doctor pulled up. A youngish heart surgeon prone to trying too hard. I put out my arm for the needle. He missed. I screamed a little bit. More blood, and still no answers. This was just getting harder. I suddenly felt tired.


Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.


rasp rasp rasp

The chief arrived. I knew I was for it. Tiberius you cunt he whispered, its all your doing, its a fucking mess. You are a disgrace. I said, chief - yellow really isnt your colour. He said Fuck off Tiberius. And sort this shit out asap. A man with a burning intensity was blowing a whistle somewhere. What did it mean. the clouds passed across the sun in time lapse. was it tomorrow, or yesterday, or today - again.


Southern trees bear a strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the Southern Breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.


rasp rasp rasp

I knew I could solve this thing. A nubile local hooker called Nicky with large breasts and blue eyes replaced Marky in the toilet. She was hot for it and Roger had his hands full in that bacon and egg stinking shithole.

I had suspects. Somewhere between 11 and 15 of them, but the blood had all washed away. Maybe it had never even been there. Everybody came together to eat pasta - we had three lots. The clouds contributed to my lack of clarity. Everything was ethereal - like I wasnt there. The strange fruit kept swinging in the breeze. Luckily next week is a new day.

Game 15, Season 35 Ballad of a Thin Centre Back

A grey sky …  the usual … angry and lowered … we lowered our expectations to match on the back of some awful results. Our leaky defence and charitable attack meant we’d shipped a net full of goals with only a few to balance the Bitch Godesses’ Golden Ledger.

The soft bellied mortgage payers of Island Bay represented our shot at redemption.  A chance to get nasty in the kindergarten. They looked even more decrepid than us and, desperate for a rare win themselves, IB had recruited  8 foot six Herman Munster into their line up.

The field was a collection of unplayable slopes and angles. Running on it was like being on a ship listing in bad storm. We swapped ends  before kick off running down our last reserves of energy and heard the local referee announce he would punish any studs up tackle with ten minutes in the sin bin. This arbitrary, extra-judicial frame of mind was to be a theme of the afternoon’s adjudicating.

He blew the whistle and six seconds later JB launched a full-on, late, studs-up lunge at one of their players (Correction: it was four seconds. Ed). There was no reaction from the referee.   Several million baffling decisions followed. The only logic they shared was that they all favoured Island Bay.

After an exhausting opening minute, the game slowed to a pedestrian pace. This was still too fast for most players on the pitch and noone seemed able to trap, pass or head the ball with any alacrity. Encouragement and abuse poured from the sideline in equal measure.

Fortunately, unlike the Serco-bound Upper Hutt team, Island Bay do not possess an aggressive, skillful front three. Although they attacked with vigour they blazed the ball high and wide every time and so the game relaxed into a rather casual and light-spirited knock about.

Then Jackal went and spoilt everything. Trying far too hard he crossed from a tight but probably offside position on the left flank. The referee, true to form, kept his whistle in his pocket and ignored the one biased decision he actually needed to make. The cross arrived and was bundled in by Son of God. One-nil Bombers.

There wasn’t long to bask in the glow – minutes later at a half time rev-up the Asst Gardener summed up first half efforts as ‘fucken inept.’

The second half arrived and with it a Baptist rain and wind. The Greek Chorus of unused players stared into the mud and muttered something about a two goal wind.

Our hastily rearranged defence were soon pinned back by the super storm. The ball grew slipperier and the Bitch Goddess intervened to make it 1 all thanks to a poor clearance or nine.

Encouraged by Cyclone Pam, the Island Bay mortgage brokers poured forward in unrelenting waves. Alistair’s deft touch suddenly deserted him, he shanked a clearance goal-wards and the Herman Munster figure chested the ball in to give the boys from the Bay an uplifting lead.

The Bombers legendary second half recuperative powers have not been in evidence of late – all 19 Bombers are required for that strategy to work. Island Bay resorted to that time honoured tactic of kicking the ball out as often as possible, as far as possible. We issued Snapper cards to their midfielders and defenders to speed up retrieval. One of the Island Bay team even attempted to burrow like a mole into the playing surface to evade detection.

But there was still plenty of fight left amongst the Bombers. Sceatsy, fresh from the Riviera, threw himself about with the energy of a man relieved at the thought of not having to see another beautiful, bikini-clad French woman.  His chasing caught on and soon there was a pandemic of chasing. Gene sprinted forward and found himself one on one with the goalkeeper but a bobbling ball caused his shot balloon over. That’s one version of what happened. Other theories abound. Island Bay were rattled and did their best to counter with some savvy refereeing. It would take a goal of unimpeachable credentials to thwart this team of unembarrassable referees.

Father Time wound the great clock in the clouds ever closer to 90 minutes and late in the game Alistair found himself upfield with a chance to atone for his earlier Grexit. 30 metres out, near the abandoned left sideline where the babbling brook weaves among the roots of ancient pines, he fired an arrow of a shot directly into the top right hand corner. A worldie. Incontrovertible. Two-all.

Redemption secured, the game petered out to a friendly draw, a rare example of the endangered pastime they used to call social soccer. Hearty hugs and handshakes were the order of the day upon the final whistle. There was nothing to separate the teams in terms of skill, fitness and determination. We’d prop up the table together.  

No one dwelt on that reality too long. In fact, all negative thoughts were banished by the time the Killers were bashing out  ‘Mr Brightside’ on the club room’s big screens. There was beer in jugs, there was fried food, there were insults and talk of Div. 5 next year and the assistant Gardener announced his triumphant return to the airwaves.

Meanwhile the lonely creek meandered ever faster through the mud of the last grass pitch left at Wakefield. Lined up beside it, a sprawling, shiny-surfaced, caged complex of astro turf and super fit youngsters. A Hollywood-lit theatre of lightning fast reaction times and dizzying ball skills honed around orange cones.

As I departed limping across the bog I reflected on the sneaking suspicion that the 21st century was getting the better of me. 

Game 14, season 35 Soap caddy dishes the dirt

In World Cup year, 2011, when Steve Hansen uttered the obscure mantra: ‘walk slowly towards the pressure’, he unwittingly supplied the third leg of the Bombers overarching strategy tripod. The others being heroic levels of substance abuse and panicking when under the lash. (Much like the All Blacks, actually…)

In the succeeding years we have cleaved to our ragged destiny, inviting the Bitch Goddess of Football to sit and spin on our well-manicured digits.

Though sharing a common purpose ( heavy post-match drinking and the exchange of hearty male banter), each Bomber has his or her own idiosyncratic pre-match routine to manage the crushing weight of public non-expectation.

Here is a sampling of a few of the more disgraceful of those…

Picture Tiberius, box of tissues and bumper pottle of hand lotion secreted in his Barkers blouson, sidling shiftily to the secret room behind the garage, to lose himself in ecstasy amid his beloved collection of foreclosure memorabilia…

Or Son of God, in full Nazi battle garb, watching The Night Porter for the 612th time. Ditto tissues and hand lotion.

Or Marky, ( demi-God of louche desuetude) woken late by the cavorting tuis, putting pants on, one leg at a time . Unfortunately, they were not his trousers. That was not his house. That was definitely not his preferred shade of lippie…

 

The Band of Brothers, stout and…er… stouter… begin to dribble in to the seething cauldron that is Nainville Park. Unfortunately all the seething was happening at the kids’ game on the upper field. JRag dribbled more than most as he lingered on the sight of the delightfully well-upholstered yummy-mummys bouncing unrestrained encouragement to their little Tristans and Samanthas.

Predictably, the unbeaten men from Upper Hutt had arrived early and were engaged in arcane tactical discussion, in muted over-confident tones, casting occasional disdainful glances at the ragged collection of mis-fits and crusty OAPs who were to be their canon-fodder du jour.

With a luxury 15 body-shapes to choose from, Assistant Gardener went through our time-honoured ritual . JB spoke strategy in a deep and manly voice. We tittered nervously and ignored them.

Kick-off. Still 0-0 after 30 seconds. We were on a dangerous roll!

Early dreams of an upset were shattered scant minutes later by a couple of well-taken, but relatively soft goals. After 20 minutes or so Asst Gardener was assisted from the field with a bruised psyche and burst time release-pouch of  monkey-gland hormone.

Hilda donned the Jersey of Shame and strode like the colossus he is into the hungry goal.

There was ebb, there was flow. We were doing quite well.  They scored again. Premonitions of soap dropped in the showers. Then, in a moment of magic, JRag laid a magnificent pass on to Jackal who slotted one home with magisterial authority. 3-1,  with 10 to go ‘til half-time. There was excited chatter amongst the sideline Bombers of a 3-2 half-time score, with an upset in the offing. But t’was not to be.

All were unsettled by the sight of Wriggle’s, in horrific golfing strides, muttering darkly of joining the fray. Contoller, major-domo of his supporters’ club of one, muttered knowingly of Tiger Woods and Muhammed Ali.

Someone offered a battle cry: “ They’re fucking cunts, so treat them like fucking cunts.” Pure Churchill.             

And, despite long periods of parity of play, the mouthy, dyspeptic, Ritalin-deprived tangerines from the Badlands served up another 3 well-taken goals.

But there were highlights. Wriggles come-back. The nose for goal is still there, the technique a game or so away from recapture. And who will ever forget the sublime interplay of Stent and Tiberius at that late free-kick. With an intoxicating move, straight out the sheltered workshop playbook, they changed comedy forever. We gasped in dis-belief at their audacity. The intellectual property is priceless, and the folks from the feeb- farm are unlikely to sue.

Final score 6-1. Congrats Upper Hutt, on a workperson-like performance.

Individual player ratings (in no particular order, and poetically unlicensed):

Assistant Gardener – Put what-s left of his body on the line once again. A hero for the ages. How’s the monkey stuff working for you, or are we asking the wrong question?

Hilda – Bestrode the mid-field like a colossus. Injured back later, retrieving ball from back of net. Blue lady boots are growing on me. Half point off for working in Johnsonville. Otherwise commanding.

Hansie – Our Dorian Gray figure. Unfortunately  this petite perpetual-motion machine is easily confused. His beautiful, unblemished, self is still in the attic. Would be perfect if he wasn’t such a chatterbox. The Elle McPherson Commemorative issue of Sports Illustrated recently shattered in his sticky little paws. Devastated. On cum-back trail. Role-model for the less discerning.

Nintendo – The sea-wall that tsunamis prefer to avoid. A velvet glove over a prosthetic titanium fist. Poet of brutality and inventive foundation garments.

Mingus – Power to you, little  shower-buddy. Saved certain goal. There are some good tackling videos on YouTube. Don’t you think he looks more like Eric Clapton? Next week, lover.

Mike – Absurdly composed. Profile should be on old Greek coins. A role model for solo mothers and laboratory animals.

Al – Is Mike Al’s love-child? They share a preternatural grace under pressure. Must drive his wife nuts by refusing to argue. A Havana cigar on a leather Chesterfield.

Stent-Boy – Still channelling his inner orang-utan. Attenboro wants to do a series on him for Animal Planet. Caught virus from JRag. Appropriately huge heart, and speaks very nicely. Hippocratic and tres copacetic ! Sweats like a rapist.

JRag – Could even a mother love a face like that? Adopted recently by Bombers  (against well-priced professional advice) to give him a chance at a better life. Jury’s still out. A very sexual animal with an extra gene that nature usually manages to catch before it activates. Rumoured to be sleeping with all six of his probation officers. Often at the same time. Party on, sad boy!

Tiberius – Morally-bankrupt foot-balling machine. A  danger to the fabric of female under-garments and society at large. Runs all day. Usually in wrong direction. Thank Allah he’s on our side. Family motto: Run that past me again, slowly.

Jackal – Great Finnisher (geddit?) What else is left to be said about this skitey over-achiever? Rumoured to have left last team after rash of jock-strap disappearances. Still under careful watch. May be a keeper, despite marked criminal tendencies.

Son o’ God – Leader of un-charismatic sect of one. Un-troubled by self-reflection or genital herpes.  Tolerated for excellent corners, fearless tackling  and frequent toadying purchases of deep-fried food platters at after-match functions. Has found spiritual home in Bomberland. Who else would have him?

Chromosome – The Big Unit has grown an extra leg since spurning the daily romance of commercial law. Living the dream in Ngaio. Suspected closet jogger. Shame on you, Big Man.

Wriggles – Impact player bar excellence (Geddit?) Frequently does the unexpected, and scores. More cross- bar conversion attempts than Charles Manson, though they share an uncannily similar psychological profile. Welcome back, old fool.

Controller -  Flawless sideline performance. Finger will have grown back by next month, and we need the eggs (old Yiddish joke –ask JB to explain).

JB – And, speaking  of the Devil… The Haemorr-Boyd. This epileptic ballerina continues to thrill us with his oblique runs and assortment of garden furniture. Born in baby Ray Bans. The rich man’s Bukowski. Read on, Charles…

Marky -  Semi-mobile fugue state. Implicated in recent FIFA scandals. Implicated in many atrocities, but never successfully indicted. Role-model to the lost and confused. Always trained –to- the –minute. Unfortunately that golden minute passed decades ago.  Tolerated because he makes other Bombers feel much better about themselves. Sometimes beauty is no longer enough… 

Next week we take on the might of the Island Bay Blind Institute B team.

Quietly confident of a crushing victory to come, the weary Bombers drift into the setting sun, collective rectum prolapsed by the Upper Hutt popinjays, yet still holding fast to the vanishing dream of foot-balling  perfection.

Report dictated by Special Rapporteur Marky Mark, from a love-dungeon somewhere in the Darklands

Game 13, season 35 Mingus mourns the passing of a shapely bottom

Match 13 against Naenae opened in conditions very much like Match 12.  The air was cold. The rain was wet, but stopped in time for the match – the Son of God had beckoned skyward.

Number 13 – our lucky number, just like all the others. 

It was an optimistic bunch which sauntered out to the Fraser Park pitch, which was more sodden than a biscuit at a circle jerk party. They looked up, sniffing the air, noses wrinkling in distaste. No, it wasn’t the buried refuse that held up most Wellington parks; rather, it was the rancid compost and decayed sweat of unwashed gear that sent swirls of greenish clouds wafting skywards. 

Realising their mistake, the men stopped the foolish cursing of their unfortunate women-folk, looked around as if someone else had farted, farted, and started their warm-up routine.

The warm-up shots were powerful, lethal bullets of leather that went sailing over and past the posts, out on to the road.  Cars braked heavily, unsecured toddlers went careening into dashboards, pizza boxes overturned, and mayhem ruled.  The Bombers had arrived and meant business.  They just didn’t know how to run one.

The game began in good spirits and remarkable form.  Our foolhardy, smelly men were up for it.  Hilda, Son of God and Stent discovered the art of passing and sent Carl away time and again on sweeping runs up the right hand side.  The Jackal peppered the goal with shots and crosses, all of which went straight out on to the road, causing more pile-ups.

The defence too were learning their job, after 35 plus years of practising the off-side trap, the ref actually noticed, and several counter-attacks were foiled by the defenders’ inability to run as fast as the opposition.

Constant pressure paid off for the Bombers when Stent Boy took his chances in the opposition goal mouth and poked one in for the team. The Naenae defender objected to the ref and Stent withdrew, tapping the ball in with his toe as he did so.  “Take that, Probable Recipient of State Housing Largesse and Inadequate Benefit Entitlements”, he cursed.

This blatant lack of sportsmanship by the Bombers aroused the opposition to anger of Braveheart proportions, and they charged down the field with erections held high, blue paint smeared across their foreheads.  The Bombers held on until a corner in the 40th minute was left unchallenged and a man with a distinct lack of charisma decided to put it in the net.

Half-time and 1-1. We had acquitted ourselves well; even Gyles said so.  We had passed, run and kicked, just like he said we should. We felt good. Some men kissed each other, but that was a step too far and they were told to stick to back slapping.

The second half opened badly.  The Bombers became uncertain in their passing, some of them must have had dirt on their contacts, as they began passing it to the opposition, who duly took their chances and scored – twice in quick succession. This wasn’t rock n roll, this was genocide.

3-1, with 30 minutes to go.  Still a chance if the Bombers could muster courage and fortitude. Not very fucking likely, but you never know.

But the Bombers did rally and assailed the opposition goal for a good 10 minutes. Eventually Stent and The Jackal combined. We pulled them off each other and kept going. Another goal mouth melee and Carl slots one in the net. It was all on.

Further attempts at scoring were messy, reflecting the state of our marriages and minds. JB looked lost, waiting for the magic through ball which would allow him to walk the ball into the net and claim his Saturday night conjugal rights. It never came.

Balls went sailing over the top, hitting the crossbar, the upright and our own team members.  The shapely bottom of success wiggled just out of reach, promising so much, yet never quite letting the hand of fate settle and squeeze.

Madness ensued. Bombers bombed and backed out of tackles, sharing the ball with their opposite numbers like three-year olds at kindy.  Jon the Ragster did his best to kick the opposition in the head, feigning incompetence and a complete lack of skills so well that the ref let him away with it. Nigel also did his best, trying to mate with the Michelin Man, dancing on his feet and generally shoving him around by sinking his elbows deep into the jelly-like flesh of this angry blancmange. Even Doc’s pretence at a shoulder barge saw him bested by a little guy with bones of titanium, putting our caring practitioner flat on his back.

Alas, all to no avail.  Having being given the ball so often, Naenae decided they should counter-attack, and sent the ball down the field.  A race between our 102 year old goalie and their centre-forward saw the Gardiner attempt to repeat a manoeuvre he had experimented with last week, which he did perfectly, sending the ball at a 45degree angle to another Naenae player, who joyfully punted it back past him into the goal. 4-2. Oblivion.

Finally, in the most dangerous phase of the match – the shower – Mingus again managed to retain his heterosexual integrity and get out whole.  Women sighed in gratitude. Somewhere.

his Bombers team is in free fall. It is beautiful and compelling to watch, but the heart yearns for more. 

 

 

Game 12, Season whatever. Bitch Goddess unleashes enormous babies on baffled Bombers

It had been a tough week. Relentless rain, unremitting cold and chilling winds, a time of streaming red noses – getting up in the dark, trudging off and stumbling home head bent against the elements, just getting by. The super 15 was lost. July is not an easy month.

There was little chance of football to leaven the mood as cancellations abounded. But what’s this? A message from the assistant gardener with an unmistakeable gleeful tone: “It’s On!” he announced, clearly expecting an uplifting experience.

Anxious emails suggested a depleted squad. We’d be without The Jackal, Hilda, Mike the new guy and Tiberius, but what really do they contribute? Well we were about to find out.

Bombers assembled on the Saturday with the sun beaming on an claggy Nairnville pitch. We had 12 and with the arrival of Doc just on kickoff, that meant a ref and a sub. And what of the Zimmers who had succumbed to us 3 – 0 at a warmer time of the season? They’re a big-boned lot and have clearly feasted well since the arrival of their strip, but would physical presence be enough?

For once Gyles was able to declare who was playing where as choices were limited. It looked a balanced side, and we had JB’s trainee son-in-law who didn’t look a day over 35 despite the ageing effects of a beard and a vintage top. We knew a good start was important…

And it wasn’t too dusty, a promising move down the right, interrupted by a large Zimmer who rather hopefully hoofed it forward. Surely that will be cut out thought all of the 10 bombers standing stock-still. But no, the ball was through with a Zimmer behind it, and he bloody chipped the keeper! Well that’s not going to lift any moods. A goal down in 1 minute! Could it be any worse?

Of course. A rather lame Zimmer attack resulted in the ball breaking to a chap that looked like an enormous baby, and he banana’ed it in off the post with Gyles helpless. Bloody heck! 2 – 0 with 5 gone!

But here was an inspirational moment. With an air of a man who has just pulled out various iv lines and catheters to get to the game, Zel marched over the rugby field to join the fight. He spent the next 20 minutes on the sideline.

Hansie then had a little Magic Mike cameo, divesting himself of an undergarment with a flash of rippled torso that could only impress our portly opposition.

Now the bombers got into gear and dominated. We bossed the midfield apparently. JB helpfully pointed out in the pub afterwards that North Wellington had conceded the centre of the park in favour of a stout 5 man defence. This wasn’t noticed by anyone else.

We did notice we had some chances. The trainee son-in-law one on one with the keeper, JB with a penalty area volley, some promising moves that deserved better finishes and oh so many corners! We played them short, long, high and low, but it wasn’t until Son of God took a couple from the East wing that North Wellington looked troubled. Glorious, arcing deliveries to the far post. The Zimmers stood fixed to the spot but alas so did various Bombers as no-one could see the ball looking into the sun. Bloody Danny should have gone for goal.

Half time arrived and Gyles was grumpy. He thought we were inept which no-one argued with. Someone else thought we were playing well which no-one argued with either, so with nothing decided we thought we’d better get back on the field, pausing briefly to let Marky finish his smoke. Mingus stated his mind and feet had had a relationship breakdown so took a break. He thought things were bound to improve.

But they didn’t. It became 3-0 soon after the break. I won’t describe what occurred but it had a kind of own goal feel to it. Those chubby chaps had 3 chances and they had 3 goals!

Was anything going to go right? Well we scored. Your reporter made telling eye contact with JB who set off on a cute diagonal run. This invited a peach of a pass and so it happened. JB kept his feet and his head to score with a grace surpassing description. Here we go!

Nintendo moved forward, announcing to anyone that cared that he had done so, and promptly scythed down Barney the Dinosaur in an advanced right wing position, Doc had locked down the right and was combining well with Gene, the left was sorted by Alistair and Zel, and Smut was holding up well. Was the week about to come right?

Of course not.  A weak cross from a Billy Bunter type resulted in black on black midair collision. The ball broke loose and a corpulent fellow had an open goal to poke into. Giles now right off the grumpy scale.

4 – 1 it finished. Christ we deserved more, but sometimes it’s just not your time. Ask Rafael Nadal, Brad Haddin, Fabien Cancellara or Rory McIlroy. We have had our nadir. It really was a tough week.

Game 11, Season 35 Vaffanculo a cazzo carogna, a dish prepared by Rossimar

Upon 1st, 2nd and 3rd inspections McAlister Park appeared more zuppa (soup) than al dente.  Salvio (Gyles – sage) drew the squad into a cerchio (circle).After checking that we were badando (paying attention) he then proceeded to briciolini (crumble) leaving Arrabbiata (John – angry) to regale us with the reason for his pending early departure, his desire to find a suitable wench with whom he could inserendo (insert) his carpaccio  into her vongola.  The rest of us had nothing soggiungere (to add)

Brooklyn dominated early exchanges as they pasta ball at will through the midfield.  The defence like a good pizza dough was stretched, in places thin, but never disfare (split open).  Pinta (Roger) was our scudo (shield) on the right while Stecchino (Hansie – toothpick) tackled like a cotello seghettato (serrated knife).  Ciabatta (Nigel) spent most of the game mopping up while I (in the absence of Vespa) focussed on trying to raschiare (scrape off) the mud from my new boots. 

Midway through the first half Brooklyn began to raffreddare (cool down) and their pugno (handful) of chances began to prosciugare (dry up).  We regga al fuoco (withstood the fire).

Affumicato (Mark – smoked) began to scongelare (defrost)  and was having a serpillo (wild thyme) while out on the right Apriscatole (Carl – can opener) was struggling to separare (separate) himself from the zuppa and longed for the second half when he would get to run on the al dente side of the pitch.

Up front Pesce (Fish – fish) battled to try and dragare (dredge) up a goal but to no avail.

Halftime arrived and Vitello de Latte (Gene – milk fed veal) afflosciarsi (became limp) before leaving.  Earlier he had almost scored a pocco cotto (rare) goal.  Of the view that Brooklyn had begun to passerino (flounder) we were determined to throw the acquaio (kitchen sink) at them.  Goals were no longer facoltativo (optional)

The second half began and the decision to abbinare (match/pair) Cuore (Stent – heart), Jesus (Danny – son of god) and Liscio (Al – smooth) in the midfield began to pay dividends.  They began to regularly sciupare (spoil) the Brooklyn possession and when in possession themselves they trinciare (cut up) and on occasion even set the tovaglia (tablecloth) for their strikers.

Out of nowhere they scored.  Ciabatta (Nigel) took it upon himself to esplorare (examine) the reasons behind the goal and duly decided we needed to assodare (harden) up.

Medico (Doc – doctor) on occasion had the facitura (stuffing) knocked out of him.  Bruscandoli (JB – shoot of hop flowers) on two occasions should have been awarded a penalty after being tritato (chopped) by the Brooklyn defender known as Batticarne (tenderizer hammer),  but ultimately the referee was trippa (tripe) and we were to get nothing from him.

So up steps Stecchino (Hansie), who at this point was fair fouco lento (simmering), burst forward like a split Milza (spleen) with a wonderful consegnare (delivery) to Apriscatole (Carl) whose finish was that of a fine Grappa.  The keeper, who was more grasso (fat) than fagiolino (string bean) managed to get a finger too it but couldn’t deny destiny.

We left the field disgruntled and in search of a taverna serving fine ristoro (refreshment) and friendly torta (tarts).

Season 35. Game 10. A Merrie Conceited Comedie

Gyles, King of  Kelburn and his 18 noble companions took an oath  in 2016 not to give in to the company of goals or women.  They would devote themselves to a season of study and fasting.

[Forester hath agreed somewhat more hesitantly than the others for the physician did confide in him a dream of  treble glory on this day in Merrymar. ]

The King declares that no ball should come within a chain of the box and to ensure such , he positions his Captain at Arms, Kyrk at the apex.

The  Sad Men of Merrymar number but 11 and are without reinforcements .

And so it begins…eagerly watched by the Princess Anne of  Kilbirnie  and her ladies including Jaquenetta ( a country wench)  who have encamped just outside the battle’s borders.

Within 2 minutes of the blowing of the horn Forester has dashed from the edge of the box and poked his way to his first betrayal of abstinence.

Within 10 minutes ,  Owyn Goal ( a local Merrymar constable ) has scored off his sconce  and become the Golden Boot  for 2016. 2-0

When Sir Alastair the curate, is unceremoniously fowled by a local winged weta , King Gyles [ who has become both Judge and Lord over all ] , points to a spot on the turf  in a charming falsetto:

“ What a lovely spot !  Do what thoust can Captain Kyrk  !“   [ for I know thou abstinence has weakened thee]

Surprising all his noble companions [ who lay in hiding]  Kyrk  placed  a modestly-paced ball along the ground  into the netting via the Gaolkeepers fingers. 3-0

As the clamour is rejoined , Zel Adriano de Armado in midstfield , [a Serbian visiting the court ], aghast at his companion’s failing vows , tells the King of an earlier oath-bursting tryst  between Captain Kyrk and Jaquenetta.

 Moments later the Serb is felled by a blow that shakes the very  foundations of his being and results in a cupful of claret .

[It appears Captain Kyrk enjoys loyalty  within the ranks of the enemy as well as on the borders .]

Hurrying hisself along, the Portly Physician escorts the haemorrhaging but  Unstoppable Zel   from the battlefield to his chambers and restores his unique visage [with the aid of a needle and some stray cat’s gut.]

Whilst the embroidery is done they hear a roar from afar ..it is 4-0 …again speaketh the Forester’s mighty sword …then a missed 4 ½ th as the Forester [ who hath given up all pretence of self-control]  crashes a header off the crossbar.

The Forester is now flagrantly pleasuring hisself with a narrow angled score in a crowded box  5-0 , swiftly followed by an ejaculation through the melee [our foe rendered static by fear ] . The Merrymars are rendered abject and reeling at 6-0.

There is but one humiliation left.

Costard  of Churton , [whose  cantering pace and sensitivity is reknowned for its lack of conviction ], is put through at the half and none follow him.

Not even the turncoat Porche Marcade who has been dressing in other men’s clothing .

Costard has his one-on-one way with the keeper of the gaol and discards him as if a sticky rag thrown to the soiled earth. 7-0.

And thereafter truly at the Smelly Inn didst the 19 Noble Companions celebrate . 

And finally didst the King of Kelburn  [ after briefly discussing the cession of Aquitane] proclaim that the only study worthy of man is that of love .

Game 9, season 35. The glory hole of the vanquished spirit

A low slung Wellington day, full of piss and wind. A filthy pitch. Altogether a bit like your wife's EL James collection - Grey with more than a hint of sadomasochism about it. Lots of binding tape and other paraphernalia, mostly in Marky's bag. Sceatsy's got new "studs" bought at 11am from the peaches and cream of sport - Rebel. He'll need them, we'll all "need" them. There are dogs. They add to the Grey atmosphere. Fish barely escapes an unseemly episode with a dog, on the pitch.

Kick off. Wests are porous at the back, we cut through them - clamp on nipple, but we can't finish. JB and The Jackal battle forcefully - at times unlucky, wishing they were strung up in someone's basement dungeon instead of spending an afternoon of anguish, pain and suffering with no release.

We are tight at the back, the fearsome foursome of Doc, Nintendo, Mike and Hansie, keeping Wests aging wrinkled strikers at bay. When they do finally bust through its a pair of assless chaps in Studio 54  - a mess. They've missed an open goal.  Gyles is strong -keeps them weeping for mercy.

Marky dances in the midfield, the dance of the damned, his mind on his bag, and paraphernalia. SoG and Ross do good things using their head. Ross puts them to THE test and nearly scores. SoG slogs it out up the guts. Keeping them in the mud.
Tiberius is walking around, thankfully on the sideline, thinking about what's in Marky's bag.

Chromosome is full of running and Grey dreams and as such is "used" in 3 different positions. He slips the handcuffs and has his revenge, almost. Despite being used he is never owned. Sceatsy and Fish flirt with their fat backs, teasing them down the sideline, cutting through - showing no mercy - leather on flesh. We miss and miss again. The dog incident occurs -Fish says it's a misunderstanding. Zel blows the whistle for halftime. Bombers 25 - Wests 5. Shots of pain that is.

Ross replaces Gyles who has been tortured on the rack of his own genius and done a groin. Gyles advice "put the round thing in the big hole". Sound. Marky checks his bag.

The second half starts like a Nazi electric shock experiment, a lot of zip, bang and some burnt flesh.  We get a penalty - "hand in the box" - always a recipe for  some kind of trouble if the lines are blurred - wrong hand, wrong box... Tiberius - you take it. No - Tiberius is still thinking about Marky's bag. Mike steps up. Bravely. Like a cattle prod in the lounge on Sunday -its slightly over the top.

They stream down the field and score senselessly. One actual goal. Defence unlucky. Nothing Ross could do about it. Group self-flagellation.

We keep hunting them - here piggy piggy piggy. The Jackal and JB  take them on again and again thrusting in behind them - into their box - its loose. With a  lot of opportunity. JB screams and groans. One more inch - one more centimetre even and he'd be in the pleasuredome that is a goal.

Zel and Hansie feed "the Left". Stasiland all over again. More basement dungeons. More whispered secrets. No goals. Doc, Sceatsy, Chromosome, and the Jackal feed "the Right". Leather, jackboots. More basement dungeons. More whispered secrets. No goals. Nintendo and Mike - "the Centrists"  in a sloppy slithering defence area - keeping them out.

They stream down the field and score senselessly - off a corner. Two actual goals. Defence unlucky. Nothing Ross could do about it. Group self-flagellation.

SoG ups his workrate further, chasing wind, tackling, furious in his intensity. Thinking about the wasted self-flagellation which should be saved for Church or church like facilities (a basement dungeon..). He runs out of wind, Chromosome (used but never owned)replaces him. Sceatsy surges, JB thrusts, The Jackal mounts, Zel presses, Fish chases -dog issue sorted-his mind back on the job. No goals.

Suddenly, a crack like a whip in Singapore from the central defenders, a slippery pass, Mike - maybe Nintendo hits the midfield, teasing the fat backs again, toying with them in the man soup of Anderson park, a loose pass to the left. The Jackal slams it in the hole. A  sleek, well managed finish that Christian Grey would swap his helicopter for. One actual goal. SoG pleased for no more self-flagellation.

One last corner. No goal. West 2 Bombers 1.

Marky picks up his bag. Smiling.

 

Game 8. Season 35. Assistant Gardener finds comfort in Valley with spades and hoes

Bogey side - A team that you stumble against at almost any occasion irrespective of their form or league position.

Bombers are not ones to subscribe to notions that the Bitch Goddess of Football would be so perverse as to create an opponent of such invincibility that playing them for 90 minutes on a cooling Saturday in a settlement with only one road in and out was little more than a Sisyphean exercise in futility.

At the head of Stokes Valley, nestled into a crook in the eastern Hutt hills, sits the Bbodhinyanarama Buddhist  monastic sanctuary, but Delaney Park, the field of dreams for 1960s British immigrants, had none of the radiant solar blessings showering down on devotion that the Buddhist monastery proclaims.

Instead it remained a burial ground of ageing Bombers’ hopes and exertions. A home for a bogey side.

Assistant Gardener usually zealously calls players to order, assign positions, establish an order of substitution for the 19 Bombers, and sprinkle exhortations, strategy and advice for the first 45 minutes, knowing it to be little more than entertaining ritual. The 19 Bombers humour him.

A loose 4-4-2 formation with Dr Tim at right back for the first time this season congealed into an even looser 4-2-1.5-1.5-1.

After 20 minutes the signs turned from ominous to calamitous. A Stokes Valley hobbit, for such was his height, girth and hairiness, who was to prove a torment all game, cut through to the backline and as Nintendo closed on him, struck a shot that deflected off the hapless defender with the Asst Gardener toppling the wrong way, offering no more than a flailing hand as resistance.

1-0.

A goal down with 70 minutes to play is not such a hurdle to players of resolve, commitment and courage. Soon two of the 19 Bombers were free of defenders with only the keeper to beat, one-all beckoned until the Bitch Goddess chose to subvert Ragboy into a panicked flail several suburbs wide of the goal.

A half time talk that might have once  lifted spirits and effort faded in much the way the sun started to hide behind the hill.

A second half came and went, punctuated by waves of attack, resolute defence, and a second goal that came from a clever free kick that was never a free kick.

Damned Valley Hobbitman again, and he had the temerity to take kicks with the outside of his boot, a trick never resorted to by 19 sporting Bombers.

Three damn years since Stokes Valley last conceded a point to us. That’s a bogey team.

The Bombers gracious in defeat and too frightened to seek other drinking premises in a strange land joined the victors in their clubrooms. They supped on a range of beers -- Tui, DB Export and, god forbid, Lion Red -- last seen in soullessly decorated barns smelling of hops, nicotine, and domestic violence that passed for pubs in 20th century New Zealand. 

Then they melted away in ones and twos into the mist and gloom, contemplating five chilling words: Time to bring back Wriggles.

Game 7. Season 35 Son of God sparks fact-checking frenzy

It was a damp old midwinter day at Raroa. Clouds scudded from the North West and there was damp in the air. Across the hillside the last red leaves of the exotics clashed with the green of the endemics. “Onslow colours”, someone muttered, “portentous”. “Pretentious”, muttered someone else. Meanwhile, North Wellington Onslows were already warming up, looking somewhat useful for a near bottom-of-the-table side.

The pitch was examined. Not too bad, all things considered, but definitely the muddiest of the season to date. There were also lumpy patches – ball control would be at a premium. The grass could do with a clip and the surface with a turn of the heavy roller. No FIFA money spent here.

The Bombers assembled at the western end of the ground and hoofed a few balls around in their usual desultory fashion. Most went over the bar, one went over the fence and down the Burma Road. We looked around – with the seasonal weather closing in, just the 12 Bombers to hand. Only 19 Bombers? Not at this stage of the season. And that total included JB, fully dressed including sheepskin lined, distillery sponsored, earflap provided leather headgear – I hesitate to call it a hat. 11 Bombers, then. JB decided we would play uphill & into the wind, and that he would come on in the second half. We lost the toss & remained as we were.

“Come together” said el jefe “Sort yourselves out”. A complete abdication of responsibility. No wonder he’s never risen higher than assistant gardener. Other Bombers straggle in. The usual argy-bargy for positions. Which is remarkable, given that just 12 Bombers were available for initial selection. Hansie said nothing and was shoved into right back, just for a change. Nintendo and new boy Mike (christened “Vespa” after the match) in the middle, someone at left back ... If I’d known I was going to be writing the match report I’d have paid more attention to what was going on.

“I’m suffering from ‘flu” announced Tiberius. Luckily it was of the SS Niagara variety and not the dreaded man ‘flu, otherwise who knows how many Bombers could have been struck down. He went on anyway. As the positions were handed out, Smut had that half expectant, half resigned look on his face – sideline again, or an up-front start? The latter – give that puppy a ball to chase!

Kick off and the ball is knocked around in an unremarkable fashion, with not much of your actual goalmouth action. Without warning Smut is in front of goal, ball at feet – and passes lamely to the ‘keeper. “It was nowhere near my middle section, that’s why I couldn’t put it away” – except he didn’t say middle section. Nothing to warm the cockles of the old biddies lining the balcony at the Malvina Major, in any manner of speaking.

Half time comes & goes. Many opinions voiced, none of them registered. Second half a continuation of the first. One good chance crashes into the NWO upright & bounces clear – echoing the last match we played at Raroa. NWO aren’t much good, we’re not much better.

Then comes the defining moment of the match. A challenge by Nintendo in our box, on a large lumpy type. Nintendo goes down, lumpy type falls on top of him and Son of God trips over the pile. Hubcaps, formerly of this parish but now a NWO, points to the penalty spot. Cue howls of disbelief at the absolute injustice of it all. JP McEnroe had nothing on this Greek chorus. Penalty slotted, zip-one.

Nintendo was incensed - musically, he was uncut funk. Cue shoving, macho posturing in return. Nothing eventuates. Match kicks off again. Bombers press without truly threatening. One move breaks down in midfield, leading to a NWO passing movement down the right & across the face of the goal that is closed out by a clean finish. I’d have been proud of it if it had been ours but zip-two.

And that was pretty much it. Apart from the second goal, defensively sound, midfield OK. Forward line blunter than a blunt thing. The table does not lie – only 9 goals scored. Even bottom-of-the-table Miramar Rangers have scored 11. Nine separate scorers – perhaps this policy of ensuring everyone has scored once before anyone scores twice is not working for us.

Next week – Snakes in a Valley. The joys of Masters football.

Editor's note:  Raroa  is ra (sun) and roa (long) but translates as 'old age'. How odd. Alternatively, RAROA stands for Risk Adjusted Return on Assets. Also strangely apt. Bombers risk adjusted return on assets is, erm, nil. Just trying to spruce up this match report.

Game 6. Season 35. Calamari, pork chops and a slice of vengeance served cold

 “You’re doing the match report Calamari”. Fuck. Wish I paid attention to the game.  All right then. Here I am over 24 hours later, trying to remember all the details, the minutiae, the events, the highs, the lows, the turning points. Then I remember a quote on the wall as I left the pub after the game. It read;

“Glory lies in the attempt to reach one’s goals and not in reaching it.” Mahatma Ghandi

Let’s for now assume this is not a load of bollocks. Let’s not concern ourselves with why the hell this would be on the wall of a pub. Let’s say Gandhi was bang on, because that would mean then the Bombers effort against Mirimar (or whoever the hell it was) was one of the most glory-stuffed 90 minutes of football ever played by this collective of misfits. But I get ahead of myself…

I should have known it was going to be an odd afternoon when arriving at the game, the earlier game on Nairnville 2 (or whatever the hell pitch we were on) had a goalkeeper almost throwing the ball into his own net. He doesn’t say a word, nor do his defence. Does it happen often? SoG is yelling at the players like he is the coach. I ask him who he knows in the game. “No one” he says. 5 minutes at the ground and it’s already weird.

Bombers get changed and I hear a sentence I did not want to hear, “Calamari makes 11”. 90 minutes of football? Shit. I hope at least one more shows up. I was wrong, seven more show up. Assistant Gardener is there as well and he will referee. 19 bombers will be on the pitch over the course of the game. 19 Bombers. More weird.

“Come together” says AG and instantly I feel like I am home. Those familiar words snap my mind back to reality. That’s more like it. Then he quotes poetry. Fuck, it’s getting weird again.

“We have 7 subs” says AG. “They look short-handed so let’s run them ragged”. That could be one of the funniest things AG has ever said. “OK, positions. Sort yourselves out”. This could be the silliest thing AG has ever said. When the Bombers line up there are 12 on the pitch. JB plods off.

Off we go. Tiberius gets the ball, long ball through their defence for our strikers to run on to. Doesn’t work, Tiberius gets the ball again, another long ball, another loss of possession. Tiberius is resilient and thinks it must work sometime. It doesn’t. On the Gandhi scale he is a glory machine. Stent Boy, Chromesome and SoG are running around with purpose, mostly after the balls that Tiberius is putting through. Hansie is doing what Hansie does best, which is being Hansie. Zeus is organising the defence. Mike (nick name pending) looks like what I suspect Zeus looked like before he got old, grey and shorter. Mingus is doing what he does best which is being not as good as Hansie. Hilda is yelling a lot because he has little else to do. Sceatsy/Nickname arrives on the pitch at some point. He does stuff. Nintendo arrives on the pitch at some point. Zel-boy arrives on the pitch at some point. I think players might have left the pitch as well but I can’t be sure. Hilda is bored so he rearranges the formation. I think at that stage we were playing 5-5-2.

I’m on the side-line and after 20 or so minutes, then it’s time for me to replace Mingus at right back. It’s good to be on. Much better view of the circus. I soon notice that it seems that Bombers passing the ball more than twice in row is now illegal, because we seem to keep kicking it away a lot. Their goalkeeper is a large fellow who is surprising nimble. He keep them in the game. The Bombers also keep Mirimar in the game. Fish is called offside. Doc is called offside. Doc is called offside again. We kick the ball away. Bombers doing what Bombers do best.

It occurs to me that while I am watching all this I have had to do fuck all. They seldom cause the defence any trouble. Right. Time to inject myself into the game. I see a pass about to be given so rush up and intercept the pass. My timing is perfect. Ball intercepted and at my feet ready to launch an attack. I trip over it and fall to the ground. The bitch goddess quietly sniggers to herself.

AG blows the whistle for half-time. 0-0.

Half-time at a Bombers game is a study in human psychology. 2 or 3 people are saying things that often contradict each other and 4 or 5 people are not listening at all and chatting amongst themselves. Others talk to themselves. Hansie doesn’t talk at all. It’s a wonder to behold. Controller (who’s there as a spectator) wonders why the nets are up. They don’t seem to be being used. JB is twitching. I’ve never seen JB twitch. It’s getting weird again.

The second half begins and Mingus is back on. JB is up front. God knows who else was on and where they were playing but I remember Hilda was still in goal. We quickly go 1-0 down. Quelle surprise and quelle domage. Mirimar can’t believe it. They attack some more. Long range shots pepper the goal and Hilda pulls off a good save from one particularly good shot. Ragg boy wanders offside. He’s looking tired. He shoves a defender in the back to get the ball. He gets away with it. Then I notice something. JB is causing the defence trouble. He’s making runs, his first touch is good. He passes when he should and shoots when he should. He’s barking orders, he’s inspiring the troops. Bombers begin to believe. Things are looking up. Wave after wave of Gandhi glory-stuffed attempts go wide, over the top, at the keeper, saved by the keeper, deflected by defenders, deflected by our own attackers. Chromesome has an open goal a tight angle. Clearly wanting to avoid any heroics he decides not to score. The back of the net is safer than a pork chop at a bar mitzvah.

Time for Calamari to go back on. “Be the attacking right back you know you can be” says Obi-wan Controller. Inspiration pumps through my veins. Gandhi’s words (that I would not read until 90 minutes after the game finished thereby setting up some weird time/space wormhole) lift me to a higher plane. There’s space to be found on the right. Land worth about $3m if it was in Auckland. We need an equaliser. We need a hero. Remember that guy JB I was talking about? A shot from JB wide out looks like another pork chop will live as I think it’s going over the top, but somehow it dips and the net, which has somehow avoided any contact with a ball for the last 75 minutes, is woken from its slumber. 1-1. Game on.

Calamari, Alistair and Fish start to own the right hand side (that’s a million each. Cool.). We are getting to the goal line at will and crosses are going in. Low and hard where Bombers just can’t get a foot to it. So after another surge down the right hand side, I pass to Fish who crosses to the near post where, as it happen there are no Bombers. There are, however, two Mirimar defenders. One of them heads it nicely into his own net. The bitch goddess giggles. 2-1.

AG says “5 minutes left”. Doc yells at Fish for not defending enough. Our midfield and defenders often don’t defend enough so a harsh call on a striker methinks, but I love Doc’s passion. Strangely attractive. Miramar throw players forward. They win a corner. This could be the last play of the game. The corner comes over. It’s not cleared. A melee ensues with Hilda and others all leaping for the ball, they all want to get that crucial touch. I decide to hang on the goal line, you know, just in case. The ball is headed towards our goal. It feels like a scene from the matrix with ‘bullet time’. Time slows and I am calm. I see the ball move slowly towards the goal line and I clear it off the line with not a hint of panic, thereby breaking the hearts of Mirimar supporters everywhere and hopefully gaining the love of Doc.

AG blows the whistle for full time and it’s over. Bombers victorious. Payback for how Miramar toyed with us in a storm last year. JB practically out of sight for Golden Boot although OG poses a clear threat. We deserved to win and we deserved to lose. Football was the winner and the loser.  19 bombers made a difference (in the same way a fart makes a difference at a church service) and we were off to the pub. Overpriced calamari and faux craft beer awaited us. Oh yes, and Gandhi was waiting too.

19 Bombers - Player ratings

AG – weird pregame speech, halftime speech a mess and the only thing that stood out about his refereeing was his bright orange shirt. 6/10

Fishboy – usual game. Running and not running. Extra points for tricking that defender into the own goal. 7/10

Ragg Boy – uninspired. Not sure where his mind was. I like him more when he’s swearing. 5/10

Michael (row de boat ashore) – Solid game. Made Zeus look better than he was. 7/10

Zeus – Good first half though was made to look better than he was. Injured himself again. 7/10

Stent Boy – Gandhi would call his effort “glorious”. Lots of running. No scoring. 6/10

Tiberius - More glory in the Gandhi vein. Needs to learn to slow the pace down and trust the players around him. Fat chance with this team as who would trust a Bomber? 6/10

Chromesome – on a results basis, missing a one on one with the keeper and then an open goal the rating is 2/10. On an effort basis the rating is 8/10. Averages never lie. 5/10

Mingus – Mistake free game. Came off when I wanted to go on. Awesome. 8/10.

Hansie – Once again made players younger than him look slow and foolish. A couple of his first touches also made him look slow and foolish. Not one of his best games. 6/10.

Hilda – Let in one goal, and would have let in one more if it hadn’t been for CCC (cool calm calamari). Bonus points for lots of yelling and a good save. 7/10

JB – the best half of football I see him play this century. One goal and an inspirational “follow me lads!” leadership. Man of the match. Point off for supporting Chelsea. 9/10

SoG – kicks, tackles, passes, heads, and slides. Not so good once the game started. Also, points off for pretending to manage one of the teams on before us. 6/10

Zel Boy – Doesn’t say much. Played left back. Like a tall and younger Hansie. 6/10

Sceatsy/nickname – As far as I can tell he only played a quarter of the game. Perfect when he was on. 2.5/10

Doc – Caught offside twice. Only person from both sides who thought he was not offside. Family holidays with him must be a joy. Marks off for yelling at Fish when, for once, he didn’t deserve it. Marks back on for apologising. 6/10

Alistair – Worked well on the right in the second half. Extra marks for not being better than me. 7/10

Nintendo – Strangely quiet game. Marks off for not saying “wing me” once. 5/10

Calamari - 40 odd minutes of solid football. Saved a goal and assisted in winning goal. Good match report though needs an editor.  Marks off for tripping over ball. 8/10

Supporter ratings;

Controller – Insightful understanding of the game, if the game is sarcasm and abuse. Marks on for giving me permission to be all I could be. 7/10

Marky mark - Beat poet chic and smoked cigarettes. Style and puff, which is pretty much what he is on the pitch as well.  8/10

Game 5. Season 35 Gummy Women Shattered Testicle Blues

The low sun shone brightly down the pitch as the match kicked off.  It was sure to be a factor in the first half, as it was very difficult to see the ball in the air.  Keep your positions (particularly in the midfield!), keep the ball on the ground, and deliver it to feet was the message to the players before the game.  Yeah right!  

The long grass presented further challenges, as the players are now accustomed to the artificial turf where the ball rolls so easily.  Those capable of it opted for the aerial speculator.  The remainder, of less strength and co-ordination, regularly underhit the ball causing it to slow in the grass. At least the surface was soft and cushioned the falls, of which there were many. 

At half-time, the score was 1-0.  I can’t remember who scored, or how.  In the second half, despite repeated and entirely justified calls for offside, handballs and incorrect throw-ins, the game flowed more.  There were numerous chances to score as the midfield predictably opened up, but only one shot found its mark to level the scores. End result – a very unsatisfying 1-1 draw between Grade 11’s Onslow Imrans and WU Hungaria.

Later that day, as the sun set, the childrens’ footballing fathers and grandfathers met at Anderson Park as North Wellington Onslows fought the University Bombers.  In an almost identical match, of only slightly lower quality, no quarter was given, and no stone left unturned in search of victory.  Indeed, two of your correspondent’s stones were badly injured in a poorly judged challenge, though in truth they were in poor condition already. 

The highlight of the game was undoubtedly Sceatsy’s levelling strike in the second half, immediately after a masterful substitution from Doc.  Replacing Stent on the pretext of a life and death emergency phone call, Sceatsy dropped into right midfield. While Stent arranged his Hurricanes tickets for the night, the ball fell unexpectedly at Sceatsy’s feet.  With the goalie out of position, he hammered home a goal. The type of goal that sticks in the memory for about 3 ½ days.  As I write this 5 days later it’s a glimmer. I think it was good though.  Several other almost goals (which are a real thing in Masters 4) went to John Boyd, John Ragg and Danny Morgan.  I remember Danny’s and JB’s well – seconds to go, Danny right in front with only the keeper to beat. Hit the bloody cross bar!!!!  JB with a header on the rebound.  Yes! No! Cleared off the line by a ghost defender !!!.  1-1 it ends.

None of the Grade 11 Imrans were in attendance, as it’s “just old men running around swearing a lot, and its boring!”  No gummy women watching on this week either. Marky Mark those pliers were a good idea, but never mind.

Next week – IBU Internationals. Played 5, Lost 4, Goal Difference -15.  Please don’t let it be rained off (tough shit. ed) Come on Bombers!  Lets listen to the old guy in the yellow shirt that keeps coming to our games.  Keep your positions (particularly in the midfield!), keep the ball on the ground and deliver it to feet and we’ll bring the fans back. 

Season 35, Game 4. Losing in the Sky with Diamonds

With the game scheduled for Harcourt Park in Upper Hutt, the boys were prepared for a big trip.  A last minute reschedule to marginally closer Maidstoned Park didn’t sway us – we were already tripping. Tiberius, ever the showman, thought a journey to the upper reaches of the valley was not far enough so embarked on his own version of the Lundy 500 after getting Stoned in Palmerston North.  Stent put in a transcendental contribution from Sydney.  He was there in our minds (as was Mrs Colin), which made them there.

Marky Mark, who is just the man for a long trip (so far it is a continuous 58 years excluding foetal exposure), set the tone. He was heard to comment on how beautiful the autumnal colours were. The depth of the purples, the richness of the chartreuse and the vividness of the beige were something to behold.  Danny thought the strangely intricate details on surfaces, richness of sound, brightness of colours, and complexity of his mental processes were due to a visitation from God. Meanwhile, under the effects, the strength of Mingus had quadrupled to be equal to that of a small boy.  

There was not a fat belly, grey hair, nor receding hairline to be found.  We were euphoric, expectant, our bodies were a-tingle and full of comaraderie and goodwill. Our skills were silky and the fantastical became common-place.  Even when Skeatsy kneed the opposition keeper in the head – drawing blood - the Assistant Gardener was overcome by a fit of giggles. 

A second half goal by Zeus was a thing of beauty and, through dilated pupils, drew much admiration.  In fact, the chest down and volley was so sublime that we began to see the sounds and smell the colours and taste the feel. It is common, at this stage, to feel some nausea.  But Carl had the entire teams sickness covered, although it was due to a hangover from the night before rather than synasthesia.

We were collectively in a place where an $11 jug of Panhead ale was not just a possibility but a reality.  Were we delusional?  No.  Just selective.  The very young, fit and fast opposition put 7 past us.  Assistant Gardener complained that the ball was moving a fair bit, but someone was heard to comment “only a bit more than you.” this was always going to be a bad trip. I’m still traumatised and suffering flashbacks.  Marky, got any horse tranquiliser left?

 

Game 3, Season 35 Aye Aye Naenae. The Battle of Nairnville as seen by cabin boy Young Nick

They blew in from the north full of piss and vinegar from plundering Island Bay 7 -1.  Earlier that afternoon they had gathered at the Naenae "Fry 'n DIne".  The captain had drawn a crude  "X" on a napkin with the coordinates 41.23 degrees south by 174.78 degrees east. "That me boys" he sneered "is where we do our raping and pillaging today!"  Climbing into their tradies vans they set sail.

On Mount Kaukau a well dressed observer unfurls his telescope and trains his eye on Nairnville Park.  The first 40 minutes of action he surveys are characterised by a series of forays deep into Bombers' territory.  The Naenaeites launch salvos and twice the Bombers' hull is nearly holed.  Hansie, awake to the mounting danger, devises a tactical manoeuvre not seen in these waters before.   Instead of tackling the advancing striker, Hansie joins with him shoulder to shoulder before shaping himself into a human torpedo and, fulfilling on the prophecy of his Christian name, hurtles himself at the groin of Cap'n Gyles.  Said Cap'n folds like wet kelp.  From then on the bewildered opposition are unable to tell their transom from their poop deck nor their mizzen from their spanker. 

Half time and Cap'n Gyles issues two directives - "tighten up midships and show more mongrel!"  Our Kaukau observer witnesses a different sea in the second half as the Capn's directives are implemented with frightening efficiency and telling results. Ample possession is secured and a series of corner broadsides from Three Sheets to the Wind Mary Mark on port and Bosun O'Donovan on starboard make the difference.  T'is  just a matter of time before one such cannon does the damage. The ball floating into the six yard box ricochets from man to man like a Javanese lady boy until entering the orbit of Mad Bad John Ragg.  A man with less ballast might have knobbed the ball into the goal with a pelvic thrust but Mad Bad John Ragg bellies the ball over the line.  The tide has swung the Bombers' way.

The wind swings ten degrees to the west allowing Zel Boy to launch a broad reach down port side with all sails aloft.  Zel deftly lays the ball to Three Sheets who lobs the ball to the ship's surgeon.  With a flick off the surgeon's cranium the ball sails across the arc of visibility to land at the beakhead of Sweet Gene Vincent who ignores the flying fists of the onrushing keeper, braces his mantle and secures number two.   

The Naenaeites, now fighting a head wind and an outgoing tide, valiantly battle on and almost breach the Bombers' pristine hull but for devine intervention - Son of Neptune scythes down an attacker in the box.  Cap'n Gyles, on taking up the referree's whistle, had issued a "I call it as I see it" warning and wearing his eye patch he indeed sees only a clean sheet.

As the final whistle blows our Kaukau observer concertinas his telescope and reflects on a victory won through sound collective effort over individual flair; of savvy over swag.  

Now broken men, the Naenaeites climb into their vans and head back to the badlands where wenches and children spend the evening finding the safety of shadows.  

The Bombers empty tankards of ale and fill their tummies with fried food.  Stories are embellished and legends shaped.

Game 2, Season 35 Hemingway's hags

A southerly was blowing at Raroa Park. JB resembling a member of the Sicilian Mafioso grabbed a chair from his boot. Plenty of junk in that trunk. It was the second game of the season for most. Ross and Gene had shown at Andersons a week earlier for a little game of their own. We peppered Gyles in goal to warm up. Son of God promoted the apple seller across the road. Marky Mark in striped leggings chose the left flank. Above at the window in Malvina Major what looked to be Norman Bates’ mother rocked in a chair.  The next time we looked she was gone. Not long after Kirk arrived in wig.

The whistle blew. Throngs of hags from the days of yore clamoured at the windows. Bloomers were thrown. Once-were-WAGs keened and shrieked. The riddle of who the women who wanted the Bombers were, was answered. The men who wanted to be them formed the opposition. Chances were squandered. JB fell over. While their keeper was writhing on the ground racked with laughter he got up and placed it bottom left. 1-0. Steve rued the day he’d invited him for dinner. Zel and Al showed up early shortly before halftime. More chances.. “There’s two of you with 19 on yer shirts” said one of the Zimmers. In 1979 the average age of a bomber was 19- nah-nah-nah-nineteen. In 2015 it was some number over 35.

At halftime subs occurred. Ross slotted a penalty. 2-0. Marky Mark had a smoke and disappeared. Fish whipped in crosses. Red-Ragg-to-a-Bull Jon went looking for trouble without luck – the opposition were gents.  Nigel saw no need to mow any of them down. Another goal came from an OD throw that the good Doctor brought down for Yakal. One post was hit four times. Hansie, promoted up field, nearly chipped the keeper. It should have been 7-2.

At the Posties I said to new boy Mike, ”Gyles could be your father”. Hell he could be mine. Probably is. JB wanted Joyce but I prefer Hemingway. The bad from two weeks ago were good. But were they good because the others were bad? Or was their goodness innate? Ponder that ageless hags as ye gaze upon the hunks of yesteryear.