Saturday 23rd December
Bishopstoke Rec
Burridge lost to struggling Bishopstoke in a fiery festive fixture. If Cliff Richard is led to be believed, and anyone who may’ve poked Sue Barker has my full attention. Then Christmas is the time for mistletoe and wine and children singing Christian rhyme. If by that he means getting pissed out of your mind, trying to coerce woman into a grope at the office party. Then getting the nanny state to close down the school nativity play for being too true to the religious beliefs that have been indoctrinated into this old island for the past God how many years. Then Cliff, or Sir Cliff as his full title imbues - is indeed right.
Christmas is a shitstorm. It's when you eat and drink too much and argue with family you haven't seen since last year - because quite frankly, you cannot fucking stand them, nor they you. This game represented much the same thing. Yes, cards were exchanged, most of them of the red and yellow variety. Burridge have now received nineteen cautions and a dismissal this season. Yes sir, those referees just love 'em. Bishopstoke were two up at the break. Bryn Schwodler pulled one back straight afterwards. But he was having one of those days. Namely, he couldn't finish his cornflakes, let alone the goal scoring opportunities that fell to him.
Then it all went a bit Christmas TV. Meaning downhill. Burridge conceded a third, Greg Baker scored from the spot, skipper Kristian Hewitt was sent off then Bishopstoke got a fourth goal; forcing Burridge into all out attack. When their right back Jay Schwodler made a soiree into the opposition area, he made slight contact with the goalkeeper, whose histrionics suggested he'd been stabbed. This caused an aggrieved 'Stoke defender to hay-make the kisser of Schwodler. Starting a twenty-two man brawl that I'm sure Jesus would have been proud of. Had it been on the grounds of religious conversion.
4-4-2: S.Schwodler, J.Schwodler, P.Dyke, M.Sanderson, L.Sanderson, G.Baker, M.Reeves (J.Newman), J.Hewitt, K.Hewitt, B.Hutton (B.Rowe), B.Schwodler. Unused sub: S.Froud
Booked: J.Schwodler, M.Sanderson, L.Sanderson, G.Baker, J.Hewitt
Sent Off: K.Hewitt
Tuesday, 26 December 2006
Monday, 18 December 2006
SOTON BTC 5-4 BURRIDGE AFC AET
Did you hear the one about the luxury Burridge apartment? No? Well, it’s a three up and five down. Just make sure you don’t go upstairs, or the ceiling will come crashing down, and you with it. There among the debris of the five down, medical attention will be necessary to see if the injured party is of sound body and mind. Of course, he won’t be. Not after a shock like that. On recovery it will be advisable to hold an enquiry of investigation to discover how such a disaster could occur. The builders might want to inspect the foundations. It isn’t clear if they’re made from concrete or crayon. If it is the latter, it was unable to portray a pretty picture. No, sir. This game was no John Constable, no Renoir. If it were to be depicted on canvass, it would surely be done so by the late Russian painter Wassily Kandinsky - meaning it to be abstract, shocking and open to interpretation.It started so well for Burridge. After an hour they were three goals up thanks to Bryn Schwodler, Kristian Hewitt and Ben Hutton. But when BTC scored via a corner, doubts began to surface. One BTC goal became two - from another corner kick – as Burridge seemed rather susceptible to crosses in their penalty area. Before long BTC had drew level from yet another cross and could and perhaps should have gone onto win in normal time. As the game went into extra time Burridge went down 4-3, then levelled through Jaimie Hewitt. But the damage had already been done and the cracks were starting to show. BTC’s three goal come back had rocked Burridge and they claimed their place in the next round after yet another cross was converted for the winner.
3-5-2: B.Rowe, M.Sanderson (L.Sanderson), P.Dyke, J.Schwodler, J.Newman, G.Baker, M.Reeves, K.Hewitt, J.Hewitt, B.Hutton, B.Schwodler
Wednesday, 13 December 2006
How To Not Be Rich & Successful, An Ongoing Experiment In The Name Of Mark Sanderson
You may have noticed that it's been quiet on Burridge street of late. No new words for a month! So, here's a tale of sorrow and woe, otherwise known as my CV to keep the faithful amused...........
I've had a fair few jobs over the years. The long list of disastrous employment would give Frank Spencer a run for his money. Highlights include burning my fingers with glue-guns whilst packing tampons, working the nightshift at a printing press factory that knocked out publications such as "How to Successfully Farm Whale Teeth." Distraction came only from my supervisor's sinister insistence on pinning lurid pornography to my guillotine. Not to mention the all too common sight of yours truly vomiting on the roadside after a late night of excess, on route to prepare the salads; at the kind of dismal supermarket restaurant that attracts people to pay well over the odds for bad food and bad service.
I wanted to leave this mess behind and become a man's man, like Dad: methodical, practical and good with my hands. All the things that I wasn't. I saw a virtue in doing such manual and skilled work. But, the harder I tried the more time I spent looking through the classifieds as another catastrophic embarrassment ended in at best, mutual agreement. Gaining a trade was simply beyond me, I'm just far too much of a scatterbrain. One day as an air-conditioning fitter proved that I was as proficient with tools as Jade Goody with an atlas. Finally, the answer came to me at the job centre during another short period of post employment. A vacancy was available that met the manly criteria I desired - the obvious career move? To become a delivery driver, of course. After all, I could drive. Well, I had a license. Surely nothing could possibly go wrong, could it?
I collected the job details, and a phone call later I was driving to meet my new employers. After a quick chat with them it became quite clear that I was the man to deliver their sandwiches and snacks. All I had to do was load up and drop them off at various places around town. A doddle. I would start the following morning, but before I left I was introduced to the wheels that would be Kit to my Hasselhoff, General Lee to my Bo Duke; Silver to my....well, you get the picture. Yes, she'd seen some action alright, but she was good to go. A white transit van complete with the necessary extras: well thumbed copies of both the Daily Sport and Zoo Magazine sat on top of the dash, whilst empty McDonalds paraphernalia littered the passenger seat and floor. I was ready.
The morning arrived. I made my way to work, saddled up my stead with the sweet smell of the people's favourite sandwich fillings and hit the road. She was a tough ride, but I felt more than equipped to show her who was boss. There I was out on the open road, windows open with nothing other to keep me company than the fresh air and the chart friendly optimism of FM radio. From the confines of my white machine, women would be ogled, boy racers would be cut up, old ladies would be allowed to cross the road, and fellow van drivers would be given the nod. I was living the dream and I felt great. Golden great.
Finally I'd become what I wanted to be. A real man. I made some drop offs, all the while being sure too conceal my love of the arts and the avante-garde with appropriate use of slang. Of course, for the best part I was acting - but what an act. Right hand on the wheel, elbow resting on the open window to catch the warm air, left hand poised on the gear stick. Really, I should have known better. Despite my self satisfaction something wasn't quite right - I felt uneasy. I tried to bury the feeling, but its buoyancy was such that it kept rising to the surface. I couldn't find my drop off point. I was right on top of it, but still it remained elusive as I continued to wind my heavy vehicle in and out of car lined streets. I was late and things weren't going according to plan. "What would Dad do," I thought. "He would have found the address," came my swift answer. I pulled myself together, thinking I'd found where I ought to have been - but the latest mirage was nothing more than a dead end.
My heart sank. Somewhat flustered I began a three point turn that would free me from this position in more ways than one. Into first gear, pulling right; back into reverse, hard left - then crash. I put on the handbrake, a sick feeling was in my stomach. I got out to examine the damage. I'd failed to notice a stationary forty foot oak tree. The back door was bent, the windows smashed in, and in turn my cargo of sandwiches ruined. For a moment I considered dousing the ruddy thing in petrol, putting it to flames. That, or just running away to start a new life in Venezuela. Instead, I did the noble thing and returned the van to the warehouse. I don't work there anymore, another mutual agreement had taken place. Now I stick to working in offices where any damage done can be repaired by the delete key. That or Tippex.
I've had a fair few jobs over the years. The long list of disastrous employment would give Frank Spencer a run for his money. Highlights include burning my fingers with glue-guns whilst packing tampons, working the nightshift at a printing press factory that knocked out publications such as "How to Successfully Farm Whale Teeth." Distraction came only from my supervisor's sinister insistence on pinning lurid pornography to my guillotine. Not to mention the all too common sight of yours truly vomiting on the roadside after a late night of excess, on route to prepare the salads; at the kind of dismal supermarket restaurant that attracts people to pay well over the odds for bad food and bad service.
I wanted to leave this mess behind and become a man's man, like Dad: methodical, practical and good with my hands. All the things that I wasn't. I saw a virtue in doing such manual and skilled work. But, the harder I tried the more time I spent looking through the classifieds as another catastrophic embarrassment ended in at best, mutual agreement. Gaining a trade was simply beyond me, I'm just far too much of a scatterbrain. One day as an air-conditioning fitter proved that I was as proficient with tools as Jade Goody with an atlas. Finally, the answer came to me at the job centre during another short period of post employment. A vacancy was available that met the manly criteria I desired - the obvious career move? To become a delivery driver, of course. After all, I could drive. Well, I had a license. Surely nothing could possibly go wrong, could it?
I collected the job details, and a phone call later I was driving to meet my new employers. After a quick chat with them it became quite clear that I was the man to deliver their sandwiches and snacks. All I had to do was load up and drop them off at various places around town. A doddle. I would start the following morning, but before I left I was introduced to the wheels that would be Kit to my Hasselhoff, General Lee to my Bo Duke; Silver to my....well, you get the picture. Yes, she'd seen some action alright, but she was good to go. A white transit van complete with the necessary extras: well thumbed copies of both the Daily Sport and Zoo Magazine sat on top of the dash, whilst empty McDonalds paraphernalia littered the passenger seat and floor. I was ready.
The morning arrived. I made my way to work, saddled up my stead with the sweet smell of the people's favourite sandwich fillings and hit the road. She was a tough ride, but I felt more than equipped to show her who was boss. There I was out on the open road, windows open with nothing other to keep me company than the fresh air and the chart friendly optimism of FM radio. From the confines of my white machine, women would be ogled, boy racers would be cut up, old ladies would be allowed to cross the road, and fellow van drivers would be given the nod. I was living the dream and I felt great. Golden great.
Finally I'd become what I wanted to be. A real man. I made some drop offs, all the while being sure too conceal my love of the arts and the avante-garde with appropriate use of slang. Of course, for the best part I was acting - but what an act. Right hand on the wheel, elbow resting on the open window to catch the warm air, left hand poised on the gear stick. Really, I should have known better. Despite my self satisfaction something wasn't quite right - I felt uneasy. I tried to bury the feeling, but its buoyancy was such that it kept rising to the surface. I couldn't find my drop off point. I was right on top of it, but still it remained elusive as I continued to wind my heavy vehicle in and out of car lined streets. I was late and things weren't going according to plan. "What would Dad do," I thought. "He would have found the address," came my swift answer. I pulled myself together, thinking I'd found where I ought to have been - but the latest mirage was nothing more than a dead end.
My heart sank. Somewhat flustered I began a three point turn that would free me from this position in more ways than one. Into first gear, pulling right; back into reverse, hard left - then crash. I put on the handbrake, a sick feeling was in my stomach. I got out to examine the damage. I'd failed to notice a stationary forty foot oak tree. The back door was bent, the windows smashed in, and in turn my cargo of sandwiches ruined. For a moment I considered dousing the ruddy thing in petrol, putting it to flames. That, or just running away to start a new life in Venezuela. Instead, I did the noble thing and returned the van to the warehouse. I don't work there anymore, another mutual agreement had taken place. Now I stick to working in offices where any damage done can be repaired by the delete key. That or Tippex.
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Looking back (bringing back the blog)
I haven't posted here since 2012 – that’s five years of not blogging. The blog is/was about Burridge AFC, the football team I played f...
