Kev Willsher told me to try and be ready for 12:20pm. His eyes are still black from getting kicked in the face during last week's game with Michelmersh. He's been lying low ever since; flicking through the sports pages of the tabloids with the lounge curtains shut tight. Strangers draw their own conclusions when they see a man with the bridge of his nose taped together. That doesn't sit well with Kev. A few weeks back he burnt a layer of flesh clean off his wrist after leaning down on his kitchen stove. Some, including himself, say it was an accident; but I have my reservations. I know he holds a grudge with his iPhone. The top of the screen is caved in. It never stood a chance against concrete. When people notice the state of his phone they ask if he's going to get it fixed. He always says no. If you're going to cross him be prepared to wear the scars. To put it simply, Kev Willsher is not a man to be fucked with. When he said try and be ready for 12:20pm, I made sure I was.
|Marc Judd has his penalty kicked saved in the first half (pic by LDS)|
Men in suits on the TV are calling this the age of austerity. It turned out I needed a dictionary a great deal more than a man in a suit describing the weather outside my window. Even so, less money has led to a change in our shopping habits: you've ditched Asda for Netto, toilet paper is less durable than it used to be, and things like kitchen roll are just an extravagance of the past. Just what would we do without Primark? In the case of Forest Town's goalkeeper the answer would be playing football in underpants. His green goalkeeping jersey was tucked into a pair of grey jogging pants, which drew many Burridge followers, including the injured Kristian Hewitt, into flat out laughing at him. Tracksuit bottoms have come a long way since Rocky. He wore them because he had little other choice, Sport Direct didn't exist yet. In the years since the jogging pant has come to represent not sporting endeavour, but a combination of blim holes, low quality hash and daytime TV.
|Essy has words with the referee. The referee wins.|
All the while I was stuck with the image of his Dad's cock. Greg had told me, with that snorting laughter of his, how he'd been flicking through his parent's holiday snaps - innocuous shots of this and that, then all of a sudden bingo, bold as brass, there it was, a photo of his Dad in his hotel room with his mouse out the house. It still raises a smile whenever I mention it to Greg, but I chose not to mention it to his Dad on this occasion. Greg has missed a lot of games due to work. Now he has finally moved to London. In his absence Justin Newman, Kristian Hewitt and now Marc Judd have all failed to score a penalty. Ten years ago Judd was playing for Bashley alongside Jimmy Case and Wade Elliott. (Click here to see Jimmy in his pomp.) Judd hit his penalty kick well enough, smacking it with his trusty left foot, but Forest Town's 'keeper dived low to his left and pushed the ball away.
It was tough luck on Martin Barnet, starting his first game for us, who headed the ball into his own net to make the score 1-1. This goal was the result of umpteen corner kicks and crosses into our penalty area, during which our every tackle on Forest Town caused them to crowd around the referee and pester him for our players to be booked. All in all a draw was probably fair. Few were happy with the temperature of the post match showers, which were described by some of our players as freezing cold. I prefer to call them bracing. They provided an invigorating experience, the perfect tonic to anyone battling with rising sap. Once we'd cleaned up we headed to The West End Brewery. They cooked us up a big plate load of beef-burgers and chips. This didn't fit with Kev Willsher's dietary requirements. Kev doesn't eat beef. He made do with a plate full of chips. I really ought to warn the chef.
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