Greg Baker's secret to scoring penalties

(Above: Greg Baker, kissing Prince Charles' arse)

The only place more terrifying than Greg Baker's bedroom is Greg Baker's kitchen. Inside the cupboards, dirty plates are hidden like war crimes. The mouldy food that grows from them has been there long enough to answer back in French.

When I heard Jay Schwodler was moving in with Greg, in the flat next door to me, I knew I had to act quickly to protect myself from them. I'd lived with Jay before. To say his attitude towards cleaning was liberal back then is a bit like saying that Timothy O'Leary wasn't too uptight when it came to dropping LSD.

I could see Jay knocking my door through the spy hole. He wanted me to look at what he'd done to Greg's flat. When I saw I had to sit down. Two years of living with a woman has had a strange affect on Jay. He's been exposed to a world of bleach, stain devil, order and self respect. I'm not sure if it suits him. He'd cleaned Greg's kitchen and bathroom. I never knew his toilet bowl was white.

But what was that on the coffee table in the lounge? A box of Marlboro? I've never seen either of them take so much as single puff on a cigarette. And what was this? A slice of the lid neatly torn away. “For roach no doubt,” I said to Jay, who had no idea what I was talking about. Before I noticed on closer inspection that it revealed a packet of king size silver Rizla.

Suddenly it all began to make sense. Greg had always made out that the reason he never misses penalties was due to his German ancestry. Then there's his love of crisps and snacks. The fact his flat was a pig sty if girls weren't due to visit, not to mention how scatty he can be. Who else scrapes the side of their Kia company car on the wall of the car park.

I could take it that he never invited me over when he had girls round, but this? I thought I knew Greg. I felt so let down. So disgusted that he would use drugs and not invite me around to share them.

Durley 2-1 Burridge AFC

Lost tempers lose games

Saturday 7th March
Kytes Lane, Durley

Kevin Willsher was pissed right off. Burridge hadn't been awarded a penalty kick, and had he a gun handy there's every chance that he would've drawn it from his black Umbro shorts and blown a big hole in the match officials head. As it was he ran towards the referee, yelling at him to, 'open his fucking eyes,' to which the referee responded by pulling a yellow card from his top pocket, showing it to the Burridge defender, who made his way back to his position thinking about .44 Magnums.


Burridge have now clocked up 23 yellow cards this season. With each one carrying an £8 fine, the sum owed by the club to the Southampton football association totals £184, without even taking into consideration the £33 Ryan Jones was docked for his red card dismissal against Comrades. To think he'd only been on the field for ten minutes. Club captain, Kristian Hewitt, followed Willsher into the referee's book for dissent, and although unable to remember exactly what he said, was sure he included the words, 'wanker' and 'cheating bastard.'

Greg Baker had already conceded a penalty when he received his third booking in four weeks, again for dissent. Too often this season Baker's temper has gotten the better of him. It's come to my attention of late that the curtains of his flat are drawn closed, he doesn't return my telephone calls, and they'll be no second date with that girl, leaving one to wonder what inner demons he's wrestling with. Suddenly it all becomes so clear.....(pictured below: Greg Baker during more relaxed times).















She couldn't have been sober. No, it must've been the third glass of dry white wine that convinced her to go back to Baker's flat, but she slipped on those damned stairs, fell back and hit her head on the stone foyer floor. Blood trickled from her ears as he checked her pulse. Not a dicky-bird. Nobody would believe it was an accident, not with that viscous temper of his. But Baker couldn't face doing time. So it was many hours later under the cover of darkness, 4:27am, her body safely despatched off the side of the Itchen bridge that he returned home to bed for a few hours of fitful sleep. Let go, Greg. It wasn't your fault, but your cover has been blown.

We all have our little nuances, Greg. The sound of cutlery banged together sends Bryn Schwodler to his knees begging for mercy, while Lee Fielder would rather roll his car off the M27 than have the volume of his digital stereo set to an odd number, and you dispose of the bodies of women who refuse your sexual advances into the choppy waters of the Itchen River. Hey, don't get short with me, I'm merely seeing it through the crooked eyes of the law. Tell you what, square the £24 tab you owe with club and we'll say no more about it.

The Burridge XI that lost 2-1 to Durley were......

GK:Stanfield
RB:Baker (Reid) yellow carded
CB:K.Hewitt (c )yellow carded
CB:Willsher - yellow carded
LB:Me
LM:B.Schwodler
CM:Allan
CM:S.Hewitt
RM:J.Schwodler
CF:Judd (Andrews)
CF:S.Schwodler - scored to pull it back to 2-1

Last word goes to club captain, Kristian Hewitt, in philosophical mood after this latest defeat.

"Referees are just freaks who wanted to play football, but can't."

Nice Plimmys

Greg Baker's size elevens trainers have been sitting in my flat for a week now.

I've tried to do the neighbourly thing by walking across the hallway to return them. Can't say I was surprised when he didn't answer the door. I tried to deliver them through the letterbox, but the ruddy things got stuck. They're those light weight Asics ones. Very nice runners in my book and I'd wear them myself if they weren't three sizes too big.

I worry for their future, I really do. I've already got my hands full with two pairs of Adidas.

Now I'm not one to pass judgement, far from it, but my concern is that he's no longer interested in those trainers. He's abandoned them for a passing fad. Blinded by fashion he's taken to wearing those trendy white plimsolls. You know, the ones you'd have been mortified to wear for P.E. at school.

In my day a man wore his trainers 'til they were no more. Not run off with a pair that you're clearly not suited to. Sign of the times I suppose, but whose going to look after those nice Asics now they're with all the other tat at the household waste recycling centre?

Exactly.