27th December 2001

Old Farts 7 - 5 Young Gits (Friendly)

A generational war rages hard in these vociferous times at the Old Parks. It was therefore decided that an epic battle should take place for the second Christmas friendly, between the old farts and the young gits. Some people recalled that the first Christmas friendly was supposed to have had a similar theme. But in traditional fashion, that became a game between random people playing for one team against random people playing for another. This time, the divide was clear. The young gits, led by Grossman (I'm sorry but "Keyhole" is just too shit a nickname to appear on this website), appeared to have no-one in the team above the age of 14. However there must have been someone at least in their thirties, as one of the extras from "Fame" had turned out for the young gits. It had previously been reported that he wanted to live forever, and perhaps he had done a deal with the devil in exchange for the secret of eternal youth. If so, it had clearly been with the devil of horrific football tackles, as he was to suffer terribly at the hands of Big Jim in the dying seconds of the game. It was probably their fault. Several goals down with seconds to go, the young gits decided to follow the tactics of rugby forwards. From their kick-off, they surrounded the ball and tried to manoeuvre it towards the goal. It had clearly escaped their attention that the weight advantage they were giving up was akin to the difference in a wrestling match between Emlyn Hughes and Dawn French. For the benefit of the people I'm writing about, Emlyn Hughes was a small Liverpool football player. For size, just think of Sooty. Except louder. Anyway, their defensive wall was soon shattered and the ball ran free. Big Jim and Fame Extra went in solidly for the fifty-fifty ball. I won't tell you who came of worse, except to say that he weighed less than 18 stone.

But let's start at the beginning rather than the end. On second thoughts, it's too late as we're already in the middle. It's just that the end is invariably more interesting than the beginning. And both are more interesting than the middle. (As you're now finding out). So I'll skip the middle and go straight to the end. The disadvantage of this is that it misses out the bit where I take the piss out of Monkey. Usually a heavy cost, but not today. Why not? Because he played well? Do me a favour. I choose not to take the piss out of Monkey today because that boy has taken far more abuse from me, both public and private, than any human deserves in a lifetime. Furthermore, he has taken it with such good humour that I feel the least I can do in return for the entertainment he has given us all is to have one week where I don't call him a hairy bastard.

Perhaps I'm going soft in my old age, or perhaps I'm preparing myself to return to America where "taking the piss" is a medical procedure. Either way, my New Year Honour goes to Monkey Campbell, unwitting comedian of the Old Parks, for unwavering stoicism in the face of shit football and merciless abuse. You are a model for us all. All that remains is for me to record that Sausage Dog scored an absolute shed-load of goals, one of which was even quite good i.e. it hadn't rebounded of the keeper / two defenders before it went in. Otherwise my happiest memories will be of the distinctly unfriendly tackles perpetrated by unnamed parties on a small boy known as Herpes. It may sound a bit mean to say they are happy memories. I may be saying this partly to show that I am still well 'ard despite going soft on Monkey. But it is mainly because when your entire team is laughing with such glee at the pain of a small boy on the opposition, it is difficult not to share in the warm glow that spreads among your colleagues. I am but mortal.

Scorers (Old Farts): Sausage 4, Big Jim 2, G. Chudley, someone else
Scorers (Young gits): Small boy 2, Small boy with glasses 3
Team(s): Assorted Arse-holes