All posts by coach

match report 190523

1-5 Loss to Dynamo Tehran

CB 1 (MOM), DC, RH, TH (MOM), TK GK (MOM), TW

Imagine, if you will, an ageing water buffalo. His testicles are chock full of a horrific malignancy. A Komodo dragon bites those rancid pustular gonads clean off the old bull, but finding the taste so spectacularly awful he spits them out leaving them covered in highly septic anaerobic saliva. These fetid cojones land in a pile of leper anus’ that have literally shat themselves out of their own rectums during an explosive bout of dysentery related diarrhoea. A passing cat vomits a green bile glaze all over this malodorous mess, then it bakes in the tropical sun and maggots grow in it, until even they die and rot into little sulphurous maggot corpses because it is such god awful disgrace and affront to everything that isn’t a noxious pile of shit covered leper anus’s glazed in cat vomit with a couple of pus filled water buffalo testicles sitting on top. 

This sorry picture does not adequately confer the shitness with which we comported ourselves.

On the plus side I won MOM. And I have to assume it was because of love. I showed Chassy a lot of love on the flurries (even after I was a bit cranky with him) and then he showed me a whole lot of love right back ( I think). So let’s not forget what is most important: the love a Nanna has for a brother Nanna. Love you all…

Match Report 20170517

vs The Randy Dragons 2-10 Loss
CB, JH, RH, TH 2 (MOM), TK(gk)

We Lost to The Randy Dragons

Dragonboner

Boy did it hurt. That fucken’ scaled scabrous thing you do not want given you a fucken’. 8======>~~~~~ But fucken’ us it did. Ouch! To paraphrase the pharisees – Jesus Fucking Christ! Like when Conan the Barbarian punched a horse we went down. It was bad.

Let’s focus on the positives. I got two goals – that does NOT happen every day. We drank beer – that was fun. It was Jim’s first game as a married man – it did not end in divorce. Chassy said the FUNNIEST thing I have EVER heard at the pub – we all laughed. +++++ (positives)

Well, where to from here? We need to fight back, and get our own Dragon Cocks. I’m pretty sure buying actual Dragon Cocks is frowned up on (like buying Rhino horn I guess), but there’s no law in the world that says you can’t turn your own Penis into a Dragon Cock – sooooooooooooooo somehow we have to metamorphise Chassy into a Dragon’s Member *BA DING CHA* see what I did there? Oh boy-o.

MACTCHY REPORT 20160609

Well miracles do come true – the ball popped up in front of me just on our attacking side of the halfway line and the little baby jesus (blessed be his name) put the magic on my foot and I fuckingwell launched that son of a bitch back at those bastards with the force of a thousand suns exploding the fiery death of supernova nuclear fission power, the ball pretty much elongated into an ellipse with a molten point where physics failed and angels suffer ‘le petite morte’ and damn if that wasn’t a goal for the ages.

Then I fuckin’ mind fucked those kojaks from a set shot but the little ref fisted me so bad.

Perhaps the funniest moment was when their goalie was double nutmegged by a back pass, somehow he sort of lay down over the ball and put his arms on either side of it and then spread his legges to make the humiliation all the greater as it rolled into the goal like a slow vag stain – I think Andy may have flashed his cock at this ‘goalie’ at the opportune moment.

Cocky put one into the corner as only he can, and fuck me with the raw end of Donal Trump’s toupee if the fucking old 1-2s weren’t working. TRIANGLE OF POWER – PASS AND RUN NANNAS, PASS AND FUCKINGWELL RUN.

Started with a lovely hug all in.

Match Report 2013_05_30

vs Balkanjeros 8-6 Loss
CB 1, DC, GF 1, JH 3, RH 1, TH gk (MOM), TW

Once when Old King Lion was on his way to rock bottom, but hadn’t quite bottomed out, he went to a bar. He’d just lost another game at the pits and there was whiff of scat about his mane. He went to a bar looking for a good time, looking for a way to forget another beating. He started drinking and chatting to the ladies and drinking some more. He chromed a couple cans of gold spray paint and dropped some advils. He showed some backpackers his premiership tatts and did some bourbon shots with them. He had a couple bumps of cheap blow and shelved some meth. He was in a bit of a state. Then this super smoking sexy woman walked in. At first she was all like “who’s this minging lion with the crazy eyes”, then she found out he was the lion known as Old King Lion and she was keen for a sail on this mighty boat of a lion, once the fiercest and most wrathful of all the lions. She wanted to be one with the legend and taste the formidability, and a little bit of her felt sorry to see that the once mighty beast had fallen. Now Old King Lion never had any trouble getting any, he was after all Old King Lion, but since the slide had started it was fair to say he wasn’t quite banging any supermodels or hot young starlets, and despite the impairments in his system he still knew something wasn’t quite right. This chick didn’t want to fuck him for who he was, she wanted to fuck him for who he was (ie in the past). It would be nothing but a dirty mercy fuck. But he still went and made sweet love to her because damn that shit feel good mercy fuck or no.

Anyway Jim should probably rightly feel a bit shafted for missing out on MOM after a hattrick. And apart from a couple of dumb goals against us we gave them a good run. Cooking has become a bit of a hit and miss affair, we’re just randomly picking Chinese restaurants on High st, and they’re generally only a pass mark. But there is always Raccoon for a whiskey with Rhian’s best friends.

Match Report 130509

win 5-2
CB 1, DC(MOM) 2, CG(MOM) 1, GF, TH(MOM) 1, TW, AW

Sometimes Old King Lion is pissed off, there’s little ants biting the inside of his nose, it’s too hot in the African sun, the hyenas are making too much noise and generally being cockheads about it all, as a result his mind is not focused and pursuant to this his performance suffers.

Other times Old King Lion is very relaxed, he’s just hanging out on the Savannah, his balls being licked by whatever small mammal does not want to be eaten by him, there’s a bit of a breeze coming off the lake where the flamingos frolic as the sun goes down creating a vista to marvel at, he’s being served freshly cured antelope jerky and he is in what you may call a zen like state, a state where no frustration resides in his belly, in such a state he will fuck you up a thousand ways, barely raising a sweat.

Suffice it to say it was the latter of the two states Old King Lion found himself in this Thursday past. Despite the fact he was staring down an ugly angry bunch of most unsportsmanlike jackles -who probably had the edge on him- he kept his grin on, and never really looked like losing.

Match Report – From Another Era Ago

vs a team that no longer exists at a place that isn’t there anymore.

Once, about 13 years ago, there was a man, and he made a little baby lion by pleasuring an older she-lion with his sperm, and despite what you may think you know about genetics, the little baby lion didn’t come out as half man-half lion, it came out to be all lion. Now the man, as men were want to do back in those days, went about his business without much regard to for the baby lion, but the she-lion, as mothers have been want to do throughout the ages, cared for her little baby lion. As the little baby lion lay suckling at the hairy teat of the she-lion she whispered in it’s little baby lion ears; “As the product of both Man & Lion you are destined for greatness for you will possess the finest attributes of each of them. You will have the strength and savagery of Lion and the wisdom and guile of Man, but you must also be wary for the worst attributes are want to manifest as well.”

Sure enough the little baby lion grew great and powerful. Those who saw him coming feared him, for his jaws were gleaming razors attached to titanium vices, his paws were spiked clubs attached to hydraulic wrecking arms, and his roar shattered the bowels of those who would stand in his way. As he aged he became more powerful, he fought and slew creatures much more powerful than he. He bested foes against whom he had no realistic chance. His legend was total and all bowed before him and called him sire for he was Old King Lion.

Then the man who fathered the Lion felt a stirring in his loins. He thought of his progeny, he wondered what had become of him, he had heard stories from far off lands of the mighty Old King Lion, and he was curious whether Old King Lion might be his offspring. So he journeyed far, seeking Old King Lion, looking for a mighty warrior, a fighter afraid of no-one, besting all who he came up against, but there was no sign of such a beast. The man thought many times of giving up, but the desire to see his scion burned strong within him, so he traveled further and further eventually crossing the river that divided the lands to the South Side. A side where depravity and vice were strong; where hedonistic pleasures were routinely taken at the expense of other less fortunate beings; where sickness and perversion were so pervasive as to be more present than the air being breathed; where moral turpitude festered upon souls of the inhabitants like a cancerous bile duct spurting gangrenous pus onto a duendena; a place lousy with licentiousness, lechery, prurience, and obscenity. There he found what had once been Old King Lion.

He found what had once been Old King Lion camped out in a puddle of his own piss gumming off prostitutes. Old King Lion had hit rock bottom, he was a hooker’s hooker. His fur was mangy and bescabbled, with rancid bits of indeterminate matter coated around his rectal area. His johnston had been rubbed raw in some sort of onanistic dementia, as though in some part of his mind he was still the king and he was getting some. But he wasn’t, and he wasn’t. He was nothing. Opponents who used to fear him in battle barely even bothered fighting him, they’d just rock up and take a shit on his head and laugh at him, or make him drink petrol for cigarette butts, or watch him while he self harmed his own testicles with mouse traps and car jacks, or bend him over and have their way with him, cracking him across the back of the head with a bit of old 4 by 2 with a nail hanging out of it while what had once been Old King Lion maniacally laughed green snot bubbles out the hole where his septum used to be, wailing ‘still the king’ repeatedly in an out of key falsetto.

The man cradled the broken Old King Lion in his arms as a creamy discharge from one of the broken Old King Lion’s pustulant sores slowly wept into the man’s brown cardigan. “I’m getting you out of here,” said the man as a tear rolled down his cheek, “I’m taking you Northside, where you can be king again.” And parts of the Old King Lion were like: “Hmmm, I dunno maybe”, and other parts were whiny like: “But this is the only place we know”, and one particularly recalcitrant part was like: “its a bit harder for me to catch a train from there”. And the man said: “For fuck’s sake! There’s Hampton shit in your hair, and a mousetrap on your nuts. Pack up your kit right now we’re going!” And so they went.

And went they did, deep Northside, further north than any of the parts of Old King Lion believed was possible to go. And as they traveled Old King Lion’s strength returned, his sores healed and his mind sharpened. He knew he would have to fight again, for real this time, no back down, no surrender. And when he stepped into the ring he saw a fearful looking opponent from the east, but pretty much 30 seconds into the fight it turned out it was just a tiny little puppy dog in a bow tie with a pink ballon with kitten on it. The Old King Lion roared and the tiny little puppy dog fouled itself, and the Old King Lion raised his once again mighty paw and brought it down upon the tiny little puppy dogs head with the maximum power available and thereupon repeated the action until the little puppy dog was just a stain on the court.

The man smiled, Old King Lion was back.

Match Report 121004

9-3 Loss to Hyderoos

DC, GF, CG, JH 1, TH 2 MOM

Once Old King Lion went on a secret mission. People didn’t know what he was doing. It was a very secret mission. It was hard for Old King Lion because he was a pretty friendly old lion and secrecy was not in his nature. But the mission was extremely important, perhaps the most important mission Old King Lion would ever undertake. The reward for success would be immense, but if he failed the consequences would be catastrophic. All of Old King Lion’s constituent parts were required to operate at the highest level, acting perfectly in synchronicity with the rest of the constituent parts, there was no margin for error or not giving 100% by even one of the constituent parts because that would wreck it for the rest of the constituent parts and if there’s one thing Old King Lion’s constituent parts never want to do it’s let down the other constituent parts. The secret mission was long and hard, and its nature was such that there was a very real danger of Old King Lion’s constituent parts would not act in perfect synchronicity and as a result the mission would fail. As the secret mission continued the constituent parts struggled to remain in perfect synchronicity, some of them grew tired, some of them did not have the skills, but despite the hardships they continued with the secret mission because it was so important, and despite the hardships they did manage to stay in perfect synchronicity, and you know what? Old King Lion completed that hard secret mission like a fucking hero. And each one of the constituent parts was a fucking hero. They had walked the tightrope of danger over the Niagra falls of doom and they didn’t fall off even though they probably should have.

Now at this stage most of you are like; ‘Coach… wtf are you talking about’, and some of you are probably like ‘um… have you been chroming’, and some of you might be just be thinking ‘…’ which is a neat way of representing a bewildered expression literarily that David Foster Wallace invented. Well my not so bright Nanna brethren this is what’s known as an analogy. We talk of one thing by illustrating it using another thing. ‘But what’, you ask, ‘is it analogous to (of?)? Well that’s the beauty of this analogy its analogous to(of?) a couple of things. Firstly it obviously speaks of the match this last week past, this is after all a match report. And last week the Nannas found themselves on a secret mission deep behind enemy lines, against a foe who had not lost a game, and the Nannas had to be 100% focused 100% of the time to win and we were and we did and we walked that tightrope of danger over the Niagra falls of doom and survived like heroes. But then it turned out that 100% of them time was only about the first half of the first half which we did successfully win, but we might have fallen of the tightrope a bit for the rest of the time and gotten mashed up and drowned pretty bad in the Niagra falls which are pretty serious falls. But that’s not important and not really the analogy I am talking about. What you need to remember is that a lion on a secret mission is a pretty crazy thing, lion’s don’t go on secret missions they just walk around eating whatever the fuck they want to eat, and what else do we know about Old King Lion? That’s right, he’s more of a Mind Lion than anything else. Remember when he was messing with physics and making the ball disappear on the field through brain power, remember when fought a gryphon on a mental mountain. Now do you see the secret mission we have been on? Now do you understand the clandestine undertaking we have be attempting all these long years. If I’ve done my job properly you won’t. At least not consciously, but deep in the hidden processes of your mind I have secretly programmed you to be better Old King Lion constituent parts, deep in your brain’s reptilian core you now have the key to truly become greater than Old King Lion constituent parts and become as one OLD KING LION.

Match Report 20120429

4-3 Win vs The Hampton St FC Annual
DC, CG (GK, 1), RH, TH (MOM, 2),  TK (1), TW

Poor old Old King Lion – Climbed to the top of the absolute biggest mountain ever, showed everyone his massive ballsack, and promptly fell of the equivalent of the North Face smashing his face on every crag, jagging his ring on every rocky outcrop, smashing his backbone spinal column on every passing granite boulder as he fell further and further getting bloodier and bloodier and more wrecked and mangled until he landed on his neck on a bunch of razor wire that some carelessly left lying around the bottom of the drop. Pretty much his whole hind quarters were forced through his mouth lips and he could smell his own perineum directly with what was left of his shredded nose and nasal cavity. Every single bone in his body was broken into tiny shards of broken bone and his bowel came out his belly button which was were his chin used to be so essentially he had a goatee made of shit that tasted like quarter digested Gryphon. His paws might as well have been plastic bags full of rancid deer kidneys for all the good they were and his once might mane was a mess of coagulated body fluids from every conceivable thing in the body that produces fluid. If you got a budgerigar’s head and put it in a vice until the metal vice edges touched metal on metal you would have a pretty good approximation of the state of his vocal cords, the result being he had no roar to speak of. His once mighty legs had all the structural integrity of a pistol whipped junkie on the nod, because not only had every bone in his body been ground to a fine powder like I already told you once, his muscles had essentially liquefied in to a gelatinous substance from the repeated pounding they took on the endless fall from the top of what was a fucking high mountain which you might remember how fucking high from this. Through his brain was skewered a barbed and quite possibly infected piece of atrophied tree wood that had lain at the bottom of the sunless drop for years gather mould, fungus, bacteria and other extremely virulent microorganisms, slowly growing more fetid and dangerous to multicelled life and I think you get the picture Old King Lion was in an extremely bad way with no hope or any chance or possibility of a future except as hyena shit.

Yet his heart beat on, and his heart beat true.

The little children ask me: How did Old King Lion survive? How could Old King Lion walk away from such horrific injuries? How could Old King Lion play indoor soccer again? What does quarter digested Gryphon taste like? The answer to the last question is it tastes more like fresh Gryphon meat than half digested Gryphon, to which it is preferable, but it’s obviously not as good as fresh Gryphon meat. And the answer to the first three questions is: the mind.

Yes that is correct: the mind. Giller he said to us: victory today or relegation to the pits, that is what we play for. Our minds were steeled. We took to the court. Kondo scored first. I got a yellow card ’cause they pushed Rhian too much. It was a tight match. I drew the goalie out to an incoming high ball and he was pinged for handling outside the circle. For the ensuing free kick I went into a kind of fugue state where the kerfuffle of the free kick arguments around me disappeared and I could visualise the ball entering the net as though it had already happened, so much so that when the ref blew his whistle to signify game on it was merely a matter of allowing the future to happen as it already had and I sort of did a mind push kick on the ball and it powered incontrovertibly into the net, space-time rippling behind it like heat waves rising from the desert floor. Giller did some awesome saves. Giller scored another goal. I found myself in possession on the wing, opposition pushing hard up on my back, using only the power of my mind I force my way along the line toward goal, harried every step by a particularly large and nimble Hamptonian. As I approached the corner I turned and shot on goal: what happened next I don’t really know – Giller called it the greatest goal ever, but that could be gilding the lily, a bit. I think what probably happened is that I kicked the ball with so much mind power that space time was literally wrought apart, my cerebral cortex certainly shut down with the sheer mental effort, and I think the goalie’s did too, because when I came to he was only just realising that the ball was appearing from a tear in the fabric of a hyper dimension that my mind kick had ripped apart like so many polyester dresses on prom night. The goalie would have been half a chance to stop it had it been a regular kick, but this, as I said, was mind kick and the ball had travelled through parallel dimensions and space time tears and dimensionless spaces that not only cannot be physically represented they are literally beyond the realm of mathematical explanation, and where this ball had been there was no light, and no gravity, and no strong or weak electromagnetic force and no energy or time or anything, but it popped out in front of the goalie and he thought he had a chance and then it popped back into the physics-less place it had just been only to pop out just behind the goalie, and he turned and watched it roll over the line.

Then it was on. They got a goal back, it was four three and we had to defend. They through everything at us, but through a massive team effort we held them out, and I thought where the hell did that come from? I’ve never been able to mind kick a ball through a physics-less hypersphere before. And it come to me: old king lion had been brain whispering to me. Old king lion found a way even though he was smashed to shit at the bottom of death drop. And then I saw it wasn’t just me old king lion had been brain whisper mind puppeteering, it was the whole team playing with pride of Old King Lion. Then Old King Lion appeared to me in my mind and said (in all caps): YOU’VE WON ONE GAME – DON’T GET AHEAD OF YOURSELF – THIS IS EXACTLY HOW LAST SEASON STARTED, WITH A WIN OVER HAMPTON ST – AND THEN IT ALL TURNED TO 37 KINDS OF SHIT IN THE BLINK OF AN EYE. And then he was gone, just the lingering waft of quarter digested gryphon shit breathe hanging in the air.

After which Giller took us to Edye(?) bar on Lygon st and we argued endlessly about the new emblem and invented the Flonus or Flanus, a half flower half anus that quite beautifully represents a ripe blossoming male anus.

Match Report 20120202

1-7 loss vs Red Peppers
Guilty persons CB, GF, JH (1), RH, TH (GK-MOM), AW, TW

Yep we sucked the shit out of a dead dog’s arse… But don’t just take this picture’s word for it, let’s check the UNPRECENDENTED postmatch flurry debrief:

Guy Fraser started things by rather wittily noting that on this blackest of Thursdays it was not just Cockano who got double the fist up the backside, and I would add that although Cockhammer’s was obviously the more literal of the buggerizings, I don’t know that you could say he was more royally fucked than we were.

James then chimed in with this analysis / proposal (an analosal if you will [perhaps not unlike what Cocky underwent?]):

After the high of last year, when we played with such control and poise, last night we reverted to the old Nanna strategy of kicking the ball away as much as possible or coughing it up in mid-field to an opponent that on the counter had a numerical advantage (as you can tell I am still angry).
We scored one and they got about seven.
Tom was deservedly mom for keeping it to seven ( it could have been about 15).
Admittedly our defense and attack on the ball were at times soft but in light of this old Nanna strategy rearing its ugly head I would like to propose a new Nanna rule:
any Nanna who does the one touch miracle ball to no one half a dozen times or more a game, that is, kicks or heads it away when they should have taken it under control and retained possession (and I am pretty sure i am right in saying this did apply to at least two of our better players last night),
1. gets fisted at the end of the game
2. does not play next week.
Controversial I know but the Nannas have shown themselves to be better players than the shit we served up last night.
Stay angry.

Rhian piped up with the not particularly helpful, but still pertinent:

What actually lost the game was Jim declaring that we weren’t going to win before the game started.

James got defensive and mutinous:

Well the way we warmed up, we looked like losers.
I blame the coach and captain. Absolutely no leadership.
I think a double coup is order. Fraser, you want to be Coach?

Fraser went to batshit crazytown:

I’m more interested in managing/coaching, going full strategy/non playing. I’d consider doing this for one season. If we didn’t win the championship, I’d go back to normal reaching/molestation duties.

Tao wasn’t to be silenced:

Yes we played pretty bad classic Nanna’s style. Not a lot of gold last night.
I turned up with a bit of a bad belly afraid I wasn’t going to be able to give my best on the night, and saying as much prior to the game. As it turned out I was right and kicked a lot of very soft and off target passes. On leaving the court I admitted to everyone and apologised for my seriously crap play. This, for some reason, seemed to come across as being an open invitation for Chassy to then pay out on me for apparently nearly putting him in hospital.
If I learnt one thing from last nights game that is admit nothing.

And he kind of had a point ‘cos Chassy did have a bit of a dip postmatch, but to Chassy’s credit he came back with the conciliatory:

taozza i would have still hassled you even if you had admitted nothing
i must admit my frustrations were probably mainly due to my own failing body (sore calf, shoulder, hip and knee)
apologies if you felt paid out on

Which is a nice way to end it because it’s important to remember we’re all good friends and we shouldn’t stay angry.

However it doesn’t change the fact that we played like a bowl of rancid leper dick soup. While everyone raises valid points about the game*, it wasn’t Tao’s one touch passes (which on other days work and work well), or Jim’s negative pre game comments, or Chassy’s apparently failing body or any of these things that cost us the game. We may note the team as whole was looking a lot like a team that hadn’t really played together for 8 or so weeks, and we may note that the team as a whole lacked a fair bit of commitment and attack on the ball (with the possible exception of Fraser who well deserved his 2nd place in the MOM, and who is beginning to get himself physically and mentally up to the rigours of Thurs div.2 (Wesley) after so many years away), and we may note the team as a whole lacked a little luck in front of goal, and we may safely say these things will return to us with some match practice. What I continue to stress we must improve on, and what I believe cost us the game, and what indeed our opposition did well, is PLAY INTO SPACE. It is no good being static to receive a pass. It is no good passing to someone directly only to have it intercepted. If you do not have the ball, look around you, see where everyone else isn’t and head there. If you have the ball, look for your team mate who is heading into the space and pass it INTO THE SPACE. If you are neither passing nor receiving draw your opponent away from your team mates and get into space yourself. There’s a new motto for the Nannas and I’m going to write it big:

SPACE IS THE PLACE

Lead to Space – Pass to space – Make the Space.

Next week is Hampton – we step up and play like the champions we are.

Fortunately the night wasn’t a molten hot barnacled dildo mashing away on our collective quoit in its entirety – no ’twas a feckin’ sea shanty of a barnacle we encountered down Ponyfish Island where the parrots all have wooden legs and play P.E. on squeezebox ’til the wee feckin’ hours, haulin’ the sheets and weighin’ anchor and what the fuck have you, all the while cookin’ burgers (just a mite underdone for Andy’s likin’) for the lubbers afore they feck off to the Giant Theremin to ponder the mystery of the Fox – Thank ye Chasbarge.

*Except for Jim’s about me deserving to win MOM. I played just as crap as everyone else, but had the slight excuse that I was in goals where I only play once every other season.
#Also I should stress typing ‘dirty toilet’ into Google images when safe search is off, returns entirely too much information.

Match Report 120112

0-5 loss vs hyderoos

CG, GF(mom), JH, RH, TH, AW

it was a long time ago – like WWII

in the quest for inept and poorly considered metaphors what planes were we?…

Hinkley was the Hawker Hurricane, dependable and did all the grunt work, shooting up the bombers while the Johnny Niceteeths in the Spitfires got all the glory dogfighting Messerschmidts. Did I tell you they were tough? They were tough. Fly with the arse shot out of them. Plus they both start with H and Hinkley’s a South Islander which is where the Hurricane would have been from if Stanley Hawker was a Kiwi.

Big Jim Hannan was the B17 Flying Fortress. Not the newest, not the biggest, not the fastest, not the best armour, not the biggest payload, not the highest ceiling, not the most guns, but responsible for killing more godless Nazis than any other weapon in the war.

Giller was the Me 262 – A fricken jet? In WWII? Yep that’s right – A fricken jet. In WWII.

Andy was pretty much the whole Russian Air Force or whatever the fuck they called it back then. Crazy two seat tank busters they made in the 10s of thousands and Yakelov fighters that the dude who made the plane flew the plane and other mad shit only Russians can do.

I won mom so I must have been something good like the Mosquito. Made of wood I was fast and I flew away whenever bad times came.

Fraser was the Ekranoplan, which isn’t even really a plane and certainly isn’t from WWII and willikers if that thing reacharound you boy will you know about it for a long time no sitting down sir.

How the fuck we lost that war with that arsenal at our disposal you ask? – I think the opposition were pretty much Korean War era models, Sabre’s and Migs and crap. Not totally out of our league, but next level shit. They had firepower, range, speed, ceiling and armour on us, so despite the fact we put up a good fight (probably slightly better than the score indicates) we never really looked like it.

To celebrate defeat Giller took us to a whole bunch of places that he’d been lucky enough to be able to rehearse the previous week when we lacked quorum. Northside -> Saskwatch -> Korean Izakaya

Match Report 121222

7-2 Victory over Hampton FC
DC 1, CG 1(GK), RH 1, TH 2, TK 1, TW 1, AW

When you have shot a hyena jackle wearing a lion skin in it’s head. When you have bent over a Gryphon and showed that Gryphon what for. When you stand on top of mountain and that mountain is the Mountain of the Indoor Football Grandfinal. You fear no evil – for you are the meanest motherfucker in the valley. Basically you become what that dude became at the end of Kung Fu Hustle – a super awesome machine that cannot be stopped, you get that Buddha’s hand manoeuvre where you just fly in from the sky and smack any bitch down that tries to mess with you and there ain’t a damn thing anyone can do about it because you have achieved oneness with all that is and was and will be. Come to think of it, it was a lot like a kung-fu movie fight: we danced with them early for a while, trading blows, level pegging, going toe to toe. We got one – they got one back, maybe they were even ahead there at one stage, Giller was doing some fine saves, Cocky was monstering the goal without much luck, it was a bit of an arm wrestle. Then came DEATH BLOW. Not really wanting to blow my own trumpet here, but it was probably the reason I won MOM, plus Cocky did describe it as ‘an early contender for goal of the season’, so I’ll give you a brief run down. Basically it was the run in from defense, Tao laid it off to me and I struck it pretty sweetly from a few metres over the halfway line. It wasn’t a true toe poke, more of a hybrid half toe poke half ‘proper kick’, at any rate I got sweet hold of it. It seems to me that once you hit a ball sweet enough and it’s travelling at sufficient velocity it has no choice but to bend, and bend this one did, across goal away from the goalie, going into the net low and hard, the goalie left standing, the smack of the ball hitting the bricks leaving a resounding ringing through venue. Perhaps better goals will be scored, but this one also came at a decisive moment, the arm wrestle that had been being fought out by the whole team, was brought to swift conclusion by this one kick. From there we essentially were that giant Buddha’s hand that comes in from the sky and with impunity smites all those before it – the flood gates opened and we left laughing and smiling into the night, a night that featured delicious Huxtaburgers, drinks in a bar that you couldn’t get into to buy beers because of the private party – but you could sit on the street?, awesome car ballet behind Trippy Taco and a massive spray paint impromptu at Northside. We were happy and laughing but deep down we were sad, very very sad, because of the disrespect.

Match Report 111201

4-3 Win vs Hampton FC in the Semi-Final
CB 1, DC, GF, CG, TH 1(MOM), TK 1, TW 1, RH(Coach)

-Let us talk of events metaphorically
It’s a helicopter shot, wide, all that is; deserts, jungles, canyons, snow capped ridges. It tracks and pans and starts moving purposefully to the most majestic peak in all the vista. Slowly the vastness focusses in on this monumental craggy outcrop of weather hardened igneous agelessness, tracking around it in a circular manner, showing its glory, revealing it’s staggering size and magnificent beauty. As more is laid bare one comes to realise that its beauty belies its hardness. What is at a distance splendid is up close devastating. What is from afar glorious is in situ a terrifying place to be. For this, dear reader, is the Mountain of Soccer Finals. As we get closer still we notice a beast, perched statuesquely on the summit of the mount gazing nobly into the distance, the wind catching its lustrous pelt and shimmering it just so. Through the technology of modern motorised pan/tilt units and gyroscopically stabilised camera heads the beast is quite nicely revealed to be a wise old lion, friend to children, bon homme, and brewery provider – but he’s not been playing with children or providing breweries lately no, for the same nifty shot that revealed the old lion to be an old lion carries on quite adroitly to reveal the scars of battle. Blood around the mouth,  scratches, nicks, viscera all mashed between the lion claws. Wise Old Lion has been fighting on Mount Soccer Finals and soon it is revealed his quarry – an hyena/jackel wearing a old lion skin(?) lies bloody and defeated at his feet. We track back up and pause on the face of this fighting lion. It is a look not of happiness, and only the merest sense of satisfaction is detectable on his countenance. No, it is the look of resolve of a warrior who has won a mighty battle but knows that an even greater fight is ahead. Now the CGI kicks in at no small cost, for we track to the eye of the lion and see what he gazes upon in the reflection of his own  retina. That’s right – he’s looking at an even bigger, more awe inspiring, nastier, finals fighting thunderdome cage match arena mountain, that’s right next to the one he just climbed, conquered and fought upon. And do you know what he sees on this war zone crag? A Gryphon – a mythical creature with the body of a lion and the head and wings of an eagle, a divine guardian and hell crazy good fighter. The old lion smiles a little smile and licks his chops, he does not know how, but he knows he must, and most importantly he knows he can, climb that mountain and smack that poncing gryphon down.

-Let us talk now a little more literally
Dear sweet sweet lord mother of Mary the innocent saviour how was that? There was talk in the dunnies and we kind of had it from there – plus the cape came to Wesley for the first time. Coach Captain coached us strongly from the get go. “Get the first goal and get them on the ropes” was his advice. I was able to do pretty much that thanks to Tao’s back heel which I was able to convert on the run. From there it was one epic struggle immensely worthy of the name semi-final. We got another one – either one of Chassys big feet from long range, or a Tao deflection. But Hampton never lay down and they got another one or two back. Takeshi nailed the most beautiful lobbed header into the far corner. Giller hell crunched a dude onto the ground whimpering. Once play resumed they slithered one in and there was a very tense last minute played out at 4-3. Sweet victory thoust is the sweetest teat at which to suckle.

Post match Captain stepped it up a notch with park cooked bratwurst and beers in Fitzroy North Park st. Then to datestamp it for Babcock’s happiness we went and partied all night at Tao’s 40th the following Saturday

Match Report 110915

6-4 vs Decepticons, Wesley 8.40
CB 3 (MOM), DC 2, GF(welcome back[on field]), RH, TH(MOM + GK), TW 1, AW

Once a pon a time a band of fucking men made a vow to be HEROOOES together forever, because brothers are brothers and we never separate or surrender or leave another man behind and we’ll always be the Nannas and you can’t break the bond of blood and victory its a bond like forged steel reinforced titanium carbon fibre bonded tungsten plaited adamantite spider’s silk that is tougher than an axe or a chainsaw or a blow torch or a gas axe or a semi-trailer driven at speeds unheard of with a goddamned spiked bullbar with toy baby heads with little daubs of red paint around the severed heads to simulate blood and hard-core toughness like bloody knuckles and leather jackets with studs and concrete and all the things that describe how tough a thing would have to be to break the toughest bond that was the bond that the men made together… forever… no exceptions… never give up… never walk away… THEN ONE MAN WALKED AWAY! And went to live in a hole, a fucking hole for christ’s sake, a fucking dirty keuzer’s hole, and he lived in it for a really long time, a bit like this scat muncher right here:

And the men didn’t need him or remember his name or talk of him when they were drinking or laugh at his old dumb jokes or cry a little when they thought of him when they were alone and thinking of the good fun times they had or wish he was back or even want his fat dumb head back… Then he came back, and apart from a total fuckwit move on the dinner voting one night it was like he’d never even gone, and a great team was complete once more, and in honour of his first game back on the field we smashed the jnr decepticons mostly on the counter-attack, and Rhian, to prove his deep love thought long and hard and took us all to Belgian Beer Cafe. Sorry to have to be a cunt about it.

Match Report 20110818

vs dirty phase wannabe annual hampton park fc

4-4 (3-3?) draw DC, CG, RH, JH, TH, TK, TW, AW

Oh great lets write about another game against the Annual – that is soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo boring. Oh great I broke the blog – or maybe the blog was soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo bored with hearing about the annual again it’s trying to get it’s little blog lips around both barrels of a double barrel shotgun. Shit now I’ve fucked it – I really don’t think this is going to align properly for the rest of this post – Oh well fuck it, what do you want from me – hang on it’s doing something, it’s not going to be quite right but maybe not quite as shit as I thought – I’ll just quickly preview it… Nope it worked it out, it’s all good it’s just the alignment is fucked for me while I try to write it… anyway while we didn’t exactly have them drowning on our jizz, at least we weren’t waist deep in theirs either. The game went thus: we were down, we came back, we had ’em, they got their third tinny one for the night and we were spewing. Fuck all that shit.

Anyway forget all that shit – here’s the hampton st fc twitter feed…
http://twitter.com/#!/hamptonstfc
They seem to think they played in the division 3 grand final… oh I think I get it – seems what we called the losers semi is actually division 3 semi as we play in division 2/3 ergo top four spots are division 2, next four spots are division 3 and last 4 are losers

And their facebook page
http://www.facebook.com/hamptonstfc

HOLY CRAP! has anyone used google to search for stuff before? Check this shit out:
http://www.youtube.com/user/grantrowley#p/u/15/CLoQ0PPGqZs

There’s at least one other game there but we get smashed so I didn’t post it.

Well now I’m in the rather problematic position of having to talk of the cooking, when it was my own. Has anyone won MOM and cooked on the same night before? It must have happened. With Hannah rather fortuitously in Sydney I hatched a plan to cook at my own house, which, while I knew was novel could also be boring. Then I thought ‘if it was 1997 it wouldn’t be boring – no sir, we’d be sitting around smoking bongs and eating take away pizza and drinking beer from tins, and watching Jackie Chan movies high as garaffe[sic] nuts” so I thought fucking ay right time travel bizatches (cue twighlight zone audio effects : ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyywawowhatever -schnitzels! there goes the alignment again.

Match Report 4-Way 110728 to 110811

110811: No byes, does anybody know what that means anymore?

110804: 4-3 loss to the Annual in a loser’s semi final
DC, CG, JH, TK, TW, TH(MOM)

110729: Beach Box Poker

110828: 4-4 Loss to ??
DC(MOM), CG, TW, CB, RH, JH, TH

-The Disgrace
FIDDLER ON THE FUCKING ROOF, I’m taking the above incidents in the order they appear so the major angriness can come out and then we’ll get on to the good times, so like I said FIDDLER ON THE FUCKING ROOF, that’s what it felt like to be the only one with my balls on the table when every other Nanna walked away to get their nuts buffed in private, there I was all my mess downstairs hanging out with a grin on my face like the kid a primary school whose just told the classroom his crack is caked with unwashed dags and gets not the: “oh that happens to me all the time”, or “this underlines the importance of correct rectal hygeine” with a friendly smile and a pat on the shoulder type responses that one expects from one’s brothers in arms, but rather the room looks at him like he’s just professed his deep and undying desire to skull fuck little baby kittens and that’s the best possible thing in the world – THAT’S HOW I FELT GODDAMNIT NO BYES USED TO MEAN SOMETHING!!!!

-The Other Disgrace
Loser’s semi finals. Who. Gives. A. Shit? Well we all jolly well should because if we keep going down to those dickless phase-wannabes we’re gonna need a mjor skin graft to repair our knees and a high pressure water cleaner to get all the dick sauce off our faces. And we don’t want to be remembered as kneeless blowhards with you-know-what caked inches deep all over our features. I know it was a close game, I know it could have gone either way, I know we played well, but fuck all that shit I want to win, we got to get back that winning edge, the fucking hunger and desire. Step up. Take responsiblity. Make everything you do out there count. And fuckingwell own any bitch who dares step to us.

-The NOT Disgrace
I tell you what, if the comp was about having a good time with your brothers we would smash any bastard out there. We’d be the Manchester U and Barca of that shit combined. I’m telling you if Charlie Sheen called Rob Lowe, fucking that President of Italy with the ‘bunga bunga’ parties, Don Simpson, goddamned the whole of Mötley Crüe from their prime in the early 90s and had a beach box poker night – and I don’t care that they have Heidi Fleiss on speed dial, or that guy Johnny Depp play’s in the movie “Blow” backing dump trucks of yayo up to the beach box, and all the midgets and the cheese sauce and the vapourisers from “Bored to Death – they wouldn’t have done it as good as we did it. It. Was. Outstanding. And I commend every Nanna for making it so. Military like precision in maximising the amount of time having the finest of times.

-Something else
There was another game – Cock the Hammer said it all – perhaps a limerick:

There once was a team ‘o’ so brown
On the Annual they always went down
The Coach he did roar
“NOT ANY MORE!
It’s their turn on our jizz to drown”

Match Report 20110602 Part 2/4

5-4 Loss to Pornstars

TH(mom), CB 2(mom), TK gk(mom), JH 2(mom?), RH(mom?), TW, AW, DC (coach)

So many moms, like home time at kindergarten, like the waiting room at the Royal Children’s Hospital, like free knitting wool day at Costco…

Once when the Nannas were child Nannas not knowing the toughness of the game, or angles of a futsal pitch, or what brown meant we all used to spend our Thursdays getting drunk and doing hot knives at Rhian’s and Pete’s and Chassy’s and Little Hazey’s and Lisa Carol Bayer Sager’s and Janet’s “warehouse” in Alfred Lord Sir Tennyson st. Rhian would make a bbq out of left over asbestos, lead, mercury, carbon fibre and other noxious rare earth elements and then fire it up using treated pine and dried out lost dog cadaver’s that he processed into long burning brick-dog-ettes using techniques from Dunedin that’s saved the South Island many a time from the ravages of an Antarctic winter, made worse by the fact that they’d clear felled all the burnable wood to make room for pot plantations and back yard stills. Cocky would, by necessity, do double the drugs of anyone else and throw in an exotic hallucinogen for good measure and then proceed to attempt to document the experience by whatever means of technology he had found in a dumpster or managed to scam from a funding body or arts benefactor. About 15 minutes in to Cocky’s attempted documentation Janet would get angry with him, for little or no reason other than he was failing to show her the attention she desired. I used to ride my bike through the park from North Melbourne, pick up some sausages and beer on the way and try to chat up the single ladies. Even back then I was tactical, I used to worry about the long term effects of a bbq made from barium combined with arsenic smoked supermarket sausages, whilst trying to keep my pot and beer consumption below that of my body weight. They were the golden days, the halcyon days of good times and stacking your bike drunk. We nearly scored an abandoned convertible Alfa Romeo, Rhian had a PC and everyone’s erections lasted forever. Yep…

 

Match Report 20110526 – Part Deuce

The nanas have been playing together for reportedly 10 years. Thats a long time. Thats since the year 2000 ? What happened back then ? Well the concord crashed, The spacecraft NEAR Shoemaker enters orbit around asteroid 433 Eros, the first spacecraft to orbit an asteroid.  And against the advice of the Year 2000 Doomsayer Cocky, I was in Barcelona. I was with a Swedish girl, eating tapas and secretly deeply wishing I had buggered romance and not agreed to getting an apartment way out in Castelldefels, rather than in the centre.

The centre is where its at.

And thats really where i am going with this because I feel we lost the game because we lost the centre.  The passing game was not as fluent as one would hope from 10 years of passing pally wallying ( pall e well e’ing ) . Kondo had us sound at the back, and we had some stout performances, or glimpses of brilliance but we lacked a fluency in the centre, and in our all-round passing game.

Its our ability to dribble a bit if their was space or a lacklustre opponent, or turn the ball and find a man that would do the same, before feeding it up north to a likely lad. We often got caught in the corners, going too deep.

Jim thumped one in.  He must, in my limited experience with the nana game, to be called that likely lad. Tom, who could play anywhere, too looked a likely with that sledge hammer of a foot, Chassy looked a solid force at the back and potential midfield partner to Rhian and Tao.

So thats how i call it. 10 years and perhaps you need to go back to basics. Work on the passing, love the centre and you will have glory.

the BPBD ( Brown Proud but Disallowed )

Match Report 20110421

3-4 loss vs the nuts (with Giller’s bro in them)
CB, DC(1), JH, TH(gk/MOM), TW(2)

First we listen to the gospel according to Pegazus and those deserter Nannas take careful note of these most powerful lyrics.

 

Yes that’s right Pegazus you truly know:
Brothers stand as one
And never surrender
Until we shed blood
Where the heroes fight and fall
Bravest warriors standing tall
Never surrender
The Crusade.

TRUE. HEROES. OF. NANNA. [Roll of HONOUR!]
Cockdangger’s back was just useless muscle sort of sellotaped to his spine. He still played – and he’s a TRUE HERO OF NANNA
Jimmy Hannanberry’s last day of freedom before he goes to live on the plantation. He still played – and he’s a TRUE HERO OF NANNA
Taoser’s been drunk and high non stop for a week since the family went old country. He still played – and he’s a TRUE HERO OF NANNA
The Chasvestito parked in Reservoir. He still played – and he’s a TRUE HERO OF NANNA
Coach Judge Coach had tickets for some other shit or something. He still played – and he’s a TRUE HERO OF NANNA

Yes these are the annointed men of herodom’s most valiant hall of mirrors. When they look around there they see the best Nannas, on the back of a giant winged horse who is so tough he spells his name with a motherfucken’ Z. They aren’t so scared they go to Queensland. NO they go and kill Saracens on a Crusade on a giant winged horse etc. TRUE WARRIORS STANDING TALL! NEVER SURRENDER! THA CRRRUUUUSAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADE!!!

Anyway we kind of metaphorically surrendered to the Saracens by kicking a couple of own goals which really jags a broadsword right up in your curry hole. This was pretty indicative of the luck we were having – technically probably the better team on the day, but too many shots at the goalie, into the crossbar, wide of the mark – in short, unable to convert.

TRUE. HEROES. OF. NANNA. then shot, skinned and gutted a fat yak on the fucking battlefield fools and had giant fucking fat yak legs sitting on the cadavers of their defeated enemies with yak fat dribbling down their bearded chins and over their bloodied fists or they eat bespoke pasta at Fat Yak – don’t go getting technical with me you weren’t even there.