This is what APISC reckon happened – as always it’s part fact, part fiction.
Hi umm…. vs the annyal (or whatever name they have now) with I think Kondo in goals and dannmuy and chassy and me (your vert tired coach) + Tao and Rhian and Jim I thingk – i’d guess 2-1 a loss to the brown men and I got the goal.
FIRSTLY i can strongly advice against graiting the end of your fingertips with the cheese grater when you are grating the beets as not only does it make typong annoyingly painful but hard as the baindainds tend to make your tips slide all over the keys annd mash inappropriate keys.
SECONDWISE do not forget tp wroite tjhe old matchy until the last minute when you have worked solidly for two weeks every day and now you are tired as it makes remembering hard and does not help when your fingertips are a hurting from grating misadventure.
THIRD TIMES A CHARM and the reason you are here even still reading this. sing it with me looud and strong brother nannas
OLD KING LION!
OLD KING LION!
OLD KING LION!
OLD KING LION!
OLD KING LION!
YEAH FOOLS THAT’S WHAT U’M TALKIJG ABOUT – OLD KING LION!
Old matey the Old King Lion, Old King Old Lion, King Old Lion was walking down the road when he saw and absolute knob headed cock bandicoot, which in and of itself is not that an unusual a thing as there’s plenty of them tipe of characters of a thursday night when Old King Lion does most of his huntiing. WHat sturck the Old Lion guy was that this here bandicoot was all dressed up like old Lion King, all balls brassed up kinda like how the King Lion buffs his own balls, all mane a swishing around with the sheen and whishwazz of a disturbingly simmilar sheen and whishwazz to what the Lion Man like s todo his liek, a hint of eyeshadow and a little bit of mascaran lash thinkening not at all unlike how OLD lione likes to make himself look a little bit sensitive and brooding but still mothwer fucking king of the old jungle. “what the fuck” thihnks mr lion, “what the fuck sort of knob headed cock bandicoot steals a respected Old Lion’s likeness and acts like it’s NOT EVEN DOING IT – FCUKS SAKE MAN THAT IS AMATEUR!” Straight away old king lion’s brain goes Chess Grand Master on its own arse. THinking 10-50-1000-2300000000 moves ahead in the blink of an eye it see’s every permutation, devises a plan and spits it’s mouth’s chewing tobacco at the feet of the pesky ‘coot. THe old dangerfield manouvre, lose marginally, so we’ve right where we want em for the finals.
4-3 Victory vs VJFC (Va Jina Football Cunts)
TH (GK-MOM), RH, JH, CB 1, TW 1, AW 1 , James the ring in and Julian (Tao’s French bench assembler), and there was an own goal if you’re counting.
Sugar is sweet, so is honey, mix ’em together and it’s sweeter still. Add some maple syrup, how’s that taste? A bit sweeter. Maybe some golden syrup, mix that in real good, now you’ve made it sweeter. Add some other different sort of sugar, maybe brown sugar or caster sugar or icing sugar, in fact fuck it, put ’em all in and as much as you can get, bags and bags of the shit, you might need a forklift or a dump truck or preferably both, trust me you can’t make it too sweet. Then you’re going to need palm sugar and coconut sugar and any other exotic sugar you can get, blend it in and taste it, it’ll be pretty sweet already, but not sweet enough. Go synthetic, I would recommend sucralose, aspartame, saccharin, glucin, dulcin, neotame, alitame even acesulfame potassium, get as much as you can get and don’t worry about any of that shit causing cancer, that’s not the problem, the problem is it won’t be sweet enough – and it’s not. Add some natural sugar substites, xylitol, pentadin, monellin (you know from serendipity berries), erythritol (good because it’s less likely to produce gastrointestinal distress when consumed in large amounts and we need A LOT of it), glycerol, luo han guo whatever, pour it in, mix it up, dip your pinky in and taste it, gaze meaningfully at about 45 degrees from the horizontal, and go “hmmm, not quite sweet enough”. Get hardcore with the proteins, specifically brazzein and curculin, at over 500x the sweetness of sucrose by weight these little guys are essential for getting it sweet enough…
I could make some elaborate allegorical tale about the nature of the struggle between us and the va jinas, but the internet writes better and has bigger dickheads so let me just say that we are the bitchenest Anonymous hackers and they be knob wallabies extraordinaire HBGary Federal. See here and here.
I hope you enjoyed that little diversion, it was pretty cool the way we ended up owning them like that stupid HBGary va jinas. In real life it was of course Tao being the young lady hacker who social engineered Greg Hoglund and like what the man from Ars Technica said, we didn’t need any super special hacks to get through their defenses, just good exploitation of the holes they did leave. Plus I think we rattled them a bit.
However back to that big pile of sweetness you were making in your mind in the first paragraph. That’s been in the sun for a couple of days, it’s reducing down a bit and through that process getting sweeter. Get some sort of giant cauldron on a flame and reduce reduce reduce, we need to sweeten it some more, it has to be so fucking sweet that every mother fucker in the universe gets diabetes from its very existence alone. Ok get it into a malleable ball about 500mm diameter, take that ball and with your own Nanna mind hands form it into the bludgeoning weapon of your choice, maybe a warhammer or a mace, even a morning star is ok, or a base ball bat or crow bar if you want a more modern vibe. Then put it in your mind kiln or whatever you’ve got in you mind tool forging workshop that can make an ultra sweet mess of mind hand formed weapon as strong as steel. Now I really don’t know how long it will take to harden, it’s your mind tool forging workshop and you’ll have to work that out for yourself. But as soon as it comes out you grab your engraving tool, and somewhere on the end that does the damage you inscribe these words in big letters: SWEET REVENGE. Then you walk up to (in your mind only please) whichever of those va jina’s sorry excuses for a face pisses you off the most and smack (once again in your mind only please) that bitch down with SWEET REVENGE…
What’s that noise? Don’t you hear it? All the angels in heaven are crying with joy because the awful dreadful horrible curse of The Dirtiest Loss Ever (see here if you don’t know what i’m talking about-AS IF) is lifted. That’s right friends the sun is out and the birds are singing their innocent little arses off with out and out unadulterated glee such is the happiness the world feels when the dirty low act robbery tragedy sushi roll of major pissed offedness, that’s sharpened to a point and stabbed right in your guts and can NEVER be removed, and has to live there all your days long, not being eaten like a normal sushi roll, but fuckingwell eating YOU is removed from your guts by SWEET REVENGE.
The DIRTIEST EVER! Loss 2-1 to the Esperanza (so called but were they?)
CG, JH, RH, TH(MOM), James the ring in (1 goal and =MOM)
THE PROLOGUE (The setting of the scene)
Perhaps you can pop the little door in the middle of your forehead open and enter your mind’s eye and try for understanding, for we are seeking not a person or a place but a state of being, a being of equilibrium, an equilibrium of absolute equipoise, an equipoise of complete and utter parity. Can you conceive of such a place? can your human consciousness perform the necessary contortions to properly perceive this state where no one entity holds dominion over another? Where all is neither more nor less than all else. Where the scales will tip to neither side, the little arrow forever perfectly teetering at the impossible apex of some mentally concocted device for measuring all that is in an unerringly balanced actuality. Take your mind there now… everything is equal… everything is everything else… everything is discarnate like high altitude clouds, in fact it is high altitude clouds and you are cruising through the high altitude clouds in a Gulfstream V. Now take this non-place state of being and make it real, give it flesh, can you make this utterly flawless symmetry physical and tangible? Can you take the next step on this inner journey? I hope you can because the next step is out the side door of the Gulfstream V, for what we must do now is see what you have until now only thought of, we must witness a true state of equilibrium made actual…
… first a detour, bear this in mind dear reader as you take the journey to heart break. Due to prevailing climatic conditions being ‘La Nina’ (the girl) it was real wet, and sure that water was getting in the building, water will always find a way. The ref regularly stops the game to dry the court or the ball so no one gets hurt, isn’t that nice?
DID I MENTION THE EVENNESS?
Sure it was pretty much true stalemate Fischer vs Kasparov (however but i don’t think they actually ever played against one another). I know you’re thinking WW 1 all those trenches, no one going anywhere, neither side able to gain an advantage that was an equal stoush right? Perhaps some of you may remember the epic Crooks vs Howie armwrestle of the Nannas Man Weekend 2010, two perfectly matched specimens, neither able to win. Well trust me idiots none of that shit has a flea’s dick on the evenness of this fucking match I am writing about right now. It was even fucking Steven as. Giller let a VERY uncharacteristic fumble in in the first half and then James the Ring In got a reasonably lucky long range shot in when their goalie was blinded. I.e I’m shitting you not it was tight. Two very large granite boulders of absolutely equal weight and neither able to move the other, two similarly massive Yellowstone bison repeatedly bashing their heads against one another. No one was going anywhere, and this is how it should have ended…
THE GREAT SADNESS
We all know tradgedy, we all know robbery, we all know dirty low acts. Well Nannas present at this match know them all rolled into one like a dirty low act robbery tragedy sushi roll of major pissed offedness, that’s sharpened to a point and stabbed right in your guts and can NEVER be removed, and has to live there all your days long, not being eaten like a normal sushi roll, but fuckingwell eating YOU! Can you believe that shit? Well believe it because it s REAL! Look at Jim’s guts now, look at Rhian’s, poor old Chris Gill’s stomach is an absolute mess of eternal agony and despair and it will be for EVER! Because of what happened to us on that soccer field on that night.
GEE, SOUNDS PRETTY SERIOUS.
What was the biggest robbery ever? Jesus, look it up on Wikipedia you lazy fucker. Probably some ex P.I.R.A dude and his mates got some guns and held a bank manager’s family hostage until he got all the Manager to open the safe or some shit, or some computer dick cheese stole all the .001 cents from all the transactions at the biggest bank in the world or some shit but anyway YOU’RE TOTALLY WRONG about both those things. Who are the biggest cheats in the universe? Maybe Thierry Henry using his hand to fist the Irish, maybe Maradonna using his hand to fist the English, anyway you’re wrong about that too my friend. Beacuse what happened to the Nannas that night was both the biggest sum act robbery and the biggest dirty low cheat ever! 9 seconds to go: Big Jim goes down on a wet patch; ball goes out; cheating opposition kicks the side ball over Jim’s prone body; ref does NOT halt play; cheating opposition gets a goal. FUCK I AM PISSED OFF EVEN WRITING THOSE WORDS AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!
DEALING WITH THE INEVITABLE EMOTIONAL DISTRESS
Only the finest Indian food this side of Bangalore! Yep you know it, all bets are off, the clock is reset, and all venues are fair game with the new year. Rhian took us to Aangan in deep far west Footscray and now Giller has a new girlfriend and her name is Mango Lassie.
Vs Team Scandinavia- The Low Countries
6-3 Loss TH(1)(MOM), RH(1 0r 2?), JH, TK, AW, CG(GK)
Fucking Scandinavian low country bitches. Two faced cock heads. In the war they were all “we’re neutral”, then “actually we’ve got blond hair too we’re with the Nazi dudes”, then “microwave ovens are cool, let’s go suck on some American cock”. Fucking Finnish Amsterdamian fjord lovers, if Brussells is so cool why isn’t Luxembourg a part of Belgia then? Jesus! Anyway they’d all had tank commander training from the Waffen SS so they were well drilled, they’d been on the echinacea pills since birth so they were fit young specimens, they could run, pass, strike and all that shit, their dicks could table dance the Jenkka at 140 bpm, while pulling one of those overwrought Belgian beers that yuppies love so much, all the fucking while with a smile on their dirty wannabe aryan faces. What hope did a somewhat depleted Nannas have? What chance the aging brown men against such a virulent specimen? What tricks could Old King Lion muster from his bag of old tricks? I’LL FUCKING TELL YOU WHAT TRICKS! HOW ABOUT THE TRICK OF FUCKING HAVING BALLS AND STEPPING UP TO THE OPPRESSOR NO MATTER WHAT THE ODDS. (that trick always fucks the kids) HOW ABOUT THE TRICK OF SEEING THE TINIEST CHINK IN THE OTHERWISE IMPREGNABLE 9 INCH REACTIVE TITANIUM ARMOUR AND FUCKINGWELL HAMMERING ON THAT CHINK UNTIL IT CRACKS WIDE OPEN. Let’s break down the tricks then shall we?: Trick one – Stand up to them – You are a proud Nanna with a fighting heritage that goes back over 10 years, sure you’re facing up against an opponent superior in many ways SO WHAT? Form on paper don’t count for shit, he still must beat you, you take it to his sorry herring eating arse and you make him beat you, every time, and you make it hard for him to beat you, you make him think twice about wanting to beat you. This we did. Trick two – Drive a wedge into his crack – His crack in this instance being his lack of goalie, the wedge in this case being our constant pounding of his crack, lots of aerial balls in, lots of shots on goal, lots of being there for the parry and fumble. This we did, Rhian scored from the head from a big throw in from Giller, and I managed to crumb one. Plus Giller kept kicking the ball into their heads but they just kept smiling. All that said they were pretty good, we certainly gave them a bit of a scare when we drew level, and the score only really blew out in the last couple of minutes when we pushed forward trying to arse the game back.
For afters Giller slipped his tougne into big Jim’s ear and said “LP – tropical far North Fitzroy”, new and super groovy we drank Quilmes and had a little impromptu.
Anyway pretty much what happened was the coach said “dick slapper” where upon: Cocky did visual representation (including mouth), Chas and Jim had a ‘moment’, Tao looked on like he’d never heard the word before, Captain tried to smirk it out like he was above it all, Takeshi stared in wonder at the moment that Chas and Jim were having and the concept rang so true with Andy that he could not contain himself. Meanwhile the iPhone focused beautifully on the floor.
Nannas 6 vs V J F C 1
2 goals each to DC, TW, and RH (is this right?)
with TH(GK), CB and AW making just as valuable contributions
Time stamp this bitch with all the world cup shit that‘s happening cos Old King Lion went Portuguese on their North Korean arses.
Old King Lions ball’s were at home minding the children and Old King Lion’s other balls had hurt their ball back so Old King Lion’s third set of balls – who btw don’t get out that much, mostly just sitting around looking at the action the other ball sets are getting so that when they get the call they’re like; “wtf? I gotta balls on and be balls all of a sudden? I gotta work the semen up the cremaster to the vas deferens or some shit? I kinda remember how to do that. Where’s my other knee pad?” – had to step up. Well truth be told set of balls number 3 had it pretty easy, like being the balls in a banging a super hot lingerie model equation it wasn’t that hard to do – a lot of soft shots and easy smack downs. Set of balls number 3 liked what he saw on the field too, lots of hustle, lots of desire, lots of smooth flowing play. In fact it wasn’t only the balls in goals ballsing up, the whole fricken team was ballsing right up if you don’t mind sir – and read between the lines peoples (the lines in this case being the oppositions name which being as it was V J F C [acronymously Va Jina Fanny Crack])- and what do balls do when faced with such an entity? Why what is their very nature of course; the only thing they can do for it is a hard wired into the core of their being; THEY GET THEIR COARSE PUBICITY ALL UP IN THAT VAGINAL BUSINESS .Yeah that’s right balls right up in your face it aint pretty but it’s real.
7 – 1 Victorious over F.C.
TH 1(MOM), DC 2?, JH 2?, TW 1?, RH 1?, AW, CG(gk), CB 1?
Like a prancing Arabian stallion, its let legs trotting ever so precisely – yet somehow mechanically – so too the Nannas went a jaunting through the sandy equestrial arena that was non-allegorically just the pit lane building court number 5 in the Albert Park. Their chins up as a chinaman’s soup bowl, they took to the court with a grin and a hearty back-slap, deep in their proud hearts was the true knowing that Nanna on Nanna (intrananna) recriminations would be intolerably viewed upon by their fellow Nanna bretheren and thus feeling freed from their brothers judgemental and potenially spurnfull eyes and likewise feeling the doubly compounded freedom from their own judgmental release the Nannas entered the fray with a spring in their step quite reminiscent of their old chum and smoking companion Springton Mr Brassyfield the III whose current whereabouts is as of this moment unknown. With the Atlasean weight of Judgement removed and Periclean death sword of judging likewise missing, the gay hearts of the Nanna men had the black cloud of doubt removed from its overhead area, hence allowing the sunshine of all the lovely things to rain down upon its little ventricles and other heartish anatomical features both of the actual physiology and also of the more ephemeral things that are associated with the heart. With the sunshine of all the lovely things in their hearts the Nannas were, quite frankly, cock-a-hoot with smiles and chumly touchings, because the sunshine of all the lovely things is a potent barbiturate when administered directly to the heart, engulfing it and swamping it with all the lovely things, like happiness and good times and peace of mind and respect and a firm hand-shake and touch upon the thigh and chicken broth soup and it were as though all the Nannas were playing on the most beautiful of meadows with wildflower and the like, possibly a cascade off in the distance – it’s dulcet roar muted by the distance. Then one Nanna pushed someone and they got a penalty and we went to the railway for a beer, the end.
6-4 Loss to Gassius Clay
TH(MOM), RH, TW, DC 1, JH 1, AW, CG(GK) (one own goal, one uniform infringement goal)
A man goes on a journey and is lost to his comrades for many a week, through the end of one season and into the start of another he neither feels the sweet smack of leather on the end of his boot, nor savours the taste of beer sweetened by the companionship of Nannas. He walks the earth alone, a Nanna alone, a lone Nanna. When he returns things are different. The surroundings, though familiar, he has not seen for a long time. The opposition too have changed. The ref is from a bygone era. Into the fray he steps and things aren’t great. He finds himself battling the pushies – always pushing they were – and when the Nannas push back the ref doesn’t like it. Regardless of the pushiness the Nannas don’t really play that well, they are not singing the song of sweet harmony, they are not carefree, they are tied down in their minds, dwelling on the bad times. For a patch in the first half they pressure well, they up the intensity, they compete. In their minds they are living for the moment, not thinking about what might have been, not trying to tell other Nannas how to play, but this falls away and a malaise blankets them.
Empty your minds Nannas.
Exist to compete.
Focus on the moment at hand.
Dwell not on what might have been.
Impose your will on the game, not through conscious thought, but through effort.
Give 100% and back up on your every move.
Smile and share the love.
10 – 0 Loss to Las Chivas
DC(MOM?), CG(MOM), JH(MOM?), RH(MOM), TH(MOM), TW(MOM?), AW(MOM?)
More Moms than the first day of primary school.
Old King Lion thought he was doing ok until he came up against Green mutherfuken Beret Robot Lion from Delta Force who’s sucked down that mother fucken much Gorilla Juice he’s got pubes growing out his forehead. Seriously have you seen this lion – mother fucker has chainsaws for hands and JATO units on his nutsack, all amped up with NO2 extrusion shit and adamantite skeleton wolverine style. Polyweave carbonfibre outershell so he’s light, the strength of ten orang utans and depleted uranium all coming out his kajutsi. Fucken thing has the Eye of Sauron, the Grim Reaper’s Scythe all slaying cunts and every second hair has cardiotoxic irukandji venom oozing out it that fucks you where you breathe. This hell forsaken death bot is controlled by a network of supercomputers, that can outplay all the world’s chess grandmasters simultaneously and he wears a necklace made from the sun dried testicles of his defeated opponents that he has gnawed out of their still living groin and used their ballskin as a napkin to wipe the nut juice out from the corner of his mouth. This dealer of death, this slayer of worlds, this harbinger of hades, this maker of of the worst kinds of heinous mutalitory barbarism, this soulless killing machine with the taste for blood and the a-grade boner in his pants to prove it was up against a white rabbit bunny baby wearing just the cutest wee pink vest with sequined highlights and a trail of rabbit piss running down its little leg.
4-1 Victorious over The Annual
CB(2 goals, MOM), DC (1 goal), RH(1 goal), TH(MOM), TK(GK), AW
FIRST: SOME (below par) VERSE
Old King Lion’s coat tattered and torn
Punky young buck lions laughing at his form
Stalks the Nike store and other outlets all over town
Seven years later the gods deliver sweet sweet brown…
SECOND: THE ANATOMY OF OLD KING LION (in alphabetical order)
Brown: For he is the Old King Lion’s REAR HAUNCHES – Strong and svelte. The speed. Delivering the fleetness and the movement and the grace coupled with the power and the force and the impact. Defining the “Strength of no Strength” just like Bruce Lee’s one inch punch.
Crooks: For he is the Old King Lion’s BITE – A mighty maw. Fearsome in its striking power. Row after row of gleaming razor sharp incisors ready to cut you apart in more ways than surgeon’s got stiches. The doer of damage.
Gill: For he is the Old King Lion’s ROAR – A force so powerful it cannot exist physically. Having all the intangibility of the uncertainty principle and a decibel piercing bellow enough to stop a wildebeest in its track. It smells like a goalie’s shin pad and is Old King Lion’s superego.
Hannan: For he is the Old King Lion’s LEFT FRONT LEG & PAW. The most powerful of limbs. The strike of total domination. The don’t argue of absolute authority. The stiff backed salute of maximum respect.
Hinkley: For he is the Old King Lion’s HEART – Bringing courage, leadership, trueness of spirit. Coursing through all the components it can inhabit and enhance any one of them. When the heart is strong Old King Lion cannot be defeated.
Howie: For he is the Old King Lion’s BRAIN – Thinking on the course of stratagems, knowing the day. Like Turing’s Colossus with insufficient punch cards it strives to make sense of the tactics, and control the mighty power of the Old King Lion’s components.
Kondo: For he is the Old King Lion’s STOMACH – Of steel. It will not yield, it cannot be damaged, it knows no fear, it’s relentless persistence will never give in. It protects most vital assets. Within it resides the Chi. You cannot get past it with axes or bash hammers. It stands fast.
Weis: For he is the Old King Lion’s TESTICLES – Of fire. Purple and engorged. Do not get them angry, they will explode and drive the Old King Lion into hyper-drive like a warp core gone critical. Uncontrollable like a roomful of teenagers on red-bull, from them comes potency.
Wong: For he is the Old King Lion’s TAIL – It provides the balance – the yin to the bite of the yang. Though it looks playful enough to flirt with a Savanah Sparrow beware it slinking ’round your back door lest it rise up and slap you down.
Like a manga from the 70s all the component constituents of the Old King Lion come together to form OLD KING LION a powerful old lion king. Half Lion, half mecha-lion, half Nanna.
THIRD: WE TALK OF JUDDY (or Dane Swan if you can’t bring yourself to talk of a Carlton player)
The great players will lift when required and impose themselves on a game. They will control it and affect the outcome. While skill plays a part, it is mostly a mental attitude. The ability to impose your will upon a game and influence the outcome will make you great.
FOURTH: THE GAME NOW PAST JUST BEFORE
I can’t really remember what happened except at the start of the game Rhian said “we gotta win this one”, and I looked at my bag of new tops and said “we’ll win” and from that moment on it was never in doubt. Then a very select four went to Movida Next Door and eat tapas and drank Basque beer and talked of iphone applications and episodes of tv shows, and I rate it very highly on the dining out experiences.
4-2 Loss to Los Pitufos
RH, TW, TK(gk), CB, JH, TW 1, TH 1
One Man and His Back Went to Mow a Meadow
There is no I in team, but the literate and more smart arsed amongst you will note there is a me, and that me -this Thursday past- was my back. My back said to me, “you got no foot skills or leg speed, but you got me now – a back of power – where you go I follow and together we can leverage the pain ledger on the bad guys” and I said “I am with you my back.” Then my back said, “before you can start running around doing all the fancy back Ninja moves and shit you have to understand the way of the back.” But backs can’t talk so he had get the information into my head in surreptitious ways, such as by making me listen to the Sports Entertainment Network (SEN) 1116 on the AM dial. On SEN they talk of the Western Bulldogs sides of recent years, they speak of its lack of a big forward, they question whether the Doggies will win a Granny without such a player, sure they has plenty of smaller guys who can kick goals, but the conjecture is that they will never go all the way unless they have a big power forward who can smash packs wide open and make the defense accountable in the pain ledger. “I hear your surreptitious whisperings my back”, I said to my back “you and I will get amongst it”. And we did, but I hurt my hammy.
Look we played pretty well. One own goal and one fuck up in defense was all that stopped it being a draw. Takeshi earned his money, Jim started a fight or two, Chassy shadow footed his arse around, Tao hustled up, and Andy was sneaky up front and causing them grief in defense. But in this division we can’t afford, to fuck up, relax or not be giving 100% effort 100% of the time, because that’s when we’ll lose.
However who gives a shit about any of that when you’re sitting around a Korean BBQ eating freshly fried tongue and talking about beach box poker with your Nannas brothers. Kodos once again Takeshi.
Nannas vs The Dirty Waffles
2 : 2
TH(1)-MOM, CG (1)-MOM, TW, TK, AW, CB, JH
“Shall I compare thee to a summers day?” Wrote the bard. “A rose by any other name would still smell as sweet”, he went on to say amongst other poeticisms. What I had writ before the internets eat it was of comparability with the Bard’s words. Pertaining to the first half I spoke of the struggle agin more talented and desirous opposition. I spoke of the micro-schisms appearing within the team. The bickering, the anger, the near knife fights, Jim’s woeful attempts at sledging, I wrote of it all as a rainbow describes the physics of light. I talked of our fortune at being just two goals down come the half time break, when the lord God Jesus and the lord God Buddha both concurred that we should be copping a caning reflected by a larger margin on the scoreboard. My words went on to describe how we came out for the second half – and at this stage I did a nifty thing with my words were I spoke of our pride and desire and faith in ourselves and I made it seem that we were about to come out and turn the tables using just the nobility of the Nanna and just when all your hearts were filling up with Nanna love and the Nanna chubbiness was filling up in your pants I fully flipped that shit right around and said NO! Nothing changed in the second half, we continued to play just as shitfully as we had in the first half, and there was still bickering and Nanna angst (nangst?) BUT somehow we kept at ’em. I wrote of Chassy shadowfooting and Tao’s anger was being channeled into the angry hustle, and I had this great literary montage of Gilla keeping them out against the odds in slow-mo with bitching diving saves using the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle. And I fuckingwell wrote of of how we had a sub and they had none, and us exploiting that tiny chink in their half inch steel armour, in one glorious moment of literary and soccer genius where Chassy shadowfooted them right in the kajunties and drilled a pass to I, who had drifted past their tiring defense into the d where the boot orientation gods smiled upon me and I was able to make the deflection count. My words told of a second exploitation of weakness. The weakness I described was the ‘no dedicated goalie weakness, the exploitation I described was the ‘goalie attack on the no dedicated goalie weakness explotation’. Basicaly I wrote of Gilla kicking them in the underpants. The long bomb demoraliser. I wrote of our fortune at keeping them from the back of the net for the remainder of the match.
Then I wrote the important stuff. It wasn’t about goals or defense or fancy names for tricky moves or any of the action shit that seems so important. I wrote of the utmost importance of Nanna Love. A Nanna’s love for a Nanna, how we can never lose sight of that, because there were times during that game that I feared we would. I wrote that we must always smile, regardless of the circumstances, and more importantly smile at our brother Nannas, because winning or losing doesn’t count for a six foot stack of dogshit if you ain’t smiling with a man in brown.
9-1 Victory vs The Annual
DC 3, JH 3, CB 3, TW, AW, TH Gk (MOM)
Let this week’s match report take the form of an analogous tale.
There is but one king that is king of all the vast African plains and savannahs and that king is the Lion. The King Lion fears no-one for he is king and everyone better do whatever the fuck he says or he will kill them. The other animals cannot touch him and the only thing he must keep is eyeballs on in terms of trouble is the upstart young lion bucks who would usurp him. These little prince lion upstart juniors will hang out on the edges sniffing around waiting for the opportunity to attack and try to steal the mighty King Lion’s lion kingdom from him. If the King Lion is not 100% percent ready and committed to fight he will be humiliated and the coach will have to give him a royal dressing down and remind the King Lion to “counteth not thy fucking chickens before thy fucking chickens hatcheth”, but by then it is too late because the young prince lion has a ball gag in the King Lion’s mouth and is riding him like a bitch and screaming ‘you’re my bitch now bitch’. To make matters worse every other lion in the joint now wanted a piece of the King Lion and for week after week he was savaged and demeaned in the most derogatory and cruel of ways, all but the last shreds of his dignity were vilely stripped from this once proud King Lion leaving just a weeping king lion husk weeping bodily fluids.
If the King Lion is lucky he will get a second chance to fight the upstart prince lion and a second chance to redeem his honour and his respect. Fortunately in this story the King Lion gets a second chance. For the King Lion once again entered the Lion Dueling Arena with the young junior upstart prince lion, and this time he knew not to counteth any fucking chickens. While the first half was relatively even, in the second half he just stepped right up and started chewing on that junior prince lion’s face, and he chewed that fucken’ junior prince lion’s face right off right of its fucken’ skull. Not content with a facefull of face he turned his attention to the genitalia of the young prince lion junior. Now, there are two ways for one being to take another being’s genitalia in it’s mouth; one is with a mind to pleasure the other being to the heights of ecstasy, or, quite conversely the second is with mind to savage and bloodily neuter the other being so that it is reduced to eunuch status. The King Lion took to the junior prince upstart lion’s genitalia with no mind to satisfy, please rest assured it was strictly the latter of the ways that the King Lion went after the junior prince lion’s junk- he fucken’ munched down on it hard, it was all teeth and no tongue, and he fucken’ got in there and fucken chewed and chewed, and gnawed away, masticating every last little piece of genitalia into the smallest pieces possible, all the while his powerful King Lion saliva was breaking down the matter at a cellular level so that there was no possible way at all you could just wack it on ice and chopper it off to the microsurgeon for the old addadictomy and somehow save the manhoodliness of the young lion upstart prince.
And when the King Lion was sated all but one of his constituent parts went to the pub and had a beer and some dinner (except for another one of his constituent parts who only had chips), and King Lion reflected on where he had been that Lion Dueling Season, from the king of everything to a piece of shit nothing, and finally -thanks to some ball blood on his lips- back to a modicum of respect . And then the Lion King reminded himself that it was not over yet, all the other Lions who had so royally fucked him needed to get their faces chewed off too, and some of those Lions were tough motherfucking Russian lions who fucken’ sliced babies wide open in Chechnaya for fun, so he would certainly have his work cut out for him, but if he can only stand up and fucken’ tough it out, and fucken’ fight with a fucking psychopath’s desire for the taste of scrotum in his King Lion mouth and win three more matches, then he will be; THE FUCKING KING AGAIN!
5-7 Loss to Golden 40s
Goals JH 2, CB 1, DC 1, TW 1, AW 0, TH 0(GK)
I don’t remember how it started but I will NEVER forger how it ended. Unbeknownst to the rest of the table Wally Wong had been using the extended time between ordering food and receiving food to get the old ‘Wally Wong Magic Hypno Eyes’ going on a couple of ladies at an adjoining table. I think even he was a bit stunned by how well it worked, because one moment Nannas were happily having a gay old time laughing about something (probably Chassy tearing his pants again… tore it in the crotch again if you were wondering) and the following moment these two ladies did the ‘Mega Panther Pounce’ and landed at our table with some pretty crazy maneuvers. Pretty much straight away the Irisher of the couple was practically mounting Wal’s shoulder, Wal’s head was roughly the colour of borscht, and the rest of the Nannas egged her on, desirous to see if there existed in the old visible colour spectrum a red deeper than the deepest beetroot red that could be made to manifest on Wal’s head. There was and it duly manifested itself as the ladies tried to get Wal outside for a ‘drink’. Let that be a lesson to all Nannas to beware the seductive power of the ‘magic hypno eyes’ and not to blythly use it just because you are bored of waiting for your steak to arrive.
Just as Wal’s head had adopted the hue of that most famous of Russian soup’s as its colour for the evening, so to did the game have strong elements and overtones of the Rusky. I.e. the opposition were them. Just as some general said in one of them 50s movies about Strategic Air Command, “Were gonna be in a shooting war with the Soviets” (draw out the so part and say the viets part quickly if you want to sound like said general) so we found ourselves (although unlikely they were strickly speaking Soviet). They hit us pretty hard pretty early. Probably three goals running in hard off the corners and leaving their Nanna. From there we regrouped and never really let them get away, but the damage had been done and we couldn’t quite peg them back despite keeping the pressure on through goals and ball control.
Vs The Annual, 3-4 Loss
DC (2) TH(1) CB JH CG(GK)
MOM DC TH
It is oft said of the youth that while they possesseth the energy they possesseth not the control. Perhaps you may think back to your own youthful actionings, in the bedroom, where a great deal of excitement and exhilaration and stimulation was not necessarily able to be drawn out, or manipulated to maximum advantage, or the utmost power leveraged when needed most. Or perhaps you have experienced this recently whilst enjoying the company of someone younger than yourself. Whatever your manner of understanding, the maxim remains the same; the young, while willing, lack the experience that counts. Sometimes however it would seem that vitality and vim can overcome the knowledge, skill and know how that the decades provide, and thus it was well and fucking truly proved this Thursday past. For the Nannas arrived with “in the bag” mentality, thinking to toy with the young opposition a while, as a feral cat might toy with a caught rodent, or a well-versed harlot might toy with a trick at the limits of ecstasy. Yet despite going down one-nil early on, the foregone conclusion mentality continued to hold sway amongst the Nanna brethren, as though somehow our age, experience, skill level, ladder position and track record meant we were ordained for victory. Well let me tell you Nannas, history is littered with the fetid corpses of those thought themselves predetermined to win, the tales of old are awash with the blood of the foolhardy who believed destiny had fated them success before the battle had begun. If you learn nothing else from last week’s defeat learn this: counteth not thy fucking chickens before thy fucking chickens hatcheth.
Of course while the mindset describes the demeanour, which defines our loss it does not describe the manner. How were a bunch of pimply children with little more than eagerness to describe their soccer skills able to defy a battle hardened outfit of match fit Nannas? I will away with the verbose language and give you one word. Desire. They came with greater desire, and for that they were rewarded with a great victory. Greater desire for two things: desire to win, and desire for the ball. The desire to win is essentially what I have already discussed. A belief that you can win is a much surer bet than a belief that you should win. I hope every fucking Nanna out their in Nanna fucking land has got that in their heads, because we are about to move onto what I believe is a greater problem: desire for the ball.
You’ve got to want the ball. You’ve got to want the ball real bad. And you’ve got to put that wanting the ball real bad into practice by going after the ball like possessing it is what keeps you breathing. Not only last Thursday, but generally, Nannas are a bit soft at the ball, holding off it, standing behind the opposition and putting their head down when a pass does not miraculously find it’s way through, generally not wanting it bad enough. While I am loathe to single out an individual, I will at this juncture raise the name of the purplest and most angriest of Nannas, Tao. While he may not have the strike of the striker, nor the shadow foot of the shadow foot, nor the back doorness of the back door man, nor the Heisenberg uncertaintly principle of the man know as the Heisenberg uncertainty principle, he has a desire to possess the football the likes of which exists in no other Nanna. While he may have his moments of code violation and giving the ref an earfull, it is his willingness to go to the ball wherever it is, no matter how far away or how hopeless the situation may seem, and make a contest that the Nannas lacked this Thursday past. I want us all to take a little of Tao’s tenacity, Tao’s never say die approach, and fucking well get in there and make every ball contested. No matter you think the contest is over and you are beat, fucking well get back on the ball and make every moment of possession the opposition may have a hard fought fucking annoyance for them. This week I don’t want any excuses, I just want to see Nannas wanting the ball so bad it hurts them deep inside. I really hope I have made myself clear, because this is the area in which we acted like a bunch of nutless monkeys last week, this is why a bunch of fucking teenagers wearing girl’s hair accessories were able to bend us over and disgrace our junk.
VS Dirty Waffles
TH(GK-Mom), CB 1 (Mom), DC 2, TW, RH 1, AW, JH
Sometimes a man, a mountain climber say, looks at the mountain ahead of him, and thinks not of the pain and suffering awaiting him amongst the jagged peaks and bottomless crevass’, but rather of the good times, the panoramic vistas and the fresh mountain air reaching deep down to the ends of his alveoli. So it was that i gazed upon the match ahead of me last Thursday past, not thinking of the jarred fingers and buttock bruising that awaited me amongst the impending combat, but rather of the fleeting moments where everything comes together for a moment of brilliance and the smiles and gestures of support from my comrades in battle. I think a lot of this had to do with the pre-game rainbow flurry and the mention of Chas’ trouserless driving, in my mind I was on the phone to Chas when his pants got ripped, the conversation went something like this:
Chas: Hi this is Chassy
Me: Hi Chassy it’s me.
Chas: Hi how are you?
Me: Very well thanks how are you?
Chas: I’m good too.
Me: What are you doing right now?
Chas: I am driving in the car.
Me: That sounds nice.
Chas: Yes it is… oops hang on whoa!
Me: What happened?
Chas: I just got a rip in my pants.
Me: How could that possibly have happened?
Chas: I tore them on the gear stick.
Chas: It’s complicated
Chas: Yes, I think I have to take them off.
Chas: Yes, I am taking them off right now.
Chas; Yes I am sliding the crutch past my ankles right now.
Me: Oh. Do you still have the lambswool car seat covers?
Chas: Yes I do.
Me: So is the lambswool nestled up against the underside of you bare thighs?
Chas: Yes it is quite snuggled up against it.
Chas: Hang on there’s someone on the other line
Chas: It’s Jim, I’m getting a three way going.
Me: Hi James.
James: Hi, I heard Chas had to take his trousers off.
Me: That’s correct.
James: Are your thighs touching the lambswool?
James: Are the backs of your calves rubbing against the piping on the edge of the seat?
Chas: No, the lambswool covers the piping.
Me: Where did they rip again?
Chas: All over
… anyway it wasn’t a conversation that ended quickly. As for the game, it had its highs and lows. The highest being the opening stanza of play where we controlled the ball without letting the opposition touch it once until we had scored the opening goal, the lowest being a slight fuck up by your’s truly and letting the ball in.
This, is the album cover, and if you’re not in the photo, you’re not in the band, and you’ll have to be roady or coke bitch or something and Jim gets to be leads singer cos he stood in the middle and proved he had the best teeth and Takeshi is the guitarist who thinks too much and gets angry because its not about the music any more, and Rhian is the gay tambourine player and Chas is the not quite as gay bass player and Andy actually is Charlie Watts and I’m the slightly wrong rhythm guitarist who marries a fresh 17 year old every year, sorry but that’s just the way it goes.
TH(GK)(MOM), CB (1), DC (1), JH, AW
11-2 We went down to Dead Dead Skilfull
An extract from my personal journal I would like to share with all the Nannas out there in bloggerszone:
Thursday the Third of April, 2008
Today I found out miracles really do come true and how awesomely akbah is indeed allah, because today, dear diary, I won the highest honour and respect of my sweet Nanna brethren despite letting 11 goals go by. Today, dear diary, I felt for once the Nannas finally respected me for who I am as a person not just how shit I am on the soccer field and that makes me feel really good. Dear diary today I feel like all the good in world is finally happening to me for once, because how is it possible that such an honour should fall to such a one as me….(&c, &c)
Anyway it goes on like that for a couple more pages and I basically just piss my pants ‘cos I’m so happy and humbled by this honour etc etc whatever. So the crux of it was we got caned pretty hardcore. We had our moments for sure, but we let a few too many soft goals in. Sure I got nutmegged once (maybe twice) but I also got a bit of a boning from a couple of own goals and a few occasions where they were just lining up to have a shot, and you can’t let a side as good as them do that without expecting a bit of a fisting. I think Cocky got a goal by taking the high ball interpretation to that place where there’s just enough doubt in the opposition’s mind that they stop for a second and not quite enough doubt in the refs mind (cause he’s liking you today) to pull you up. Perhaps it is fair to say the scoreboard wasn’t an entirely true reflection, we seemed to hold them quite well for periods, then they would avalanche us. We lacked a bit of luck/finesse/finishing power in front of goals too, on a couple of occasions we were one out with the goalie and probably should have made more of our opportunities. Perhaps it is also true we lacked a bit of the elixir from the week before. Who can say from where comes this elixir, and why the Nannas should be drunk upon it one week and parched for a taste the following? Probably some sports psychologist I guess
I would leave the Nannas out there tuned in on the internets reading this blog with the following personal journal extract:
A.M. Thursday the Tenth of April, 2008
Last night I had the strangest dream, I was locked in a room with all my dear Nanna brethren, we none of us were sure exactly what we were doing there. It was a little peculiar, but I feared not, because my brothers were at my side. Slowly we became aware of a strange noise. Quiet at first, it gradually increased in volume. Somewhere between the drone of a partway demented automaton and the cry of a frightened fowl, it wasn’t particularly pleasant. Louder it grew, and with it the concerns and agitations of myself and my trapped comrades. All of us being brought up on the mythology of the Star Wars, we started to get that feeling we had felt as children, in the pit of our belly when we could not help but place ourselves in the garbage compactor with Luke et al. The noise grew louder still, verbal communication became impossible. Terrifying. We none of us had any notion of how to combat this situation, how to extract ourselves from this hell room, nothing in any of our experiences had prepared us for this. The noise reached an intensity that was doing permanent damage, it started getting darker, the smell of death began to permeate the room. We all of us realise it will end shortly and end badly. Then hope. Someone, I don’t know who, maybe all of us together, become aware of a thin crack of light way above us. To high for a man to reach, it seemed as first as though it would offer no salvation, then the Nannas started to organise. Without any prompting or apparent guidance, the tall men of the squad formed a circle, the hands of one man firmly grasping the shoulders of those on either side of him. On top of them scrambled the medium sized guys, similarly forming a circle of strength. Finally as the sound started to affect the internal organs of the Nannas, the smallest Nanna clambered up the backs of his fellows and punched mightily at the sliver of light. The sound stopped, a light of a most brilliant golden bathed us and I woke with words of Tenacious D in my ears: “That’s fucken teamwork”