Did you catch the big game?
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I saw some beans on toast anda bit of ‘bother’.
Friday. I had just retired to my den, scotch in hand, preparing to bid the day adieu with some light Balzac. Having found my chair and imbibed the first nip ofthe Crach, the telephone roared into life. I ambled across to the receiver, assessed the screen for information as to the origin of this nocturnal interruption, but was greeted with that always unwelcome flashing: ‘UNKNOWN NUMBER’. I picked up and, with healthy scepticism, demanded the caller reveal themself. It was my journalistic agent.
The word ‘agent’ may naturally connote characteristics in the realm of organisational sturdiness, effective bargaining and a general middle-manaptitude. Regrettably, [name withheld] is none of the above. Nonetheless, he is the man responsible for representing me on the shady thoroughfare that is Fleet Street, and the fact that my writings have appeared in print more than once show that not all hope is lost. An unedited transcript of the conversation would of course be of little interest to anyone, but this much of his message I gathered and present, in summary, to you, the humble reader:
“All of our regular sports journalistshave come down with food poisoning, and the paper knew you could be relied on at such short notice to fill in. With that in mind, you must attend such and such football match at 3pm tomorrow andc ompile a report.”
I was chastened by the impendingforay into uncharted territory. The vast chasm of pages between The Sport Column of present and my trusted habitat
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“Wow! What a ninety minutes! We saw poachers in the pocket, shots hitting the upright and handbags. Both teams came into the encounter on the back of impressive elephants in the cup. Blue Number 8 was in the hole. Red Number 6 was in the engine room showing real intent, before Red Number 10 was flagged by the lino - not one for the purists. It was a game of two halves really. There was talk before the game about which team would show up, luckily it seemed to be the one everyone else was expecting. There was also talk about an ‘off’ between rival sets of hooligans, but thankfully the respective head firmsmen got nicked and are spending a night each in chokey (one presumes in different cells).
Nonetheless, we got off to a start when the referee blew his whistle - 90 minutes later he brought proceedings to an end with the same action. Red Number 6, of earlier engine room and oil bedizened fame, seemed to be on the receiving end of more than his fair share of meaty challenges. I was slightly confused by the persistent arrival of a charcuterie platter and an assistant with a stopwatch. By the end of the fixture, he’d practically assembled a new pig in his bowels. One team really on their game, the other very off-colour. Rash Alan, reckless? After about 20 minutes a pie was ushered onto the desk in front of me. I thought maybe I was about to be on the receiving end of a pastry challenge, but as it happened it was just a perk of the job. It was in a suspect orange container. I had a nibble. It was a heady cocktail of salt and wet, hemmed in poultry.
After my plastic knife snapped, I looked up and there was no one on the pitch, bar an overweight child in nylon trying to shoot a ball into the boot of a sponsored car. I glanced over to a fellow scribbler, who simply mouthed ‘half time’. It seems I’d spent half an hour on the pie without realising, challenging my ability to keep up with the exertions. I
The Metaphysics Column, is the best possible indicator that the commission had potential to be troublesome. The present writer's academic prowess has never, thus far, shown any signs of transmuting into averve for the analysis of men kicking a pigs bladder. Therefore, my being tasked with watching 90 minutes of the matter, let alone offering some sort of serviceable account for the benefit of Middle England, was a tall order indeed. Putting the phone down, I stood up and had a heavy pull on the grain. I checked my pocket watch and swiftly decamped from the study, leavingmy Balzac for another day.
Saturday. Following the cockerel’s warble, I drew up my plan for the day ahead, breakfasting on fruit juice and muffins. I would head to the university library at once and draw on the resources there, to at least find my linguistic footing. Owing to the institution I hold my tenure at being of indifferent repute at best, on Saturday mornings the campus is as depopulated as Mao’s China. This fact meant I went about my business with ease, sure that in my state of discomfort I would have cut a demented shape. I breezed through the shelves of the ‘Sport, Culture and Korean’ (mergers mean budget cuts) wing, before chancing upon the following: The 1976 Layman's Guide to the Terraces: Navigating the Choppy Waters of British Football Fandom and its Idiosyncrasies. I was most certainly a layman. The tidal temperament remained to be seen.
[To unflinchingly break the fourth wall,I’ve realised I am rapidly running out of word allocation and most probably the reader's attention. The boss of the Sports department, a Mr. Sowdee, runs a tightship indeed I’ve come to learn].
Indebted to the above resource, here iswhat I managed to draw on for the game. I recommend reading it aloud a la KennethWolstenholme:
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downed tools and got caught napping at the back. The second half got underway. Both sides really in need of something here. Blues and Reds. Three of the best he’s made them pay. I’m literally just typing shit at this point. Another flash of red. Off for an early bath. The red mist descends (a personal favourite). In conclusion, I couldn’t tell you what happened, to who, at what time, why or with what intent. Both sets of fans ummed and ahhed at various points, occasionally jingles were sung. It looked mildly interesting. As I sign off here I’d like to leave the reader with a quote from Honore: I am not deep, but I am very wide.”
Dr. Al Toovmy-Depp
Professor of Crumpet Ontology
Department of Pederasty
University of Lincoln