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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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 )

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.