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Hachioji Park Saturday 9th Feb,
A bitter winter nochy was the setting for the club derby and it was beautiful, o my brothers, …for 10 horrorshow minutes. Two key droogies were missing for this game, Glenn and O`Connell, leaving us a malenky bit poogly about the untested line up. Two bolshy defenders in Quinn and Musgrove and a goal keeper, Mignon, and right back, Baxter, who didn't get much spatchka the night before (both vecks however claimed to have spent the nochy doing different vesches). Anyway, lets not govoreet about cal, my brothers, but rather the burning twenty-to-one that sloochated between these two noble rivals on a bitter winter nochy, as I have already begun to mention.
The vagabond bratties burst into action from the tip off with skorry passing as intricate as a deadly spiders web leaving the BFC looking a malenky bit gloopy. Our malchicks on the wings and up front, recently weaned from their mothers moloko went through the BFC defense like a hot nosh through maslo. Molodoy Ken on the left wing twisted and turned like the big bopper, finally setting up veteran dribbler and seasoned droogie, Wadsworth, who did what we have all been waiting so long to see – finish a dribble with a sure strike, and bang: the bald eagle skvatted the first goal and radosty to the vagabonds, o my brothers, it was beautiful sight to viddy. But we didn't let it go to our heads but got our rassoodocks immediately on goal number two.
Still sluggish, the BFC allowed the vags malchicks to penetrate again with vigorous energy. This time it was A-chan who broke through but somehow couldn't despatch the final shot. The malchick appears to have some trouble with his glazzies which may account for the miss but it brought a sladky 10 minutes to a close – a 10 minutes that left the BFC more than a malenky bit razdraz with one and all – accusations of vecks not doing enough rabbit and all that cal. They couldn't pony what was sloochating at all. Well it was all in a days work for the vags bratties who looked on as the league leaders creeched out their grahzny slovos. Just then the blizzard arrived leaving us all a malenky bit Earnest Shackleton. The pitch was soon a white carpet of crystalline water, my brothers, a beautiful but unyielding surface of play.
Then we had a bitva. The BFC started rabbiting as a team and under the bezoomy conditions, whoever had the ball under control was the Bog, the conditions being so bad that defending was impossible or any type of intentional tackle for that matter. Shcsuke broke through, Quinn committed, and the skinny veck equalised in style. 1-1. Before the very bolshy Carlos stabbed a opportunistic toepoke to make it 2-1, the vagabonds bratties dished out more servings of horrowshow attacking and skorry switching. But the finishing became utter cal, never living up to the build up play. The malchicks danced around the box like chaste ballerinas only to have the BFC defense hoof away their hard work, o my brothers.
Then 2 goals in skorry succession for BFC chelloveck Day. He is no shoot, and ponys well when an opportunity is near. A phalanx of BFC vecks advanced down the right wing overwhelming the spatchka-deprived Baxter, Bang, bang: 4-1. At this stage one might have thought the sneety of beating the BFC was over. All glazzies were on our starry striker Adrian, still awaiting entrance to the fray, and Bog knows a humiliating tolchock from the BFC was not going to be dobby.
At halftime vccks scurried for cover, in cars, hedges, shelters – any old vesche.
Some inspiring slovos would have been nice to slooshy but not a single slovo. Some had hats on but those that didn't had more than malenky numb gullivers that could have disrupted cognition, o my brothers. But not a complaint was slooshied. Back to the nursery slopes for the second half, and it was now twenty-to-one for sure. There was a malenky bit of bad krovvy between the teams from the past encounter. Bolshy bald striker Himmer`s goloss was heard occasionally in protest at interference or infringement or incest but he battled on nevertheless giving and taking the odd nudge with professionalism, as did his skorry bratty, Day. There was little chepooka today.
BFC Sean came down in the box and Aranda the bolshy scored the sixth goal of the game. But it was an aberration, my brothers, of the conditions we played under today. Let`s not be deceived for the game was equipoised at this point. But everyone was getting a malenky bit tired and cold and starting to sneet about peeting warm sladky chai and toasted sandwiches – the starry amongst us at least. The Malchicks still burned up front – the starry Gray hoarding the ball well and smecking to himself - while a vast cavern of nothingness manifested in the middle of the pitch. I had to count our droogies to make sure we hadn’t lost any to the elements but no – they seemed to be huddled together around the fringes of the arctic landscape in an effort to stay warm and preserve life. This space caused a few poogly moments by inviting some of the bezoomy BFC defenders like Morson to itty through on his oddy knocky, unchallenged in search of a goal, o my brothers, it was not horrorshow at all. Even the footprints of the starry Lowes, the lone grey hungry wolf, were spotted in the snow around the box after Mignon had defused the various bombs.
But the malchicks sprung back and molodoy Sahara (A) banged in the second after a webbed build up. I could continue with more, my brothers, but by now my mozg was frozen and I no longer had any messel what was sloochating any more. More twenty-to-one, etc. etc. and then Jack the Referee, who did a horrorshow job throughout, finally put the whistle in his rot and ended the misery. 5-2 the final score, and 22 sets of yarbles probably destroyed.
Amen.
Report by Gary Quinn
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