The table-topping Turtles travelled to Karori Park for the first time this season, to take on Brooklyn B. Based on past games against Brooklyn, this promised to be the first of many ‘harder’ games, after three wins against slightly weaker opposition so far. The peculiar status of us being top of Masters Div One was about to change.

From kick-off, the pace and skill of the oppo, particularly up front, was a wake-up call for the lads, lulled by the previous easier games. With Ratty away, the midfield would have been a worry had it not been for Rohan, who gets better all the time, and the inclusion of Gary, a mate of GT’s with a history of playing footy at high level. Despite not having played for seven years (allegedly), Gary had a solid look about him. With Chris chasing around, we had a bit of parity in the middle, but at either end it was a different story. Gordie was being man-marked by a large, aggressive oaf, and our back four had to contend with two quick and fast forwards.

It was an intense opening. The first keeper called into action was Brooklyn’s, when a hopeful through ball to Gordie required him to come out. Gordie put in a late-ish toe, to which the keeper took exception, and he threw the ball at Gordie. Spratty was reffing, and diffused the situation, to such success that the rest of the game was generally OK, and the oppo demeanour in the stats later was ‘affable’.

After a few scares, the oppo No. 9 finally opened the scoring. He got a nice through ball, and with GT in earnest but rather pointless pursuit, he approached goal and slotted past Snout. This was entirely with the run of play, but the next chance was at the other end. Darrin advanced up the left, and shifted it into the middle. A clearance came out to PK on the right corner of the box, and he steadied himself before putting in a shot which curled onto the post and bounced harmlessly away.

Shortly after that Gordie got a good bounce and was clear, but his lob hit the cross bar. Wal, flying in, got to the rebound first, but couldn’t direct his header on target.

By late in the second half, things were starting to look worrying. Tel was on, but limping around with his dodgy hammy, Spratty had appeared, yes, Spratty, and Oscar was gone with Turtle knee (after a non-ball touching appearance). The resources were low. Darrin was sporting his third most concerned look.

On the sideline, the crowd, which today included such notables as Bobby, Flash, Simon Garret (the original BHOA), and billionaire media mogul Rupert Murdoch, were relieved to hear the half-time whistle. The Turtles only just seemed to be hanging on. It didn’t seem like having the slope and light breeze in their favour in the second half would be enough against these energetic and useful opponents.

Rupert Murdoch? You may well ask, and to explain we need to go back to Friday morning, EST, and a nondescript Manhattan building…

Rupert Murdoch cleared his throat and the conversations around the table stopped. Gathered in the boardroom were his senior executives, here for their weekly meeting. They flew in to New York each Friday morning from the far-flung reaches of Murdoch’s media empire, and gathered on the lower floor of Murdoch’s Fifth Avenue triplex at 11am.

Murdoch had been up since 5am as usual, and was in a good mood.  Having already got shot of a pesky little Canadian newspaper, and picked up a promising Indian digital software company for a song, his breakfast with the Mayor of New York had then gone exceedingly well. Waffles and bacon washed down with generous helpings of crawling from a Mayor who was keen to get re-elected next time round.

The media mogul looked around the team gathered in his boardroom, and gave a little smile before beginning. “I have a new target. I want Jetplane Press, publishers of the Fabulous Turtles match reports. I like their style. They manage to be entertaining, informative and insulting all in one.”

Bob Clipper, Vice President for Mergers, Acquisitions, and Squashing Opponents like Bugs latched on to this as being his responsibility. “I’ll get Henry on to that right away, Rupert. Any price ceiling in mind?”

“No, Bob, I’m going to handle this one myself. The Lear is waiting at Le Guardia, and I’m heading off there by chopper as soon as we’re finished here.”

“But hang on chief, it’ll take the best part of a day to get to New Zealand. Is that really good use of your time?” Celia Shanks was Murdoch’s private secretary, and didn’t like surprises in his schedule. “You have a dinner with The President tonight, and a weekend at Hyannis Port,

with the Kennedys. Arnie’s bringing some Cuban cigars.”

“Cancel. And I’m not taking the Lear all the way to New Zealand, don’t be stupid. This trip is doubling as a bit of investment research. Richard Branson is meeting me at Cape Cod. He’s giving me a ride to New Zealand in his prototype sub-space commercial airliner. He wants some money. It’ll take three hours to get there. Right. Next up: spitting. Brian, I don’t want to see any more soccer players spitting on my coverage, sort that out…..”

It was early afternoon on Saturday when Branson’s airliner landed at Peter Jackson’s private airstrip near Masterton. The two billionaires strolled down the steps, and looked back up at the gleaming vessel. Murdoch was suitably impressed. “I like it, Richard. How much money do you want?”

“Relax, we’ll talk money later”, said the Stowe old boy. “The Virgin Girls have got a bit of party organised for the afternoon.”

Murdoch couldn’t have helped but notice the five gorgeous, buxom ‘stewardesses’ on board the plane, but he wouldn’t be distracted from his business. “Thanks, but Peter has offered me the use of his chopper, and I’m heading down to Wellington to look at a business prospect.”

“No problem. See you back here in five hours for the return flight.” Branson waved, and headed off with four of the Virgin Girls in the direction of a giant spa pool that sat under a marquee at the end of the runway. The fifth, Jenna, got into a waiting taxi, while Murdoch walked over to the waiting chopper.

Jenna jumped out of the taxi at the South Park Motel, and headed straight for Room 12. She walked straight in without knocking, went straight through the living room area, unbuttoning her blouse as she went, and into the bedroom. Her lover was sitting up in bed, visibly ready for her.

Vanda let the sheet drop from her chest. “Hi, honey. It’s been too long.”

Murdoch, meanwhile, was dropped off at the top of Wrights Hill, and enjoyed the stroll down to Karori Park. He collected his thoughts as the bracing air filled his lungs. The offer may come as a surprise to the owners of Jetplane Press, so he had to be careful to ensure them their name and reputation would remain intact. There was no limit to the amount he would offer, but he was also anxious not to ruin these small town nobodies by giving them too much and having them disappear into retirement in some sad little coastal resort.

He arrived at the ground and soon spotted his target, the tall, lumbering figure known as ‘Grunter’. Murdoch’s preparation was, as always, comprehensive, and as the game began, he approached Grunter, introduced himself, and headed into a bit of small talk about golf, banking and The Wiggles.

The big fellow was putty in his hands by the time Murdoch brought up the question of a take-over of Jetplane Press. “I’d like to offer you three hundred million dollars for the controlling interest in Jetplane Press.”

Grunter chortled heartily. “Hehaw. Very good. Funny.”

Murdoch had expect this, and carried on. ”You and your team will of course retain all rights to content, but I would be taking over international publishing, book deals, and film rights. I’d be opening up offices for you in New York, London and Cannes, and put all your writers on a salary, ranging from a quarter to half a million a year.”

‘Hehaw. Look, I’m a bit busy right now. It’s nearly halftime, and I need to get the SNO ready. I’ll get back to you.”

Murdoch waited patiently as Grunter went about his managerial duties. The deal was teetering on a knife-edge. This guy was good. Very good. In a few minutes the lads were having their drink and Grunter was standing aside, looking uncomfortable. Murdoch went over. “I need at least some sign of interest, otherwise I may have to walk.”

Grunter shrugged. “I don’t think I can help you. Sorry Rupert.”

“Damn you, Grunter. This is not the last you’ve heard of me.” Murdoch turned and stomped off across the ground.

Bobby wandered over. ”Who was the old guy?”

“Beats me,” Grunter said, “worst case of senile dementia I’ve seen since Grandad forgot to drop his trou going for a dump. Must be an escapee from the old folks’ home.”

 The second half started with Darrin sporting his second most concerned look. But there was a little bit more Turtle attacking coming down the hill. Spratty had remembered how to run, and came rampaging down the right. He squared to Gordie, but the poor wee laddie had obviously had an enormous lunch (every day for the last year), and his belly got in the way, resulting in a fumbled shot.

The main attacking action was coming through Wal up the right, who was showing as much toe as a Roman sandal to torment his feisty opposing fullback. He won a corner, and popped it over for Tel on the far post, who nodded back, but Rohan’s shot was straight at the keeper.

Tel by now was limping around aimlessly, occasional popping into left back (his current position) to check his messages. As well as his hammy injury, he was clearly put out by the lad’s pre-match reaction to the contents of his kit bag. Sheer, black, see-through striped undies, a corset, and silk lacy boxer-shorts are surely just normal attire for any red-blooded Kiwi bloke.

The oppo didn’t know about this, so were unaffected and kept on coming. Their second goal arrived after about ten minutes, as their quick forward zipped up the left, played a one-two, and slotted it low past Snouter. Darrin now sported his MOST concerned look.

But now the game seemed to change a bit. Perhaps the oppo subbed off a couple of their better players. Perhaps their high energy approach started to take its toll. Perhaps that old Anzac, sorry, Turtle spirit started to kick in. Whatever it was, after 15 minutes, the Turtles grabbed one back, and it was game on. A big clearance from Snout was missed by their central defenders, and bounced a few times before it fell for Spratty. He advanced on the box, held it up nicely, then fed Gordie, who make a clinical low finish.

A short time later, Wal came whizzing round the right, and squared to Spratty, but all he could manage was a feeble old man’s shot straight at the keeper. Then it was Spratty’s turn to come forward and square to Gordie, but all he could manage was a feeble fat man’s shot straight at the keeper.

Rohan, wide on the left, decided all this lovely dribbling and passing wasn’t going to work, so hoofed in a long, high ball. The oppo keeper completely misjudged the bounce, it went over him, and Gordie was on hand to tap it into the empty net. His celebration, of showing his belly to the crowd, was put on report by the ref, Flash. Let’s hope the WSA deal with it harshly.

There was action and injury everywhere now. Spratty was clear in on goal, but again could only manage another old man’s shot. PK cramped up and came off. Tel wouldn’t have looked out of place with a zimmer frame, and Gordie had to come off to change his boots because of blisters. Spratty then twisted his ankle, but around the same time Rohan had to leave to catch a flight, so there were no subs left.

The only possible source of a goal was Wal on the right, and he obliged. Yet another dynamic run, a square ball, and Gordie seemed likely to be the hero. But a defender stopped his attempt, and the ball rebounded out just passed the six yard box. Everyone turned – the ball lay unattended, waiting for someone to make the decisive move. Who would it be?

Darrin had had a tough week. ‘er-in-doors had not been in doors, but over in Florida buying a house, and Darrin had three kids with colds to deal with. Writing the cheque for the baby-sitter was arduous. There’d been the phone calls asking his opinion (ha, ha) on various houses, and then the news that she’d, sorry, they’d chosen one that overlooked the 8^th green of a golf course.  Departure from these shores was a step closer. The emotions this brought on swirled around inside the ageing Nomad, and he needed an outlet. And here, suddenly, was the ball, sitting around innocently. Darrin smashed the fuck out of it into the roof of the net, sported an elated look briefly, then collapsed with a ripped calf muscle, and was helped off. 3-2.

The rest of the game, about another ten minutes, was tragic. There were broken men limping around all over the place. Tel, PK and Spratty were immobile. The oppo seemed knackered (deflated?) as well. Dodge, Si and Gary held things together in the middle, and Wal was imperious on the right. There were still a couple more chances to the oppo’s quick forward, but he put both just wide. Flash, who reffed the second half, inexplicably played the whole 45 minutes, and maybe more. To exasperated yells from the sideline, he finally called it. Phew. Great comeback win, but off the top of the table (on goal dif).

 Disclaimer: Any resemblance in the above report to anyone living, dead or stupid is not intentional, and any offence taken is regretted by Jetplane Press. Complaints can be forwarded to the Webmeister, and will be reviewed for texture and softness during his daily trip to the dunny.