It always happens in the strangest ways.  You miss the little things, take them for granted or dismiss them as trivialities.

Our story starts just after half time. The Turts, 3-0 up, were defending a corner. Down in a crumpled heap in the six yard area went GT (possibly now the second best player of Asian extraction ever to play for the Turtles) as the ball floated across.

Small thing one – we had a ‘real live’ referee (who was actually quite small as well). Who blew the whistle. Arrogantly the Turts moved up the field sure it was a free kick and a chance to clear the line.  But no! He pointed to the penalty spot with one hand and to GT with the other.

Could this be happening – an innocent victim, almost crushed to death by two Tawa behemoths was now being cast as the villain. The penalty was duly converted and shortly afterwards GT took a spell during which he claimed to be as bemused as anyone about the decision.

But he looked no one in the eye as he said it.

Let’s roll back the clock to half time for small thing two – CJ (“Oh, sorry, can we edit that out?” “Yip, sure”). Umm, The referee actually. Our ‘real ref’ had had a quiet game – one toot of the whistle to start the match, three toots for Turts goals, and one for a penalty, duly described by Dodger as possibly the worst he had ever seen. But not quite so politely. Wal claimed he was toying with the Tawa players’ hearts and minds. He went for a fiver at fines, in absentia, obviously hurt by Dodger’s comments, or taking the opportunity to upload some more pics on his hand held.

At half-time, the referee went to the sheds, talking to himself quietly as he did so. The Turts stayed on the sideline. Or most of them did. GT had gone to relieve himself or tie his boots up or something.  Several minutes later he emerged with the referee and was seen, in the distance, chatting merrily to him all very buddy-buddy.

Small thing three - GT’s second half performance. Now your average conspiracy theorist would have though that as the Turts aged, the performances would have become less agreeable to the eye, but would still be of sufficient quality or humour to continue to draw the crowds (nine this week including all the Wilkinson’s).

So what was he doing?  A bursting run here and there, a plethora of attempted passes to the moribund complain-athon that the Tartan Tadger had become, jumping for headers, chasing down attacking Tawinians. Bu the score stayed stubbornly at 3-1.

Something was afoot. This level of commitment was seldom seen in such a meaningless game. Great friend and fellow-overly-smiling-sales-type-person Wal was trying to get the elusive fourth goal. But it turned out to be Flash (possibly the tallest bespectacled Turtle ever) who got it, playing a lovely one-two with someone else and yet another person who got a touch before Flash slotted home his first goal in the off-white and charcoal.

Strange thing four. Two Maliks turned up. GT looked round and sweated. The ref looked at his watch, the Maliks, GT and a small mole on the back of his hand.

GT, due for a break, stayed on – was it the Maliks or was it the score- he was trying to play inspiredly, a man possessed. And then Gordie rammed a goal in and stopped, momentarily, from moaning about this and that and how bad the service was, and why we didn’t play proper 4-4-2, and why was there a Chelsea supporter on the team, and what everyone else had done wrong, and the price of real estate and the problem with fat people and….

GT stopped sweating. He grinned. The ref grinned. Ten to go. Surely nothing could stop them now. GT reverted to form. Chances were missed, balls not run down, swivelling hips were swapped for two left feet.

“Peep, peep” and at 5-1, the match was done. Smiles all round, but none bigger than from the referee and the two shady characters now melting into the shadows with a small dark laugh.

Strange thing five – GT went for the traditional fiver as tit of the-day (”That’s not strange”. “No, but the next bit is”. “Oh – go on then”. Thanks, I will”.) Smilingly, even arrogantly, he pulled out a bundle of slightly crisp 20s (no new notes, no consecutives)

“Keep the change”.

 G “Cronje’ T was a rich man for a week. But the Maliks would be back. And the referee wouldn’t. And they would want more. And every pound of flesh would get harder and harder.

 THE END

 (Ring, ring)  “Stevie here. You’re supposed to mention Vanda in some lewd sexual context in the match report – what happened?”

 “I thought I’d do it subtlely and put lots of words like ‘pound’ and flesh’ and ‘harder’ and ‘rammed’ in – more for your subliminal reader”.

 “Okay, but still a little bit of straight “all-hands-to-the-pump” hanky panky with vivid descriptions and some strange Cockney phrases wouldn’t go a miss”.

 “Come on - I’ve got too much respect for her for that sort of thing”.

 “Is that why you always stand to attention when she comes in the room?”

 “She’s never come in a room when I’ve been there – doesn’t stop me standing to attention though- grrraaaoooowwwwwww!!!”

 “’Nuff said”.

 THE REAL END