April 25th: Turtles 4 (3) - Wellington United
Westpac 2 (2)
Crisis ? What crisis ? It is truly amazing what a few half-baked, alcohol fuelled theories can achieve. After last week's debacle, there was much discussion about the way we were playing, and, more importantly, our attitude to playing. For 18 years the Turtles had been turning up each Saturday, having a jolly good time, and, if not always winning, at least competing. Three thrashings thus far in 1998 had finally woken us up to the fact that without a bit of thought, and a lot more application, the ability to compete, win, and subsequently enjoy would die, and maybe the team itself too.
So a few changes were made. Most radical was an emphasis on defence, closely followed by putting Nick, a major source of running around, up front. The inspiration for this second move came from a spiritualist. Shades of Glenn Hoddle you think, but our spiritualist is not some highly paid consultant living in Hyde Park, drinking Pimms to aid her insights, and having a stable of poodles to provide sexual relief. Our truth-seer is a toothless drunk who lives in a cardboard box out the back of the railway station. As I made my way down to Freedom to pay a bill last Tuesday, I heard hoarse whispering as I walked past the rail yards. I stopped, but nothing. I was about to carry on, when the whisper came again, this time more audible. "The goblins are coming". Finding the source of this intriguing piece of information was not difficult, as I followed the stench of urine-soaked clothing around a billboard, to be greeted with a sight not fit to be described in this report. He told me his name was Mike, and he had something important to tell me. I stood at a safe distance, dry-retching, while he launched into a detailed account of a plan hatched on the distant planet of Blorg, the upshot of which was a fleet of spaceships carrying thousands of goblin-like creatures travelling at Warp 8 directly to Kilbirnie Park and taking over the world from there. I started to leave, but then he said "oh, and by the way, get that Nick out of midfield, he's interrupting the flow of your attacks". Naturally I inquired as to where we should move him to. Mike was clearly disgusted by my ignorance. "Up front, you pillock". I thanked him, politely declined the offer to inspect his genital scabs, made my excuses and left.
So we fronted up on Saturday for what we hoped would be a turn-around of our season. There was no data available on our oppo, new to the grade, due to me forgetting to ring the FA (a lovely bunch of chaps). Wilton Park has seen many a Turtle match in the past, and local knowledge meant we insisted on using their ball, and true to form it disappeared over the fence later on. The match began evenly, the only early action of note being in Steve's hamstring, which gave out and necessitated the writer of this report entering the sacred covenant of the back four. Unlike most covenants, this one does not enjoy totally harmonious relations between it's members, highlighted on this occasion by some abuse between Bobby and Dodge, apparently sparked by Bobby forgetting his name. Despite that, everyone else's planets were in alignment, and we started to get on top. Spratty was enjoying himself, taking the piss whenever he could. After darting into the box on the right, he switched it over to Simon (G) on the left, not a precise ball, but Simon controlled and finished from a tight angle.
All according to plan, and things looked rosy in the House of Eric. The game plan of slowing down and passing around was working. Their equaliser was against the run of play, but, in retrospect, not a bad thing, as it was a Dodger own goal, heading over the advancing Snout. If we hadn't been in such a serious, focused mood we may have laughed heartily, but not today. We pulled our sleeves up, got back to work, and promptly went 2-1 down. This time a completely miss-hit shot from outside the box curled into the top corner, which wasn't easy to do, considering the goal at that end was about a foot shorter than normal due to some bungling by the FA (nice bunch of chaps though). We pulled our sleeves up even further, exposing lots of cellulite, and soon after got our second. Nicko got a through ball, and expertly beat the advancing keeper. We were now playing well, and passing around with great control, particularly out of the back. Spratty was making some runs, and Don was plugging any holes in the middle. (Pity he didn't plug his arse in the changing rooms before the game, as some appalling smells escaped). Shortly before half-time we went ahead. Spratty got a loose ball on the edge of the box and had a shot. It was going wide, but fortunately was headed for the oppo defender with the biggest butt. After striking said arse, the ball departed that hairy, wobbling mass on it's new trajectory, straight in.
Half-time, and we could feel pleased with our efforts. Not so pleased with the drink though; SNO, but a bit watery. The return of Grunter, manager and drink maker maestro, from a weeks chortling in the South Island, is eagerly anticipated. The new, improved, serious Turtles were not about to relax though, and so started the second half with as much intensity as we finished the first. Dodge got a blister and went off, Nazim coming into the middle. It may surprise some readers that Dodger's blister was on his foot. The oppo's sporadic attacks were snuffed out efficiently, Simon (L) doing a lot of crucial tackling.
Most of our best play was coming through our wide, thin men, Phil and Wal. They were following the team plan by holding back a bit, and because of that had a lot more chances to collect the ball early and build attacks. Up ahead of them Simon, on the left, and Nick on the right were collecting skilfully, and in the middle Spratty was still taking the piss. Some nice work by Wal and Spratty got Nick inside the box on the right, and he put it through the keeper's hands for 4-2. At last we had a bit of cushion, and enjoyed the last 20 minutes. Gazza, who had been reffing officiously, came on for the last 10, and surprisingly did not see the need to punch anyone. We had a few of their attacks to deal with late on, but nothing to tax the well-respected accountant in our goal.
"Well Brian, how would you rate the Turtles performance today ?"
"Well Brian, the lads dug deep, gave 110 %, and at the end of the day got a result. But it's a long season, and one swallow does not make a blow-job".
"You can't say that on national TV, Brian"
"Piss off Brian".
Snouter coming off his line to meet the attack. The background jungle shows where the oppo regrettably lost 2 of their balls.