The deserved trouncing of the All Washed-Ups by the Socceroovitches over the past few days begs comparison with some of the finest cultural and sporting moments of Turtles football - the packed defence, the siege mentality, the running out of position to avoid conflict, the running out of position because you don’t know what position you are playing, the pace of the game (several dull pages of comparison deleted here - Ed) and the goalie.

And how is this for stretching a point - the Socceroos names collectively sound like the contents of a Bulgarian cocktail cabinet (even threw in some Muscat), whilst the All Wreckeds’ (and Turtles) usually play like you feel after having consumed the contents. (Enough! Ed)

Okay, okay (how did I know to write that?) (Last chance - Ed). Sorry, oh, yes, the goalie.

So surely comparison cannot be made between the forgettable Jason Batty and the equally forgettable Herr Snout-Lardmeister. Well yes it can, with a big push, a large bag of liquorice and a several lengths of coloured string.

For instance, has the Batty one been secretly dying his hair to give it that luminous grey glow under the glare of the stadium lights like we see of the Snouter at training. Well no, cos’ Snout never goes to training (and by the look of it neither does Batty).

And also his, well, shape if you see what I mean. Batty (rhymes with lots of things really, but fatty is one of them), seems to have put on considerable weight. Through the cunning use of technology, and the assistance of a convex mirror, the two net tenders (or net emptyers) look remarkably similar.

Spooky really.

Having braved the murk, drizzle and socio-economic distress of Fraser Park earlier in the season, the return to the spiritual home of Turtle football was something of a relief. Even the crowd turned out, threatening to reach double figures at one stage.

Man of the match was decided before the match even started. Deservedly Paily took the honours for turning up on time and giving the best excuse ever for being late the previous week -he was delivering a clock to a client. Why didn’t he just ‘fess up' and admit he was in the throes of nobbing an entire girl’s choir - the luds wouldn’t have minded (and some would have been dead impressed). Oh, he played okay as well.

The other notable performances pre-game were the determination of both Matt and Big Si to put their corporate drinking habits to one side for the match and finish with their wizened livers intact. Big Si (soon to renamed Simply-bloody-enormous Si) managed to finish just his third game all season, but given his lack of movement throughout (several of the oppo thought he was Buddha and started applying small amounts of ceremonial gold leaf to his body), it was hardly surprising.

Zil opened the scoring by flicking in a deft corner only to find a defender obliging enough to bustle it into the net. The claim for the assist was justified if only that Zil has, in the past, been equally generous in supplying assists for the oppo. Quid pro quo.

Stu narrowly misses the target

Time went on (as it does) with little shape in the game although the Turts were now starting to sweat out their excessive lager and were looking more menacing (especially when you took your glasses off) which resulted in several parents evacuating their children from the nearby playground and a clip round the ear from the local community constable.

Stu made it two with a nice finish from about a kilometre off side, the whole movement even more nicely finished by referee Spratty (the two words together make shudder don’t they?) who would not be swayed by the oppos protests or the Turts admissions.

Paily got the third before the half blasting the ball unnecessarily hard high into the top corner - gave the lads a testosterone boost (although El Tel declined as it might disturb his carefully manipulated chemical imbalance).

Second half started and the Turts played the other way (something the All Wrongs might care to remember next time they play), with Matt being the finisher scoring his seventh and eighth goads in three games, prompting some on the side lines to announce the arrival of the new Spratty. They quickly rescinded this when they acknowledged that might also include some of the Little General’s most unsavoury habits. Instead they decided Matt might be a new Stevie, at which point a convoy of white vans turned up and ….well, the rest was history.

The right hand side was working well if you’re the All Warpeds. In reality it was such a disaster that the scoring of goals became secondary entertainment.

Ross (pictured on the ball , above left) played with all the finesse of a cornered financier (which fortunately he is) while his co-offender GT (pictured above right) was given Tit of the Day on a split vote mainly after the photographic evidence that he feigned exhaustion after the match - GiT. Had a wagon wheel been done of their movement during the second half, it would have shown many small circles bearing no relation to either the position of the ball or the oppo players.Had they been horses, they would have both been put down early in the second half.

So five up and nothing to play for but the final whistle. Alas Spratty played on and on and on and on in the vain hope that Matt would get his hat-trick. And on and on and on ….

It was time for someone to take a definitive stand on the matter and get the game called off.

Enter his Lardship.

And stand, quite still, he did as he engineered a moment of high farce.

Scratching around in the unchartered territory beyond the six-yard line, how was he to know that a lolloping lob would womble over his head into the net.

He didn’t, but Spratty, now sensing the danger of playing extra time, the increasing likelihood of cardiac failure and a slim four goal cushion, put us all out of our misery.

For Snout, it was time to show just what makes a great goalkeeper, something Jason Batty hasn’t learnt. Make a mistake - immediately adjust your socks.

It’s these traditions that make the Turtles stand apart from the pretenders and keep the hosiery trade ticking over.