Endeavour Park entered the Turtle stats on Saturday as a new ground, and Turtle football also entered a new era. But surely our first game of Masters was last week, you say, sitting there sipping your second cup of tea of the day, as always accompanied by one of those raspberry slices from the cafe downstairs. It may be the fashionable thing these days to have those corn and cheese muffins that cost $4, but, lets face it, they're crap, and leave a taste in your mouth worse than watching Liverpool.

Well yes, technically last week was our first game, but on Saturday we saw for the first time the horrific spectacle that a game in Masters can become. There was a moment late in the second half when our forward line consisted of PJ, Lance and Lawrie, all of whom were woefully unfit, sporting physiques resulting from years of neglect, and claiming various injuries. Those already on the sideline swathed in bandages and ice coined the phrase "front row". It had all started so promisingly. The first 15 minutes were liberally sprinkled with sparkling attacks, mostly due the fact that we were given time and room. This allowed Spratty to dictate a lot of play, and with Daryl running into space in front, and Murray and Chris pushing forward too, chances came. Slightly rushed finishing, or good keeping by the oppo custodian kept all the early efforts out. Phildo was showing some delightful touches on the left, and was enjoying his second consecutive injury-free game for the first time since May '97 (he pushed fate too far later though, and two minutes after exclaiming "I can't believe how good I'm feeling", he limped off).

"I wish my team didn't play in kid's shirts!"

Anyway, one of his earlier passes led to the first Turtle goal of the season. It was through on a plate to Daryl who had made a good run directly towards the penalty spot. With only the keeper to beat he clinically scuffed it on to the post. Luckily it bounced back to him gently so he could nod it in. Soon after this, Simon decided that right back was not required, left a forwarding address with Dodge, and headed off for the rest of the game. His roaming took him all the way to the oppo six-yard box, where his first attempt on goal was a fluff. Later though, a bit further out, he pounced on a sliced clearance, and drilled it into the far bottom corner, with the help of a nice deflection.

"What the hell was that?!" exclaims the Wests defender as Big Si removes his butt plug

Now PJ entered proceedings. With his shaved head and skin-tight XXL shirt he looked menacing, and indeed his first touch was to put Daryl clear up the right. Daryl put it back in to him, and PJ's second touch could well have been a spectacular debut goal. Unfortunately he tripped over the ball and collapsed in an exhausted heap. A bit later, after catching his breath, PJ collected a Spratty pass just inside the box, turned twice to lose his defender, and was only denied by an age-defying keepers save. Now this may all sound good, but with everyone playing at being forwards, there were several hairy moments at Snouters end. PK, having been overlapping like a malnourished gazelle, had to rush back when Dodger got swamped, and was twice the last gasp tackler. Snouter and Dodge regarded all play in front of them as complete shite, and said so loudly and regularly. Snouter in particular appeared to have the painters in for the week, going completely apoplectic at one of Lances’ misses.

PJ's promising run is halted by a fine tackle from the goal post.

2-0 at half time was a bit of a shame, with the slight wind and all. Daryl was leaving (no explanation available), but surely more goals would come as our dominance continued. Spratty, Chris and Murray continued to run proceedings, but the signs were ominous - Spratty was enjoying himself. Especially after his goal. Wal, who was limping but still sporadically brilliant, charged up the right and fed Spratty on the edge of the box. He waited for a bit, no-one seemed to want to get in front of him, so he curled it into the top corner. Shortly after that his legs went. Then Phildo. Then Lawrie, at right half, announced a bad back, PJ claimed a sore ankle, and Lance admitted to being just plain knackered. Chris was still racing around, but suddenly lost all his passing ability, so our game basically stopped at half way. Murray and Si continued to make long runs, but that was just silly.

Tel sidestepping another invisible opponent

Inevitably, the oppo came back into it. They were extremely unlucky not to get a penalty when Si very, very, very nearly seemed to handle in the box, and Snouter had several difficult long shots looking into the sun. Tel was solid in the middle, but on taking it forward a bit later he played one of his dribbly passes (which as always was someone else’s fault - could have been his personal trainer, as Tel was talking of a sore bum from the previous days session) and there was trouble at mill behind him. Murray was trying to cover, and in so doing gave Dodge a description of the unmarked gentleman at the far post. Dodge seemed confused by this, and failed to recognise said attacker. A delightful cross found him out, and his header headed for the post. If Snouter had stood still he could have collected the rebound off the post, but he dived (sort of), and the ball dribbled over the line behind him.Now - You Apportion the Blame. Email, or phone 0900 TWAT (calls cost $10, regardless of whether you get through or not).Everyone was too old and tired to make a close finish out the last ten minutes, and although most of the play was in our half, nothing of great consequence occurred in terms of goal-mouth action. Our defence kept it together, with assistance from Murray and Chris.

"Where's the rest of my bloody defence gone?!" cries Dodger

Now speaking of Chris, Turtle Management doesn’t like to be kept in the dark. And we aren’t talking about Grunter here - the real management; the big time power players who really pull the strings in the Turtle empire. A disparate yet cohesive group who keep a low profile, and only occasionally meet (airport lounges, video-conferences, Thai brothels), these are the men who make the organisation tick, and fix problems with a short phone call. Funds are secured, appointments made, and troubling opponents are killed. So when the FTFC fronted up with a few new players this season, this reporter was promptly asked for a brief dossier on each one. Lance, Lawrie, Frankie and PJ - no problem. Their backgrounds (as well as a few juicy details to store away for the future fine sessions, especially for PJ) were easily obtained through the use of standard SIS files. But Chris was a problem. All searches came back negative, so the net was widened. FBI, CIA, MI5 and KGB - nothing. It soon became clear that “Chris”, if that was his name, had covered his tracks pretty well. Next step was a bit of imaging work. “Chris” had his photo (snapped secretly during last week’s game) matched with everyone in the world. This took the Pentagon central computer 3 days. The result was startling, and some very big names suddenly became interested. And we’re not talking Alex Ferguson here either.Tall, thin, very fit. Short, greying hair - clearly a disquise. Very cleanly shaven. Quite placid, yet capable of the odd outburst, judging by some of those tackles last week. An extremely suspect Devonshire accent. It’s not hard is it?

"Chris" in disguise

So how is it that the world’s most wanted man has turned up in the Turtles midfield. Seeking an interview, your intrepid reporter followed him after practise on Wednesday. This wasn’t easy - after leaving Anderson Park in a nondescript Toyota, Osama, as we now know him, drove quietly to the New World on Molesworth Street. In the underground carpark he jumped out, and into the open door of a black Cadillac with tinted windows, and this left the carpark at high speed, with a black Ford Explorer in front and behind it. Keeping up with Osama now was tricky, as the cavalcade sped up Tinakori Road, with passengers in the rear vehicle firing sub-machine guns at any car or pedestrian that looked a threat. Luckily my driver, Claude, was expert at such pursuits, and kept us within sight but out of range. Until we lost him, just at that roundabout up the top there, by the garage. There was nothing for it but to cover the streets in a methodical, grid-like search, which we did after stopping at the dairy in Northland for a strawberry thickshake and a packet of peanut M & M's.

Picking up the trail was actually quite easy, as the wrecked cars and dead pedestrians were a bit if a clue. Finally we arrived at a nondescript mansion overlooking Wilton Bush, that was surrounded by a 12 foot concrete wall topped with barbed wire, and patrolled by two Russian attack helicopters with searchlights. On buzzing the intercom, this future Pulitzer prize winning reporter was ushered into a nice bright drawing room and given a nice cup of tea. The furnishings were spartan - several Turkish rugs, some Kadima leather sofas, a grand piano, and a picture of the Queen Mum. Osama walked in shortly after my arrival. Due to technical difficulties (my tape-recorder jammed), and an appalling memory, none of what we talked about can be repeated here, but the gist is that he is a lovely, misunderstood man, and just wants to play footie and be left alone. Fair enough, is the official line of this suddenly wealthy but soon to be dead reporter.