July
27th: Turtles 0 - Miramar
3
by
Steve "Wolfman" Hambleton
It was
always going to be a battle between the centre-left and the centre-right. All
the predictions were for a comfortable victory to the favourites, but then the
weather always comes in to it, especially with these mid-winter occasions.
History records that a fine polling day swings matters to the left, whilst a
cold and wet one favours the right. When Wal pulled back the curtains and looked
out on the day, his spacious Khandallah backyard was brightly lit by a sun that
all week had been sulking behind dark clouds sipping Lemsip in his thermals, but
that now was joyously dodging in and out behind fluffy little cotton wool
clouds, wearing only a Panama hat. "Shit", said the centre-right leader.
All week his
party faithful had been deserting him, much as rats tend to start leaving a ship
that has just been parked against a wharf by a drunk Wellington Harbour Master
in a storm. Big Si and Stevie were absent due to being soft, Dodge preferred the
dubious delights of a party in Palmerston North (!!??), and Gordie had gone
fishing for golf balls, as he is too tight to buy his own. With Spratty still
away on his overseas business trip (currently trying to sell Wakefield Street
apartments to illiterate Vietnamese peasants), the attack and defence both
looked iffy. Back from honeymoon though was Daryl, a strong candidate with a
fresh-faced, youthful approach to the hustings. Showing no fear of the media
hounds, he had brought along his new wife to show off to the voters, even though
she appeared considerably more than two weeks pregnant. The voters took note.
The
incumbents, the centre-left, were led into the fray by a strong, confident
person who may or may not be a man. By the sounds of some of the squealing,
hand-bag throwing and panty-wetting that went on later, as the voting got tense,
the Privy Council is still out on that one. The centre-left candidates were
mostly male, from the North-East of Great Britain, and were all skilled with a
lathe. Opposing them, Wal's centre-right was made up mostly of accountants, with
the occasional flashy salesman thrown in for balance.
Voting
started at 2:30 sharp. The polling was to take place in the kindergarten made
famous by CJ's useless right boot, and the rules were simple: watch some footy,
then go in and vote, one tick for right or left, and another straight choice for
whether tomato or HP sauce was the best condiment for chips.
The first
trickle of constituents witnessed a fair amount of domination by the
centre-left, but a combination of woeful finishing and solid defence, notably by
Tel and PK in the middle, kept things even. Politics is not normally funny, but
there was one incident of pure slapstick, as the ball bounced around inside the
six yard box for quite a while, flailing legs making little impression on it,
until it finally skidded and spun past the post at low speed. The centre-right
custodian, the Rt Hon Snout, made a nice save low to his left, but mainly he was
watching the attempts go over - or in one case hit - the cross bar. The voters
weren't yet convinced though, and indeed it was nearly the right that made the
first move. In one of the few thrusts into enemy territory, enough pressure was
exerted for a hurried clearance by the centre-left defence. Murray, a
mild-mannered family man who keeps his friends close and his enemies closer,
pounced, and sent the leader away. Wal rounded the keeper, but it was a case of
one media luncheon too many, as the ball got away from him, and his finish hit
the side netting.
At about
this time the sideline throng was swelled by the arrival of the Hon. Manager,
Centre-Right, Grunter. Not content to sit at home and field calls from rival
parties seeking coalition spots, the big man donned his wellies and came out to
kiss some babies. The only chubby kid with a red face available was Al Murray, a
disappointing photo opportunity for the waiting press.
On the
field, the centre-right defence was practising for the inevitable second half
siege. Weasel, strongly anti-immigration (except Americans), was busy at left
back, but the other fullback, GT, preferred to adopt the chaos theory of
defending (favoured by Mao), and wandered off regularly. Murray and Chris tried
to get forward, with Chris in particular making some nice runs. But these became
futile after a while, as there was little or no forward momentum from anyone
else. The centre-left harried and hassled, and when that failed, resorted to
niggly tactics, such as media leaks and kidnapping. With 50% of the votes cast,
the outcome was still unclear. Dr Julius Erving from Vic Uni strolled around at
half-time with a stick, prodding at dog poo and talking about worms.
With the
benefit of a strong breeze, the centre-left now pulled out all the stops,
lunging at the soft under-belly of the centre-right with strong policies and
flattering camera angles. The public was starting to sway, but it wasn't over
just yet. For fully fifteen minutes, the chances continued to come and go
without bearing fruit for the aggressive lefties. Snout had all but seized up
with the cold, but somehow maintained dignity. He watched one dribbly shot roll
past him, and giggled nervously as it nicked a post and went wide.
Finally, the
left broke down their right, and the right's left crumbled. A short cross from
inside the box was nodded in from close range. Watching voters hurried indoors
to tick the left box. The future looked rosy for the left, but the right gave
one last dying twitch. Lance, who had looked like Jonathon Hunt after a big
lunch most of the day, got a break upfield, and fed Daryl as he ran free in the
box. The recidivist newlywed shot low to the left keeper’s right, but the
unionist stopper saved well. A short while later down the other end a dangerous
cross in from the left's left seemed to be covered by the heroic Telboy, and he
called accordingly. Unfortunately, the Pieman was already committed, and won the
challenge, sending a delightful looping header into his own net. This own goal
was the clincher for the voting public, as several graphs quickly illustrated.
It was
overkill as it was, but a third goal was smashed in off the cross-bar from the
edge of the box five minutes later, probably the only decent event in an
otherwise dire affair. For the last twenty minutes the combatants slung mud at
each other, hoping it would stick, but it was all pretty feeble.
The polling
booth closed at 4:06, and Mike Hosking started talking to himself at 4:07. The
centre-right were naturally devastated. There were instant calls for a
scapegoat, with fingers being pointed at virtually everybody. Wal made a brief
speech thanking his team for their efforts, and giving full credit to the
opposition, then disappeared into the showers with a razor.
The only clue
to the future of this once mighty force could be the sight, just seconds after
games' end, of two former captains speeding away in a Camry, headed in the
general direction of Palmerston North.
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