Once again this reporter is stuck. Looking for an angle on another dreary loss in a game we could have done better in. The match reports this season have tried a few variations, including complete disregard of the match entirely, hot girl-on-girl action, and the homicidal delusions of goal-keeping accountant. A few have even taken a detailed look at the games themselves, a slant that is popular among our site visitors that are aged between 27 and 31, single, own a cat, and live in rented accommodation.

The various report writers this year will know that you get out of the experience what you put in. Snouter apparently finds the experience very cathartic, purging his soul of all the disgust that he tries to vent on the field but no-one can hear. Weasel likes to whip up something brief and to the point, usually at 11pm on a Sunday night, just before he cleans up the latest emission of child puke off the carpet. He doesn't waffle on, and many appreciate that. Dodge on the other hand prefers the intricately crafted thriller, usually involving the death or maiming of one or more Turtle at the hands of another. Again it is hoped that this represents a release of sorts into fiction at the expense of potentially real events. And as for Wal, well we eagerly await his report next week. It has apparently already been drafted, and the previews included hot tubs, Pippi and "a friend", and liberal helpings of banana splits.

PK was the latest to add his name to the very short list of report authors. His effort last week showed a lot of promise, and drew the ultimate praise from Weasel - "I liked it actually". With those heartening words warming his soul, PK will surely want to try again next year.

As for this report writer, the much sought after "angle" sometimes arrives late on a Friday morning, helped along by a liberal dose of staring out the window. The idea is then given some substance that afternoon, depending on workload. It won't be giving away too much company confidential information to say that on a Friday afternoon, an organisation based on a dying communication trend (delivering letters) isn't that busy.

Last Friday, in a open-plan area of 20 odd desks, there was the sum total of 5 people. Yours truly, two people viewing TAB odds, and two IT geeks giving each other emotional hand-jobs whilst talking loudly about the previous nights network gaming scores on Command and Conquer.

Amongst this seething cauldron of industrial efficiency, the seeds of an epic were sown. It was a tale of King Ben of Burn, a huge, hairy bear of a man, whose fortress was being invaded and over-run regularly by wandering hordes of unwashed heathens. Time and again, so the story potentially went, his defences were attacked and breached. His braves knights fought to the death, but were hampered by age, ill health, and the lack of a really class striker.

By 4pm on Friday, when the bar opened, the tale was all but told. Spell check was run, and it was saved onto a disc alongside six previous match reports, a couple of CV's and a game of pool.

But, you know, that story just didn't stack up to a re-read. It lacked punch, and the girl-on-girl scene, featuring Princess Pippi and her hand-maiden Clymidia, was missing spark. Even a bit of tampering, involving the introduction of Ariola, the laundry girl with a taste for anchovies, couldn't redeem it. So it was cut, pasted and saved for a rainy day, and it was back to the ironing board. Five shirts and a pair of jeans (don't ask) later, and still nothing. Oh dear.

So here we are. There's nothing for it but to open with a detailed description of Big Si's leaking breasts. Like all blokes who beefed up alarmingly from youthful sporting achievement (in this case rowing), Si is now paying for that with a sagging chest that wouldn't disgrace one of Liz Hurley's Versace cast-offs. Just how real those were, the lads found out in the changing rooms before the game. On stripping off his sweat-shirt, Si revealed a vest that sported two large damp patches around the nipple area. For the mother of a three-week old baby this would be understandable, but as Si is only the father (apparently), this presented a medical curiosity worthy of journalistic investigation. Stammered mumblings of vaseline to prevent chaffing went largely unheard.

Feeling slightly nauseous, the lads wandered out into the cool winter air. The park was windswept and deserted. There were in fact only 22 people present. One of those had to ref, so we started with ten. This shameful situation had been on the cards all season, and with Tel and Muzza out with knee-knack, Steve L arriving late, and Wal having been told by Sean and Massimo that "sure, we'll be there, can't wait", it finally happened. Luckily, Boss arrived well before he normally does, at about the fifteen minute mark, and gleefully took the whistle, but by then we were one down. The wind had helped our early endeavours, but we were starting to get a bit stretched by the oppo's good passing and running out wide and up front. The first real bit of pressure saw a hopeful shot rebound back nicely for an oppo midfielder on the edge of the box, and he had plenty of time to pick out a spot. That spot was the inner third of the far post, from whence the ball dribbled back behind a stranded Snout, finally nestling gently against the opposite side netting.

Watching that goal was not unlike witnessing a car smash in slow motion. The defining moment of the match, which happened up the other end about fifteen minutes later, was more like watching a small car rolling down a slight incline at about 3 miles an hour, finally coming to rest against plywoood wall, behind which sits a table, on which sit 11 crystal glasses half full with SNO. The table is bumped, and the glasses totter slightly before falling to the ground, smashing, the SNO expelled onto the ground like the wasted seed of....

Er, where are we. Yep, we were playing well with 11 on the park. Si was getting forward up the middle, Stevie and Weasel were getting up the left (more on that later) and Wal was getting around the back, up on the right. Several corners and a few hopeful long shots didn't threaten, but when Si had a twenty-yarder tipped over the bar, you felt it was getting close. Another Wal thrust, and he was in. Dancing around in the box like a New Orleans lap-dancer (not that he would know anything about that) the oppo couldn't resist stuffing a fiver in his shorts, and Wal made the most of it. Grunter blew the whistle, suppressed a chortle, and up stepped Weasel.

He should never have taken it. Sleep deprived, approaching unemployment (again), considering getting a wig - the Weasel's state of mind was never going to cope with this pressure. His scuffy, dribbly effort slightly ruffled the tufty grass just outside the right post, but like all grass, this clump was pretty hardy, so after a brief flurry of abuse and a wave of the fingers, it soon settled down again.

Where to from there? A lesser group of players would hang their heads, and meekly allow the oppo back into the game, eventually conceding a second soft goal that would make any sort of recovery extremely unlikely. And, so did we. A muffed clearance, a lucky bounce, a quick ball into space, an efficient turn and shot. These are all things that can happen on any given Saturday.

SNO was a welcome half-time tonic. The good old "navel" is one of the few things still attaching the current team to that first motley group of cricketers from 22 (or so) years ago. The other thing is Bobby. Now living so close to Ben Burn you can smell the chips when they come out of the oven, Bobby is clinging onto his semi-retirement desperately. The fact that he agreed to ref the second half shows that his resolve is weakening, and he may well grace Div 2 next year. Up front only though.

So the Turtles trudged back out for the second half. Was there really any hope of a recovery? Well, certainly. Our second halves this season have been generally good, with plenty of heart being shown. But heart, spirit and daring-do won’t get the ball in the back of the old onion-bag, as the old saying goes.

(For a full transcript of the full old saying, please send a stamped self-addressed envelope to PO Box 3, Dunstable).

After about 10 minutes of thrust and counter-thrust, the oppo settled back to sit on their lead. Their attacks were sporadic, and were general dealt with by Dodge. The smarmy bastard, rightly vilified for his performance the previous week, was back to his clinical best. Well, he had to be really, because Si and Stevie had wandered off upfield. As the half wore on, this absence of half the back four became less and less of an issue, but Weasel was still getting rather upset about having to cover Stevie’s furry butt. There even appeared to be a bit of hand-bag swinging too. The Fight-for-Life contracts are on their way.

When they weren’t bickering, the lefties combined to put Stevie away on goal, but his shot was feeble. In fact, the Turtles had about 10 feeble shots in the second half, and one good one. Bobby gave a free-kick for handball just outside the area, and Si strolled up, under instructions to smash it hard, and never mind the accuracy. This he did, missing the top corner by about a foot.

The other notable misses came from Wayne and Lance. Wayne was putting in sterling work, helping out the midfield and attack, and look set for reward when he received a square ball inside the area, and had time to shoot – with the usual result.

And Lance was given a peach of a ball by Chris after a break, but with only the keeper in front of him he completely failed to control the ball.

The play wasn’t bad, it’s just that we lacked the final pass or touch. Too much stuff went aerially into the box, where their big defenders handled it all comfortably, and when the oppo went to full siege mode, there just wasn’t any room for a control and turn on the ground. Frank and Lance kept trying, but were pretty well shut out by the massed defence. Chris, with varying degrees of help from Wal, Wayne and Phildo, had the run of the midfield, and with a bit of work on his final pass will be a great player when he gets a bit more experience under his belt.

One game to go, and Div 2 beckons. There are some who say we should stay in Div 1 if given the choice, as we aren’t exactly getting thrashed every week. That is question for next season’s AGM. The only concern of this report writer is how to get this match report up to the 2000 word mark. It’s a benchmark that has caused problems this year, and there may have to be a review in the close season. There just doesn’t seem much point in meandering along for no real reason, other than to achieve a meaningless milestone. But hang on a minute; there is yet no mention of Kylie, Myoshi or Sarah Ulmer. This could go on and on. How about all three of them, in a hot tub, with Pippi, the Pope and Archbishop Mycarios. And string, we’ve got to have string, lots of it.

Bring on the summer. We need a rest.