August 14th: Turtles 4 (4) - Island Bay 2 (1)
By Steve "Don-a-fur" Hambleton
As I was led back to my cell I reflected on a good days work. Island Bay had
been dispatched again, and the end of the season was one game closer. The 100
goal target was still a possibility, albeit remote after a diffident display
from the fading star that is Gordie and a feisty display by the oppo.
It isn't so
bad in prison, but it's great to get out now and again. Well, I had to really -
Snouter was again struggling to put a team together, and there was a yawning gap
at left back.
I'm not at
liberty to say just why I'm currently residing at Her Majesty’s pleasure, but
you'll no doubt hear about it in the not-too-distant future, when my case comes
up. Some pretty heavyweight names will be dragged through the press, not to
mention Scottish Castles, Single Malt, and unusually shaped roller-coasters.
It really is
amazing whom you meet in clink. Access to the internet and email means that
people can conduct their entire lives from behind bars, and no-one would ever
know. I suppose it was no surprise to bump into Don Guthrie, given his history
of GBH. The Don has created quite a little empire for himself based on fear and
kicks to the cods. The fabrication of a career change to be Ski Instructor at
Coronet Peak, followed by a claim that he was staying on in London for another
year at Bill Gates's request to organise a project for BT just sounded too
far-fetched - the only instructing and organising he does is of his bitches in
the showers.
But the
Wilkinson twins - there was a surprise. Weasel's so-called trip to the States
was nothing more than a paddy-wagon ride up the hill. Glenn was a more recent
arrival, following a man-hunt through Wilton bush. Their brutal reign of terror
in the child-care business had led to a string of convictions for extortion.
Apparently hundreds of toddlers were kidnapped by this vicious pair of thugs
between 8 and 9 on Monday mornings, and the poor little tykes weren't given back
until their parents paid up the $40 hourly rate. They'd even roped in their
mother to cook endless trays of rusks. Horrific.
Telboy's was
a more unfortunate story. Since marrying Meropi he had been unwittingly acting
as a courier for her sophisticated drug-running business. Every morning she
slipped a little package into his posing pouch as he headed off to the gym, and
this was intercepted in the changing rooms by his "personal coach". Poor old Tel
was done like a good lamb kleftiko when Meropi mysteriously qualified for the
Greek Olympic team as a synchronised swimmer and jetted out with Stefanos two
hours before the drug squad raided.
Spratty's
appearance in the white-collar wing is hardly unexpected. The increasingly
lavish life-style was just the indicator the fraud squad needed to connect him
to a spate of recent applications for state housing aid by respectable
middle-age couples from Wellington. A last minute attempt to drink his
ill-gotten gains was thwarted by untimely liver failure.
Lord Lucan
and Jim Hickey the former weather-man are also here, and share a cell, but they
mainly keep to themselves, playing extended games of Cluedo.
Weasel and
myself had slipped out in the laundry van to play the previous week, but that
had prompted a security crackdown, so on hearing that the Turtle captain was in
need again, a new plan was required. As I was on assignment to the prison
garden, the solution was obvious: stick up a big poster of the Manchester City
Team of 1973 (Franny Lee, what a god), and progressively chip away at the
two-foot concrete wall behind it using a small trowel, depositing the residue
behind the vegetable patch. Once through the cell wall, it was a simple task to
clamber down to the sewer network below, break open a hole in the main pipe, and
crawl the mile and a half to the outlet using elbow propulsion.
On match
day, I put the news around at breakfast that my hole was ready. Don was excited
for a while, but on hearing that it was an escape plan, decided to pass. Spratty
was hooked up to drips, so reluctantly declined. Weasel was keen, but his wife
was bringing the kids for a visit, and he had to have a shave and a haircut. So
it was just going to be me, Tel and Glenn. After morning sing-along (selected
songs from Les Miserables), we headed to my cell for a game of draughts. I put
up the life-size mural of three inmates playing drafts in a cell, and we headed
out. The sewer was chocker from the remnants of that morning's breakfast of
curried eggs and porridge, and the stench made us wretch and spew during the
three-hour crawl, but that was ideal weight loss in preparation for the big
game. That prison food really seems to pack on the pounds. So we arrived at
Wakefield Park a little whiffy, but all fired up.
The blustery
Northerly wafted away most of the stench, as the Turtles won the toss and played
with it. You'd expect the Turtles to pile on the goals early doors with a strong
wind at their backs, but you'd be wrong. Island Bay played with great control
into the wind, and, aided by some inept defending by yours truly, had the better
early chances. Time and again the ball was cleared in my direction, and without
fail I made a hash of it, freeing up the fleet-footed winger who was assigned to
my side. Snouter had to make a very early save, and Tel and Dodge cleaned up
some of the other messes. Up the other end, Gordie was a shadow of his former
self (footy-wise, not size-wise). A back complaint has seen this once dominant
force reduced to a shuffling old lard-arse who is starting to resemble Spratty
in the last ten years of his career. Honest endeavour was mainly coming from PK
down the right, and Tel when he went forward (which was little too often for
comfort, to be honest). But I suppose he was in the right place to nod on a
wayward ball into the path of a rampaging Glenn, who finished efficiently for
the first goal after about 20 minutes. Before and after this numerous corners
had been wasted due to poor delivery - get a good lawyer Weasel, we need you.
The play
wasn't great, but at least the strong wind was providing us with plenty of
attacking ball. Breaks from the oppo were still providing problems though,
especially when Tel or Si had gone wandering. Finally we managed a bit of
control to score a few more times in a good patch. Glenn turned in a harmless
ball from the right, a defender mis-controlled and handled, and I stepped up to
slot the pen. Then from a nice move Tel picked out PK over on the right, and
naturally he did a few turns before curling in a shot which nestled gently in
the far corner after a Gordie challenge had confused the keeper. Then for our
last goal a Tel long throw was nodded down by Gordie into the path of Si ten
yards out and he buried a low shot exuberantly. So all well and good, and we
pressed for another goal to make things more comfortable. It was my turn to
press forward up the left, but when things broke down it was my (now unguarded)
flank that provided the problem. Boy came across to help, and seemed to have it
under control, but dithered, was dispossessed, and a toe-poke went under Snouter
for 4-1 at the break.
Not at all a
comfy lead given the quality of the oppo and the strength of the wind. The
second half started promisingly enough, with some good passing, but Gordie just
wasn't controlling the ball up front like he used to, and as a result we
couldn't really push up. Glenn and Muzza were constantly back helping out, as
were PK and Mike wide. Fortunately, Tel and Si were solid at the back. The
regular aerial threats (including corners) were generally cleared
satisfactorily, and Snouter actually had very little real work. The oppo hardly
ever got into our box, a tribute to the defence. There were a few scares though,
with myself and Muzza making clearances from inside the six-yard box that were a
bit hairy, and there were several clear shooting chances, but these were wasted.
The oppo's one second half goal was a classy header from a corner, the only time
Tel was beaten all day. Our own attacks didn't amount to much, just one free
kick from me troubling their keeper. Hard work all round, but a satisfying
performance against a team who could well have got a lot closer, and for the
three of us on the lamb a nice break from prison routine.
It wasn't
until the showers after the game that the Armed Defenders Squad finally made
their move. I was all soaped up when they burst in, firing randomly at the muddy
old men in various states of undress. Snouter caught one in the arse, but it was
mainly the Island Bay players who ate lead. To be honest, they were mercy
killings.
Eventually
Tel, Glenn and I were identified, cuffed, and led away. It was a fair cop, and
it least it helped us avoid the later fine session.
So here I
am, being led back to my cell by two burly guards. The final few yards take me
past some of the most notorious criminals ever known. John Coffey, who killed
them two little girls up at the old swamp, is crying as he always does. "How'd
you go, Boss?"
"A 4-2 win,
John. Now you just lie down and go to sleep now, y'here."
"OK, Boss,
OK."
Multiple
Mick, the Irish serial killer, was luckily resting between strokes. A well
directed flick of his wrist can fell a man from 10 yards.
Doctor
Lecturn, in the last cell before mine, stood motionless in the shadows at the
back, and as we came up in line with his cell door he spoke.
"How did you
get on, Stephen?" The guards stopped, ready for trouble.
"4 -2 win."
"Good.
That's very good. Now tell me about the Turtles. Were they....sexy? Were
they....loud? Did you want to tell them to stop the crying and the whingeing?"
"No, pretty
quiet really. Island Bay were amicable enough, and there wasn't much to complain
about. Except for Dodge and Gordie having a go at each other I suppose."
Doctor Lecturn
now stepped forward out of the shadows, his black eyes shining in the harsh
light. "Dodge and Gordie. I see. Big chaps aren't they. Probably have enlarged
livers. I must visit them for dinner sometime. Ffftffftfffftfftftftftfft".
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