As the Mighty Valains slept soundly in their beds, a chain reaction of forty three years of abuse finally took it’s toll on our fair Mother Earth. Fossil fuel burning and carbon dioxide emissions had loosened her clothing and finally a small campfire lit by some drunk teenagers on Stagborough hill took her virginity by force. As the transatlantic current sputtered, jerked softly then stopped, two thousand miles away in Kidderminster a single snowflake dropped from the heavens and fell silently to earth. Not content to be lonely, the solitary flake called in reinforcements and suddenly man was under attack, not from itself for once, or from outer space, but the very planet we held so dear was turning its back on us and farting in our general direction. By the time the alarms went off, thirteen metres of snow had fallen, the clock tower in town only just visible above a blanket of white.
Folks had gathered in the library but the Mighty Vale knew what they must do, for they were the chosen few. They must venture out and play football for that was what they had trained for and they knew not what else to do in such a crisis. Supplies were gathered together and two parties selected, each choosing a different path, one via Birchen Coppice, where a gaggle of mutant penguins were terrorising the elderly for their last fish fingers, and one via Burlish.
The Arctic Tundra; cruel mistress, unforgiving silent killer, like Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct but without the shagging. Miles and miles of barren colourlessness, where shape or form forms nought that the mind can imagine. Is that a seagull, no just snow. A rescue party? No snow. The London Philharmonic playing the Blue Danube? Fraid not, its snow. Spirits were low as the expeditions trudged wearily closer to the Mostyn home ground. A pack of dogs suddenly rounded the corner, new recruit Ensign Porter was first to protect the supplies (two bunches of bananas and a bottle of lucozade) but was savaged by the deranged mutts. “No matter” said the gaffer, “I wasn’t going to sign him anyway”. But finally they were there, they had crept up either stocking of Jacqueline Frost, had pried the gusset of her gargantuan panties aside, and now all that was left was to leap inside the warmth of her fishy mound and get that hooer warmed up.
Upon checking out the pitch, the duty changing room was found to be under the new Stourport glacier, so the standby changing room was dug out and everyone piled in. Out the lads trudged in their shorts. Steve cleverly waited for everyone else to leave the changing room, whereby he could borrow everyone’s clothes to put under his own. Off kicked the match, the lads resembled Smurfs Subbuteo, what with the cold and the ball growing to four feet in diameter after gathering snow. Anyway all was going swimmingly considering. Then from nowhere, Dan got the ball in the middle. Spotting Mick in an offside position, he waited, and waited, then threw a snowball at Mick to warn him of his delicate position. Mick trudged back and the ball went through. Mick waited, and counted to four to make sure the flag wouldn’t rise before setting off after the ball in his cross country skis. Upon reaching the bi-line, he cut back and inside, and the keeper, expecting an inch perfect cross to the hungry Laan in the middle, moved off his line. Our ginger mate saw the open goal, but elected to cross anyway for fear his weak shot wouldn’t travel the distance required. Luckily the right back’s hastily built igloo intercepted the ball and the ricochet headed goalwards like a yellow bullet. 1-0.
Ten minutes later, the Vale defence were huddled around a hole in the ice for a bit of ice fishing when up came the Mostyn forwards and banged in the equaliser. 1-1.
Then not a lot happened, an icy wind descended across the pitch and visibility was reduced to two feet. The Vale scored three goals that the ref didn’t see but they didn’t moan. Pete got called megs and luckily managed to close his bandy legs in time, cursing his great great great Grandfather Bundworth T. Brothwell, whose barrel riding habit had caused four generations of Brothwells to suffer with hideously misshapen lower limbs. Finally half time was called, Bovril was passed round, along with the elk-skin jackets.
Second half kicked off and the lads went on the back foot. Suddenly Mostyn attacked and bang they scored another. 2-1. Off kicked the Vale and they decided to get biblical on Mostyn’s ass. Dan begat the ball to Laan, Laan begat Michael, who begat Danbo. Danbo, slightly annoyed then begat Laan, who begat him back with a camp “Dan, touch me! Touch me!”. Dan seeing his opportunity, returned it with a good old fashioned begetting and Laan smacked it home. 2-2.
Suddenly they were back in a no win game and the promise of gaffer-sponsored pints in the event of a win didn’t seem that far out of reach. Camo started to sweat despite the cold. But, as luck would have it, Mostyn went and scored again, quickly followed by a fourth. Camo beamed and his moth eaten wallet heaved a heavy sigh of relief.
Not keen to have come out with a nothing however, the lads fought back, the ginger Harry Potter was brought on, casting a magical warm blanket spell on the team, bringing a numb, warm and damp feeling, akin to that just had a hand shandy feeling. Off went Gerry on a mazy dribble. Shouts of “He’s going nowhere” from the sidelines lifted the heckles in the peglegged one and after a bit of weaving for and aft, he popped the ball across. Chuffaroo was in the middle and bish bash bosh slotted home for a consolation. 4-3.
The lads started again, all that was left was for Camo to have a bust up with the ref and Andy to have a brush with Herpes. Herpes was all over the keeper like a rash, and Andy couldn’t scratch the itch but the referee soon blew and took away the pain. As dusk fell on the pitch and the lads marched off, the snow had receded, and flowers were now poking slowly out of the ground, their pretty little heads shaking snowflakes off. The cold had not gone, it had been moved into the Valains heavy hearts. Was this the game that would cost them promotion again? This reporter thinks so. Bugger the earth. I’d nuke the Sun if it meant we beat the Mostyn hoards.
Nibbler.
