After an unfortunate 6-1 drubbing against Under Becca’s Thumb, the Reservoir Badgers ™ were keen on putting in a strong performance against mid table opposition 8th Battalion. The usual depressed and sullen demeanour of the club had given way to a defeat induced high, with all 7 players literally falling over themselves in order to get onto the pitch and give those dirty krauts a damn good licking. The Panteli stand, emptied after the large loss to UBT, had refilled in the interval through complete and utter love and adoration for the team and no way affected by the gun toting Charlie ‘Scarface’ Carter snarling ‘get back in those seats and cheer, bitches’. The team lined up, weary but keen, tired but enthusiastic, retarded but happy and ready to lay down their lives for the good of the Reservoir (all apart from Hamberger, who had a note from his doctor.) The match began with both teams anxious not to concede ground; Paul Field led a scout party forward with Breslin in support, only to be counter attacked by a 8th Battalion High Elf regiment, who swooped round the back of the Badger’s defence and had their wicked, wicked way with Ben ‘Made un-innocent by the seed of Elves’ Wheatland, who had to go off and scrub himself clean with a wire brush in the changing room. With the loss of their inspirational 1/3 manager and team legend the badgers panicked, and a party of 8th Battalion cavalry managed to break through the Badger’s line, had time to rape and pillage a village or two and then proceeded to sink the ball into the back of the net, spearing Joe ‘Regretting saying ‘I’ll go in goal’ now’ Boswell on their way through. But Boswell, showing all the belligerent and proud aspects of the Kingdom of Badgerium, refused to admit defeat, and continued to make some splendid saves, all the while having to fend off Death, who was trying to drag him down to the bowels of Hell. It was at this point, where all hope seemed to have failed, and the world of men threatened to crash down like an anvil on a city of mice, then the Badger’s saviour appeared. Ben Wheatland of Wiltshire, charging back on a white steed called Fadowshax that he had borrowed by a weird old white bearded guy called Dangalf who was hanging in a suspicious manner around the male changing rooms. With all the pace and majesty of a young man who had just been molested by a wizardy finger, Wheatland charged into the game and took matters into his own hands. Picking the ball up in his own half, he charged forward, clattering through the attempted challenges of a group of 8th Battalion pikemen and surging past the burnt and crisp remains of Sam ‘Son of a Football league legend’ Hamberger, who had fallen at the hands of the Balrog, just moments before. Wheatland ploughed into the bulk of the Battalion infantry, losing the ball and then regaining it again and again, all the while building up a cloud of dust the size of a Dwarf’s forehead. Eyes aglow with anger and hair aflame with petulance, the 10 foot high Wheatland scattered the defences of the Battalion’s reserves and bore down on goal, his 8 foot long limbs flexing their muscles in an engaging fashion. With a scream that told tales of anguish, fear, love and Swindon all at once, and with lightning bolts exploding from all his fingertips and orifices, he pulled back a 25 foot long leg and smote the ball past the opposition goalkeeper, with such ferocity that would make all but the most cumbersome and fearsome of dragons turn tale and wet themselves furiously. The team rejoiced gaily, retiring to their taverns and getting ready to regale tales of battle and wonderment to their followers. Unfortunately they had forgotten that the match was still going, and the 8th Battalion, who were slightly confused as to why the Badgers had all trooped off the pitch only 7 minutes into the game yelling ‘Huzzah!’, carefully made their way forward and, dispatching a surviving Badger or two who lay wounded from the epic battle that been performed on these lands just moments before, sank the ball smugly into the corner of the net. At news of this the Badgers regained their composure and charged back into fray, pausing only to laugh merrily at Tony ‘Here boy, here!’ Breslin, who had paused to chew on his crotch. The team battled on; the score was drawn level through the heroic act of 1st Lieutenant Paul ‘An expert in my’ Field, who got on the end of a delightful ball from Wheatland who had burst free of a horde of players, and dragged the Badgers back to 2-2. But, alas, they were ultimately undone by the fact that Joe ‘The Ghost Pirate’ Boswell, who until recently had managed to defend his goal and fend off Death most valiantly, had given in to Death’s entices and had been coaxed into the hot pits of Hell. Death, being a nice enough fellow when you get to know him, had been good enough to leave Boswell’s soul in goal, but as well intentioned as a soul is, their goalkeeper rating is fairly shoddy, being as they are made of a cyto-plasmic goop which is fairly useless when it comes to stopping footballs. As a result, by the time that the half time whistle had blew, the Badgers were 4-2 down and suffering, with over 2000 dead and many more wounded or missing. The dispatched littered the pitch, and morale was at an all-time low. It was at this point that Josh ‘Son of Michael Palin, Son of Patrick Stewart’ Staniforth stepped forward, and delivered the most stirring of half time team talks. ‘The day may come’, it is told he said, for the tale has now been passed down through folklore legend, ‘that the World of Men may fall, and the Age of Men will come crashing down like an anvil on a city of mice, but today is not this day; this day, WE FIGHT!!!’ he may have also mentioned something about not conceding possession too easily and man marking, but such is the problem with folklore; details tend to be elaborated somewhat.
The team came out for the second half tired but determined, and held out against wave upon wave of torrent-like 8Th battalion attacks. Marshalled by the rigged up charred remains of Hamberger, and ably aided by strong but largely ungainly tackles from Josh ‘Bambi on ice; the musical’ Staniforth, the boys from the Reservoir held out. Tim ‘Dusky plum’ Sharp epitomised the badger spirit with a dogged and persistent performance; chasing, harrying and shadowing the opposition to the end, indeed many a Battalion soldier was heard to cry ‘what sorcery is this?!?!’ as Sharp snuck up behind his umpteenth victim and sank his teeth into flesh without their knowledge. The attacks were persistent but the badgers couldn’t be broken down; they were more defiant than a FIFA representative who ‘hadn’t been bribed’ and the match finished with a score line that didn’t reflect how the badgers performed. But they were happy, and had a foundation to build on for the next game.
Match side reporter: Josh Staniforth (Becase Ben's one deleted itself...)
