Icelandic loanee striker
Ring Of Jeffrey, who looked great in the friendlies, suffers a thigh strain and will miss the start of the season. Sigh.
With six outfield players making their first start for us at home to newly-relegated Motherwell, you’d reasonably expect the “He’s scored on his debut!” feature to kick in for at least one of them.
You’d reasonably expect right, but by the time DC
Carpet Whoopsie crashes a header home from a free-kick in the 76th minute,
Peckham Puffin has already pretty much made the game safe with two old-school goals. Motherwell grab a consolation with only their second shot on target, but 3-1 will do nicely, thanks very much.
It’s the new left side that gets the plaudits – winger
Bride Of Chuckie wins MoM, and I’m asked for a comment regarding left-back
Dehydrated Henchman’s debut. I say he played well, but that I’m focussed on the team’s performance. Because that’s just the kind of guy I am.
The board are pleased with the win. Yeah? Well, remember these bloody results the next time I ask for the bloody training facilities to be improved then, you stroppy cocks. Don’t forget it’s me who put you where you are now. And I can put you back down too.
Third Division Berwick come visiting for the first round of the League Cup, and face a largely reserve side. We open the scoring almost straight from kickoff – Castle Anthrax cutting the ball back nicely into the path of a charging
Opening Hound, who blasts the shot past the helpless keeper. They pull it back via a corner, but just before the break
Carpet Whoopsie makes it two in two games from the spot as Opening Hound is bundled over in the area. The Hound caps a MoM performance in the last minute with a cross that
Castle Anthrax chests down and thumps home at the near post.
The draw for the next round is made, and we get… Greenock Morton. For pity’s sake. Will no-one rid me of these unbelievable WANKERS?
Dundee are up next, and it looks to be all over in the first fifteen minutes – the
Puffin pouncing with predatory panache to gobble up the rebound after a Racing Zeppelin free-kick with just 5 minutes on the clock, then a quick brace from left-wing
Bride Of Chuckie seemingly gives us an unassailable lead.
But just when I thought I was out… they pull me back in. Dundee cut the deficit in the 63rd, and bag another 20 minutes later to set up a nervy finish but we just about cling on to get out with the three points. Midfield general
Racing Zeppelin bags Man of the Match.
It’s Challenge Cup time, and Second Division strugglers Forfar come a-visiting, and succeed in making us look really, really good. Wingers
Catfood Sexbomb and
Other Seagull slam in set-piece goals on either side of a
Racing Zeppelin piledriver.
Scoring three goals is the new black.
Former loanee and physio’s room regular AML
Purple Batman goes to Airdrie for 5 months. I seriously considered making an offer because he was terrific when he was fit, but it seemed a bit counterproductive with our influx of young left-sided talent, especially when they’re performing as well as they are at the moment.
Ring Of Jeffrey recovers from his injury, and goes straight to the subs bench. The only genuine target-man in the squad, I hope he’ll be the massive lumbering Heskey to the Puffin’s little nippy Owen.
Except without the Puffin’s legs falling off every time someone pats him on the head, and without Jeffrey being utter bobbins for years at a time. Obv.
Our first away game since the reign of Alfred The Great sees us travel to fourth-favourites-for-promotion St. Johnstone. We absolutely run the game but the goalscoring touch we’ve had for the first few games of the year seems to have utterly deserted us and we just can’t find a way though. With ten minutes to play, Castle Anthrax gets the curly finger to give Jeffrey his first action of the year, to precious little effect. Three minutes into injury time, Zeppelin tries to spring a counter, but Peckham Puffin’s kicked up in the air just outside the D of St. Johnno’s penalty area.
Zeppelin jogs up, puts the ball down, takes a couple of steps back and curls his shot over the still-forming wall to tuck nicely into the top corner and maintain our 100% record.
Racing Zeppelin’s two MoMs and two goals in the last three games wake up Brannigan’s Law, who reckons it might be a good idea to keep him. We really are starting to reach for positively Maddenesque levels of searing insight now, aren’t we?
Anyway, I tell the press Zep’s going to be a star, as part of my cunning plan to butter him up then sign his ass.
Jocky Wilson Says is back from his busted hand, giving us a nice selection headache down the right. We’ll now be picking two from four with When The Chevy Breaks (quick and weak), Jocky (strong and slow), Ask Doctor Stupid (averagely strong, averagely fast) and Other Seagull (playable end-of-level boss).
The second round of the League Pot brings my 100th game in charge, and a Babylon 5-style Circular-Nature-Of-Time, Every Ending-Is-A-Beginning theme is in evidence with a visit to Greenock to play newly-relegated arch-nemesis So Graham Morton. Who, just to push home the everything-new-is-old thing, are fucking FAVOURITES. Against the team who’re LEADING THE DIVISION ABOVE THEM. For pity’s SAKE.
Good news everybody! Wunderkind
Racing Zeppelin opens our account after just two minutes, a great late run into the box seeing him get on the end of an Other Seagull cross.
Bad news, everybody! Fifteen minutes later, Zeppelin has to be substituted following a collision in midfield.
Good news, everybody! Even after the substitution, Zep’s still got a condition rating of 80% plus, so it obviously can’t be that bad.
Bad news, everybody! Late in the game, with all three subs already blown, Zep’s replacement Opening Hound and left-winger Catfood Sexbomb both pick up green-cross, “can keep playing but you really don’t want them to” injury thingamys.
Good news, everybody! But not before
Meat On The Ledge has crashed in a free-kick and
When The Chevy Breaks has added a couple more to make sure those Morton bastards are going home with our collective boot firmly wedged up their smug fat pantfish.
Bad news, everybody! Post-game, the details of the injuries come though:
Opening Hound has bruised his thigh, he’ll be out 2 weeks.
Catfood Sexbomb has a twisted knee and will miss up to 4 weeks. And
Racing Zeppelin? The one-man MoM machine? Who’s averaged a flat 8 this year and has three goals in four games from central midfield? And who still had 83% condition when brought off after his injury?
He’s BROKEN his fucking ARM. He’ll miss up to 2 MONTHS.
Still, at least I’m not going to have to worry about how to keep all of my MC’s happy and match-fit any more, eh?
Morton. Must. Die.
The League Pot’s third-round draw sees us get a home draw. Hurrah! Against Cellik. Hurroo. The meeja describe it as a “fairy-tale tie”. Yeah, I suppose. Most fairytales involve tons of misery, cruelty and violence, too.
MC
My One Dad’s recovered from his twisted knee and is back in training, not a moment too soon. Meanwhile, we enter the fifth season of Chelsea’s Glorious Thousand-Year Reich as they beat ManU 2-0 in the Charidee Shield.
If there’s an ideal time to go and visit the favourites for promotion, it’s probably not when you’ve only got one fit central midfielder. Still, maybe the adversity will bring us together, forge a siege mentality, make us harder to beat… oh. Forced into a bastardised 4-4-2 diamond with right-back Jocky Wilson Says playing out of position in front of the back 4, we create absolutely nothing, and while we get through the first half without conceding, the goal inevitably comes just after the break from Graeme bloody Dorrans, who always seems to score against us. The game’s nowhere near as close as the 1-0 final score makes it look, and we drop back to third.
Because you really can’t have enough goalies,
In The Fat Field, who has improved since been on loan with us two years ago and who has been resisting efforts to buy him ever since, arrives from Hibs as our eighth loanee of the season. He and Dover Soul will compete for first dibs on the natty green jersey.
It’s the Challenge Cup 2nd round and we’re off to Dundee with no midfield and no real hope. Still, we get off to a cracking start – Other Seagull hoofing it down the wing, When The Chevy Breaks chasing it down and whipping in a cross that
Hostage Jumper heads in for his first Raith goal. It gets even better on the stroke of half-time,
Bride Of Chuckie ending a goal-mouth scramble with a big boot through a crowd of players.
It all goes somewhat pear-shaped on the hour. My One Dad picks up a green-cross-injury-thang, and is instantly subbed as the potential loss of another midfielder fills me with terror. With no natural MC on the bench or, indeed, at the club, ML Bride Of Chuckie tucks in to cover. Five minutes later I’m starting to wonder if there’s some gypsy woman somewhere whose cat got trodden on by someone wearing a number 7 Raith Rovers shirt, as Chuckie picks up his second yellow and buggers off to use up all the hot water. DC Carpet Whoopsie is next to step up into The Circle Of Doom and it’s backs-to-the-wall time.
To be honest, we cope pretty well, but a thirty-yard wonder-strike halves our lead in the 78th minute and makes the last quarter of an hour rather more interesting than I’d usually like. But an MoM performance from new-boy
In The Fat Field just about sees us cling on to the result with our fingertips.
Dad’s sprained his ankle. He’ll miss up to a month. This is getting ri-God-damned-diculous. Our MCs seem to have a life expectancy more usually associated with fighter pilots in World War One or clinically depressed lemmings with the keys to Pete Doherty’s bathroom cabinet.
For those keeping score, that’s four of my five central midfielders out – Pity The Fool (who could miss another 2 months with his slipped disc), Hound and Zeppelin getting crocked in the same game, and now My One Dad.
Thanks, SPiNG. Thanks a fucking lot.
Chuckie’s warned for being an arse. He accepts it, and will do his utmost to blah blah blah.
Train To Gorgeous, who I still think could turn into a really good player but just isn’t going to get much of a chance to play down our crowded right flank this season, buggers off to Stirling on loan.
The transfer window slams shut. Livingstone have signed 13 players during it. They are pricks.
Racing Zeppelin is the Player Of The Month, as the game points at me, dances from foot to foot and cackles like the cruel, deranged fat child it is. Brannigan’s Law thinks we should make every effort to sign him. In case I didn’t get the message the first time. Transfer target for everyone in the known universe
Cool And Froody comes in second, while
Bride Of Chuckie nets third in the Young Player vote.
I fall easily back to my natural place of 3rd in the Manager Of The Month poll, behind Livvy’s Sandy Stewart, and old mate Gordon “You’re Great You Are” Dalziel of Dundee. With another decent profit on the month and the team sitting third, the board are back to giving it some of this business:
I wish I was. We don’t look anything like the side we did with Zeppelin running the show, and with some good sides coming up next month it feels like it’s all about to go a bit Richard Hammond – ie, the wheels are coming off in spectacular fashion.