Post by hornet on Aug 13, 2007 22:36:21 GMT
”April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.”
Thus spake noted aficionado of Scottish lower-league football and possessor of a name that’s almost “toilets” spelt backwards, TS Eliot. Is he right? Will the dull roots of this Raith Rovers, widely thought of as mid-table bludgers before the start of the season, be stirred by the spring rain of promotion from the Second Division and a visit to the ScotPot Final? Or will our desires be thwarted? Or memories embittered? The lilacs of our hopes be dashed on the dead lands of Greenock Fucking Morton and Glasgow Celtic? Should I. in fact, stop gibbering like a particularly well-read baboon and just get on with it?
The last one? Fair enough.
Froody, Dad, Penis and the Tuba all sign their new contracts, which takes up a tidy chunk of my new wage budget but will keep the spine of the team intact for next season. The Dance Settee gets a slight arse-ache with Penis’ new cash – he’s not played much this year due to the presence of loanee Dandy Highwayman, but he’s done well when he’s called on, so I offer him a modest contract extension on full-time terms.
SL2., H vs. Alloa Athletic
Puffin’s got a slight thigh strain, so taking absolutely no chances he’s dropped from the 16, with Time Tuba replacing him.
All credit to the Tuba, he’s hardly had a look-in all season with the Puffin and Pocket Billiards both firing, but he offers a different threat to either of them and he’s been called upon he’s done a job. Just as he does here – a strike at the start of either half makes for a game that’s a lot more comfortable on the scoreboard than it is on the park.
Raith 2-0 Alloa (Time Tuba 12, 55) MoM – Time Tuba
Bottom club Stranraer are one down with 25 minutes to play at home to “So Graham” Morton, get three players injured, grab an equaliser five minutes later then hilariously nick a winner in the last minute with just their second shot on target all game. This ends Morton’s unbeaten run and puts us 8 points ahead with just three games left.
In less important, non-Scottish news, Arsenal do Chelsea on away goals in the Not-Champions Not-League quarter finals after a 2-0 win at the Emirates. Hamburg await in the next round, while the other semi pits Liverpool against Surreal Madrid. Celtic warm up for their game against us at the weekend by dispatching Roma 5-3 on aggregate to go through to the WAFER semis. They’ll play Spurs, who finish off “I Had An Uncle Who Once Played / For” Red Star Belgrade 4-1 on agg.
The first ScotPot semi is a thriller, ending 3-3 after Dunfermline’s Bobby Ryan scores an own-goal for Rangers in the 78th minute. “Bloody” Morton get a win at Ayr to keep the Second Division title-chase alive, but we only need one win or two draws in our last three games to secure the championship.
Magoo reports on Celtic:
“We've got nothing to worry about, boss.”
Oh dear.
Scottish Cup Semi-Final, N vs. Glasgow Celtic
Celtic are 8-1 on to win. Added to midfield linchpin My One Dad’s continued absence through injury, top scorer and talisman Peckham Puffin fails to recover from his thigh strain and will not play either. Assist leader Dandy Highwayman is suspended. For those of you keeping score at home, that's three of the club's four “key players” missing for our biggest game of the year.
Other than that, we’re in pretty good shape.
To our eternal credit, it takes them more than half an hour to break through, but one goal quickly becomes two and, if you’ll excuse me a second literary allusion in an increasingly up-its-own-arse writeup – sorry, it’s that kind of month - it’s like bows and arrows against the lightning. I stick us up to Hard tackling to try and, ahem, impose our will on midfield, but five minutes and three yellow cards later that plan has to go for a Burton. They’re in total control, and without Dad there to break up attacks and spring counters or the Puffin to make the most of every half-chance we can’t bring enough to knock them off their stride.
”This is the way the cup run will end,
This is the way the cup run will end,
This is the way the cup run will end,
Not with a bang but a whimper.”
Cups are, officially, for girls.
Raith 0-3 Celtic (Jarosik 34; Zonneveld 36; Miller 50)
Well, cock. 52,459 people plus a TV audience of God-knows how many have just seen us bent over the table and given a businesslike but very thorough rogering.
Still, two-hundred and fifty large buys a lot of Preperation H.
Gretna win Division 1. Yeah, the same Gretna we beat 5-0 in the Challenge Cup final. Funny old world, innit?
SL2, A vs. Peterhead
Still, here comes a chance to get right back out of the doldrums. A win at the team 8th in the table and we secure the Second Division title.
Anyone who really thought we were going to get it plainly has never played F/CM.
We’re flatter than a slug that’s just been caught in bed with a steamroller’s wife. Everybody involved gets shouted at, obviously. Two games left, both away from Stark’s Park, still two points needed. To coin a phrase – erk.
Peterhead 2-0 Raith (Wood 36; Mann 58)
Madrid will face the Arse in the Big Pot final. Spurs knock Celtic out of the WAFER with a pair of 1-0 wins and will play Villareal in the final.
Yeah, okay, but we softened them up for you.
SL2, A vs. Forfar Athletic
Still, here comes a chance to get right back out of the doldr… stop me if you’ve heard this before, alright?
Still no Puffin up front, and Time Tuba is feeling the pressure after I make the hugely controversial statement that I believe we, ie, the team leading the division, can beat Forfar, ie, the team 6th in the division, if we play our best. I know. I know. Outrageous. Paint me smug and call me Jose. Time Tuba is, lest there be any doubt, a big French girl’s blouse. Negativity’s the last thing we need around this team today, so he’s on the bench with My Buckin’ At taking his place up front.
Things get off to a slightly better start, at least. Me Buckin’ At presses his defender into a poor clearance that’s nodded out to the right wing by DJ Homunculus. I’m A Locksmith pings a crossfield pass to pick out his opposite number on the left wing, The Dance Settee, who takes a couple of touches and fires home to settle early nerves.
Nerves get even more settled on the half-hour, Pocket Billiards chasing a clearance down the left wing and swinging in a far-post cross for Me Buckin’ At to finish with a fine header. We’re cruising. Thank God.
”Just when I thought I was out… they pulled me back in.”
Forfar striker Electric Boogaloo, who’ll be joining us on a Bozzer in the summer, chooses exactly the wrong moment to try and impress his new boss. He surges into the area, forcing Deej to pull him back. The ref points to the spot, and it’s despatched with a minimum of fuss to reduce the deficit to one.
Oh crikey.
Halftime’s a nervous affair. We’ve largely bossed the game, but Forfar have looked really dangerous in flashes and with Morton winning at Stirling and my team quickly revealing themselves as massive bottlers I really, really don’t want to have to go to playoff-chasing Cowdenbeath next week needing a result.
Fuck it. If we’re going to McLaren this up, then we’re going to blow it playing our way. I abandon the slow defensive counter that we’ve been playing since the second goal and ramp everything back to the death-and-glory bloodlust mad-bomber attacking mode that’s seen us blow out so many average teams this year.
“But what if we should fail?”
“We fail!
But screw your courage to the sticking-place
And we’ll not fail.”
Out we come, like a rocket with a jalapeño up its arse. We’re making chance after chance, even if our Puffin-less strikeforce can’t convert them, and Forfar can’t attack because they’re far too busy defending. Sixty minutes go by, seventy, eighty… perhaps it’d be an idea to pull back a bit? Just as I’m reaching for the sliders, an innocuous high ball played into the middle of the park gets met first-time by a Forfar midfielder and suddenly the ball is pinged between our centrebacks, Electric Boogaloo is after it, and… no. oh no no no… he nudges it wide, lets go his shot just before Meat On The Ledge arrives to tackle him and it’s past In The Fat Field and skimming just inside the near post.
Oh, fuck.
Still, a point’s not a disaster, just means we’ll need one next week, or maybe Morton will slip up…
Oh, fuck that. On comes the Tuba, Opening Hound giving way in midfield to allow us three up top. We’re going out all. Guns. Blazing.
Because that worked out really well for Butch and Sundance, didn’t it?
Foul on USS Tiny Penis in the centre circle. DJ Homunculus takes the kick, pushing it wide to Meat On The Ledge. Meat goes inside to Tiny Penis, who turns it round the corner to Dandy Highwayman. Highwayman gives back to Meat and strolls off down the left touchline, Meat slides the pass ahead of him, Highwayman first-times a low cross to Pocket Billiards who instantly draws a crowd and instead of forcing a shot rolls it back to Meat On The Ledge who’s arriving unmarked at the corner of the box and whistles a cross toward the far post. The keeper goes for it, goes up… misses! With a defender at his back Time Tuba chests it down, turns… GOAL! GOAL! GOAL! TIME TUBA! You big stroppy garlic-swilling surrender-monkey BEAUTY!
Forfar 2-3 Raith (The Dance Settee 2; Me Buckin’ At 31; Tosh 37(pen); Electric Boogaloo 83; Time Tuba 87)
And they'll be dancing on the streets of Kirkaldy tonight!
Raith Rovers officially win Scottish League Division 2. Everybody who can be delighted, is delighted. A few people who can’t be delighted throw caution to the wind and are delighted anyway. Colin Cameron hails me in the media, and frankly the level of interest that a journeyman midfielder in a crap SMPLTAOLIE team is paying me is a bit freaky. I’m starting to think about calling the Old Bill.
SL2, A vs. Cowdenbeath
Even half-awake and pissed on Tennants Extra we’re too much for this mob. It looks very briefly like they’re going to spoil our party when a Highwayman own-goal puts them briefly back on level-terms just after the hour, but Me Buckin’ At immediately restores the lead and, fittingly, the finally-fit again Peckham Puffin comes off the bench with fifteen minutes to play and scores our last goal of the season from a free-kick. It’s his 22nd in 32 league games, and his 37th this season in all competitions.
Lumme.
Cowdenbeath 1-4 Raith (McPhee 2(og); Dandy Highwayman 64(og); Me Buckin’ At 66; Pocket Billiards 75; Peckham Puffin 88) MoM – Pocket Billiards
My enjoyment of the moment is only slightly spoiled as Morton cruise through the playoffs to join us in Division 1 next year.
Rise above, I’m gonna rise above…
And now, the hard part begins. But still, for the moment:
"CHAMPIONES! CHAMPIONES! OLE, OLE, OLE!"
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.”
Thus spake noted aficionado of Scottish lower-league football and possessor of a name that’s almost “toilets” spelt backwards, TS Eliot. Is he right? Will the dull roots of this Raith Rovers, widely thought of as mid-table bludgers before the start of the season, be stirred by the spring rain of promotion from the Second Division and a visit to the ScotPot Final? Or will our desires be thwarted? Or memories embittered? The lilacs of our hopes be dashed on the dead lands of Greenock Fucking Morton and Glasgow Celtic? Should I. in fact, stop gibbering like a particularly well-read baboon and just get on with it?
The last one? Fair enough.
Froody, Dad, Penis and the Tuba all sign their new contracts, which takes up a tidy chunk of my new wage budget but will keep the spine of the team intact for next season. The Dance Settee gets a slight arse-ache with Penis’ new cash – he’s not played much this year due to the presence of loanee Dandy Highwayman, but he’s done well when he’s called on, so I offer him a modest contract extension on full-time terms.
SL2., H vs. Alloa Athletic
Puffin’s got a slight thigh strain, so taking absolutely no chances he’s dropped from the 16, with Time Tuba replacing him.
All credit to the Tuba, he’s hardly had a look-in all season with the Puffin and Pocket Billiards both firing, but he offers a different threat to either of them and he’s been called upon he’s done a job. Just as he does here – a strike at the start of either half makes for a game that’s a lot more comfortable on the scoreboard than it is on the park.
Raith 2-0 Alloa (Time Tuba 12, 55) MoM – Time Tuba
Bottom club Stranraer are one down with 25 minutes to play at home to “So Graham” Morton, get three players injured, grab an equaliser five minutes later then hilariously nick a winner in the last minute with just their second shot on target all game. This ends Morton’s unbeaten run and puts us 8 points ahead with just three games left.
In less important, non-Scottish news, Arsenal do Chelsea on away goals in the Not-Champions Not-League quarter finals after a 2-0 win at the Emirates. Hamburg await in the next round, while the other semi pits Liverpool against Surreal Madrid. Celtic warm up for their game against us at the weekend by dispatching Roma 5-3 on aggregate to go through to the WAFER semis. They’ll play Spurs, who finish off “I Had An Uncle Who Once Played / For” Red Star Belgrade 4-1 on agg.
The first ScotPot semi is a thriller, ending 3-3 after Dunfermline’s Bobby Ryan scores an own-goal for Rangers in the 78th minute. “Bloody” Morton get a win at Ayr to keep the Second Division title-chase alive, but we only need one win or two draws in our last three games to secure the championship.
Magoo reports on Celtic:
“We've got nothing to worry about, boss.”
Oh dear.
Scottish Cup Semi-Final, N vs. Glasgow Celtic
Celtic are 8-1 on to win. Added to midfield linchpin My One Dad’s continued absence through injury, top scorer and talisman Peckham Puffin fails to recover from his thigh strain and will not play either. Assist leader Dandy Highwayman is suspended. For those of you keeping score at home, that's three of the club's four “key players” missing for our biggest game of the year.
Other than that, we’re in pretty good shape.
To our eternal credit, it takes them more than half an hour to break through, but one goal quickly becomes two and, if you’ll excuse me a second literary allusion in an increasingly up-its-own-arse writeup – sorry, it’s that kind of month - it’s like bows and arrows against the lightning. I stick us up to Hard tackling to try and, ahem, impose our will on midfield, but five minutes and three yellow cards later that plan has to go for a Burton. They’re in total control, and without Dad there to break up attacks and spring counters or the Puffin to make the most of every half-chance we can’t bring enough to knock them off their stride.
”This is the way the cup run will end,
This is the way the cup run will end,
This is the way the cup run will end,
Not with a bang but a whimper.”
Cups are, officially, for girls.
Raith 0-3 Celtic (Jarosik 34; Zonneveld 36; Miller 50)
Well, cock. 52,459 people plus a TV audience of God-knows how many have just seen us bent over the table and given a businesslike but very thorough rogering.
Still, two-hundred and fifty large buys a lot of Preperation H.
Gretna win Division 1. Yeah, the same Gretna we beat 5-0 in the Challenge Cup final. Funny old world, innit?
SL2, A vs. Peterhead
Still, here comes a chance to get right back out of the doldrums. A win at the team 8th in the table and we secure the Second Division title.
Anyone who really thought we were going to get it plainly has never played F/CM.
We’re flatter than a slug that’s just been caught in bed with a steamroller’s wife. Everybody involved gets shouted at, obviously. Two games left, both away from Stark’s Park, still two points needed. To coin a phrase – erk.
Peterhead 2-0 Raith (Wood 36; Mann 58)
Madrid will face the Arse in the Big Pot final. Spurs knock Celtic out of the WAFER with a pair of 1-0 wins and will play Villareal in the final.
Yeah, okay, but we softened them up for you.
SL2, A vs. Forfar Athletic
Still, here comes a chance to get right back out of the doldr… stop me if you’ve heard this before, alright?
Still no Puffin up front, and Time Tuba is feeling the pressure after I make the hugely controversial statement that I believe we, ie, the team leading the division, can beat Forfar, ie, the team 6th in the division, if we play our best. I know. I know. Outrageous. Paint me smug and call me Jose. Time Tuba is, lest there be any doubt, a big French girl’s blouse. Negativity’s the last thing we need around this team today, so he’s on the bench with My Buckin’ At taking his place up front.
Things get off to a slightly better start, at least. Me Buckin’ At presses his defender into a poor clearance that’s nodded out to the right wing by DJ Homunculus. I’m A Locksmith pings a crossfield pass to pick out his opposite number on the left wing, The Dance Settee, who takes a couple of touches and fires home to settle early nerves.
Nerves get even more settled on the half-hour, Pocket Billiards chasing a clearance down the left wing and swinging in a far-post cross for Me Buckin’ At to finish with a fine header. We’re cruising. Thank God.
”Just when I thought I was out… they pulled me back in.”
Forfar striker Electric Boogaloo, who’ll be joining us on a Bozzer in the summer, chooses exactly the wrong moment to try and impress his new boss. He surges into the area, forcing Deej to pull him back. The ref points to the spot, and it’s despatched with a minimum of fuss to reduce the deficit to one.
Oh crikey.
Halftime’s a nervous affair. We’ve largely bossed the game, but Forfar have looked really dangerous in flashes and with Morton winning at Stirling and my team quickly revealing themselves as massive bottlers I really, really don’t want to have to go to playoff-chasing Cowdenbeath next week needing a result.
Fuck it. If we’re going to McLaren this up, then we’re going to blow it playing our way. I abandon the slow defensive counter that we’ve been playing since the second goal and ramp everything back to the death-and-glory bloodlust mad-bomber attacking mode that’s seen us blow out so many average teams this year.
“But what if we should fail?”
“We fail!
But screw your courage to the sticking-place
And we’ll not fail.”
Out we come, like a rocket with a jalapeño up its arse. We’re making chance after chance, even if our Puffin-less strikeforce can’t convert them, and Forfar can’t attack because they’re far too busy defending. Sixty minutes go by, seventy, eighty… perhaps it’d be an idea to pull back a bit? Just as I’m reaching for the sliders, an innocuous high ball played into the middle of the park gets met first-time by a Forfar midfielder and suddenly the ball is pinged between our centrebacks, Electric Boogaloo is after it, and… no. oh no no no… he nudges it wide, lets go his shot just before Meat On The Ledge arrives to tackle him and it’s past In The Fat Field and skimming just inside the near post.
Oh, fuck.
Still, a point’s not a disaster, just means we’ll need one next week, or maybe Morton will slip up…
Oh, fuck that. On comes the Tuba, Opening Hound giving way in midfield to allow us three up top. We’re going out all. Guns. Blazing.
Because that worked out really well for Butch and Sundance, didn’t it?
Foul on USS Tiny Penis in the centre circle. DJ Homunculus takes the kick, pushing it wide to Meat On The Ledge. Meat goes inside to Tiny Penis, who turns it round the corner to Dandy Highwayman. Highwayman gives back to Meat and strolls off down the left touchline, Meat slides the pass ahead of him, Highwayman first-times a low cross to Pocket Billiards who instantly draws a crowd and instead of forcing a shot rolls it back to Meat On The Ledge who’s arriving unmarked at the corner of the box and whistles a cross toward the far post. The keeper goes for it, goes up… misses! With a defender at his back Time Tuba chests it down, turns… GOAL! GOAL! GOAL! TIME TUBA! You big stroppy garlic-swilling surrender-monkey BEAUTY!
Forfar 2-3 Raith (The Dance Settee 2; Me Buckin’ At 31; Tosh 37(pen); Electric Boogaloo 83; Time Tuba 87)
And they'll be dancing on the streets of Kirkaldy tonight!
Raith Rovers officially win Scottish League Division 2. Everybody who can be delighted, is delighted. A few people who can’t be delighted throw caution to the wind and are delighted anyway. Colin Cameron hails me in the media, and frankly the level of interest that a journeyman midfielder in a crap SMPLTAOLIE team is paying me is a bit freaky. I’m starting to think about calling the Old Bill.
SL2, A vs. Cowdenbeath
Even half-awake and pissed on Tennants Extra we’re too much for this mob. It looks very briefly like they’re going to spoil our party when a Highwayman own-goal puts them briefly back on level-terms just after the hour, but Me Buckin’ At immediately restores the lead and, fittingly, the finally-fit again Peckham Puffin comes off the bench with fifteen minutes to play and scores our last goal of the season from a free-kick. It’s his 22nd in 32 league games, and his 37th this season in all competitions.
Lumme.
Cowdenbeath 1-4 Raith (McPhee 2(og); Dandy Highwayman 64(og); Me Buckin’ At 66; Pocket Billiards 75; Peckham Puffin 88) MoM – Pocket Billiards
My enjoyment of the moment is only slightly spoiled as Morton cruise through the playoffs to join us in Division 1 next year.
Rise above, I’m gonna rise above…
And now, the hard part begins. But still, for the moment:
"CHAMPIONES! CHAMPIONES! OLE, OLE, OLE!"