So, after a day of huffing and puffing and eating fine food (chicken, mushroom rice, spinach, tomatoes, red wine and raw shiitakes etc) so as to get the ticker back on track I recorded some bird-life and flowers, updated my website and had a chill reading my latest book 'Lust For Life' - an account of the life of that troubled genius Vincent Van Gogh. I am a fan of the impressionists (no not Mike Yarwood and co) and appreciate their attempts at catching the spontaneity of nature - it would be ruddy marvellous to see some Non-League Impressionism, now there's a thought.
At 6.45pm prompt I got my arse in gear, walked to the ground and met up with STP Stu, and Guardians of the ground Gareth and Sandra Evans. Thoughts of Sean were had, the usual nattering partaken of and then, after acquiring a brew, the viewing positions were taken. These are my thoughts folks, in my usual style and without any processed affectation - the DIY streak runs deep.
The ball rolled, the chill grew, the players dashed and the spectators peeled their peepers. The initial action was borne when the Millers won a corner. The ball entered the box, a fine defensive header temporarily cleared matters and when the ball was re-posted the mittman exposed a safe pair of hands and gathered with little fuss. The initial throes of the game saw two teams unsettled with the only action coming from a Nomadic long ball that No 9 (Adama Sidibeh) latched onto and fired across goal from a very acute angle. The same tribe came on soon after with No 11 (Reuben Dass) connecting with a clearance, negotiating an inch of space but firing just wide of the target zone.
New Mills were shaken, and indeed stirred, they advanced and caused mayhem but the trio of hoofings at goal were all boldly blocked by several flying carcasses. This opening excitement looked set to lead into a thrilling spectacle but from here the game fell apart quicker than the underpants of a worked up Cosmo Smallpiece and the onlookers were left with little to get aroused by (although a page from a recently used copy of 'Ruptured Rectums' did float by thus causing a few groin-based bulges).
Back and forth the ball went with much huff and puff but little that was good enough. A long Millers ball saw No 11 (Terry Osipitan) released and get nudged to the deck, the verdict was 'no foul'. At the other end the always honest and competitive Sidibeh was looking to dash clear but was tripped and duly booked for diving - a travesty on par with the time when Violet Carson (aka Ena Sharples) won Lancashire's Body of the Year.
The game progressed, No 8 (Kyle Oakes) for the guests attempted an impudent dink at the onion bag but the ball had too much airlift and from a free-kick the visiting No 4 (Reece Lyndon) rose like a bison with a wasp up its anus but put his header off target (I expected better).
Towards the latter end of the half the hosts built up some good pressure, the Millers were rocking on their heels but the closest we came to a bag buster was via Sidibeh who swivelled and shot and looked disappointed to see the ball fly outside of the upright.
The break came, as footballing fans we were left unimpressed. STP Stu threw an onion at the referee who duly collected and took home for a night-time stew. I covered the stand in graffiti as way of protest, the immortal scrawls of 'George Gibbons Eats Hedgehogs' and 'Andy Gray Is Carrying My Child' I hope will give indication of the behind the scenes deviancy going on at this local club. I also added 'Mark Torbitt's and Colin Crompton Were Lovers' as well as an Avant-Garde cock and balls - I hope I don't end up in court.
Half two and for those thinking that the first half was a dour affair then they were in for a real slump. The Nomads opened up with a spring in the step. A corner was won, No 4 (Jack Warren) met the ball at the back post with his awaiting cranium. The keeper saved, a follow-up shot by the same wannabe goal-getter came but the protector of the netting was in the way again, this perhaps was the highlight of this 45 minute period.
Dubious tackles, a red card for the host No 7 (Ryan Shenton), a realm of fractured play and some woeful levels of composure saw matters dissipate into the realms of crappery. No 9 (George Howarth) for the Millers collected a long ball and had a chance to be through but the first touch was abysmal and was reflective of a game turning to utter crud. Despite being a man short the Cheadle chaps put in a good stint and more than held their own but no satisfactory joy was had although Sidibeh came close with a header.
As the game entered the final throes thoughts came of spending one's time in a more productive way - shaving one's scrotum with a rusty knife, going on a bare-backed porcupine ride or indeed spending a dirty weekend with a Paul Shane (aka Ted Bovis) look-a-like - anything would be surely better than this. When the referee blew I could have kissed him (no tongues of course) and I was left to ponder the Man of the Match. Tonight there was only one winner, a real shining star and one who would have found something positive to say even about a game of these lowly standards - Sean Errol Blaney - have it son, have it.
FINAL THOUGHTS - Two teams battling, two teams negating, a mid-season clash of styles and both looking to finish just above mid-table. There are many descriptive words that spring to mind regarding this game, each one worthy of only the bluest text and the most emboldened and giant-sized font. I am being a good lad at the mo though and shall just sign off wishing both teams all the best and a real goal fest in their next game. It is only football at the end of the day, shitty nights happen and there are more important matters in the world for sure.
