Hard to imagine Dear Reader if you have read any other of the blogs posted up that TMUFC had won any league games so far this season, but we've now at the time of writing won two games after a brilliant preformance against Hertford Town ended with a 3-1 win at the home of football. Here's "The Meg" Tim Megone to tell you all about the other Terrors victory over the mighty Chipstead in our "Big" local derby over the August Bank Holiday period and then he'll bring you all down to Earth with his take on the game against Hayes and Yeading which was not a victory in any way shape or form.
I know what my readers want and it's not happy clappy hippy bollocks.
I know what my readers want and it's not happy clappy hippy bollocks.
Victory at last.
The Emperor’s Pastures throbbed with expectation at the prospect of glory on an August Bank Holiday, as we took on arch rivals Chipstead for the bitterly contested local derby that no one ever cared about, off the back of a faltering start to a new season of magic, mystery and quite possibly misery.
We knew from the outset that our chums from the Surrey Hills would not simply stand aside in awe at our metropolitan super status and achievements in (morally) carrying off the FA Cup back in ’59.
Chipstead featured , amongst their ranks, former Tooting Youth Prodigy and midfield orchestrator Saidou (‘Citizen’) Khan, and longstanding departed hero, sweeping up at the back, Dean Hamlin.
Dean inspired the Amy Winehouse song, ‘Tried to take the ball of Deano, he said, no, no, no’, with the twelve-inch dance mix featuring the same track sung to the tune of ‘Men of Harlech’ by a Welsh male voice choir. It never did him any harm, of course, as those that saw his lung-busting foray and finish against Met Police in extra time of the Surrey Cup final over a decade ago will testify.
The euphoria of scraping though on Friday’s FA Cup night didn’t quite seep through as we struggled to make an impact and fell behind to the plundering villagers, a slip from Tope Fadahunsi on the right-hand side of defence exploited to the full as a marauding morris dancer burst through and thrashed the ball home. A wave of depression swept over the Bog End, solemn headshakes and bitter satire the all too familiar flavour of the moment.
But a few magical moments just before half time turned the world – or suburban Surrey anyhow – upside down. First Peter Wedgworth’s inswinging corner eluded the defence and was met with a nonchalant side footed volley by newcomer Brandon Tiller at the far post. Next, Isaiah Jones grabbed the contest by the bollocks and left Dean Hamlin for dead with a magical run before clipping the ball just inside the far post to put us ahead. The tortured Hamlin struggled to contain our rampant new prodigy and resorted to shabby foul play just outside the box as Isaiah put him on toast a second time, earning a custard coated card in the process.
Chipstead continued to pose a threat early in the second half but the Stripes’ defence held firm, an increasingly confident Liam Sallis putting his early season trauma behind him to make some vital saves. But, with the impressive Zac Coleman coming on as sub up front and causing chaos in the Stockbrokers’ ranks, the Terrors took control once again: it was right wing back Danny Bassett who put the seal on a sparkling triumph with a surging run down the flank, delivering a stinging rebuke to society in general, masquerading as a rasping low cross; a floundering defender half cleared, but Danny continued his run into the box to slam the ball gleefully into the net as the Bishop’s End erupted.
Our first League win in over six months: it would have been churlish, bordering on impertinent not to enjoy a mild-mannered orgasm and feast on the heroics for a few days. But was this but a false dawn, a titillating prelude to dark days of dog shit and despair? All will be revealed…
The Emperor’s Pastures throbbed with expectation at the prospect of glory on an August Bank Holiday, as we took on arch rivals Chipstead for the bitterly contested local derby that no one ever cared about, off the back of a faltering start to a new season of magic, mystery and quite possibly misery.
We knew from the outset that our chums from the Surrey Hills would not simply stand aside in awe at our metropolitan super status and achievements in (morally) carrying off the FA Cup back in ’59.
Chipstead featured , amongst their ranks, former Tooting Youth Prodigy and midfield orchestrator Saidou (‘Citizen’) Khan, and longstanding departed hero, sweeping up at the back, Dean Hamlin.
Dean inspired the Amy Winehouse song, ‘Tried to take the ball of Deano, he said, no, no, no’, with the twelve-inch dance mix featuring the same track sung to the tune of ‘Men of Harlech’ by a Welsh male voice choir. It never did him any harm, of course, as those that saw his lung-busting foray and finish against Met Police in extra time of the Surrey Cup final over a decade ago will testify.
The euphoria of scraping though on Friday’s FA Cup night didn’t quite seep through as we struggled to make an impact and fell behind to the plundering villagers, a slip from Tope Fadahunsi on the right-hand side of defence exploited to the full as a marauding morris dancer burst through and thrashed the ball home. A wave of depression swept over the Bog End, solemn headshakes and bitter satire the all too familiar flavour of the moment.
But a few magical moments just before half time turned the world – or suburban Surrey anyhow – upside down. First Peter Wedgworth’s inswinging corner eluded the defence and was met with a nonchalant side footed volley by newcomer Brandon Tiller at the far post. Next, Isaiah Jones grabbed the contest by the bollocks and left Dean Hamlin for dead with a magical run before clipping the ball just inside the far post to put us ahead. The tortured Hamlin struggled to contain our rampant new prodigy and resorted to shabby foul play just outside the box as Isaiah put him on toast a second time, earning a custard coated card in the process.
Chipstead continued to pose a threat early in the second half but the Stripes’ defence held firm, an increasingly confident Liam Sallis putting his early season trauma behind him to make some vital saves. But, with the impressive Zac Coleman coming on as sub up front and causing chaos in the Stockbrokers’ ranks, the Terrors took control once again: it was right wing back Danny Bassett who put the seal on a sparkling triumph with a surging run down the flank, delivering a stinging rebuke to society in general, masquerading as a rasping low cross; a floundering defender half cleared, but Danny continued his run into the box to slam the ball gleefully into the net as the Bishop’s End erupted.
Our first League win in over six months: it would have been churlish, bordering on impertinent not to enjoy a mild-mannered orgasm and feast on the heroics for a few days. But was this but a false dawn, a titillating prelude to dark days of dog shit and despair? All will be revealed…
Runway Ruin
All those Captains of Industry who think that Heathrow expansion is the greatest idea since Sliced Armageddon should take a look at the Bostik League South Central, a league which boasts amongst its members a host of runways masquerading as towns and/or football teams in Middlesex.
Foremost amongst them are Hayes and Yeading FC, fallen on hard times since their heady days at the pinnacle of non-league football, but having fun with the lower orders and regularly trampling their newfound enemies into the dust. A few weeks ago, they took on the Mighty Stripes.
If official records are much of a guide, I have never seen us win in the league at either Hayes or Yeading.
However, my last visit to Yeading’s old ground was sixteen years ago, when we stormed into a 2-0 half time lead on a rapidly freezing pitch. In the second half, the frost held off, but the fog was in no mood to fuck about and shrouded the landscape in murk and mystery. From behind the goal, I spent the final half hour marvelling at nothing. The last I saw, we were 2-1 up and that is good enough for me. Meddling League officials later conspired to award the Middlesex non-entities a 3-2 victory.
In stark contrast the other week, we travelled west through sun-soaked desert to take a tilt at the title front runners. After a chaotic journey, I arrived a sweaty six minutes late: we had, apparently, taken a proper pummelling in those early stages, but somehow survived, and things didn’t get any better until about mid-way through the half when we began to string together a few pleasing moves and create the occasional opening. Billy ‘the Buffet Slayer’ Dunn wasn’t far away with a flick header from a Wedgeworth free kick but it was Isaiah Jones who provided the real threat once again and should have put us ahead. Outwitting and outpacing the defence, he burst through for a one on one with the keeper and slipped the ball past the floundering custodian, only to see it roll agonizingly past the post.
Still, 0-0 at half time was a moral victory of sorts and probably exceeded expectations: a few believers/masochistic perverts dared to dream of glory. But it’s the hope that kills you and sure enough, we fell to bits early in the second half. Danny Bassett at wing back spent most of the afternoon looking about as comfortable as a badger at a Young Farmer’s disco, and halted a Hayes attack with a panic-stricken lunge. The ref pointed to the spot and retribution was duly delivered.
It got worse: Danny was sent off after about twenty minutes last season for doing the hokey-cokey at Hendon’s Kingsbury ground. To the disbelief of millions, including the home fans, the ref waved a blood drenched card and doubtless walked away with a handsome reward for engineering the eventual 4-0 home win with a series of shit decisions. The splendour of his decisive strike against Chipstead the previous week gave way to a tale of torment as Danny saw red in the north west once again, aided by an abysmal piece of acting from his ‘victim’ (though treacherous observers conceded his challenge may have had a twinge of two footedness about it). Two more goals followed and humiliation loomed large.
By the time we were awarded a penalty of our own, Isaiah clipped from behind in the box after another titillating run, followed by mass protests from the deluded undercarriage fetishists, the contest was over. Wedgworth’s undercooked strike from the spot was shovelled away by the keeper, and we settled for a 3-0 spanking. A day of pain anaesthetized later on in the pub, as we consoled ourselves that maybe Hayes are a half decent side and our shortcomings wouldn’t be as harshly exposed against the lesser lights of the pig farm parade that is the Bostik South Central
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