Poetic muse but IC still lose
The football seconds’ early season optimism for a quick return to the top flight has been slowly ebbing away since late November when a slump in form and fortune replaced the zeal and steel, three meals and John Peel.
Keen to stop the rot hot-shot, shut-up shop and have a pot at goal, IC arrived in Enfield. Poor directions and no landmark erections meant we were fifteen minutes late, started with eight but didn’t hesitate to show we’re actually great!
After a couple more mins
He made a sure start with cat-like instincts that prompted the RFH skip to quip, "Shoot from anywhere, chums!" Not that they had much chances - they were pants and first half we towered, RFH cowered, we showered their penalty area with crossed, shots, thumps, thwacks and kzumps. Nothing like this had been seen since the Luftwaffe carpet-bombed the Eastend. It even prompted fleet-footed Felix to offer an apology for "(his) country’s behaviour in the war" as he gleefully swerved past another set of nail-like studs.
Nil-nil at half time hadn’t done us justice. Perhaps scoring five in the second half would. It didn’t happen. That ageless comic who writes the scripts of football matches served up another howler.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
We found ourselves three down and quite liderally chasing the game. It was a bridge too far and despite a poacher’s goal be Martin after good penetration by Jamie it was too late. Darkness fell upon the land and we trudged wearily home.
