Mens 1s v St. Barts

LSE Aristocracy Dispatch East London Travelling Folk

LSE 4
Bart's 3
Downtown Falluja

By FT Boy and Spok

George Dubya’s Black Watch deployment has failed to resolve the conflict in Falluja... with nowhere else to turn Dubya has been in contact with the LSE hockey club to fix the issue. As a result, our own Commando C*nt has been on manoeuvres in southern Iraq and was unable to join us for the fixture this week.

As for the rest of the team, we too were in a war torn, crime ridden slum, crusading against the axis of evil that is Bart Simpson’s College. We arrived at Mile End tube station only to find out that Frodo, our great leader, had made the schoolboy error of believing Jarleth’s directions. After a brisk half hour walk we eventually found the astro turf and got down to the weekly business of dispatching another obscure London poly.

LSE were quick out of the blocks and within five minutes were in possession of a comfortable one goal lead. New boy “Alan Ball” (officially, the man with the smallest penis in Newcastle) latched on to an exocet ball from FT Boy and, after molesting his pre-natal marker, promptly dispatched the ball past their whore of a keeper.

Unfortunately, complacency set in, Wacko (as always, in the THICK of the action) gave away a gaggle of short corners and the genetically deficient oppo managed to scrape a goal back. It must be said that this wasn’t really Wacko’s fault. It was our goalie’s, Sharon, who is shit.

The next thirty minutes of play was a real cat & mouse affair. Frodo and F#cknut bossed the centre of the park whilst our front pair of Mowgli & Meldrew mesmerized their backs with some miraculous movement... mmm. Although LSE were expressing their clear superiority by being camped in the opposition’s 25 Barts had a lucky break and scored a crap goal to make it 2-1. Thankfully, equilibrium was restored when our goal machine Mowgli popped up with a canny slip under his arm seconds before half time.

The second half was much the same with LSE dominating the affair but ultimately unable to tame the unevolved individuals that comprised the Bart’s team. Several costly mistakes later found us trailing 3-2 and Frodo had begun to bleed. Fortunately Spok handed him a sanitary towel (where did he pull that from?) and the game was swiftly resumed. Our palpable supremacy was beginning to tell and with a few minutes to spare the team had contrived to score two unanswered goals: one through our captain, and the crucial winner slotted with aplomb by F#cknut – his face contorted in fairly camp celebration... The same expression would be revisited during his solo karaoke session in the Tuns. F#cknut only seems to enhance his reputation...

On to the festivities: Bart’s in their understandable state of impoverishment were unable to supply us with even a few morsels of sustenance, so it was left to the female members of the club to cook us a slap up meal and wash & iron our match kit... football and rugby girls take note. Frodo was elected man of the match and FT Boy was, for some unknown reason, dick of the day. A special mention must go to Alan Ball for his spunky beauty treatment, Tesh for being a gimp on the bench and “the river Nial” for being Claudia’s “fit” fresher... we can hear wedding bells ringing in the valleys.