Men's 1s v RUMS & Old Boys

RUMS: 4
LSE: 2

and

LSE Old Boys: Too Many
LSE: Not Enough

Article by Spok



The day began like any other Wednesday… Wake-up, shower, have breakfast, wonder if Hayden really is a fag, start thinking about the game. With the season fast approaching its conclusion and the champagne hockey one would expect from such a venerated establishment as the lse hockey 1s still confined to the cellar, one could anticipate an encounter full of fighting-spirit and panache. Frodo summed up the mood in typical fashion by re-sending last week’s email, again exclaiming ‘fellas, this could be the match to shape our season’. Unfortunately it probably was.

With the warm-up consisting of Jacko engaging in puerile frolics with Niall, our own baby-faced assassin, and handing out invites for his next sleep-over at the Never never land mansion in Clapham common, the signs were ominous. Within a minute of the push-back Sharon had already put in the customary token dive and fished the ball from the back of his net. 1-0. The defence was looking particularly shaky and Alan Ball was still coming to terms with using his new adult-sized ‘hockey stick’. Baller had earlier proudly announced that it was a birthday gift from his parents, unfortunately no-one had educated them as to the difference between a hockey stick and a pitching wedge, and once again the team was to pay the price.

With our forwards, Mowgli and Yasser-Abdul-Jafar, slowly getting into the game, the ball was finding our opponents D with surprising regularity and an opening looked likely. Finally the equaliser came. In what can only be described as a truly priapic moment the ball was played to the far post and Mustafa, exhibiting the cunning only acquired through four years intensive training with the Taliban’s finest, stealthily stole in with a reverse-hook finish past the keeper. 1-1.

Sadly this was to be as good as it got. Jacko was directing his efforts at delegating to others the duty of marking his opposite man, whom free from the attentions of our midfield and defence made easy work of adding his name to the score sheet, twice. An attempted come-back was thwarted when claims for a flick, more obvious than FT Boy’s predilection towards men, was turned down. Mowgli had burst uncharacteristically into the D with only the keeper to prevent him firing wide, when a defender, obviously incensed by the man-child’s sudden emergence from uselessness, threw his stick at the Mowgli and the ball (speculation has since arisen that this was in retaliation to Baller’s earlier attempt to amputate an opponents limb, using his newly acquired golfing apparatus). The rational response would be to award a stroke, but the umpire’s cowardly reaction was to hurl abuse at Jacko and allow play to continue, virtually condemning the 1s to another defeat. However, the team didn’t give up and through the commendable efforts of FT Boy, Porter and F#cknut, to mention but a few, Frodo was able to pick up a consolatory goal before Sharon allowed the opposition to have the last laugh. Final score: 4-2.

The experience of travelling to the provincial outpost of Barnes Bridge only to be humbled by a group of plebeian degenerates served to dampen our spirits somewhat and the hockey team’s presence in the Tuns was a muted one. Tesh’s northern ‘charm’ wasn’t fully appreciated earning him dick of the day while Frodo’s solid on-pitch presence resulted in a well earned MOM accolade.

On a lighter note, Sunday saw the return of some familiar faces, true hockey legends including Rolfie, Sharky, BB Dancer and to a lesser extent Rasta, as the first team took on the dilapidated outfit that calls themselves the LSE Old Boys. Jacko had returned from the marble halls of East Grinstead (where apparently they have fashioned an orbital-bust of his likeness from an old silver door-knob) with renewed vigour following his successful sleep-over. The optimism was contagious, fuelled by the sight of pre-match binge drinking and protruding pot-bellies from our opponents we took to our task with high expectations. Depressingly we were humiliated on the pitch by some great goals and some flowing hockey that the diagrammatic illustrations in Tesh’s textbook guide: Hockey Tactician could never hope to capture. Sadly our cause was not furthered by another comical performance from our ‘keeper’ Sharon and Frodo’s inability to navigate the vast expanse between the Shire and Crystal Palace.

A special mention must go to Annabelle’s Jefferson, who was guilty of committing the unforgivable faux-pas of failing to invite the whole of men’s hockey to the tree-hugging, vegetarian, whale-saving recycle-fest that was his thanks-giving lunch. Or for at least voluntarily inviting Tesh as our sole representative. Shameful…

Mens 1s v Royal Veterinary College

Men’s Hockey 1sts 0
Royal Veterinary College 0
Potters Bar School of Rail Track Maintenance

By FT Boy

After a fairly nervous train journey, the Men’s Hockey 1s arrived at the distinctly provincial outpost of Potters Bar. Not wanting to spend too long in the presence of the pleb locals we swiftly donned our kit and settled down to our afternoons entertainment. Being bestial veterinary students, the opposition were fat, ugly and pretty piss poor at hockey. Our captain, Frodo assured us in his not unconfident manner that ‘today lads, we’re definitely gonna’ win...’

As you can see from the score line above, the game could only be described as fucking awful. The LSE forwards displayed all the finesse and ingenuity of an Abu Hamza hand-job and the degenerate opposition managed to filch-up attack after attack. Dick of the day was Mustafa for giving the best Ade Akinbiyi impression the HC has ever seen and man of the match was Porter for not being quite as shit as everyone else was.

Seeing as the game was such a disappointment I thought this might be a good opportunity to introduce the men’s hockey team to the Beaver readership. I’ll begin with the defensive rock that is Porter: being my flatmate I could tell you many an interesting story about him; if I could be bothered. He does however have one eccentricity that his girlfriend was kind enough to share with us, that being his habit to cry ‘oh yes’ like the Churchill Insurance dog on climax... nice. Fortunately, Porter is partnered in the centre of defence by the balding leviathan, Wacko Jacko. As his name suggests, Jacko just really loves children. He compliments this unusual penchant with pre-match outbursts that demand the rest of the team ‘go out there and bleed!’ One player who does bleed for Wacko is Alan Ball, so called because of his distinct lack of height and normal coloured hair. Alan is about as useful as a one-legged man in an arse-kicking competition, but what he lacks in skill he makes up for with dogged determination. Tesh couldn't organise a fuck in a brothel with a fist full of fifties but is otherwise a thoroughly civilized fellow. He works a little too hard for a first year and seems to think that he’s ‘better than walkabout’... this one shows potential.

Nile is new to the team, although he only looks 16 he is in fact a postgrad. Like most postgrads he’s a bit of a boring bastard. However, he is in possession of an uncanny ability to down pints. He used to ‘study’ at Sussex, but the least said about that the better... Our captain, Frodo, unsurprisingly, has a strong resemblance to a hobbit and can often be found smoking pipeweed in a Hobbiton tenement. He has replaced the more laissez faire leadership of Wacko with an iron fist of efficiency and routine. Pre-match warm-ups, warm-downs and unrelenting discipline are the order of the day. Its just a shame Frodo doesn’t tackle Walkabout with the same meticulous style.

Third year Mowgli - lost without his mentor Vish Suppa - has taken to randomly shouting the name ‘Quentin’ in Tourette’s style fits. Purporting to be our striker, Mowgli will sometimes score a couple of goals, but only when its of no use whatsoever. Our other striker, Mustafa, has a similarly severe inability to put the ball in the back of the net. He can however ‘finish the job’ on a Wednesday night and particularly enjoys fulfilling Munchkin’s sordid bedroom fantasies (I’ve heard its very good for the complexion). Jeff, or ‘Bells, was foolish enough to invite his mother along to the first game. She left fairly soon after the game as the rest of the lads made every effort to extend her vocabulary in a more x-rated direction, she loved it really.

Unfortunately, Sharon - the Chigwell/Yerevan mongrel - is still our goalie. This year, Sharon’s on pitch performances have been supplemented by extended ‘fitness’ sessions inspired by his very accommodating (or so we’re told) girlfriend... bastard. Spok is another senior member of the club, he is also the most erudite; so much so that he could probably explain to you what erudite actually means. Although Spok resembles a stylist from Channel 4’s The Salon he is in fact a horrific misogynist and refers to his ‘bitch’ with up most disdain. He’s been working a little bit too hard this year and his acerbic presence in the Tuns has been sorely missed. Another member of the team with a more nineteenth century view on sexual equality is F*cknut. He hails from the valleys of Wales and is dumbfounded by the magical ‘elecomatronical’ trains of London. With an unusual proclivity for midget porn, F*cknut has been know to invite as many as 12 guests into his Roseberry shoebox for late night viewings. He’s the rudest member of the club and seems to think that boasting about his maths will eventually end his duck with the ladies… good luck. As for myself, the fact that everyday my team mates ‘wish my dad had settled for a blow job’ is evidence of my clear incompetence, apologies.

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.

Mens 1s v Hertfordshire

LSE 2
Hertfordshire 5
The Regions

By Porter

The first game of the season had come around yet again; with the departure of a few familiar and important faces the LSE Hockey firsts had a very different look about it. However, few things change, as our ever-punctual Irishman with his stupid rollerblades was yet again late.

We set out to Hertfordshire feeling like pros in our 75-seater minibus, hoping that the sight of this colossus of a bus would frighten our provincial opponents into submission. Sadly this was not to be, as our competitors looked more than capable of giving us a thrashing. The first five minutes certainly reflected this, as we started in our usual fashion, we played like experimenting virgins, nervous and fumbling our way to what we thought was the way to play. Luckily, we soon remembered we were in fact seasoned pros and managed to take the lead after a well-worked short corner. That ended with a drag fluke into the corner of the goal from our shire resident captain Frodo. Though James ‘ginger’ Jackson did attempt to claim the goal claiming that the reflection from the sun on his balding scalp had managed to distract the defenders and keeper.

After taking an early lead the game ebbed and flowed in the usual fashion, sadly the umpires felt the need to award a penalty flick against us and generally award the other team as many free hits as humanly possible. The final score was 5-2 to Hertfordshire, the score not accurately reflecting the tight game that only got away from us in the last ten minutes – perhaps more fitness training is required. There were encouraging performances by our freshers with our very own Arabian Prince putting in a particularly good display upfront with Baloo’s favourite man child Mowgili.

We managed to leave Herefordshire with our pride restored after a fine display in the post-match boat races, a very special mention to our new sceptic tank Nial. Little did the freshers know that this was only the warm up to their night of drinking as they still had the infamous initiation to complete.

Thus, Houghton Street was yet again turned into the drinking assault course first dreamed up by a Scottish SAS captain and now used by the LSE mens hockey team to separate those who just want to play hockey from real team players. The fastest time was 1min50secs from the above-mentioned Nial, and the losing time, a dismal performance from Rob ‘i’m not welsh’ f**knut of 2min55secs. The most vomit award must go to Alan Ball who produced a puddle of vomit that was so large the cleaning bill has effectively dashed London’s hopes of having the Olympic games in 2012. Well done to all for completing initiation and welcome to the LSE hockey first eleven. Strength and HonourTM.