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Nationwide Division One, 20/1/01
Fulman heroes
By Daniel Lester

It was a freezing cold and pitch black afternoon at Vicarage Road, its pitch scarred into a warzone-like no mans land by the Rugby matches of the previous week. The sun's weakness had also, no doubt, been organised by the woefully outclassed side called "Vatfork" who had the temerity to challenge the mighty Fulman Utd and decided to pray to their gods for intervention.

The superb Fulman Utd players were greeted onto the pitch by a hail of nails, coins, knives and handgrenades by the thuggish Wutmorg fans, but dodged the missiles with their trademark agility and remained calm and unfazed by the arena's intimidating hostility. However, the Fulman Utd martyrs were clearly a little shaken by the Witpork manager's decision to field 44 players! Well, we all know what a Turnip he is and how he couldn't manage a great team like Fulman Utd - we all laughed at him at Wolves, what a failure, and that is why he now skulks at a team who deserve to be in the Ryman League because they don't have 100 million pounds to spend.

In any case, sheer weight of numbers at first weighed down Fulman's usual flowing football, and, as the rest of the Fulman players were held to the floor by Vugborg's players and fans, only the awesome Maik Taylor was there to superbly pummel away twenty shots all from within the six yard box. The Fulman fans, by far the loudest on the day, despite being outnumbered 90 to 1, rightly chanted "We are top the league" and "Can we play you every week?" as derisory chance after chance was blasted into orbit by the incompetent Bugdort strikers, Timmy Money and Gitton Nig-Woggians. Lastly, on the stroke of 20 minutes, as every Fulman player was off the pitch waiting (as they thought) for more balls to be brought to replace the ones kicked out of the ground, Mudzork's "Smudger Smith" sneaked down the wing with a rolled up piece of paper that he deceived the referee was a real ball, put the luckiest (and, I might say, most offside) cross to Timmy Money, who promptly fell over his own feet and very nearly scored in his own net, were it not for a fortuitous bobble which deflected the ball into Bugdork's keeper's face.

After that, of course, it was all Fulman Utd, despite the best efforts of the referee and linesmen, who persisted in warning and - on one occasion - booking (unthinkable!) the saintly Luis Boa Morte every time a Wotport player violently assaulted him - how much did they pay you, I wonder, referee? [I agree - Ed.] [We also agree, and consider this case watertight - Legal Dept.] Nevertheless, a combination of cheating, violence and sheer fortune kept the scores level until the half way stage.

In the second half, though, Fulman made the most of their embarrassing superiority. They dribbled in circles and passed in neat hexagons around the bewildered Gugsnork players, who could only wield their machetes and broken bottles in frustration in the general direction of the nippy and nimble Fulman stars. At one point, the Wubbub players crafted themselves a chance, with their trademark long ball hoof out of defence, flicked on (I can't think he knew much about it) onto Taylor's bar by Money - but of course, the sensational goal tender had it well covered. Suddenly, the first goal was there, a sublime passing move, capped off with a bending right foot shot from 20 yards which beat everybody - including the 14 players on the line - blasted through the brick wall Mugbog had erected in front of their goal and nestled sweetly in the top left hand corner.

At this point, the racist chanting started from the Whatsnord fans, aimed at Boa Morte in particular. When will the police intervene at such ugly scenes? Yet their vile ravings served only to spur the classy Fulman players into another beautiful move, ending with a finish again by the slighted Boa Morte rifled past a dizzy and exhausted defence into the bottom right of the goal.

Then, the farcical nature of the afternoon came into full focus, as while Turnip Taylor (ha ha, you're a vegetable) was in the process of making several illegal substitutions, his bully boys punched the unsuspecting Fulman players to the ground, and some foreign bastard called Who are you Jelly son, dressed in full gridiron pads and helmet, grabbed the ball to his chest and charged over the line, celebrating his "goal" by spiking the ball US Football style. This reviewer was not unsatisfied to note Jelly son's hideously ugly and deformed appearance, and shocked to catch a glimpse of the remains of what serves as Budcord's half-time oranges - human babies! - still hanging from his savage maw. The unspeakable Vudsnok fans celebrated with an unwatchable display of rape and pillage, putting even their own friends to fire and the sword in a frenzy of drug-fuelled bloodlust.

The Wogbox players' ascendancy was short lived, however, as Fulman Utd constructed a flowing move, intercepting the rugby-passes of the clumsy Wigthorn players as gracefully as a ballet-dancer's repertoire. The afternoon was capped by a sensational goal from the man who is unquestionably the best player in the world, Louis Saha, who scored in a manner too sublime to be described in mere English words. Perhaps his native French - a country and language of subtlety and beauty would serve better - Il a crappe sur les incompetents - malgre touts les flics, qui ont essaye lui tuer.

And so, Fulman Utd ran out deserved 3-1 winners, although I have recommended to the FA that they be awarded an extra 10 goals for being so wonderful, and I think I am not alone in that opinion! And so farewell Wankfuck. I hope you all die and are relegated because you all have fugging passports.

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