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
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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