When a toddler’s in close proximity to a canine, what’s your first thought? And what do you say? I expect it depends whose side you’re on, or if you’re just a disinterested observer. As a parent, I think ‘Go on then, reel off the dog platitudes’ and as an owner, maybe you just launch into them: ‘she’s harmless; just trying to say hello; loves children; bred as a sheepdog so probably just trying to round you up a bit; big softie; too stupid to hurt you; it’s men she doesn’t like.’
But what if something in the nature, breed or behaviour of your dog/human defies this nonsense? You could have a psychotic child or a rottweiler in the midst; there’s a sudden, imminent threat and you won’t be patronised into ignoring it. In this case, I loudly said ‘Don’t worry Iris, it’s only a pitbull off its lead’, hoping the owners might show some genuine understanding and actually catch up with it. To their credit, they reneged from the dog apologist role and offered a limp and disturbing ‘Say hello nicely, Poppy!’ instead. A further two pitbulls were to surface today – one near Jubilee Avenue and one among the pumpkins outside Waitrose – but for now we were in a pitbull-free enclave for a drizzly game in Woodley.
Wokingham Cougars – drawn largely from the historic houses of central Wokingham – play in a lower league to us having spent most of last season learning the rudiments of the game under the guidance of their floppy-haired manager. At one point in last season’s match, we agreed to a goal being disallowed after his protestations: ‘Typical Klopp, always making excuses’ exclaimed one of their own fans before we went on to win 5-2, with Evan scoring a penalty.
This time, one of the Cougars’ coaches volunteered to officiate in the absence of an independent ref. ‘I’m not happy about this; we’ll be watching you’ said a concerned parent (me). ‘Well I’m a FIFA registered ref so, er…any brown envelopes?’
We were back in the comforting environment of the Amsterdam Arena. Whereas at previous matches we tended to congregate at the Heineken Music Hall end of the ground, this time we were on the Boris Pasternakstraat side. Half-term seemed to have taken its toll; last season, the Cougar aristocrats brought a large and vociferous crowd (the guys who boasted about dancing on Karl Marx’s grave in Highgate Cemetery and laughed about knocking my coffee over), but this time they were thin on the Amsterdam ground.
Evan, too, seemed a little thrown by time and place. Yesterday, he woke up on Ribena Hill (spelt Rhiwbina) on the outskirts of Cardiff, wondering where on earth he was, and then again between hedges on a lane just north of Newport where we saw an unbelievable sign put up by estate agents who know exactly who they are: ‘Crook and Blight.’
Furthermore, just before the game Evan ventured to some of the farthest reaches of nonsense, to regions where there seem to be only one or two outlying villages of truth. He envies Year 6 their annual trip to ‘Manor Boxing Arena’ which they visit every year because ‘there’s a highly professional medical area there. It’s highly professional. So when they get hit, they can just go there and be healed.’
The first goal Wokingham & Emmbrook scored was one of the best we’ve seen, setting the tone for a commanding and destructive performance. Xanthoulis pinged the ball along the floor to Dance who controlled it brilliantly before driving a perfect ball through to Jack Parry who turned and side-footed it into the corner. There was much laughter and exclamatory stuff from the Boris Pasternakstraat side. When Jack scored with an excellent strike 2 minutes later, eyebrows were raised.
‘What on earth did Jack have for breakfast?’ Elias and I wanted to know, so Andrew went at it both barrels: ‘Breakfast was a nightmare! He wanted rice pops and Cheerios, but the flavours were disturbed so then he asked for rice pops on their own, which he wouldn’t eat. In the end I just gave him toast.’ Andrew and Jack are Wolverhampton Wanderers fans and vegans who won’t buy a Wolves shirt due to their dubious sponsorship, so instead Jack attends training bedecked in the luminescent greens of Forest Green Rovers, a pro-vegan (‘Vegan do it!’), progressive club who are sponsored by Sea Shepherd, another favourite of the Parries as they support the disruption of Japanese whaling, and rightly so.
The landed gentry would not go gently into the Woodley night, though. They prodded a neat volley home from a corner and generally sought to withstand the motley rabble from the railway side of town. However, they were intriguingly stretched by none other than Amelia ‘Rensenbrink’ Mulvaney who clung to the far left wing as the widest middenvelder in Woodley, niggling away at them and executing Cruyff turns in desolate cul-de-sacs of Cougar territory as the clock eroded their chances.
The entrance of her cousin, Connor, would effectively end the match as a contest. As a substitute, he’s like one of those contractors hired in on a short term basis with the most advanced equipment on the market. In Wales, they’re called ‘contract shepherds.’ When your common shepherds can’t find their flocks, or have to rely on archaic equipment when they do, they call in the contractors. They even have online forums which we can peruse. One contract shepherd said their best customer is ‘a lady with 6 ewes, good cake and cold beer. £80 + VAT. Pity I only go there 6 times a year’ to which another big hitter responded with ‘That probably says something about you’ and left it at that. The conversation went on, but it’s probably best to post a link rather than go into it in too much detail: http://farmingforum.co.uk/forums/showthread.php?6227-Contract-shepherding-man-dogs-and-prattley.
The point is that for us, sea shepherd, pitbull or contract shepherd, Mulvaney’s the man, but he only sealed the win today; every player had one of their best games of the last year or so, a fact reflected by Michael’s inability to hand out an individual man of the match award, but to give it to the whole team or ‘the group’ as Brendan Rodgers would say, no question.
Wilderspool Causeway 