Mark Pougatch: “And over to Bishopstown and Stuart Hall…”
(Adopt voice of Stuart Hall)
“Helas, helas, mes amis, toujours l'egalite, oh quelle horreur. I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding cowslip grow. My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings, gaze on my work, ye mighty, and despair. Nothing besides remains. Round the decay of this colossal wreck, boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away. Welcome to the Theatre of Base Comedy where a match was played this evening, though you’ll be forgiven for the oversight.
And oh! there was an earthquake this evening as Joe Mercer, Dixie Dean, Herbert Chapman and even dear Georgie himself turned awkwardly in their graves at the very thought of this appalling spectacle. Was this what those great men of ’63…1863 of course…had in mind when they connived on Great Queen Street to agree the Laws, for if it was then they should surely be held accountable for this abomination. To the stocks I hear you cry. To the stocks…
And what of Marco, the wandering Man o’ War? Would he lift the gloom? Would he save football? Or is he too good for this farce? Too proud to partake in this nonsense I put it to you…
There was a first half, as envisaged by the elders, or so I’m told, for if I can remember a single detail, I’m Mastermind. It hasn’t been the same, I hear you say, since Magnus Magnusson departed stage left has it? The starting, the finishing, the sheer poetry of knowledge. Ohhhhhhh!
Into the second half, a goal…a goal for Almaty, prodded home in a most unsightly fashion by Smith, that most diligent of centre halves. And then a card, yes a card, not of the Christmas or birthday variety, this one yellow as Frenchman, as it shone brightly in the night sky. Murphy’s Law enforced. The offender walked, perhaps happy to be free of this carnage.
And a mention too for the referee. Ohhhh the folly of it. A slight of hand, a twist of fate, everything a contravention. And Dawson, that coolest of liberos, deemed a common corner boy by this hapless gentleman. Away with you I say. Your honour: “Chopper” Harris he ain’t…
My God, My God why hast thou forsaken me! A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, they say, but show me the man who has so much he's out of danger. Yes there was a match here this evening but it wasn’t association football. Final score, Almaty one, Invincibles nil.”
Mark Pougatch: “Er…thanks Stuart….”
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