George: Well, huzzah and hurrah! Long live the Isthmian Premier and let’s shove it up the Islanders. One last push for the play-offs and it’s sausage and mash in Hornchurch by Bank Holiday Monday!
Blackadder: Or to put it more precisely, we’ll be dead before Sports Report.
George: Oh now come on, Cap! Sure, it’s a bit unlikely we’re going to bosh Johnny Islander and rely on the chaps on the Haringey front to do us a favour, but it’s time for the old stiff upper lip, Cool Box Britannia and shove it up your shin pads!
Blackadder: Yes, as ever George, I admire your Waitrose Finest brand of gormless optimism, but even you’ve got to admit our chances of going over the top and surviving are about as strong as a Heineken Zero Shandy. And where are all the boys now that signed up at the start of the season?
George: Well, er, there’s Little Tom. He bought it after he stepped on a landmine in Herne Bay. Bits of him landed as far away as Ramsgate, so I hear…
George: And then there’s Skinny Jack. Signed up when we was 13, entertained the troops with his cheeky japes, but went AWOL in the bleak midwinter.
George: And what about dear old Jamie? Had his papers stamped and ended up in the benches at Hornchurch. That’s no way to die…
George: Yes, now you come to mention it, I guess it’s only me, The Bastard, Razzmatazz, Brad The Marrow, Old Champs and a few of the other chaps left from the start of the campaign…
Still! Time for one last heroic how’s-your-father, God save the King, back-of-the-net bit of boshing before we all stop for jelly and ice cream at Clackett Lane, eh, Cap?
Blackadder: Quite. Anything to add to this deluded pile of giblets, Baldrick?
Baldrick: Permission to read a little poem, sir.
Blackadder: If you must.
Hear the words I write,
Canvey’s pitch is utter shite,
Still I hope we win,
George: (Applauding) Oh, bravo! Didn’t know you were The Youth Wing’s chief lyricist, Balders?
Blackadder: Yes, rather like our season, Baldrick, it started badly, tailed off in the middle and the less said about Herne Bay the better. Right, time for me to get out of here…
George: Hold on, Cap! News from the front! It’s happening! It’s Razzer, sir! He’s giving Johnny Islander a good hiding! Dodged past three of The Hun to score the opener, gave the keeper the eyes before tricking him into conceding the second, and he’s unleashed an absolute howitzer for the third! Meanwhile, the boys at the back are bloody heroes, sir! Throwing themselves in the way of grenades, holding the line. We’ve lost Olukoga for Christ knows what, but it’s on, sir! We’re going to make it!
Baldrick: And there’s a pigeon from Haringey, sir! They’re fighting back. The Wanderers are in trouble, sir. We’re saved!
Blackadder: Afraid not, Baldrick. Even Cray aren’t mad enough to shoot themselves in the foot.
George: You mean…
Blackadder: I’m afraid so. Unless I think of something very quickly.
Baldrick: I have a plan, sir.
Blackadder: Really, Baldrick? A cunning and subtle one? As cunning as a director who’s just been appointed as head of the cunning pillar on the Lewes FC board?
Baldrick: Yes, sir.
Blackadder: Whatever it was, I’m sure it was better than the match reports. Good luck, everyone.
Lewes: Carey, Olukoga, Champion, Salmon, Mundle-Smith, Pritchard, Tamplin, Hyde, Murrell-Williamson, Coleman De-Graft, Taylor
Subs: Young, Huckle, Hall, Mcgonigle, Middleton-Tozer
Supporters Club man of the match: Razz. Pure class.