Wotcha. Some Herbert I met at the football yesterday asked me to write you a match report, so here goes. Eyes down.
For a kick-off, I’m told your lot think they can get out of this division by playing – as I think you Sussex nonces call it – football. Have a word with yourselves.
The way you get out of the Ryman League, or whatever they’re calling it this week, is by battering the ball to the big fella up top and lumping into challenges with both plates. If the other lot come out with all their shin pads intact, you’ve mugged the fans off.
Hornchurch, they play the proper way. They don’t need the grass – that’s why the pitch looks like Arthur Fowler’s allotment. Bang it long, bang it hard, bosh.
Now, fair play, your lot gave it a good go for 15 minutes. You tried to play this football stuff on the cabbage patch, and even when we smacked your big lad, the ref waved play on and that lively kid you had on the wing smashed it past our keeper. Darling, I think Steve on the tannoy called him, which leads me to suspect Steve ain’t getting much change out of ‘er indoors at the moment.
Anyhow, pretty soon the ‘church cottoned on to the fact we just weren’t kicking your lot hard enough. So we put your little left-back out of the game with a proper raker, and then we sorted out the fella you moved to left-back for good measure (although he was grabbing his hammy from the get-go, so I’m not sure our lads can really chalk that one up on the dressing room wallchart).
Pretty soon, your mob clocked on to the fact that getting near our lads was a one-way trip to A&E, and so your defence kindly made way to let us grab an equaliser, which was very bloody nice of ’em!
The ruck continued for a bit and then your third left-back tried to mug our lads off by pretending he was a goalkeeper, just so he wouldn’t get booted out of the game too. Alas, the ref was having none of it and so the ‘andball led to a penalty. Wraighty proper smashed it, of course, and we went in for our half-time Lucozade and chips with the lead. Happy days.
The second half started a bit lively and your boys finally got into the spirit of things.
Your skipper’s lying on the cabbages and our number five ain’t happy about it. Steve, the groundsmen, he puts hard minutes into that pitch every month. He don’t occasionally get home late for a repeat of Minder on ITV3 so that your lads can have a little siesta on his crops, so Nathan straightens him out and drags him to his feet.
Well, that gets on your skipper’s Bristols and so he goes to head butt Nathan. It’s not a proper head butt. There’s no claret, no hooter like Barbara Streisand’s for the rest of his life. It’s a tap, but that’s enough for the ref to send him back to warm-up the showers. Go and get yourself a drink from Steve in the bar, son. See if he can pour a smaller head than the one you butted.
Anyway, by now we’re thinking this is gonna be a walk in the park. But, credit where credit’s due, your lads kept working like their benefits depended on it. And if that bastard you’ve got up front kept his shot down, you might even have nicked a cheeky point.
As it happens, Ola came off the bench, nabbed us a third and – like Steve’s chances of winning Groundsman of the Year – it’s all over.
Go back to your Sussex vineyards and have a think. Mugs.
Lewes: Carey, Spencer, Nelson, Salmon, Carlse, Klass, Pettit, Pritchard, Coleman De-Graft, Dalling, Taylor
Subs: Hall, Weaire, Yao, Allen, Gillies