It’s 2am and our match reporter finds himself in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling…
Match reporter’s pysche: What’s a matter with you, Big Dog? Why you not sleeping?
Match reporter: It’s the match report, innit? And I’ve told you not to call me Big Dog anymore. Not after you-know-who nabbed it..
What’s the issue with the match report? They won didn’t they?
Yeah, but there’s nothing to cling to. Nothing to hook a match report on. It was the most routine game of football I’ve ever seen. You could sum it up in a tweet. The “three points, job done, we go again” tripe football clubs pay some teenager on minimum wage to bang out, in between trips to the food bank.
Something interesting must have happened. What about the goals?
First goal was a mildly strange one. Corner chucked into the six-yard box, Joe Taylor under it, but the keeper punches it into his own net.
Ah-ha! There’s something. I saw Taylor spinning away and celebrating, like he’d scored in the FA Cup Final! Hook the report on that.
Yeah, but he does that. He’s a bastard. We’ve been there.
Oh, yeah. What about the second goal?
Textbook Razz. Me and Big Deaksy in the Philcox, screaming at him to shoot when he’s got the ball at his feet on the edge of the box, but he takes an extra touch inside, beats the defender and curls it into the bottom corner. I don’t want to write about that. It will make me look like a tit who doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
Perish the thought. What about Cray? Did they do anything noteworthy?
Not really. The huffed and puffed (©️ Darren Freeman) all night, but didn’t put a serious threat on Carey’s goal for the entire match. In fact, by the end of the game, Carey was so bored he was doing fake dives at shots so wild they nearly knocked the “You Don’t Have To Be A Vegan Socialist Mormon To Work Here, But It Helps” sticker off Roger’s tractor.
Jesus wept. Come on. There must be something…
Well, there is Cray’s kit. No only is it David Icke purple, but they’ve got a QR code for a sponsor’s logo. A genius idea, except for the fact that, even if you can get a player to stand still for long enough to scan him, the creases in the shirt make it impossible to scan anyway. So nobody knows who the sponsor is. It’s the kind of batshit marketing…
Don’t finish that sentence. You’re in enough trouble with the board as it is. There must be something else…
There really isn’t. It was just a good, solid, professional, we’ll-have-those-three-points-and-worry-about-Hornchurch-on-Saturday kind of performance. I’ve got literally nothing to work with. Well, apart from Joe Vines wearing his nan’s bobble hat.
I’d keep your head down, give the match report a miss, if I were you… which I sort of am.
Yeah, good plan.
Lewes: Carey, Spencer, Salmon, Nelson, Carlse, Klass, Phipp, Dalling, Tanner, Coleman De-Graft, Taylor
Subs: Yao, Hall, Pettit, Allen, Gillies
Boyesy’s brilliant photos: