Fool's Mate?

Fool's Mate

With work stopped for a week and with the Dickens's Masterpiece, a Christmas Carol, on permanent loop on the Christmas channel, you would have thought that Boz couldn't be any happier, but on this occasion you would be wrong.

Suffering from a very heavy cold and even more painful sciatica, I was struggling to even make the 'bench' in the stands of the Met Coaches sponsored Stadium at Penydarren Park today, to watch Merthyr Town take on the Chessmen of Chesham United.

Who'd have thought it would take a gargantuan effort just to go from couch potato to coach potato.

Which brings me neatly onto the events of the Chesham match.

Can anyone tell me what upset Mr Potato Head, the Chesham assistant, assistant, assistant coach, to make him so angry that he sparked the on field debacle that saw more handbags than Imelda Marcos wardrobe?

Surely, it is unusual for a bald man to get his hair off in that fashion?.

It started mid-way through the first-half with an exchange of pleasantries with First Team Merthyr Coach Ashley Thomas, which unfortunately due to my heavy cold and reduced hearing ability, due to the unwanted hair in my Lineker's, meant I could not record the dialogue.

'If' it had been Mick Jagger rather than Telly Savalas, then I might have been able to have
lip-read their difference of opinion.

But with the Away coach 'barking' out Teutonic orders like
'Do your job ....Ginge'
to his midfielders, I can only assume from some of the tackles on Captain Marble in the first half, that the job in question was a hatchet one.

Herr Loss seemed to take an instant dislike to the extremely young, near sided linesman, who judging by the state of his Kermit-like Winter Green legs hadn't even started shaving yet.

On this occasion to refer to a 'Lino' as a Muppet would probably be very accurate but to use such language that would make Chubby Brown blush is not really appropriate for a Chess Master or even a visiting Bishop.

Whilst having watched the first half, where the 'Sicilian defences' of both sides were on top producing a 'stale mate', I could empathise with the frustration of the Chessmen, as the tactics had descended into one of both sides lumping the ball forward to their taller target men- Merthyr to Dave Lee Travis and Chesham to Arnold Schwarzenegger's more muscular brother, the much travelled Jefferson Louis.

I had expected much more of the London Boys, as they came out smartly attired in
claret n blue, just like Aston Villa or Burnley but in fact sadly played like Worst Ham United- with their follicle challenged assistant, assistant, assistant coach refusing to enter into the Christmas spirit, as he was intent on 'Forever Throwing Baubles'.

With Merthyr fielding an injury-hit side that should have dual registration with Holby City, I half expected another unlucky for some, 13-1 thrashing from Chesham, especially as our budget cuts and limited income meant that we were forced to play a few of the Academy players to try and make ends meet.

Replacing appearance money with pocket money seems to be our inevitable future.

But lucky for us today, we caught Chesham on a day where they were more likely to hit a drone out of the sky at Gatwick Airport than the back of our net.

In fact, after a first half where neither side could muster an attempt on target, I was getting worried that the Official Receiver might have already taken 'Walking Custody' of both sets of goals.

But fortunately, there was one man amongst the 22 players who had worked out where the goal was.

Old Eagle-Eyed Action Man himself-Kerry Morgan.

While the Chesham players were busy attempting to play with referee Jack Clench's
Rubik Cube shaped head, Morgan picked the ball out just inside the Away half of the
Chess Board and hit a shot down the diagonal from 25 yards that made keeper Ben Goode
look bad -as it sizzled into the net.

Up in the Prawn Sandwich Brigade Boxes, the interim board quickly transferred assets from a hedge fund in the Channel Islands into the 'Send a Local Child to Disneyland Reserve Account' as the boy genius turned and demanded his payment for that little beauty that looked like securing the three points.

I lip-read the words 'Cheque Mate' but not from the Bank of Tigger like the last one
( Ownes note- its what Tigger cheques do best- it bounced).

With a little over 24 minutes of 'squeaky bum' time left, Chesham upped the ante (and the dec) in an effort to revive a Saturday Takeaway of a point or three, as the Pawn Stars used every trick in the book to get level, dominating possession and territory, as Merthyr retreated behind their sandbags, handbags and used their Dunkirk Spirit to Dig for Victory against Herr Loss & Co and the blitzkrieg attacks of their number 3 ( Luke Warner-Ely) and flying 10 Eoin Casey.

It seemed like the game would never end-either that or the referee would have to hitchhike home to Angleterre if there was no Edward Woodward.

As the man in black moved passed Fergie Time, into Mourinho Time ( didn't last long thankfully) and then into Solskjaer Time- with the Colin the Monk Stand male voice choir singing their fifteenth rendition of 'Ole, Ole, Ole', it seemed that the match was as timeless as a broken Sekonda-, as there was 'Norway' passed the co-opted Academy goalkeeper, Lewys Webb , who made himself seem big on every occasion ( World Wide Webb?) as he played like he was descended from an Argentinean Dog.

The result in itself -purely based on statistics- was hard on the Chessmen to take but to then witness together with others a coach berating and belittling an inexperienced linesman was very disappointing and was clearly the catalyst for the unnecessary 'handbags' at the end of the game.

After all in Non-League football you are lucky if the officials - being human or only part Muppet- get 50% of the decisions correct on the day and always add to the uncertainty that makes live semi-professional football so interesting and provides good moaning material for the inevitable post-match bar analysis .

They shouldn't be used as a scapegoat for efforts on goal that have Neil Armstrong & Buzz Aldrin running for cover- even if they ARE to blame for for my heavy cold and sciatica- as their selfish voluntary attendance forced me to come out and watch that game-nor do they deserve a ear-bashing for turning up in the bleak MidWinter on a wet Tuesday night or Saturday afternoon - we have amateur people to fill that role already - called fans- especially if have an amusing name like Jack Clench (that sounds like a Swansea fan enduring a relegation season from the Premiership).

By the same token, if complaints of the Chesham Fans are justified - there a no-place for fans from across the bridge ( which has taken its 'toll' on the long suffering Welsh spirit) being abused by doubting the lineage of their Anglo-Saxon/Norman French bloodline- we are 'Guests' in this League, in the same way the English Iron Masters - the Mabinogion translating Guests- were tolerated by the good chapel-going people of Dowlais and we must keep a welcome in the Hillsides for the Saesneg- as things have moved on since 1831 ( coincidentally when extra-time seemed to finish).

Otherwise, whatever we think of them - just like today, every 'end-game' would descend into a Brexit-style self-induced chaos and farce.

The unpaid, volunteer, Officials are the real's 'fools mate' for keeping the 'beautiful' game alive- when things turn ugly.

So I believe they deserve applause not abuse- whatever their level of experience.

And not just fools either.

Just like me...they must be mad too..

Boz