Retiring from football the Jet Set way

24 07 2014

I, and my team, retired from football three weeks ago. We only told the league yesterday.

What did my hands do before they were encased by these foul-smelling creations?

Jul 23 018

Our à la mode resignation e-mail might have looked like this.

Dear c***s in charge of the Llandudno 6-a-side league,
After 9 years of toil, effort and various names The Intellectuals would like to announce our resignation from the 6-a-side league.

There are three reasons that explain our decision.

Firstly, we’ve reached the age where we’ve decided to respect our bodies.

Secondly, our misanthropic ways mean that we are unable to find enough people to replace our walking wounded / permanently disfigured. We can’t trust younger people as they are too irritating and everyone we trust and respect has moved to the bright lights of civilisation.

Thirdly, the other teams have become insufferable. We have finally reached our limit of pointless alpha male aggression, nasal whining and injudicious use of The Banter.

The last reason is perhaps the most important because during the resigned post match car park analysis it has become clear that at least three quarters of our usual matchday squad have become intent on remaking Falling Down,  as in Michael Douglas’s understated tour de force, on the streets of our delightful seaside resort. Worryingly none of my teammates  have mentioned employing a filmcrew.

I’m sorry we have to resign but we seem to have reached “that age”.
Thanks for everything down the years,

Yours Cheaply,

The footballing wing of the Llandudno Jet Set

Our adventure began in the more innocent times of 2005. Back then we were just a group of friends looking for a little fun on a Monday night and the Llandudno 6-a-side league looked to be just the thing. That little moment of human joy was nearly a decade ago.

They say you instinctively know when it’s time to stop and my epiphany came in what turned out to be the penultimate match of my 6-a-side career. The precise moment of my epiphany arrived milliseconds after an anti-social prick with a hipster beard scored past me and then shouted “Fuck Off!!!!!” in my general direction. When people are too angry to celebrate a goal in a 6-a-side league that don’t amount to a hill of beans in this goddamn world there’s something wrong.

Was I in goal merely to allow cunts that weren’t quite sure why they had grown hipster beards to vent their solipsistic anger? When I remembered one of Danny Glover’s many lines I realised that I come to the end of the road in 6-a-side football; I was now too old for “this shit”.

I have been able to deal with the post match physical discomfort – a back that feels like teak, ankle and knee joints that seem to have the consistency of shortbread biscuits – through familiarity and the inherent joy of playing football in the fresh air. I really loved playing football. I really loved playing in goal. I really loved preventing goals, I really loved frustrating the feckless and the irritating with another display of goalkeeping elan, exasperated voices and contorted faces were my elixir. Then the twats became oppressive.

I’m only a reasonable man, there’s only so much attempted show boating I can take. To be used as a canvas for condescending art is bad enough but these self-penned Ronaldos, Neymars and Ibrahimovics were awful at showboating. One only had to stand in the right place during their second attempt at making you look stupid and they would fail, yet they continued to try and make you look stupid. Did I mention that they wore the same coloured boots as their heroes?

The shouted banter was another bugbear. The swaggering demeanours and loud matey exchanges told us that another evening’s sedate football had been ruined; The Banter had arrived. Something in my head fell on its side when I saw swaggering opponents. Their primeval demeanour screamed “This is my domain, I am the king of all I survey”. I’m positive that I once saw one of them urinate against a goalpost.

These people were even more insufferable when they were winning. In the event of a goal or two they’d use The Banter with each other as they were playing, that’s right, AS THEY WERE FUCKING PLAYING. Few things that were more satisfying than scoring late winners against teams acting like twats. Luckily we became specialists at scoring late winners against team acting like twats.

I grew to despise of one particular team of cunts above all others, let’s call them the über-cunts. Firstly, their name was a bad pun. Secondly, they wore a set of full kits complete with squad numbers and unfunny nicknames. Thirdly, they were the distillation of the Soccer AM generation; The Banter quite literally flew across the pitch. Lastly, they were rude and arrogant. For example, they’d never let a little detail like a match in progress put them off warming up. They’d happily pass the ball to each other across the pitch and then try to score past the nearest  goalkeeper with curling shots whilst two other teams were running about. You could tell they were happy with themselves because they used to laugh derisively about their antics. To top it all when they once scored against us the goalscoring cunt shouted “BOOM!!!!!!” at the top of his voice.

The über-cunts seemed to be anti-social all the time, 24-7 as they probably say. One Thursday Dan happened to be playing football on one of the pitches used by the league. After the casual match someone happened to ask how we were doing in the league. “We’re doing alright yeah” replied Dan. A member of the über-cunts squad happened to be walking behind Dan at the time – he’d been playing on another pitch – and chimed in with the self-satisfied “Yeah but you’re not top of the league like us though are ya!!!!!”.  I’m not sure karma exists, the über-cunts won the league twice.

Having said all that we did have some good times. We left on a high. Five of us turned out for what turned out to be our last match and we held the other side to a draw. We also once beat a team that contained some of Llandudno FC ‘s first team players. Simple words can’t adequately express the satisfaction I felt at beating those preening metrosexuals, oh how they hated being beaten by people that were beneath their contempt. My personal highlights were developing cordial relations with Llandudno’s Slovak community via FC Barakuda and our respectful matches with the team that was a combination of ex-Llandudno players and ex-schoolmates of ours.

I realize that I’ll never wear my padded goalkeepers pants again.

Farewell  3 /4 length padded goalkeepers’ pants!

Farewell technicolour shirt!

Farewell cut-price gloves that inevitably made my hands smell like cheese ‘n’ onion crisps!

Farewell Sports Direct, for I’ll never visit your crinkly warehouse of polyester for cut-price equipment again!

Farewell football, we’ll leave it to the über-cunts from now on.

Needless to say, I’ve had the last laugh,



2 responses

24 07 2014

Cheers, I’m starting to blush now.

24 07 2014
Jac o' the North

One of your best.

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: