Match of the Day

Norbert

Chapter 43

Match of the Day

The match is to be played on a cut down version of the football field outside the hospital sports club on Sunday afternoon. Word must have got round about the impending annihilation and the participation of scantily clad women. Or rather I made sure it had. All four sides of the pitch are lined with people and the club is packed, inside and out.

GT pushes Asif from in front of the solitary mirror. ‘There ain’t enough mirrors in here,’ he complains. ‘Where there’s GT, there needs to be mirrors.’

‘In that case I can recommend Go Camping on Thuggle Street.’

‘Wow,’ says Henry, as Isabel and Dora Mae emerge from behind the curtained-off area of the dressing room. ‘I’ve never seen such beauty.’

‘Wow,’ says Asif. ‘Neither have I.’

Both girls do a coquettish little twirl, clearly delighted at the response.

‘Wow,’ says Colin. ‘Me too,’

‘Wow,’ says GT, ‘You certainly are gorgeous.’ But he is still looking in the mirror.

I have to say that apart from a John Deere 8530 in lime green and yellow, I haven’t seen such beauty either.

As well as their redesigned outfits, both are wearing full make-up. They have tied their hair back.

‘Loosen you hair,’ I order.

‘We won’t be able to see where we’re going,’ says Dora Mae.

‘That doesn’t matter. You have to look at your most alluring.’

‘Where’s Dougie?’ says Asif.

‘He’s still behind the curtain getting changed,’ says Isabel.

‘He saw you naked?’ says Hungry Henry.

‘Water off a wicketkeeper’s back,’ says Dougie, making his grand entrance.

He has better coiffed hair and even tighter shorts than the girls, hand stitched by Foultongue in white leather. She’s sown sequins on his shirt, too.

‘Well I’ll be fanny-tickled,’ says GT. ‘You look even prettier than me.’

‘And … ladies … I’ve got a bigger bulge in the gusset.’

Dougie isn’t talking to the ladies.

‘Perfect. We’re almost ready. Remember my instructions and don’t panic. I know what I’m doing. You’re not doing this for me—’

‘You’re damn right,’ snaps GT. ‘We ain’t paying out a grannytickling penny.’

‘You’re doing this for the honour of the department.’

‘I’m also doing it in the hope that Isabel’s bazoomers pop out,’ says Hungry Henry.

‘And that Dora Mae’s shorts disappear up her—’

‘We get the gist,’ I say to Colin.

There is a knock on the door. ‘It’s time,’ someone shouts.

‘Okay, team, let’s do this.’ I raise my hand for a high five. ‘Give me a W…’

They all file past without acknowledgement except for GT, the last in line. He does give me a W, an almighty whack which makes my palm sting like iodine in an open wound.

The Chemistry team emerge to polite applause. The appearance of West Haem United is greeted with a deafening, stunned silence, broken only by a lone shout of: ‘Look at the knockers on that!’ from somewhere behind the goal. This prompts an enormous roar and a myriad wolf whistles. This seems to put our girls at their ease. They trot round the pitch, waving to the fans.

The Chemistry lads are clearly bowled over by our femme fatales. All of them except for the left-side midfielder are practically drooling. He only has eyes for Dougie.

For the first ten minutes the chemists are following our girls round like lovesick puppies, giving the ball away and fluffing what few shots they have. To my relief, GT, Henry, Asif and Colin can actually play and we quickly go two – nil up. It takes Cattermole-O’Hare another five minutes to cajole his players through a series of hoarse shouts and gesticulations into concentrating on the game. But once they score their first goal after seventeen minutes, the floodgates open, and by the twenty-fifth minute they are four - two in front.

Their centre forward has scored a hat trick, so on the next attack I give Isabel her signal. She moves close to him and says something. As instructed, she then runs away from him backwards, those perfect loolybells jiggling enticingly. He follows in hot pursuit. At the last moment, as she approaches the goal, she swerves off violently to her left. The poor guy runs straight into the upright with a sickening thud. His nose literally explodes, fountaining blood down the front of his white shirt. Despite his best efforts, the Biochemistry trainer is unable to staunch the flow, and he is forced to leave the field, his game over. ‘She bwoke my dose,’ he wails, as he is led away to the touchline.

*

From the start of the game, Dora Mae Blimp has been sitting on the West Haem bench, minding her bucket and wading through a pack of fairy cakes. About ten minutes into the game she is joined by Velcro, who wanders out from the changing rooms wearing a St John’s Ambulance uniform several sizes too big. She plonks her own bucket down on the ground beside her. She looks across at Dora Mae, then down at her bucket, frowning suspiciously. Dora Mae wrings out her sponge a couple of times and tries to look busy. Neither notices that the referee has blown his whistle and is signalling for the trainer to come on. The linesman has to jog to our bench and tell them that a man is down and needs attention.

GT has taken an elbow in the face, going up to head the ball in a one on one. Velcro and Dora Mae pick up their buckets and race across the pitch. With Velcro continuously tripping over the overlong legs of her trousers, and Dora Mae bouncing like a Space Hopper, just about all the water is spilt by the time they reach him. The crowd love it. Velcro grabs his right leg, Dora Mae his left, and both start to vigorously rub embrocation into his thigh muscles, with occasional forays higher up.

‘It’s my head that hurts,’ GT groans.

They stop rubbing, wipe their messy hands, dive into their toilet bags and rummage inside. Velcro is the first to emerge with a spray can. She holds it at arms-length, and from a distance of no more than six inches, sprays it directly into GT’s eyes.

‘What the cock is that?’ everyone hears him scream, before he covers his face and rolls back on the ground.

‘It’s a pain killer,’ says Velcro.

‘What sort of pain killer?’

‘Junior aspirin dissolved in water. It’s all I’ve got.’

Realizing he’s not been blinded by something lethal, like Twinkle Twat, GT gingerly wipes his face and finds he can still see. He’s quite forgotten his head hurts.

‘I’m fine now, ref, I don’t need anymore treatment,’ he pleads.

‘Thank you, ladies,’ Maine-Rhodes says, ushering them away. ‘And please remember, each team is only allowed to send one trainer on to the pitch. Now off you go.’

They return slowly to the bench, arguing, and stand directly in front of me.

‘You said I was the trainer,’ says Dora Mae.

‘You said I was the trainer,’ says Velcro.

‘You’re the trainer for leg injuries,’ I say to Velcro. ‘And you’re the trainer for head injuries’. 

‘Heads are more important than legs,’ says Dora Mae.

‘You don’t kick the ball with your head, though, do you?’

Velcro reaches into her bucket and throws her sodden sponge straight at Dora Mae’s face. ‘Head that tickler!’ she snaps.

Dora Mae stops, looks across in open-mouthed astonishment and tips the dregs in her bucket over Velcro’s head.

Velcro drops her bucket on Dora Mae’s toe. ‘Kick that tickler!’ she screams, and pushes her over as Dora Mae hops on one leg.

Dora Mae reaches inside her toilet bag, takes out a handful of fairy cakes and throws them at Velcro. Clothilda dives on top of her. They grip each other’s hair and start rolling around the pitch, scratching and spitting at each other like fighting cats.

The crowd bay like a pack of demented bloodhounds.

It takes the referee, both linesmen and three players to drag them apart and escort them kicking and screaming to the touchline. I make them sit on their hands at opposite ends of the bench.

Up in the makeshift Director’s box on the balcony of the sports club, Peregrine Foote-Wharmer turns to Baldy Warnetires-Skidmore and says: ‘Why do West Haem United have two different shirt sponsors?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘On the front of the men’s shirts it says Nickel Trinkets, whilst on the front of the women’s it says Nice Tits.’

Matron slips her arm through his and pushes her ample bosom against him. ‘Why, thank you, Mr Foote-Wharmer, it was good of you to notice. Would you like a closer look at half time?’

‘I don’t mind if I do, old girl. I never thought football could be so much fun.’

*

With two minutes to go, Asif limps over and tells me he has a groin strain and doesn’t think he will make it to half time.

‘I could rub some embrocation on it for you,’ says Velcro.

‘I could just rub it,’ says Dora Mae.

‘You’re not allowed to rub Muslims,’ says Asif.

‘Okay, but you might as well take one of their players with you,’ I tell Asif. ‘Take their star midfielder out.’

A minute later, Asif jumps in with a vicious two-footed tackle that brings gasps from the crowd and leaves both players needing a stretcher. If only we had one. As our trainers drag him off, feet first, the referee shows Asif the red card. As he crosses the touchline, I point out to Clotty and Dora Mae that it would have been more humane if he was face up. 

Whilst all this is going on, I call Dougie over.

‘You seem to have picked up an admirer.’

‘Oh yes, he’s very keen. He’s only a tail ender, but beggars can’t be choosers.’

‘Look, I want you to really turn up the heat. Tease him something rotten.’

At the half time whistle we are behind five - two. We are down to six players and them to five.

On the way to the dressing room, Kit Cattermole-O’Hare approaches, frothing at the mouth. ‘You are nothing but a cheating minionshit potdog.’

‘The one player that broke the laws of the game got sent off. I’m sorry your man got injured, but you lost the other through lust.’

‘I look forward to taking your money,’ he shouts, as I hurry into the dressing room.

‘We’re getting deep-tickled in both holes at once,’ GT swears.

‘And dressing the women up like models in a kinky underwear catalogue didn’t take their mind off the job for very long, did it?’ says Colin.

‘Are you saying I’ve lost my allure?’ shouts Isabel.

‘Not one of their players has made a pass at me yet,’ says Dora Mae, petulantly. ‘I’m just as pretty as her.’

‘Not a single one of you has made any sort of pass,’ says Asif.

GT retaliates. ‘You’ll have more than a groin strain in a minute.’

‘Ladies and gentleman, please,’ I shout above the din. ‘Things are going very much to plan. There’s nothing to worry about.’

‘You call five - two nothing to worry about?’ shouts Henry. ‘You’re an even bigger managerial disaster than GT.’

‘And there’s absolutely no chance of anymore lewd behaviour,’ says Isabel. ‘They won’t fall for that again.’

‘My box of tricks is far from empty,’ I tell her.