Man in the Dugout reports 2000-01
New kit launched
Fixtures 2000 - 01
Your prayers please
Your Prayers Answered
Club Badge
Awards - Yes, we did win one!
2001 - 2002 - A Street Odyssey Continues
Fixtures 2001-02
Could this Be The Year? Reports 2002-03
2002-03 Fixtures and Results
Support Our Sponsors
2003-04: European Union
2003-04: Results, Fixtures
Roma Therapy
The Greatest Football Tournament in the World
2004-2005: Attack of the Minty Badgers
Street's New Training Regime
Meet the team!
Union Street's festive picture gallery!
The Union Street Awards 2004/05!
der Mann in heraus gegraben DAM diary 2005
2005-06: When badgers learn to fly
Street Talk
Knee-Jerk Reaction: Ben's Countdown to Germany 2006
Bolz WM Gonzo Diary
Pre-Seasonal Tension
2006-07: MInty Badgers Save the World
Plumbing new depths
Direkt Von Dem Dugout - Koln 2007
Union Street Awards: Season 2006 - 2007
2007-08: For a Few Seasons More
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A Fistful of Signing on Forms
 | The Badger With No Name threw Ginsburrrg's poncho over his shoulder, took a drag of Macka's patented pre-match waccy-cheroot, and stepped on to the hallowed turf of Sandylanium. Time for action. The adobe pueblo changing room was locked and barred. Sensible folks ushered their children indoors and pulled down the shutters. Only the crazy coffin maker laughed and chattered, as he surveyed Danny Badger's strapped ankle, knowing that it was but a matter of time before his faithful old mule would be pulling the coffin-laden cart to the cemetery.
Amid a flurry of name-chaos, benevolent referee-patience, and tragi-comic secretarial key errors, the Badgers pulled on the famous hoops, went through their warm-ups, and strapped on their guns. Preparations out of the way, the task in hand began in earnest: to tame the persistently annoyingly winning Fairview.
But unfamiliarity and timidity afflicted the badgers early doors. Despite new Swan-Badger Louis 'pumpmaster' Coldrick being quietly dominant at the back, what with his cut hand giving new first-aid lothario Munday the chance to work his 'magic plaster' routine, two angst-ridden defensive errors let the Fairview in, and despite promising forward movement, the first half was Street-scoreless. The second saw Mrs Clayson's neatly chopped oranges work their magic, as Street dominated, their new wing-pairings of Dan 'Church' Kirk and Lars 'Sohn der Mutter' Larsson incisive and, er, quick. Big Luke in the middle used the ball intelligently, and with some nice build-up play chance after chance was created, Dan and Dan uncharacteristically spurning their chances, and doing things like putting their shirts over their heads in frustration.
The crowd could not bear it, nor believe it when even Rich 'Final Reductions' Sale hit the post, but the net would not bulge for them, the goals simply would not come.
The game was up. The coffin maker laughed his crazy laugh. The badger with no name pulled his hat down just a little lower over his gimlet eyes. The sun sank in the west. The nets came down. The changing rooms finally got unlocked.
Union Street 0 (0); Fairview 2 (2)
Kavanagh, Clayson, Mozley, Coldrick, M Burn, Kirk, Munday (Hey), Luke, Larsson (Mackintosh), Badger, Sale (Burn J)
Subs (not used) Ginsburg
Linesman - 'Mr Efficiency' Ginsburg
Referee - Nice
Crowd - Typically friendly badgering |
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Street draw a Blanc
 | He was late, that much was clear.
As the badgers basked idly in the balmy September sunshine, waiting for the arrival of their stripes, the youthful adjudicator en noir wondered when-on-earth they were going to bother themselves with the game of football at hand. He was dismissed casually, as if to say: “we’ll play football when we’re good and ready, my man. You can’t hurry love, man.”
At last, the late man arrived. It was Uncle Burn (who got lost negotiating that tricky triangle in the middle of the village), and he came bearing stripes.
It would be nice to think that Street’s idle preparations had little to do with their poor start to the game, but methinks the two things entirely related. The hooped furry ones began as if to say: "we’ll play football when we’re good and ready, Great Milton. And that’ll be in approximately 20 minutes’ time."
Needless to utter here that by then they were a goal to the bad. Playing up the not-at-all-famous Great Milton slope, it took them a while to realise they were here for football, and not for sunbathing their should-be-famous-but-aren’t todgers. But it came together eventually: the Holy Trinity of St Stephen of Thirkwell, (the gospel according to) St Luke, and St Scarfe of Robo-knee soon got the ball kissing the ground, smooching their boots, and snogging the face off the Great Milton goal.
Shots peppered the aforementioned like the cracked black stuff you get round that Raymond Blanc’s gaff down the road, but all to nowt. It was one nil at the half’s end – and it coulda been two big ones if it weren’t for the post, and Danny “37% for Saturday, boys” Kavanagh’s lightnin’ digits. Dig it?
Our very own teacher Mark “I get self-conscious when I run the line” Ginsburg tried to weaken the oppo by pilfering their oranges – a new tactic, and one to be encouraged in the testing weeks ahead. That said, it must’ve galvanised them or summat, cos they took advantage of a weakened Street (Uncle Burn had forgotten his Lucozade tablets) to bang one in early second-half doors.
Great knock, the assembled throng agreed.
The rest was all Street, as they galloped down the hill like kids running dangerously out-of-control and smashing into the wall at the bottom. By this stage, Jim “The Giant” Hey-stacks had worked out that centre back involves playing in the centre, and at the back, and was all over those Milton Muthas like a skin complaint of indeterminate origin.
Striker-Badgers Wee Dan and New Dad continued to benefit from some totally radical footballing shit courtesy of the Saint and Cool Hand Luke, but that Milton goal was as impregnable as a convent badger with a special badger-chastity-belt. There was time yet for 10 minutes of total chaos as Street piled forward, and Stu tried to work out who was playing right back, but the game soon drifted off into the sunshine.
Yet somehow Street had the last larf (and he who larf’s last, larf’s longest, eh boys?) when the Milton ‘keeper “misjudged” a last-minute trickler, and finally the boys had their first goal of the campaign.
Great Milton (1) 2 – 1 (0) Union Street
(Matt Burn)
Kavanagh, 2 x Burn, Mozley, Hey, Lars, Robo-knee, Saint, Cool Hand, WDB, New Dad
Subs: Late Clayson, Andrew Nice Lad, Self-Conscious Mark
Crowd: Sun-kissed in brown vests
Ref: Assessed
Linesman: Ginsburg / Robo-knee |
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The Kids Are Alright
 | No one can quite explain why Street were as good as they were today. Confident, crisp, passing; long, purposeful passing; occasional mighty essentially pointless but endearing heaving thumps. Forthright shouting from the back of things like “Eyes on!” and “In for me!” that may have meant nothing to anyone else but conveyed a sense of authority and not a little distress. Defence, midfield and attack linking up and covering, like a miraculous spider's web hung with dew on a bright autumnal morning, flexible enough to bend in the breeze, but strong enough to capture those occasional goal-seeking North Oxford fliers in their tracks. From defending from the front to attacking from the back, tackling from behind to cutting off the supply, imploding from the wingbacks to waving from the sidelines, thinking of blue skies to burning the candle at both ends, hunting the old beggar to priming the gas stove, loving the alien to shoving the ha'penny, Street were immense. Early doors they were dominant, going close with a lovely too-downward header from the almost too-perfectly tanned foreheadskin of Neil or newest council employee recruit. Shortly thereafter, Uncle Burn's curling free-kick outdid the stupefied Nox goalie to break the deadlock. A fully deserved penalty to the North following a Wizard lunge saw the scores levelled, but before the break Street struck twice more as Church and Badger found their scoring boots. Wee Dan furthered his tally second half but Street were content to 'hold' from there. Blisters notwithstanding, Street saw out the game, Claysonator clearing off the line, and the back four and linesman working the offside rule in tandem so perfectly it was a lesson for any schoolboy watching. Therein may lie the answer to today's great performance. The Street were all too aware of the many children of founding fathers gathered to watch and learn: the likes of your bare-chested Holloways, your small Fries, your elegant Birnies. The team welcomed the responsibility of ensuring that the players of tomorrow learn the kind of Street philosophy and 'will to win' that is so lacking in the modern game. And how those kids appreciated it. There was even one still there at the final whistle. Union Street (3) 4 ; 1 (1) North OxfordBadger (2), Kirk, Burn (M)
Kavanagh, Goldrick (Hanel), Holman, Mozley, Burn (M), Thirkell (Mackintosh), Davies, Hey, Thirkell, Kirk (Andy Nice), Badger
Subs (not used) - Ginsburg
Referee - Dickensian
Linesman - Fedora-wearing stickler
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North, South, both, or what?
 | The Hinksey bandwagon rolled into town this week and mowed down everything in its path. They out-played, out-thought, out-shouted, out-gunned, and out-bastarded the sorry badger boys with a display of cock-sure cockiness the coxcombes of Union Street could only marvel at.
From the very beginning, their crazy mind games put Street on the back foot: what a master stroke they pulled, having obviously heard of Ginsburg's shenanigans at Great Milton the other week, and aware of the fact that Mrs Clayson was absent, they got their oranges in first, presenting a tub-full to the bemused Streeters before the game. Never mind jelly beans or watering the pitch, this was Churchillian 'mind games'. Not only that, they are called 'Hinksey'. Not North Hinksey, the posh end of Botley, nor South Hinksey, the hamlet on the bypass, just 'Hinksey'. Such apparent insignificant detail can eat away at a man: trying to keep the mind on the game, concentrating on the ball, but all the time the thought bubbling up from the primordial cerebral soup: Why are they called just Hinksey?
Devilish work, but Street held their nerve long enough to go down battling: they had chances to steal a march on the strutting Hinksey bravadeers with a series of lumpy one-on-ones. Had they been converted, things might have been different, but 3-0 at half time things bode unwell. And so it proved:with Gordon putting in a fine season's debut on the touchline, it was all to no avail, as he, the Fry family, Lars#2 and numerous Holloways and late arrivals watched in awestruck horror as the Hinkseys banged in 5 in rapid succession.
Nevertheless, the lads rallied, and there was much entertainment to be gleaned from such events as Lars#1 getting nobbled by their goalie, various people moaning about stuff, and Robo-knee refusing to be shot under a tarpaulin like he probably should be. Lovely ref, too. And those oranges. All the best for the rest of the season they said. Thanks, said the Street. Maybe they meant it. Maybe not. Or maybe it was more mind games. We may never know.
Still.
AFC Hinksey 8 (3); (0) 0 Union Street
De Silva, Burn J (Ginsburg), Mozley, Ingledew, Burn M, Hanel, Kirk, Robo-Knee (Mackintosh), Davies, Thirkell, Sale (Kavanagh)
Subs (not used) Birnie
Referee - Nice right back for North Oxford Res
Linesman - Indefatigable Ginsburg, and Fluey Munday
Crowd - vocal, yet polite.
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Holy Fathers
 | Jaaaaaaaaa we won big time today my friends. Biiiiiiiig time.
We showed them Churchy boys what it is to play for Street. WE NEVER LIE DOWN! NEVER! NOT US STREET LADS!
Far from it, we like to stand up, run about, even shout! NO LYING DOWN!
Our creaking back line held out until a flukey og for Street put us 1-0 up in the cup. Shortly thereafter, failing to 'pick up' their big boys in the box, the badgers shipped two stinkers. 2-1 down, but not HEADS down! NO WAY!
Press the game, heads on, battle every ball, put the wind up those Thame gents. Such tactics did pay off with an equaliser before half time from Badger after much of the aforementioned pressing and some neat passing.
A very long half time break gave the badgers time to digest Mrs Tarmac's cakes, Gordon's chocolated eclairs, and a host of other sweet ephemera.
The sugar-rushing badgers were foaming at the mouth with impatience as the referee explained the multi-layered symbolism of The Rime of the Ancient Badger to the substitutes. At the restart, they defended every ball as if their very brushes depended on it, out-heading players even taller than Yr Chairman, finding space in the midfield, and setting the dream wing-pairings of St Thirkell and Yoda Ginburg free as birds. Adams' intricate longball technique led to a cast iron chance for Badger, which he dispatched with considerable aplomb.
Still 20 minutes to go, time enough for more backs-to-the-wall defending, comedy linesman moaning from those East-Oxfordshire Christians, and even more efficient, to the point chatter from the ref from heaven.
PHEEEEEEP! 3-2 to the Street! Crowd go mad! John Fathers eat your heart out! If you can find it!
Union Street 3 (2), (2) 2 Thame United Churches
(og, Badger (2))
Kavanagh, Coldrick, Mozley, Birnie, Burn (J) (Mackintosh), Thirkell, Adams, Davies, de Silva (Ginsburg), Sale (Nice), Badger
Referee - Unbelievably thorough
Linesman - Ginsburg, Hanel - are there more honest?
Subs (Not Used) Rashied
Crowd - Frenetic, sugar-loaded
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Dreaming Up New Ways To Lose To Fairview # 3,789
 | 2-0 up
Samba football
Dog barks
Get knackered
3-2 down
Sing songs
Dog barks
Miss penalty
Get drunk
Woof
Fairview (0) 3 – 2 (2) Union Street
(Cobham, WDB pen)
Kavanagh, Louis, Mozley, Adams, Burn M, Lars, Hey, Davies, Thirkell, WDB, Cobham
Subs: loads of them
Fans: a brace of lovely Germans and ginger the dog
Ref: penno-crazy
Linesmen: Burn J and de Silva
Disappointed with this match report? Think you can do better? E-mail MITD NOW maninthedugout@hotmail.co.uk with your impressions of Saturday, and he might put them up here. Or he might not. You never know. |
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Should I Stay Or Should I Go?
 | Life, it seems to me, is defined by critical choices. Big moments. Key decisions. Should I marry the girl? Should I take the job? Should I cycle home after 7 pints of Guinness? Happiness can be measured by how one negotiates these terrifying questions. A suffocating life with the wrong girl, or 40 years of bliss? Years wasted in the wrong job, or the big break that makes a career? A long night in casualty, or a tasty kebab from Bodrum’s and some idle chat with a tramp? You see how life turns on these epic moments?
And so it is, inevitably, with football. Choices abound. Life-defining, game-deciding decisions proliferate. A successful footballer can be characterised by the decisions he makes, and how quickly he makes them. Victory hangs in the balance, and is snatched by the decisive. The bold. Those who make the right choices. Hell, in the RT Harris, any choice will do, so long as you bloody well do something.
And so it was on Saturday against Golden Bollox, at a faintly nippy Horse Path.
Choices all over the pitch, decisions at every turn. Every second counts, as Paul Daniels used to say. Should Clayson shoot or cross? Or should he just wang the ball as hard as he can from a free kick and hope the wind takes it over the flapping, flailing, flabby Bolloc-keeper? Yup, that should do it. Should Ginsburg raise his flag or not? We’re not even sure he knows. And does it even matter? Should the Golden Bollards ignore his waving arms and seize on the flag-based indecision that gripped every hoopaloid? Yes, perhaps they should.
The referee had his own decisions to make. Should he ignore the ‘burg-man’s errant flagging? (Yes.) Should he tell their red-faced, short-arsed, lippy Golden Ball-aching number 4 to shut up? (He should, but he didn’t.) Should he tell Louis to stop baring his backside to the Ballbags? (Yes.) Should he tell your humble reporter to stop questioning his decisions? (He shouldn’t, but he did.)
Just as Street’s collective thoughts turned to those important half-time decisions (Stuart’s Jelly Babies or Clayson’s Cookies? Spit or swallow? One lump or two?), a goal magic-ed itself into being, thanks largely to the decision-making skills of Wee Dan Badger (who reasoned that, should he choose to hang about in the six yard box for long enough, the ball is bound to ricochet off some body part and end up in the back of the net sooner or later).
Yet, as the second half began, Street were deafened by their indecision. Struck mute by their options. Blinded by the alternatives. Win or lose? Defend or attack? Scratch or sniff? Scrambled or fried? Keeper Kavanagh alone seemed able to clear the fog of vacillation, racing from his line like a whooshing badger to save the shilly-shallying of his back four.
Alas, he could not stem the tide of Balls.
When the big moments arrived, the Golden Buttocks kept their (rather ugly, it has to be said) heads and smeared their decisive shit all over the game. 2 – 1 became 2 – 4 before Yr Chairman had even had a chance to decide which subs to bring on, or whether Scarfey’s injecto-robo-knee was up for running the line. On such prevarications do lives depend. Or not, which is probably the case.
Ah, the agony of football. The paralysis of choice. The anxiety of not knowing whether to hoof it out or pass it straight to the opposition. Who’d be a footballer, eh? Living with the fear, the panic, the potential for match-turning calamity over 90 long (and oh my, how long they were on Saturday) minutes. Thank God I only have to write about it, it’s all too much for my heart as it is.
Golden Billiards (1) 4 – 2 (2) Union Street
[Clayson, WDB]
63% sorry Kavanagh, Lars-t one there’s a homo, Louis XIV, Jelly Baby, de Silva-fish, Claysonator, Crisp’n’Dry, (Tell me why) do I love Munday?, the Saint, WDB, Vicki Pollard
Subs: Nice Lad, Mad-Macks, Indiana
Line: The erratic and weirdly-capped (but oh-so-calm under pressure) Indiana, with support from injecto-knee.
Crowd: Unsure. |
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Stuffed, Whichever Way You Look At It
 | No shortage of willing players
Orange sun going down on the fields of
Rover
Time for action.
Hefty punt from Sale whipped
Over with
Xtreme prejudice,
For the
One and only
Right royal Mr Adam
Durham to convert on his
Return to the badger fold.
Easy, those Minties
Supposed, but their
Effervescent confidence was
Rudely shaken, nay
Vibrated, by the
Elan and
Surprising resilience
Shown by the opposition. The
Half ended with North
Ably opening up
The Street defence to make it
One each.
New blood for the second half,
Of the elderly variety.
Up stepped the Scarfe and Birnie – A
Radical move that
Paid off not
At all. North scored immediately, then
Resolutely held off
Attack after attack. A
Depressing
End.
Black Swan. Same
Old faces.
Love.
Loss.
Our absent team mates. Why would they not want
Cheese? Dick? Guinness?
Keeling over drunks?
So what's not to like?
North Oxford Reserves 2 (1); (1) 1 Union Street
Kavanagh, de Silva (Mackintosh), Mozley, Hey, Clayson, Burn (M), Hanel (Birnie), Thirkell, Sale (Scarfe), Durham, Badger
Subs (Not Used) Munson, Burn (J)
Referee - Chunky, Praiseworthy
Linesman - Burn J, Meteorological
Crowd - Lively, child-like, barking
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Red kites
 | “The dirtiest trick is the spurious insistence on a December deadline,” said Alex Cobham in The Guardian at some point, and who could disagree? Certainly not Peter Mandelson and Louis Michel, the EU's commissioners for trade and development, but nor too could the sideline kids of East Oxford. That said, they called Yr Chairman “Jesus” and thought that the minty badgers were his disciples, so they were probably too far gone on Tetsworth’s finest magic mushrooms to care.
“They say they will have to ‘fall back on our default preferences scheme’,” continued Alex, apropros of nothing at all. Mind you, how Street could have done with a default preferences scheme on Saturday, it may just have conjured up a goal, or at least raised the bar so that Dan Church Kirk’s effort could sneak in, much like a drunken badger creeping through his loved one’s door at 3.47 am.
“Forcing the pace of negotiations can only disadvantage the weakest players,” maintained the Cobster, and surely the battle taking place on the green fields of Tetsworth bore out his words. The ball swirled upwards, disturbing the Red Kites which hovered like omens even darker than economic partnership agreements. “We demand an end to the shabby tricks and this flawed negotiating process,” screamed the Street, and East Oxford duly obliged, allowing the game to end in a creditable, if truly baffling, 0-0 draw.
Maybe we were all on drugs.
* some text missing *
East Oxford 0 – 0 Union Street
Danny "there is no credible alternative" Kavanagh, Gem “staggeringly disingenuous” de Silva (sub Richard “broadside” Sale), Stuart “raising concerns” Mozley, Louis “poker game” Coldrick, David “sweeping deals” Munday (sub Mark “every trick possible” Mackintosh), Matthew “diversification and growth” Burn, Richard “enhanced general system” Adams, Stephen “immediate proceedings” Thirkell, Lars “glacial speed” Hanel, Adam “regional integration” Durham (sub Dan “contraction of trade” Kirk), Dan “rapid liberalisation” Badger
Ref: “Tomato liberalisation”
Line: Kirk, and then Keith “Milk powder” Birnie
Crowd: on drugs
http://www.guardian.co.uk/comment/story/0,,2206976,00.html
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Brim Full of Asha
 | Plucky Street faced the world champions AFC Hinksey today. A draw would not be enough for the badgers, only a win would satisfy the demands of the watching hordes. However, their hopes were suffered a death blow early on when a speculative chip bounced in for the Hinks and then 3 (three) penalty decisions of variable quality were made by the somewhat baffling referee, all in favour of the Hinksters. All were swiftly dispatched, leaving Street wondering how they could be quite so far behind at half time despite playing not at all badly.
Half-time banana refreshment was enough to gird the badgers' loins to new heights, holding off the Hinky's finest for a more comfortable period, and starting to create opportunities themselves. A calculating three-way substitution by Tarmac was followed immediately by three further goals in less than three minutes by the Hink, finishing the game as a spectacle, or even a monocle.
Still time for Street to threaten mildly with a succession of corners and free kicks and a good effort from the Angood, and for Hinkley to threaten more spicily when one of their number informed the mighty Hanel he had a 45. Fortunately or not, Herr Hanel intimated that he had no idea what a 45 was. Bouyed by the notion that one of the Hinkees was a vinyl junkie, Street conceded but one more goal, leaving them the wrong side of an 8-0 drubbing.
Consolation came in the form of new shower songs/mantras, samosas, guinness, sarnies, and the opportunity to watch another great team fail gloriously against world-beaters and a rubbish ref.
Union Street 0 (0); (4) 8 AFC Hinksey
Kavanagh the Angry, Cobham the Monetary, de Silva the Dirty (Macka the Muscular), Birnie the Longshanks, Kirk the Clerical, Clayson the Handsome, Burn the Learned, Angood the Punctured, Munday the Friar (Munson the Charming), Hanel the Teutonic (Sale the Inexplicable), Hayward the Badger
Subs (not used): Ginsburg the Indianian, Thirkell the Absent
Linesman: Macka the Unwavering, Ginsburg the Meticulous
Referee: Callow
Crowd: Cold |
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Normal Service Resumed
 | Dan 'Church' Kirk blasted a hat-trick of goals as Union Street felled the blend of experience and inexperience that is Wheatley United by the margin of three goals without reply.
Kirk said afterwards: “I am humbled by the service of my fellow badgers. I will not stint in future.”
The drama began before the game had begun: some foul late-cancellation email shenanigans meant the 'Council' did not unlock the doors to Fortress Sandy Lane leaving both teams out in the cold. The ref sensibly remained ensconced in his nice warm motor, patiently waiting to call the game off. However, Chairman Birnie was having none of that and finally rose to the challenge of his office, rousting out those council keyholders in the nick of time.
The delay had not dampened badger hearts or style, as they laid on a feast of bovine tb-free flowing passing, outclassing the opposition and drawing free kick after free kick out on the left. Newlywed Welsh Wizard Captain Bloke Davies demonstrated the art of dead ball delivery to a tee, actually to a Church, planting two right into the bosom, even the vestry. Kirk finished with aplomb on both two occasions.
Defence held firm with a notable saving tackle from 'Do You Want A Shamrock With That' Coldrick and notable saving from the inimitable (and highly vocal) 'Mercy My Ass' Kavanagh.
The second half proved more tricky with the wind now favouring the Wheaties, but Street held firm, 'Dirty Dan' Kavanagh taking out yet another opposition forward in the process and getting carded for his trouble.
Time enough still for a third from Kirk and a booking for Rich Sale for being Rich Sale, and the spoils were Street's. Let joy be unconfined: Street are back to the winning ways.
Union Street 3 (Kirk 3) (2); (0) 0 Wheatley United
Kavanagh the Kraazy, Clayson the Clumsy (Ingledew the Dimbleby), Mozley the Embaldened, Coldrick the Immense, Hey the Maker (Sale the Unfathomable), Hanel the Harmless (Holloway the Brut), Davies the Deliverer, Thirkell the Pure, Adams the Woodcutter, Kirk the Thrice-Successful, Badger the Indefatigable
Subs (Not Used): Birnie the Fixer
Referee: Good but Car-Obsessed
Linesman: Dingle, Yard, and Chair
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Hail, Hail
 | Today was the third occasion which Street had taken a tilt at making it to the last 16 of the coveted John Fathers Junior Shield. The two previous occasions, epic encounters with Bakels Crusaders and Aston, were notable for their wetness: Bakels' famous Bicester pitch was pronounced unplayable, and the teams decamped to Lark Rise and Candleford to see out the tie, whereas Aston's riverside meadow was never anything but unplayable.
Sandy Lane, though, is celebrated for withstanding whatever the gods throw at it. Though the game started in fair if chilly conditions, and Street were creating promising holes in the Wood Farm defence, the skies darkened ominously, and soon conditions could be compared unfavourably with, er, a really cold, wet day. Mistakes were now inevitable, and it was the Farm who kept their feet well enough to open the scoring.
The game then succumbed to a hail storm of such ferocity that the referee was forced to usher the teams to the safety of the Sandy Lane Changing Rooms. For a moment, an abandonment seemed a possibility, but the storm, as they say, abated, and the game resumed. A further delay due to a clash of heads between Dan 'Stone' Kirk and an unfortunate Farmer (who had to be rushed to hospital) meant that the first half went on for about 90 minutes, time enough for Wood Farm to profit from two more breakaway-type goals. Half-time, and even more time in those cosy changing rooms.
Thereafter, Street were still creating bountiful chances, and their passes were zipping about on the well-watered pitch. A goal finally came, scored by a very wet badger, and it seemed literally for a moment that the boys in green and white and brown might come back. But in that moment, the Wood Farm scored the goal of the game to finish things off. The referee might as well have blown his whistle then, but the sparse crowd were forced to endure a further 309 minutes of spurned Street chances and the sort of weather where drivers are advised not to travel if they can possible avoid it.
To the comfort of the changing rooms finally, new friendships forged in shared showers with the jolly farmers boys, and a resuscitating samosa in the Swan. Shield hopes dashed, but much to build on. If it ever stops raining.
Union Street 1 (0) – (3) 4 Wood Farm
Kavanagh the Cloudy, Clayson the Clammy, Mozley the Moist, Adams the Absorbed, Hey the Hailed-On, Sale the Sodden (Munson the Muculent), Thirkell the Thoroughly-Sopping, Davies the Dripping, Hanel the Humidified, Kirk the Quenched, Angood the Aqueous
Subs (Not Used) – Birnie the Blenching
Ref – Reluctant to Emerge
Linesman – Not Waving but Drowning
Crowd – Foolhardy
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Crushed Balls
 | There was a man who snooker reffed
His grip was very manly
He crushed a ball in a lager ad
His name was Leonard Ganley
The badgers took the field today
In their own paws their fate
Inspired by Ganley's fist of fun
Their aim was three points straight
Their foes were mighty Golden Ball
The going soft to yielding
The badgers' legs and Big Sale's arms
The tools they would be wielding
The game was tight as badgers' nuts
As neither team conceded
Till Kirk swapped round with Tarmac man
And up the wing he speeded
He followed up a fiery shot
From Wee Dan Badger's bootee
And slotted home the parried ball
For sure, it was a beauty
The badgers filled the 45
With mighty pass and move
Though once or twice, when duty called
They settled for the hoove
Throughout the second half, then
The weather felt much fresher
And Street withstood the onslaught of
Severe Ballistic pressure
As Ball pushed on, the gaps appeared
And Street filled gaps with players
'Twas Wee Dan B who knocked one home
To answer Badgers' prayers
The golden ones pushed forward still
Street's area was crowded
But Street prevailed, and Golden Balls
Were crushed, nay almost powdered
Salute the Badgers, green and white
In this fine valedictory
Salute Len Ganley's mighty fist
Inspiring Union's Victory
Union Street 2 (1); (0) 0 Golden Ball
(Kirk, Badger)
Kavanagh, de Silva (Sale (Ginsburg)), Mozley, Coldrick, Clayson (Munson), Adams, Davies, Thirkell, Burn (M), Kirk, Badger
Referee - Happy Bunny
Linesman - Stitched Up
Crowd - Plucky
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We are the fascists
 We're not. We just told Kiwi Chris we were. And my, how it confused him. It also confused him that we'd been coming to the Black Swan for 5 years, yet he'd never seen us. He was very confused about that. But not quite as confused as the owner of Dil Dunia when Batman walked in and we sang happy birthday to him. Golly, wasn't that confusing? But not as confusing as Richard Sale. And James Burn. They were confusing, weren't they? And loud, too. Mostly loud, though.
Gotta love Sale, though. He was good value all night. Almost as good value as the curry. And my, wasn't that tasty? As tasty as Burn and Beaumont in their tuxedos. Well, almost. We enjoyed the poppadoms, they were crispy. And the chutney, it was tangy. And the speeches, they were warming. And the cake, it was gooey. And cramming 20 people round one table. That was fun. We also liked the singing. You can never have enough singing, can you? That was something we discovered on Saturday night. Though we knew it anyway, didn't we?
You can never have enough Street, can you? We also discovered that. Endless Street, forever and ever. Singing, and dancing, and batmanning, and falling over. That would be alright, wouldn't it? You can also never have enough Black Swan. We knew that all along, which is why we left the Hobgoblin. Sorry Macka. And apologies to the well-endowed girl in the green dress. We have no idea what Lars said to you, but we're sure it was humble and nice. Like him.
There was football, at one point, wasn't there? A game, of two halves, 11+3 badgers, 1 amusing referee and approximately 3.5 chopsy numpties. It was tight, and then loose, like Yr Chairman's plaid trousers. It was slow, and then a bit slower, and then over in the blink of an eye, and we wondered how that could be so. The boys in green could have been contenders, or at least two nil up at half time. They led for approximately 5.4 seconds. Then they were behind, thanks to a goalmouth bundle to rival the 2.00 am bundle on Beaumont outside the Swan. Except without the laughter, and tears. And then it was three, thanks to Cobham and Birnie butting each other in to the ground from a corner. Did you see the graze on Yr Chairman's chin? That had to smart, hmmm?
But not as much as the Swan-juice that filled the Fairplay Cup. That was still smarting on Monday. Damn these two day hangovers.
And there were memories. Sweet, loving memories. Of badgers, happy and free, falling asleep on Yr Chairman's shoulder. And wishing that every day and night could be like this.
AFC Wood Farm (0) 3 - 1 (0) Union Street
Thirkell
Kavanagh, Clayson, de Silva (Mackintosh), Birnie, Adams, Kirk (Sale), Davies, Thirkell, Angood, Cobham (Munson), Hayward
Crowd - confused
Ref - playful
Linesman - Mackintosh, and Hanel
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Float, Float On
Old Father Thames. I met a man once who set about the task of coursing down that fine old river from its source in the pastoral marshes of Gloucestershire to the tidal majesty of Kent, in a coracle carrying an ostrich egg of peace and playing a flute. What must it have been like for that crazy DUDE, meandering down that sleepy, sometimes melancholy, sometimes charming always flowing waterway?
The Rhein passes through some of the great cities of western Europe, fed by the mighty glaciers of the Swiss Alps. What must it be like to pilot a mighty Rhein-barge down that mighty muddy river, one's cargo of white goods bound for some of the greatest consumers of the European UNION and beyond.
The proud Danube flows through central Europe into the Caspian Sea, gateway to the exotic east. There is a bike lane that runs all the way from Passau, Germany, to the Caspian Sea. Can you imagine what it would be like to follow the flow of the river down through Austria, past the nudist beach east of Vienna, one endless, empty ribbon of TARMAC following its every twist and turn through Slovakia and on into Hungary and beyond?
It would be like going with the flowing football of Union Street in the second half of their game today against much-improved Great Milton. Finding themselves 1-0 down after an intercepted pass, the badgers in green determinedly stuck to their passing, talking game, carrying all before them, yielding only to hill and dale, dredging out the cloddy desire to punt from the pit of their deep waters onto their firm banks, onward always onward, to their delta of glory: a goal to grace any game from the Welsh wizard and Great-Milton Great-Goal scoring specialist himself.
Still the flow continued on, the Street disgorging their efforts into a sewagey sea of desperate Miltonian defence. Their efforts offered no further reward in the shallows of dry goals scored, but hinted obliquely instead of the depths: murky, mysterious, unfathomable wellsprings of Badger Lake, the collective unconscious of the Union.
We are as mud, driven by rains.
Union Street 1 (0) : (1) 1 Great Milton
(Davies)
Kavanagh, Munday, Adams, Mozley, Sale, Kirk, Davies, Thirkell, Mackintosh (Munsoon), Angood, Durham (de Silva)
Subs (Not Used) - Holloway, Birnie
Ref - Bobbed About
Crowd - WET
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Badger Heaven
 | The omens were there: as we awaited the unlocking of the changing rooms by Oxford shitty council for the nth time running, a red kite circled the bypass, as if to say: “ Don't worry lads, there's goals in this game.”
And how right that kite was. It rained goals. A goal-fest. A game, as Elvis would say of his burgers, “with everything”. Street reached the heights of euphoria as they carved open the Fairview defence time and again, then slumped to the pit of despond and almost threw it all away, then didn't, magnificently, in extra time, instead finally driving home their obvious superiority with three further goals in extra time, without reply. In extra time.
All played their part: to single out individuals would be to miss the point of this tragi-comic piece of theatre worthy of the bard. So let's single out a few of those individuals:
the back-in-action 'He-Mountain' Holman and his towering headers (not to mention his specialist left-footed net-blaster of a free kick)
The game-for-a-ref Ginsburg, his beautiful hat, and his humble handing over of the whistle to the 'real' ref halfway through the first half, his forlorn line-flagging ignored by said 'ref', ushering in Farview's fourth goal.
Gem Bertolucci's quest for the 'money shot' involving a bear, the entire Union Street and Fairview teams, and some grass
Fairview's website-loving number 5. He just could not stop going on about it. Thanks for the endorsement, babe. I love websites. And I love Fairview's number 5. He's like, my favourite, um, thing.
The 'bench' and 'fans': massive cheers greeted every goal. This had such a profound effect on the team that, at 5-2 up, they contrived to allow Fairview to claw their way back to 5-5
Yr Chairman and Ginger's tactical stroll across the field mid-way through the second half, with the game at its tensest
.'Hamstring Hayward''s massive contribution before succumbing to yet another snap. What is it with that lad and his brittle sinews?
'Church' Kirk's incessant running and bustling, to the point where he took on the pallor and lack of concentration of a Vietnam acid-head halfway up the Mekong Delta
Supersubsaint Thirkell and his amazing mazey runs with 'fresh legs'. Yes, like Kool and the Gang might have said, his legs were “fresh...exciting: they're so exciting to me”
All them goalscorers: Badger, He-Mountain, Tarmac, Church, McHammer – er, was that it?
Macka and his glorious assist – will he ever play a better through-ball?
Ah, I could go on. Maybe I should go on. One day I might go on. Suffice to say, I won't. Perhaps a haiku will suffice:
We won
Having almost lost
Beat Fairview
After extra time
At last.
Union Street 8 (eight) (4) : (2) 5 Fairview (AET)
Kavanagh, Clayson, Holman, Mozley, Sale (Mackintosh), Cobham, Adams, Davies, Kirk, Angood (Thirkell), Badger (Munday)
Subs (not used or abused) - Munson
Ref – not as good as Ginsburg
Linesman – Thirkell/Ginsburg
Crowd – Beyond Ecstacy
Feeling humgry? Visit http://www.poncesrestaurant.com/
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Frankly Mr Shankly
 | 3 weeks without a match, and how the world has moved on. Cards brandished before the game: landlord hospitalised, friends bereaved - tough days for the Street. Respect to Dick, the Claysonator, Mrs Claysonator, the little Claysonators, their friends and family.
A minute's silence observed, as they say, impeccably.
A dominant start against the NOx boys, early chances, flowing football, chances spurned. Would Street rue their profligacy? It seemed not, as first He-Human Holman got his head to a corner, then Tarmac slotted home in the corner. Time for the Street to relax, express themselves, keep it tight, brim with confidence?...er, no. Rather, time to panic, misplace passes, strew errors hither and thither, play like utter nincompoops, and invite a resurgence from the North.
A goal clawed back before half-time, then surely time to regroup, regain composure, BELIEVE. Sadly not. Time to continue with nervy, lumpy, fruitless football, inviting further goals from the North until we were losing. Then follow that with some frantic pushing forward, but to no avail, despite the ref's liberal addition to the 90 mins.
Another lead the badgers failed to see out. Depressing. Galling. But - only football.
Shankly was wrong: there are things more important. Phoning the result through on time for one. And good health. And absent friends.
Here's tae us: Wha's like us.
Union Street 2 (2); (1) 3 North Oxford Reserves
Claysonator (2)
Colossus Claysonator, HEY!HO!LET'SGO! Claysonator (Burner Claysonator), He-Human Claysonator, Left Said Fred Claysonator, Seal Claysonator, McHammer Claysonator (Munsonator Claysonator), Tarmac Claysonator, St Claysonator, Church Claysonator, Crisp n Dry Claysonator, Badger Claysonator (Hairy Claysonator)
Sub (not used) - Yr Chairman Claysonator
Ref - Grandmaster Reg
Linos - flagging
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Uke Skywalkers
 | Gee whizz-bang, it was sunny-hot on Saturday, wasn’t it? Unseasonably warm, the assembled Biggest Crowd Of The Season agreed. Enough to make Mr Dugout’s nose turn pink, and more. And what of that crowd, hmmm? What a turn-out, what a turn-up, what a turn-around.
You had WAPS (wives and puppies), BAPS (babies and puppies), BABS (babies and badgers), BAGS (babies and girlfriends), or maybe just WABABAGAPS. Whatever you wanna call ‘em, they were there in numbers. Biiiiiiiiiiiiig numbers. It was like a great big happy family fun day out, only without the bouncy castles. Though perhaps that’s something that would perk up the RT Harris, eh?
But what we lacked in castles, we made up for in ukeleles. Don’t even doubt it, baby. We had blue ones and brown ones (all we were missing was the spongebob squarepants one), and we had Gem Badger and Macka Badger strumming us softly with their lovely songs all game long. It confused the hell out of everybody, which is the Way Of The Street.
And then there was football, which there always is. Usually. Of a sort. But there wasn’t exactly much of it from the Street Badgers first half. In fact, I doubt there has been a half where Street have managed to play less football. Minus football, you could call it. Perhaps the singy-strummy-songs of our very own Ukes of Hazard put the Minty Lads in a more artistic, dreamy state of mind?
One thing’s for god damn sure, that Danny Kavanagh was in the frickin’ ZONE, man – those ukes spurred him on to great things. Left, right, up, down, in, out, bing, bong – that ‘keeper took on the might of those nippy Milton frontrunners and left ‘em bewildered. Rarely can one badger have done so much while those around him did so little. Alas, even the hands, fingers, toes, knees, and bonce of a genius couldn’t keep those GM dudes out forever, and so it proved – half time came and Street were humbled by the greatness of DK. Somehow, it was only 0-1.
Two things turned it round for the Street. Or maybe three. But who’s counting? First, on the instruction of Yr Chairman’s inspired sis, the ukes stopped strumming and experimented with a bit of melodic picking. Second, Angood came good. On he came, his bulging thighs and flailing limbs wreaking merry havoc upon the Milton backburners. He could have had a hat-trick, but we’ll settle for just the one, and so it was – 1-1, bish bash, fair result, two halves, end of.
And oh and my, how the ukes did play in the sunshine.
Postscript
Overheard by a WABABAGAP whilst we were playing ukuleles and singing in the goalmouth after the game.
Great Milton coach to referee Reg: "What are they doing - they're lunatics."
Reg: "Yeah, agreed."
Great Milton coach: " I could understand it if they were black..."
Union Street (0) 1 – 1 (1) Great Milton
The Huge Ever Growing Pulsating Genius Kavanagh That Rules From The Centre Of The Ultraworld + 10 other chumps, and some subs, including Angood, who scored.
Special mention to those what didn’t get a game. We fuggin luv you guys. Without you, we’re nothing.
Crowd: massive, sunny, small, ginger, strumming, happy
Ref: agreed
Linesman: the marvellous Munday
What? http://youtube.com/watch?v=RXikSmFSrs8
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Oops we did it again
Notwithstanding another all-time record-breaking turnout, everything else was a normal today. Ukulele fun, WHAMMO two-goal lead established by half time courtesy of the Holmanator and two from the Wizard, cruisin, 10 mins left, concede two (admittedly well-taken)goals to throw away the baby with the bath water and scratch a draw. With results going against us elsewhere, it may be that Doug Hobbs has to wait yet another year to crown us with his mighty trophy.
Erm, that's it. Not much to add. Lovely weather for the time of year though, aint it?
North Oxford Reserves 3 (1); (3) 3 Union Street
(Davies 2, Holman)
Kavanagh, Clayson, Adams, Mozley, Sale (de Silva), Mackintosh (Burn M), Davies, Munday, Munson (Pratchett), Holman, Kirk
Subs (not used) Hayward, Thirkell
Ref - GREAT HAIR DUDE!
Asst Ref - Competent
Reg Ref - Confusingly on the sidelines
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Uke Can't Stop The Music
 | Notable things about this game include:
The spectatatornator huddle before the game: subs, wags, and secs - what's not to like about off the pitch action?
The immense kicking power of the best former barman in the Swan ever, the only, only Louis.
The aplombity of the finish from Dan Badger to register our first goal, tucking it in at the corner like a nurse making a bed.
The head-power of BIG CRISPY MAN. Ask yourself - WHY? WHY? WHY?
Mozley's swelling hand. What DID he DO to it?
Kavanagh's world-class keeping - never has he lost with the lady present, or is the Man in the D mistaken? You be the judge.
The purple thighs of the Chairman, pulsating plummily in the late winter wind.
Tarmac Buns. Deliciously tempting.
The cool beslotting of Welsh Wizaaard - when doesn't he score at Milton? EH?
But the toppest highlight of a truly memorable game was the sequence of events following the substitution of soft-haired Sri Lankan De Silva. Having earlier been guilty of a blatant push to gift the Milts a penalty, Gem's idiosyncratic approach to the ref's rules was still unsettling him as he strummed Macka's perverted ukulele winsomely on a handy park bench. Up marched said ref, displaying customary distaste for the way of the badger, telepathically linked himself to de Silva's scornful brain and gave him a 'right telling orf': "You know why" He said. Was it the ukulele playing that so irked him? Or what? He was well pissed orf. He took major umbrage. He should take up the ukulele.
We may never know what caused his venal attack, but it had the effect of stopping the uke player in his tracks. Soon enough though, he recovered his composure to strum us to victory in the Milton backyard.
Ah. Lovely to win. Lovely to see those Milton lads. Lovely to weird out that ref again. Let the Street strum on.
Great Milton 2 (0); (2) 3 Union Street
Badger, Angood, Davies
Kavanagh, Clayson, Coldrick, Mozley, de Silva (Mackintosh), Burn (J) (Sale), Thirkell, Davies, Cobham, Angood, Badger
Subs - Birnie, Munson, Munday
Ref - plain weird
Lines - curvy, dashed
Crowd - Right behind the lads in green and white. COME ON!
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Book Club
 | One of the most enduring concepts of Virginia Woolf's influential and perhaps best-known work, 'A Room of One's Own', is that of Shakespeare's Sister: where Woolf postulates that, had Shakespeare had a sister of equal talent, she would not have been so successful or revered, as she would have been denied the opportunities open to him.
Such a notion may seem almost self-evident to us of the enlightened intelligentsia now, with its echoes in the approaches of feminism and even the New Labour-inspired doctrine of social inclusion, but to contemporaries it was a radical thesis, helping to confirm the Bloomsbury Group's notoriety for liberal mores.
Woolf's perspective could surely be applied to today's game between East Oxford. I don't know how though. Maybe if Union Street were the equivalent of the Bloomsbury Group, Danny Kavanagh was surely our Virginia Woolf, gushing out ideas and advice to anyone who would listen in a tidal bore of stream-of-consciousness. East Oxford might then be considered the capitalist press of the day, outraged at the team's antics and resistant to the way of the badger, villifying our Woolf with their cynical following-through-on-the-goalie.
In a late kick-off following an automotive sprint down to Tetsworth, the ref restricted the game to 70 minutes, which was jest as well, as it's unlikely the crowd could have coped with much more incident than was fitted into those 4,200 seconds, plus stoppage time:
Wind, 6 goals, a hat-trick for He-Monster Holman, more wind, two sendings off (Mr Holman for Street again following two yellows, joining an elite group of Streeters that includes, er Yr Chairman only?*), Guinness on the sidelines, snotty opposing chop-meisters, more wind, missed open goals on both sides, and wind.
The wind was a big factor: with it, Street led 2-1 at h/t, against it they lost the second half 2-1. End of story. Apart from all the incidents. The Doug Hobbs this year is on a knife-edge, with Street sat squarely astride it, squeaky-bum time. Where will it all end? Hopefully not like Woolfie's. Freedom for Union!
East Oxford 3 (1); (2) 3 Union Street
Holman (3)
Kavanagh, Sale, Adams, Mozley, Munday, Kirk, Thirkell, Davies, Angood, Holman, Badger (Birnie)
Subs (not used): Mackintosh, Munson
Ref: Rubbish Beard
Linesmen: Refreshed
Crowd: Literally endowed
*Dear Man in the Dugout.
Do you not remember Andrea? He was sent off for pawing at the ref's shorts.
Yours.
Stuuuuu.
Quite so, Mr Memory. Thought he was only yellowed at the time, but later massively shat on in the ref's report and banned for life or something?
But I will bow to your superior recollection...
Yours,
Mysterious man
Ah, yellow was it? My recollection is doubtful now. Actually, didn't the ref write in his report something along the lines that in hindsight he should have sent him off, but didn't?
I bow to *your* superior recollection, Mr Dugout.
Yours forgetfully.
Stu. |
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Technical Difficulties
 | Here is the news. Today, Union Street lost 2-0 to East Oxford: a team who started with 9 men, one of whom was allegedly inebriated and wearing fashion trainers, borrowed some of our shorts and socks, lacked shin pads, and behaved in a generally uncouth manner.
Due to the unutterable decrepitude of the Union Street performance today, the Man in the Dugout is unable to file his report. We are doing our best to fix the problem as quickly as possible. In the meantime, here is some music.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pLzLWUwi1Y8
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Arctic badgers
 | Now, the MITD isn’t one to moan about matters as trivial as a bit of snow, or a light wind, but MY FRIGGIN GOD, it was FUCKING FREEZING on Saturday. Yr Chairman had it right when he packed a green-and-white knitted willy-warmer into his kit bag – he knew a chilly day when he felt it, and he wasn’t going to leave his nadgers exposed to the Easter elements. Without such cock-cosies, our arctic badgers were surely grateful for a gulp of pre-match single malt to get the pulses racing, as the winds howled and the snow snarled on semi-final day.
I think I’m right in saying (though Stato Mozley may correct me) that this was only the second semi-final in Street history, and maybe their nerves showed in a nervy first-half of nervousness. Maybe it was the pressure of playing on The Big Important Pitch With Two Dugouts and a Stand Surrounded With Tall Useless Ball-Hiding Trees, or maybe it was just too cold for badgers, but it took our snowy-white-and-greens a long while to get acclimatised. Even with the wind on their backs and the snow in their opponents’ eyes, they couldn’t get their ample backsides into gear, and those NOXERS had the best of a frigid first half. As half-time came we were most definitely none-the-warmer, except for those supping Yr Chairman’s coffee, and those ensconced in the dugout, out of that badger-biting wind.
Sufficiently lubricated by another round of whisky, Street looked different in the second half. Better looking, more cock-sure (that’ll be the willy-warmers), and certainly up for a bit of how’s-your-father. Perversely (and what are the Street if not 11 cock-sure perverts?), they looked like they preferred to play into the wind. They tweaked the nose of the Siberian gale, laughed in the face of horizontal-snow, and – with super-subs Alex Headband and Dan Church Kirk (well, it is Easter after all) leading the way – started to show us the shimmy-shammy-samba-soccer for which they’re known and loved. So what if they went one down to a wind-assisted long-ranger, these guys were footballing their friggin’ hearts out, entertaining the ever-diminishing, and increasingly numb, crowd.
And then, oh boy, it came to pass. A huge backside heaves into view. Arms everywhere. The ball has fallen to the one they call The Seal. Miles out and high on Easter eggs, he winds back a choc-filled leg. Surely not. He’s not going to shoot from that distance? And into the wind? Oh, but man-oh-man, he is. And, like a jet-propelled-razor-bullet-badger-rocket, the ball flies past the NOX keeper, and it’s, like, the goal-of-the-century or something. Confusion everywhere. Did that actually, really, properly just happen?
The rest is history. Or would be, if Street wrote their own scripts. Alas, they have to allow for, like, opponents and stuff, who have a tendency to get in the way of a good (winning) story. With the sides inseparable in the normal 90, and then 30 anxious minutes of extra time (despite the best efforts of the Seal – who nearly undid his corker with a delicate chip over his own keeper – and an assistant ref with only the flimsiest grasp of the modern offside law), the penno-lotto lured its big, fat, frost-bitten head, and that was that.
There has probably never been a more farcical penalty shoot out. The snow and wind picked up so that all the penalties were taken in a howling blizzard. The aforementioned ass ref ordered the retake of four of them, for reasons known only to himself. The ball kept blowing off the spot. Our heroic Streeters missed all five. The poor blighters. One ended up in the trees. Kavanagh, who had previously never saved a penalty for the Street, saved three, yet still ended up on the losing side. The only goal-scorer tried a surreal stare-out with the Street huddle. And when we missed our final one, noone really knew whether that was it – but oh, and woe, it was.
Union Street 1 aet 1 North Oxford Reserves
NOX win 1-0 on penalties
Kavanagh, Sale, Birnie, Goldrick, Burn, Mackintosh (Munson), Thirkell, Davies, Adams, Hayward (Pratchett), Durham (Kirk)
Ref: wintry
Ass ref: bitter
Crowd: comfortably numb
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All Aboard the Good Ship Badger
 | Another turn in the seemingly endless spiral that is the Street's headlong frenzied plummet into the deep, dark vortex of the RT Harris League, this time a trip to our friends over in Wheatley.
The omens for the badgers were good: under-bench heating below decks, a birthday for thick-haired lothario Midshipman Munday, a Cape Horner of a gale a-blowin' down the pitch, and the promise of rain and sleet to come from Purser Burn.
Cap'n for the day Midshipman Munday elected to toss, and yon badgers were set the challenge of the initial 45 minutes facing said force-ten Sou'westerly. The topmasts were reefed, the spanker was furled, and with a hearty heave-ho, cabin boy 'Set' Sale was given an unceremonious tongue-lashing or two by some of the older hands.
Hardly had the anchor been weighed, but Street were streaming up into the teeth of the gale, Caulker Pratchett banging home the ball after a glorious negotiation of the Wheatley rocks. One up and all to play for, and a broadside of corners and over-hit through-balls was the enemy's response. Street held firm, every man-jack a-straining every sinew to resist the onslaught.
Cabin-boy Sale was full of vim, not content with bashing the opposition, he charged into his own crew at any opportunity. Ultimately the Wheatos bundled one home, and the score stood at 1-1 as the gale gathered even more force for the second half of the battle.
Grog taken on, the Good Ship Badger started again sloppily, and yielded to another weak shot across her bows. This only served to galvanise our plucky lads, and they began to outflank the Wheatley fleet with audaciously hit cannon and musket. But it was the rapier of Able-Seaman Cobham that equalised, with a deft dink that went in off the goalie's arse-sail.
Further fumbling from the unfortunate keeper led to some good-natured if raucous badinage from our lads in the rigging. The keeper took great umbrage, and had to be restrained by his crew lest he attempt to take the Badger crew on single handedly - a risky strategy for any tar.
A third for the Street followed, and with the safe harbour of the changing rooms beckoning, the game was up for the Wheaties.
3 points in the bag for the Street. The double over Wheatley. Cue shanties in the showers. Sailors paid off, many made their way straight to the fleshpots, while the hardy subs were in full voice in the Black Swan. We salute ye, unsung heroes!
Wheatley 2 (1); (1) 3 Union Street
First Mate Kavanagh, Cabin Boy Sale, Rear Admiral Adams, Shantyman Birnie, Cap'n Munday, Bosun Angood, Ship's Master Davies, Master Mate Thirkell, Caulker Pratchett, Chaplain Kirk, Able-Seaman Cobham.
Powder Monkeys - de Silva, Mackintosh,
Purser - J Burn
Munson-man - Munson
Ref-Admiral - seaworthy
Land-lubbers - charming
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Oh, What a Shame
 | .. that we lost today, seeing as there were so many good things about the afternoon.
For starters, it was well sunny, and lightly breezy, and not at all cold or unpleasant. That was a good thing.
Next off, we did had no ref, which was a godsend, as anarchy, peace and love broke out between us and them East lads. Lovely and friendly, with nary a foul for 'volunteer' umpires McHammer and 'Shouty' Kavanagh to blow up about, and barely a moan from either team, not even that previously abusive number 9. It was like, er the DAM, sort of, with less beer, and fewer Germans. And no music whatsoever.
Then we could mention the City Council. Their ineptitude in opening the changing rooms on time might normally be seen as a problem, but as it resulted in the teams rubbing shoulders and showing off their underwear to each other in the previously mentioned sunny, breezy conditions, it was a good thing, leading to sharing of shinpads, long walks on windswept beaches with dogs, quiet drinks in cosy pubs, and maybe more. Or not - who cares?
Then the game itself: the first half hour was alright, plenty of action at both ends, Street breaking the deadlock with a bullet header from an unmarked 'this season's latest discovery' Alexander II (128 - 123 BC, pictured) from a right royal corner from the wand of his compatriot, the Wizard. A goal made in Wales. A bit like yonder big ladies' stove pipe hats in that respect.
It got quite a lot worse after that, so we won't dwell on the four defensive blunders that led to four goals for the other lot. East Oxford beat us, we were a bit crap to be honest, and the after-game huddle felt, well, as half-hearted as the unbadgerly effort in the game itself.
Let's move swiftly on to the Black Swan, and why wouldn't we? Plans afoot. New 'happenings' taking shape. An alfresco conference. An optimistic air. The season starts next week. Nil Nil lads!
Union Street 1 (1); (2) 4 East Oxford
Pratchett
Kavanagh/de Silva, Burn (J), Birnie, Coldrick, Munday, Clayson/Mackintosh, Davies, Thirkell, Pratchett, Sale/Cobham, Angood
Underused subs - Man, Man, the Munson-Man
Refs - Congenial, avuncular, shouty
Linesmen - Hardly required
Crowd - Tweedy, sexy
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Sniff the Air...
 | That's badger, that is. Last game of the season, the spirit was back, every man-badger of the team pulling his weight and more besides to bring down the curtain with an unlikely result against the wood farmers.
Starting with the bare 11, 'Church' Kirk with his knee encased in some sort of granite splint, and with the Burner brothers keeping half an eye on the sidelines where the baby Burn lay unperturbed by the shenanigans on the pitch, Street went for the jugular with a revolutionary formation that was positive yet negative, conservative yet liberal, stupid yet genius, charming yet dependable, friggin brilliant in fact.
Alexander II had the freedom of the borough as he marauded around the midfield, nicking the ball hither and thither and splitting the defence until cruelly chopped down by their chopsy number 9. No matter, after a short, worryingly long period where he lay prostrate, he was soon up and about and back at it with renewed vigour.
Sale, Birnie and Uncle Fester held firm at the back, alternately shouting, whining, and grunting in an amicably growly sort of a way at their teammates and anyone else within earshot. Shouty Kav was shouty too.
Nevertheless the deadlock was broken by the jolly old farmers before half time, but only the once, mind.
Yet after the break, and with Claysonator replacing Old Father Burn, the Farm made it two with softest of softie goals, a dribbly effort bounced back off the post, off the back of shouty Kav's head, and in. When your luck's out...but Street were not finished yet, no way. Midfield holders Munday and Davies outdid themselves in turn by getting beyond the pacy forward pairing of Man,Man,Munsonman meets Man-Mackintosh-Parrish to score two delightful, crowd-pleasing goals: the first, and Munday's first ever for the Street, a cool finish after sustained pressure on the farmers' box, the second an offside-piercing effort following some exquisite triangulated construction out of the Street's defence.
Both teams threatened, and the crowd held their breath, knowing that the game was far from over, yet somehow wishing it was. Then the killer punch: Crazy-Knee Kirk was adjudged to have pursed his lips and blown over a Farm attacker illegally, and the resultant penalty was despatched with a lot of aplomb.
The badgers were only driven to further efforts, Chairman Birnie getting himself booked for not being able to string two words together. Close shaves and near things followed, then all to soon, or none too soon, the final whistle on Street's season blew, and that was that.
A great game for the neutral, disappointment for the Street, but hope springs eternal. It's been another great season for the Street: a final, loads of points, fewer games against Fairview, and some vintage surreal moments to keep the Founding Fathers happy.
But what next? Hmm?
Wood Farm 3 (1) ; (0) 2 Union Street
Kavanagh, M Burn, Birnie, Sale, J Burn (Claysonator), Munday, Davies, Kirk, Pratchett, Mackintosh, Munsonmunsonman
Ref - Quiet, um, mostly
Linesman - Badgerly
Crowd - Good gender mix and a pushchair
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