 Thursday, 4th Sep 2003 00:17 Official TWTD Reserves correspondent Old Git gives his unique view of Town's second string's defeat at the hands of Arsenal. Written LIVE from an embedded position within President Sadsheep Hushanks' Portman Road Palace, on a lap-tray I've bought for a law-student daughter who imposes reporting restrictions on me: I'm not to reveal her name. It's Twiggsie. I'm not scared of her (beyond a normal generic fear of ladies). Can you hear the Roar of the Reserves all around me? Does that get recorded on this thing? I hope I don't get electrocuted, though that would count as Killed in Action, wouldn't it, for me? They'd have to cut me out of my old, fluffy, brown car-coat. I know for a fact that it's coagulated with my shirt, in the small of my back. Yes, coagulated is the word: heat, moisture and an amalgam of both synthetic and natural fibre, viz skin. TOWN RESERVES 1-4 ARSENAL RESERVES Town Reserves: Abidallah (5) ManOfTheMatch: Quincey; no, I don't know him nor why he's named himself after a forgotten TV character; why not Fletcher? Town's MOTM: Abidallah, though the two were not playing in the same game/league/universe; he'd be Godber. TEAMS: TOWN: Lewis Price in goal, looking like someone's understudy's understudy; it's what he is, isn't he? Erkan Okay at right back; how did he do? OK? No, Erky. But Richards' way forward was blocked by mediocre Ian Westlake, who is no Darren Ambrose. The rest of the midfield looked like brothers, Adem Atay the eldest and Sixtoest, Antonio Murray the little brother, and Nabil Abidallah his reflection in a spoon. Up-front, alongside Dean Bowditch, was Liam Craig, a ginger-nut with a puff of blond on top, reminiscent of Alan Brazil with hair (yes, I've been watching a while), I expect Craig's just a Naylor, though. Where were all our regulars? It's like tuning in to the Archers after a couple of years. What happened to Nelson? Adem Atay is the noise I make when I try and shift that phlegm that accumulates in the night. It feels funny, seeing Alun Armstrong in the first team. He looks no better than when he bothers to turn out for the Reserves but you hear people saying, 'Umm, he was good for us, wasn't he?' Er, no, not for a long time; they're only indulging in nostalgia. Old Gits. Alun's (a millionaire) rubbish. (Such an unjust world. I'm rubbish and poor. Why me?) Dear old Rooster. He's a Reserves Treasure, like the Queen Mother and he'll be gone soon, too. They're a similar build, when you think about it, neither of them genetically engineered to be footballers (but, yes, he's an eager little beaver who strikes the dead-ball as well as Venus. So why didn't you love introverted, monogamous, grumpy old Veno? If there were a Reserves Hall Of Fame, The Dutch International would be the second inductee. (You know who's first, without looking for the footnote.******) . Once you've won the hearts of the NS, you can do no wrong. Correct me if I'm wrong, but are Roosta's feet getting even smaller? They're like two little moles or ice-skates burrowing into the hallowed. I've chatted to Marytin's (sorry, slightly chubba) wife and mother; they had worked out some wacky way of pronouncing his Christian name. Foreigners! I love 'em, with their hoodly hoodly ways. When I was young, we ruled most of 'em. With a rod of iron. Happy days. Reminds me of my own dear wife. ARSENAL: Taylor; Hoyte, a girl called Gael, Halls, Tavlaridis, Bailey, Bradley, Pauliniho, Quincey, Aliadiere, Thomas. Pauliniho is a star of the Brazilian East Enders, where it's called East Endas. Her porn star daughter, Jordan Fowler, came off the bench. I report it. You use the information how you wish. Tonight was a replay of the 1970 World Cup Final. Same score, same teams, us Italy in our Azzurri shirts (particularly Adem Atay, who is a poor man's Sixto Peralta in every way...is Mumo really just wasting away in some broken down Argie club-they're all as broke as us you know) and Brazil in the Arsenal strip. Perhaps it's Brazil's away strip. Whatever, I was rooting for Brazil. As I did just 33 years ago, though I felt sorry for the Eyties in the same way that, tonight, I felt sorry for Town. We were swept away by a superior force. Two years ago, in a Yoof Cup semi, a dazzling Arsenal forward line played a cool first half before overwhelming Town's merely talented lads. Tonight, the young Gunners couldn't be bothered to keep their powder dry for long. Knowing that there were 40 league placings between the teams, the slim, fit Arsenal sauvies slinked into the match like young kudu; time, brother. Town had the cheek to strike first. Whilst the dudes were still preening, in the fifth minute, Dean Bowditch, who knows his skill will always earn him time on the ball, waited with a comedian's timing before stroking the perfect pass into the penalty area for Nabil Abdab to wipe the smile off big lardy Stuart Taylor-picture David James in negative--with some characteristic trickery and a good goal. The Anglian advertised Dean Bowditch AND Darren Bent, so you knew one of them would drop out, and that we wouldn't be led by a DB2. Bowditch wore grey, shiny plastic pantomime shoes and white sweatbands round his ankles. Together with his Blackpool hair, he looks ready for a season with Bobby Davro; or with Bobby Robson, as he is far too good for us. Though he was largely a spectator tonight; he was far inferior to Quincey, except in footwear: Quincey wore white ballet pumps. 1-0. The Dudes didn't even notice. Different mentality. They were on Copacabana Beach, their eyes half shut to keep out the sun, the way that Marcus Bent perfected. Aha, the moment, perhaps to mention... Temperature: a cumfy average of 71 in real numbers, 22 in euros, and, in the poster on Prince Charles' spare-bedroom wall, Three Degrees*. Whilst in the area, may I mention the... Attendance: far less than it would have been had we been above the relegation zone in the Nationwide League Division One, a lower point I have never known in nearly a lifetime's attendance at the Shrine. Three lifetimes, for the average TWTD lover, to judge by the annual poll. For heaven's sake, we're only just above George Burley's next relegation-bound team. Ye gods, we're being dangled in front of the old Third Division, like a professional tart showing her grotesquely pierced and tattooed belly to you....oh, that's just your girlfriend. Ooh.. Er, just over 1800 people, since you ask. I know you want to get on. Arsenal equalised after 18 minutes when tall, springy Jeremie Aliadiere pogoed through the middle of trialist Gerard Nash; Gerry, the trial's over; you're guilty. Alongside him, Aidan Collins, who almost scored with his first touch, last season, when he came on as a 15-year-old, was equally outclassed. Get back to class. 1-1. With Jermaine Pennant, Jeremie and Jerome were fire-crackers for the Yoofs. The whole Arsenal team are Js: two Johns, Justin, Jordan: what can we learn from this? Nowt. Just enjoy watching talented young players. When Quincey went off, to milk the applause, that's exactly what happened: there was applause, so much so that he has to raise his hands in acknowledgement and clap us back. I have to admit that some of this was because there were quite a few young Arsenal fans present. Grrrrrr. Let's not despair: this effeminate-looking breed of player, nowadays, is so much more skilful than in days of yore. Quicker. Taller. (Except Town players. Always short-arses) Partly because of the carpet that they play on. That can't be real grass. (No, I don't mean hemp) Is the turf 'virtual' like those team crests that appear on the pitch when you're watching the telly? I wish Mrs Old Git's salads looked as edible. You feel like rubbing your bottom on it, don't you? (No, dear, the turf. And I do like Spam) It's shameful that Arsene Wenger has locked these stars in his Harlem Globetrotter Reserves, like adolescents practising in their bedrooms: they need to hone themselves in real competition. They weren't up against much of a goalkeeper, though. Lewis Price looked young and lonely. He couldn't be blamed for the goals. Couldn't he? He couldn't be applauded for saving anything much, though, could he? He wasn't looking very sticky fingered. What a pleasure it was to see David James, who has worked hard through his problems, keeping fit and persevering: why doesn't fat, big-eared, greedy Arsenal-dreaming Richard Wright lose some weight? Why don't I? Ooh. Arsenal decided to win the match just before half-time. They began their party tricks and popped our little balloon: Justin Hoyte, a full-back, took a cross on his chest, then lobbed Price from the right. 1-2. Hoyte took our applause like a world-weary pro. There were still enough seconds left for two more Red attacks, from the first of which Jerome Thomas scored, by comfortably bamboozling our whole defence, using that old technique: trying harder, to slide in Arsenal's third. 1-3. My mate Quincey then curled one just wide of the far post. Dude! HALF-TIME....by OldGit@Reserves...(is it a bit of a comfort, to hear those resonant words again, like Daddy coming home after the Great War, or James Alexander-Gordon reading the results, or, above even that, talking about results, "...it's benign.") They're words that you have not read for a while...it feels like a Return to Yesterday, doesn't it? Mind, every day feels like that to me; when you're old, it's always Groundhog Day. Mind, when you're old, it's always Groundhog Day. M'lord David Sheepshanks is a gem and a jewel. If I were a lady, I'd mount him and wear him on my chest. It was thinking of groundhogs that made me think of Sheepshanks: Groundhog Day, Sheepshanks Out, Unfair Silly Drunken Inverted Snobbery** North Stand Chanting...well, grow up, what blame attaches to working-five-years-full-time-for-free Sheepy for the Triple Whammy: the collapse of the team, ITV Digital and the transfer market? The NS don't need no Lord Hutton: they've found their scapegoat and they want him to do a Dr Kelly***. Despite the middle-class ponsification of football, we must not forget that noisy, nose-pickin', naturally rebellious, naturist**** Young Gits are the backbone of grassroots (some of which they've probably smoked) football support; well, the developing-beer-belly of support, perhaps. And they will bite any ankle that happens to be passing. Sheepy's not to blame for anything, frankly, in my all-things-considered, Ggittish old view. He's a gent, in all senses of the word. I love him and would kiss him on the lips. Like Madonna. I mean, I would kiss him like Madonna would kiss...well, anyone. I don't mean that I would kiss Madonna. Yak. Gross and grim, as my younger children say when invited to kiss me; perfectly reasonable response: they love my income stream, not my body, as does my lady wife of the moment. Eyup, trudge on with this rant---just one more sentence: Sheepy has accepted responsibility for 'our' financial mess and has worked to overcome it. How would his hari kari help Ipswich Town? I can't bring to mind anyone in football more suited to being Chairman of anything in football. Other than yourself, of course But, yes, I want to bite someone's ankle about Town's hapless form, finances and, now, Christ, style of play: Miller and Jermaine or Muhren and Thijssen? (Spell these for me, will you, Phil?) (Even then, though, gentlemen, we mustn't boo when an Ipswich Town sub comes on. Even when it's Jermaine Wright*****. Sorry to mention a point that sounds very middle-class but you did, you booed; it's a point that used to be taken as read by all classes. I've told you before that, when/where I was at school, we the players used to clap when the other side scored. This was in a different century. Men were men and women were grateful. Sorry, like the Beeb, I'm dumbing down) (The worst bit is when they tell you what's going to happen after the adverts: 'Tommy's going to show you cement, and Charlie will dig a pond'...then, after the ads, he says, "Well, viewer, before the adverts, Tommy showed you how to hammer nails in wood, and Charlie showed you her wobbling. Now, Tommy's going to show you cement..." Wait a min, I vividly recall Charlie's wobbling and didn't you advertise Part Two, perfectly intelligibly, less than 200 seconds ago? It's all right for you young folk, with your binge culture, your 24-hour supermarkets and your telephones that take pictures up ladies' dresses; we old folk have to just squat on vividly floral sofas, eating Mr Kiplings straight from the packet, whilst watching Laurence and Jamie) HANG ABOUT, SECOND HALF'S STARTING....better find a different seat, though, as I sprayed the backs of two spotty-shouldered yoofs with my Ribene Lite, when I got up to empty my catheter: it's been a mild September evening but I threw on a mid-weight, souvenir-of Sorrento rug, for my knees-you know what a problem they've been-and the rug got caught between the seats, and my old faded John Wark autograph Thermos flew up, rather, and emptied. Could have been the catheter, but I know you young folk: if I returned to the same seat, they would have glassed me, as you call it. I'm not that out of whatsitsname. All old Town stalwarts have some bits of faded blue stuff, so faded that we look like Coventry City fans: scarves, Marcus Stewart mittens, slack old jowls. Arsenal Reserves. From whence no Arsenal first team player will ever emerge, except Jermaine Pennant...It's hard to imagine anything that Reservistes could be smug about but we do, remember, get to see emerging youths popping out of the chrysalis and that's nice. We know who Dean Bowditch is before you but, because we look so rank, you don't speak to us. Pennant has been waving our flag for a couple of years and these others will be let out soon. During the second half, Arsenal just fancy-danned until they lost interest, doing little scoops and nutmegs. In a first-class match, it would be called showboating but, against a Second Division team's Reserves, it is called keeping warm. Ray Parlour's body double in the Reserves is John Halls, who finished a head-tennis move for Arsenal's fourth in the 64th minute. 1-4. Nabil Abidallah is our pretend Brazilian, but it's embarrassing to make the comparison as Nabbadabba, even though he's now taking all the dead balls is, ultimately, deadwood, too small in stature and ambition; worse, I think he knows it. He brought a great save out of Neville Southall Taylor towards the end, once the Dudes had put away their posing pouches, bling and combs, though Taylor hurt himself; now wonder, he had landed on himself. He's a bloater, his shoulders eating his head. Then Nabil set up Matt Robinson (who's a leftover from a previous yoof season) for a header but Matt's taken, as a role model, Kevin Davies. Murray and Bowditch were booked. THE END oldgit@reserves and oldgit@res.com.eu are registered trade marks;
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