Blues Res 2 Villa Res 2

O’Sauron The Snouted; Celtic-tongued pack leader of The Dark Ones, had been glorying in the triumph of his young Orcs and indeed with some justification. They had had a glorious season and had sacked most of their rivals in the Pontins League with impressive ease, their high degree of organisation and enthusiasm, allied to the youthful exuberance of their Black Riders carrying them to victory, primarily over opponents who had often not taken things quite seriously enough, underestimating how important was victory to The Orcs.

The drab and dreary battle colours of the Dark Ones, a sort of dirty purple in hue, stood in sharp contrast against the vivid spring green of the pitch and the mixture of bright blues, whites and yellows borne with pride by the few Happy Hobbits who had come to witness the event under the gleaming white-and-crystal roof of the stadium. From the moment the Orcs started the battle it was clear that they were serious about winning this final encounter e’en though the campaign was long since won. Doubtless this was because back in his lair somewhere deep and damp in the bowels of the Four Vast Sheds, their supreme master Dougollum was sitting in his darkened chamber, waiting to hear news of yet another victory by his beloved Nazgûl. The exact history of Dougollum is not clear, but some say that many decades ago, during the First Age, he had actually been a Happy Hobbit until some tragic twist of fate had poisoned his soul, as a consequence of which he was now stranded on The Dark Side and so could only amuse himself by sitting imperiously in his vault whilst legions of disaffected Orc-Followers shrieked for his head and marched in protest against his interminable reign and the slow decline it had brought to his organisation. Each time the Orc-Followers thought they had him on the brink of leaving The Four Sheds forever; he would consort with his dark wizards and pull some trick out of the hat to foil them for yet another year. This particular year, his task of survival against all odds had been achieved largely by the undoubted organisational skills of O’Sauron The Snouted who had taken the ramshackle army left in demoralised tatters by Turnip The Terrible and deftly converted them into a very efficient outfit. The protestors had been driven away to the far corners of The Dark Side and so Dougollum could yet again sleep easy in his pit. As well as seeing off the Orc-Followers for the umpteenth time, Dougollum had also seen off an attempt to wrest the Four Sheds Of Mordor from him by some (mythical?) foreigners. He had told them that ‘his precious’ would cost far more money than they could ever afford and so they went away.

For Dougollum, the emergence of gallant and talented young warriors in his Orc Army in the Pontins League provided yet more evidence that there was no need to give O’Sauron The Snouted any money to squander on troops for the First Brigade and so things could carry on just the way they were. Victory tonight at the White Stadium would serve to support his case. Dougollum was a very, very, happy creature. He turned off the dim light in his vault, reached into a battered tin box, selected a fat juicy worm to suck on and sat back in the damp darkness to await the news from Saint Andrews…

Before the game, outside the ground, I saw Squatnose The Bruce, leader of the Chosen Ones, sitting in his car holding a conversation on some small handheld communication piece. He was resplendent in a vivid blue polo shirt and looked calm and happy. I was sore tempted to interrupt and ask him if he were on the phone to some Agent but I elected not to and took my seat in the White Stadium.

Early in the encounter we witnessed the first outrage from the Orcs. An innocuous incident resulted in the officials being subjected to a foul-mouthed torrent of abuse from a gaggle of them. Shortly afterwards and the Vile were ahead in the contest. A dreadful error by the goal custodian for the Chosen Ones led to the ball being given straight to a Horned Beast who had the simple task of rolling the ball into the empty net. 0-1 after 8 minutes.

The style of combat being employed by both armies in the opening skirmishes was agricultural in the extreme with little finesse being deployed but slowly the Chosen Ones began to recover from the shock of the early goal and, inspired by the tiny Leprechaun O’Kilkenny in midfield, began to pass the ball around with no small alacrity. Time and again, the elfish Kilkenny slid the ball inside the lumbering great brutes of the Vile back four and so chances began to be created. After 20 minutes, a dramatic burst down the flank by the fleet of foot Mot-er-Ham left a Nazgûl floundering in his wake, he crossed the ball and there was the one they call The Barrow Man slipping in ahead of the defence to stoop and head the ball home. 1-1.

The first half continued reasonably even, with both sides deploying raiding tactics but not many clear cut chances were created.

After half-time, there was an eerie spectacle. The sky over the Expressway could be seen to be glowing red. Thunderclouds and rain clouds peppered the horizon, as if the Gods themselves were weeping at the dreadful spectacle of the Orc Army. The glow was either the sun against the clouds, or more likely, the terrible reflection of the Fires Of Mordor being stoked over at Shed Land by Dougollum’s wretched Slave Dwarves. It seemed as if this sight inspired The Chosen Ones in the second half – they were surely keen to right this terrible wrong and so came out with all guns blazing and tore into the Orcs with a fearful vengeance. O’Kilkenny danced hither and thither, the ball seemingly glued to his instep until he chose to release it with pinpoint accuracy, Mot-er-Ham repeatedly got by his poor Nazgûl and Hughes the Wanderer struck the crossbar with a beautiful curling shot after drifting past two Orcs as if they were invisible.

70 minutes and it was 2-1. A very fine passing move involving five or six players led to the ball being slipped through to The Barrow Man who drew the (very bad-tempered) Orc goalkeeper and slid the ball past him inside the post. The Orcs were by now in considerable disarray and further goals looked likely.

Then, after 81 minutes, came the turning point of the game. Young Hobbit Asa Hall, who had come on a substitute for the Dark Warrior Cisse, emulated his substitutee by getting himself sent off for two bookable offences. No arguments, the Umpire was quite right to do this. The sending off gave fresh heart to the previously weary Orcs and they began to dominate the battle. A good passing move led to an Orc hitting not one, but both posts with a shot past the statuesque goalminder Doyle and then, after 87 minutes a swift attack, a driven low cross and a fine finish by a Dark Rider, smashed in off the underside of the bar. The Orc-Followers in the stand leapt to their feet with delight and relief, cheering loudly, 2-2.

The game finished with the Orcs well in the ascendancy and the depleted ranks of The Chosen Ones hanging on for the draw. The Chosen Ones’ supporters drifted off into the night, disappointed that victory had been snatched away so late but still looking forward to the summer months in The Shire and the new arrivals that are expected. Squatnose The Bruce went back to his handheld talking device to converse with those men who speak for the newcomers. We must look forward to their arrival, for they can only strengthen the Just Cause.

Finally, we should be magnanimous and congratulate the Orcs. Their victory in the Pontins League shall go down in history, and deservedly so, for it is testament to their fine organisation and considerable ability. We should remind them, however, that in the end good shall always triumph over Evile.

Until next year, my friends, goodbye.

Blues: Doyle, Parratt, Sadler, Kilkenny, Martin Taylor, Oji, Till, Bryan Hughes, Barrowman, Cisse, Motteram. Subs: Dormand, Hall, Painter, Birley, Curtis.