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Match Report by: Nick Jago

Playing football on Anzac day is not something to take lightly. So in the memory of the fallen (Barratt, Giles and other old knackers) and missing in action (Michal anyone?), Bondi FC set about their game with Haberfield in a military style. It was trench warfare from the off, with countless sieges from the Bondi Round Heads (or Potato Heads in Colins case) launched at the thin white line of the oppo goal. The problem arose when it was clear that the only weapons we had in our armoury were heavy artillery, which is fine for advancing your position down the battlefield and making loud noises, but not very effective in killing off the opposition. What we need was an accurate sniper to take aim and fire into the back of the net, but our efforts were consistently thwarted by a combination of posts, limbs and poor finishing.

The only real highlight of the game was our solitary goal, as Scott fed in Will behind enemy lines, and he silently placed the ball in the net like an assassin would stick a knife in someones back – no fuss, no nonsense, and no blood to give away his position. Surely the bouncing bomb had landed and the dam would burst in a flurry of goals against a team that are rumoured to be auditioning for the next season of ‘The Biggest Loser’. But no. Instead, there followed a passage of play that saw each army neutralise each others threat by simply lobbing the football back and forth, like it was a grenade. Thing is, no one had taken the pin out, so it was never threatening, and even less pleasing on the eye than a direct hit from an onion.

And then they scored. We failed to clear our lines, and a half decent charge with a bayonet from their scouting party found the ball entangled in our net. Moments like these are what probably caused Pierre to lose all his hair. That was the last kick of the half. Bondi came in with their tails between their legs, but they had a plan. A dawn raid was on the cards, just come steaming out of the trenches and hope the enemy wasn’t ready. For the entire second half we set up camp in their 18 yard box, resolutely refusing to budge an inch. However, we also refused to play decent football and were restricted to long range pot shots that did little collateral damage. A final score of 1-1 was practically a defeat – although the French among us probably view this as a victory… If we were in the porn business, today would have been characterised by erectile dysfunction. Someone call Pelé please.

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Match Report by: Nick Jago

As we all know after last seasons banned report, the Leichardt team are avid fans of this website. So I will not be using any of the following words in this story: buggery, questionable parenthood, donkey raping shit eater (classic South Park). Fortunately for me, I can actually focus my short angry man rage in the direction of our own team, as we sucked more than a hooker on a 12 hour shift. We’ll ignore the cruel last minute penalty decision that snatched the points away (especially since it was arguably the right decision – sorry Blake, please don’t call me rude words like you did the ref!!). We’ll also ignore the good stuff, which was only really Pierres excellent dead ball delivery and Hammers big noggin. Fact is, we deserved nothing from this game. We struggled to string more than 3 passes together in one move, which was criminal on a surface that was flatter than Nicole Eggert (pre boob job of course). Winning the two previous games by big margins had certainly gone to our heads, and this was hopefully the kick in the swingers that we needed to focus on the basics and work together as a team. So here’s an honest appraisal of everyones performance for them to reflect on:

Darren Hill – We must stop you doing the pose where your feet are planted flat on the floor and your palms slightly raised. This will not repel the ball. Staying on your toes will keep you agile. Other than that, did ok after a long weekend, much appreciated. Verdict – s**t.

Brendan Leahy – coped ok with a tricky forward. Nowhere for the 2 goals – s**t.

David Hampson (Hammer) – good goal. Shame you’re bulls**t.

Blake Smith – you are a very bad man who says naughty words. Take 3 games off to cool down. Ps – s**t.

Matt Horton – the average distance of his passes today were 120 metres The pitch is only 80m long. Horse manure.

Maurice Cornielje (Mos) – good energy. Crap

Dave Jackson – half decent performance, but you are, and will always be a scouser. Cow dung.

Nick Jago – don’t even get me started. Couldn’t control a ball coated in twenty layers of Pritt Stick, and got injured without another sole within 10 metres. Fragile s**t.

Henrick Anderson – the only player to be completely fresh at the beginning of the match, but ran out of puff. S**te.

Dave Lawson – wasn’t there because he trapped his poorly thumb in a door. It was probably the entrance to the s**thouse.

Pierre South – hats off to you cue ball, played well. Turd.

Matt Owen – your goals per game ratio is now below 3. Poop.

Subs (Duncan, Jhonny, Scott) – I’ve run out of phrases now. Oh, wait, no I haven’t. Faeces.

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Match Report by: Nick Jago

15 healthy (albeit hungover) young lads turned up to play a football match for Bondi. But only 7 of the opposition were there to greet them. What followed should have been a ritual spanking, involving quick pass and move football. And it almost was – but in favour of the 7 men. We were poor. Really poor – like the little kids off of Slumdog Millionaire. In order to tip the balance in our favour, Jake tried to chop off one of the opposition’s legs, as we probably could have beaten 6 men. However, rules dictate that you have to field at least 7 players, and in a feat of sportsmanship not seen since David Batty punched Tim Sherwood (who was his team mate at Blackburn), their first grade substitutes wouldn’t even play. They are clearly a club more divided than 1970s Germany. So the game was called off after 20 minutes. Don’t you just hate it when things finish half way thro...

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Match Report by: Nick Jago

It’s the Logies ceremony tonight, a red carpet event that is littered with crap Aussie actors and no name wannabes like Rikki Lee, all hoping to win a prize that is even less important than a 50 metre swimming badge. So let’s turn our attention to some significant events of the day, as we give out an equally pointless set of awards for today’s game.

The award for scoring a hat-trick of scuffed shots goes to Jules, after his trio of bobblers crossed the line at an average speed of 13kph. Jules also wins the pain tolerance award, after being hit in his very own bobblers, he still managed to get a shot off before collapsing to the floor in exquisite agony.

The award for balancing a hippo on your neck while screeching in agony goes to Dave Jackson, who is going to spend his prize money on a good chiropractor after their forward sat on his face, and not in a dirty movie kind of way.

The award for most pungent body odour probably goes to Duncan. That’s the only reason I can think of that their players gave him so much room on the wing.

The award for most unhappy face despite scoring a goal goes to Matt Owen, who sported a grimace that could turn milk sour because he only got on the score sheet once today. Someone give him a hug…

The award for tardiness and lethargy goes to Dave Lynsky, who tried to arrange a lift to the game about ten minutes before kick off. Oops.

The award for giving a player pointless verbals even after they’ve been sent off goes to Matt Cuthbert, who spoke in a strange tongue that none of the opposition understood.

The award for most depreciating comment of the day goes to Hammer for his quote on being subbed: “I was awful today”. Don’t worry Hammer, you looked ok out there.

The award for covering up most of Hammers mistakes and making him look half capable goes to Brendan, who cleaned up better than a cocktail of Harpic drain cleaner and Bam all in one at the back.

The Duracell bunny award for playing forever and ever until everyone else is tired and wants to go home goes to Terry, who put a solid 150 minutes in today without complaint.

The legs akimbo award for being nutmegged repeatedly goes to Robbie Wain, who saw more balls between his legs than a Thai lady who does the special ping pong act twice nightly with encores.

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Match Report by: Nick Jago

For the opening round of the Amateur cup
We’d been drawn away to Fenix
The Bondi team had done their prep
And Jonny had eaten 4 weetbix

The opposition waddled round
They didn’t look like much
But when they played it on the ground
They actually had good touch

With just 5 minutes on the clock
Seb launched a long free kick
It was just an innocent knock
But the defender got a flick

He used his thigh upon the ball
Its path had now been set
And despite the keepers diving fall
It looped into the net

So when we tried the same again
It made the keeper decide
To rush out in amongst his men
And commit goalie suicide

The shot came in with pace and dip
We saw the keeper choke
And Tarek closed in with a skip
To score a brilliant toe poke

At two nil up we sat quite pretty
You could feel the growing love
Until it went a little shitty
When Greg gave his man a shove

The little guy just tumbled down
What an evil cunning fox
Because Greg now looked just like a clown
He’d fouled him in the box

The penalty despatched with ease
The oppo now to be feared
Questions posed – some answers please?
And the substitutes appeared

Glen went raiding down the flank
Searching for a cross
Their defence was a pile of wank
As thin as dental floss

So Kris attacked with dancing feet
A footballer using his head
Then added a finish that was neat
To put the game to bed

A super win for the second grade
Lets follow it with another
But for most people their day was made
By playing against Maradonas half-brother

Match Report by: Nick Jago

Sometimes it’s very difficult to describe what actually happens in a match. The game against Wanderers was one of those, especially in terms of the insane dismissal of Dave Jackson, who was shown a red card for what can only be classed as ‘being a chippy northerner’. So lets put the basic facts out there. The first half was well contested, with a super goal scored by Matt Owen and delightfully set up by the ever modest Pierre, who clamed that his cross ‘was the best pass ever’. The second half was real backs against the wall stuff, with every single one of our 10 men putting in an incredible effort to hold on for a draw. You are to be commended boys, you did us all proud. Much appreciation must also go to the Bondi crowd, who acted as a twelfth man (or eleventh after Jacko bit the dust), constantly barracking, booing and hounding the opposition on their home ground. My favourite line was probably from Scott Noble, who produced the following pearler in reference to their centre back… “You’ve got the touch of an elephant”… Bizarrely, he then followed up his comment with a braying donkey noise, possibly reducing the effect of his verbal vitriol by revealing a lack of knowledge about the animal kingdom.

So the game was pretty much spoiled by the ref. But let’s not just bash the officials willy-nilly – why don’t we look at this from another perspective (ie let’s bash them using a calculated and reasoned argument). Our league is made up of several hundred amateur footballers who have all grown up playing the game, living it and breathing it every weekend, except during the cricket season when we all get fat and wish for autumn to come round again. We all know what the rules are, and how to try and break them without getting caught. And how many of us, when our playing careers are over, will go on to be referees and put a little something back into the sport we so adore? None of us, because it absolutely sucks to be the person in the middle that everybody is shouting obscenities at. Would you stand in an open space for an hour and a half every weekend while a couple of dozen men hurl insults at you for the measly sum of $50 plus petrol? So that, in a nutshell, is why the only people who will referee at our level (which, let’s be honest, is not particularly high) are ones who probably don’t really know anything about playing the game. Sure, they’ve read the rule book and put their own spin on the offside situation, but none of them have ever delivered a slide rule pass or cleanly won a ball by crunching in from the side of someone. Most of them don’t even get out of the centre circle and still make decisions on fouls by the corner flag.

Anyway, enough of that. A couple of special mentions for events in the match: Henrik ran so hard for 10 mins when he came on that he badly twanged his comedy exploding hamstring, which now looks like a raw sausage that has been squidged under a size twelve boot. Jim Beer sat for another 90 mins on the bench without throwing a massive diva strop, kudos to you sir, you are a gentleman and a scholar. Finally to Bailey, who was crapping through the eye of a needle and therefore unable to play, but delivered an awesome set at the warehouse party on Sat night which many of us happily guerned along to.

Match Report by: Nick Jago

In lieu of a few paragraphs about the game, I’ve written a few riddles that reference our players. See if you can solve all the clues…

I claim to have scored a goal on Saturday, but it was actually the funniest own goal most of us will ever see. Thing is, I am massive and no-one is brave enough to tell me to shut up and stop talking nonsense. Who am I?

I ran hard all game bossing the midfield. Whilst I enjoyed it, I was slightly upset that I didn’t cause any serious harm to anyone. At one point I even thought about fouling one of my own team just to satisfy my lust for pain. Who am I?

I finally started scoring the amount of goals that I should do every game with a well taken hat-trick. I could have had more if I didn’t do my best impression of Milan Baros and just run around with my head down, not really knowing what direction I’m going in. Who am I?

Je suis un petit, vieux homme qui jouer au football en defense. J’adore Brigitte Bardot, Chateauneuf du Pape et bonnet de douche Rodney. C’est qui?

I only managed to play for 5 minutes before my arthritis set in and I was forced off the pitch with suspected osteoporosis. It’s common in old people, I just wish I could remember where I put my medicine. I’m cold now. Who am I?

I’m a wide boy, both in terms of playing position and being a lovable rogue from North East London, although I claim it’s Essex as this is a more sophisticated area of the world. And my missus is a better footballer than I am. Who am I?

Oi loike playen fatbul begora. Oi taut oi was good today after moi suspenshun. Who am I?

Och, noo you’re just putting fake accents on the sentence without saying anything aboot the game. Lazy. I’m a goalkeeper. Who am I?

I performed a skill so intricate that even I had no idea where the ball was going to go. It ended up going out of play and I fell over, but that’s the Faustino Asprilla kind of way to play. Who am I?

Match Report by: Nick Jago

A good win over a lacklustre opposition, but should we be surprised? I think not, after looking at the omens that have been staring us in the face in the form of anagrams. Allow me to elaborate.

The Thirsties team had a torrid time dealing with our lone striker Jules, so just imagine what will happen when Matt Owen comes back and they have to deal with the 2 of them. But let’s look at their name a bit closer:
Anagram -  Thirsties = Is Shitter

Not many people know that Pierre’s middle name is Yannick, a classic French moniker. The slap head was today instrumental in tearing apart the defence and delivering quality balls for Jules to score or Mos to hit the post/bar:
Anagram – Pierre Y South = Rip your sheet

Despite our dominance, we still conceded 2 goals, which is nothing less than pony. We even lost the second half 0-1 when you break it down further, which is silly, but I guess the game was already won. However, the point is that captain marvel was spending plenty of time up the field, and on several occasions needed a taxi to return to his correct position:
Anagram – Blake Smith cab = Blame this back

Having missed the previous match due to a flower arranging course or something, you could have been forgiven for thinking that Jules might be a little bit off form. In fact, many people were certain that he would be a touch off the pace:
Anagram – Julian rust defo = Just nailed four

Mos was in great form, playing the attacking midfield role with the right balance of aggression and guile. He had been spurred on by listening to music from South America that Oscar had lent him, but whilst his overall performance was good, he couldn’t finish a small salad if he tried:
Anagram – Maurice’s songs oley = You miss close range

In order to keep the day more interesting, our keeper (middle name Kenneth) had to eat chocolate biscuits without removing his gloves, lest he fall asleep on duty. He is a truly disciplined man, who was once in the army, where he pretended to be GI Joe:
Anagram – I’m Matt K Cuthbert, GI = The big Tim-Tam truck

Match Report by: Nick Jago

A monstrous 12 goal game is the stuff of fairytales, fables, Greek legends and other children’s stories, so if you’re sitting comfortably, then I’ll begin…

Once upon a time there was a football team called Bondi that lived in a beautiful park in Sydney. Well, most of it was beautiful, apart from the surface they had to play their games on. One day, the evil Thirsty men came to the park and tried to beat the Bondi team. A battle was arranged, which was officiated by the - Censored - who is just misunderstood and a bit behind the game. Everybody started to run around like headless chickens, and soon Bondi took an advantage as they played a one – two buckled my shoe and three – four knock at the door move which ended up with their keeper graciously opening the door of the goal and letting them in, as they had asked so politely.

Glen was having a lovely time on the right wing, and he was crossing the ball with much more success than the three billy goats gruff had with crossing the bridge with the troll under it. Robbie Davis was skipping along the left wing like little red riding hood, but he packed a sucker punch with a free kick cleverly aimed straight at the keeper, who again obliged and stepped out of the way for a goal to be scored.

But the Thirsty men, who were now all thinking about when they could next have a drink as they were awfully tired, decided to run at our defence, which had been momentarily turned to stone by Medusa, and scored to halve the deficit. This upset our big bad wolf Jake Bailey, and he huffed and puffed and blew the ball into their net twice. Sadly, on his hat-trick opportunity from the penalty spot he could only muff, scuff and roll the ball down.

The game proceeded like the Grand Old Duke of York would have wanted – all our men marched up to the top of the hill, where we scored, then marched back down again, where we conceded. Fresh legs were introduced in the second half which saw a disappointing tally of only 3 goals, as the trail of breadcrumbs that Hansel and Gretel put down to guide Bondi to the goal had been eaten by the hungry and thirsty opposition at half time.

At least our defence had managed to get rid of Dopey, Bashful, Grumpy and Sleepy in the break, but Happy was still yet to be seen, and the overall performance was far from Snow White.

So at the end of the day the Bondi team won the game, but despite the goals raining down there was little sense of achievement. We all just hope that next time we play them, the hungry caterpillars have turned into butterflies and it won’t be a case of beauty and the beast.

Oh, and everybody lived happily ever after.

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Match Report by Nick Jago.

Saturdays cup match had all the ingredients of a great Shakespeare play – there was tragedy with sendings off and last minute winners (although this was only a tragedy for the oppo), and comedy misunderstandings that made otherwise reasonable men go crazy. As a tribute to this, we have dug up the bard from deep in the ground and breathed life into his rotting corpse in the form of this short play, called ‘Storm in a D-Cup’.

The curtain opens on a playing field. Two teams are about to play a cup match, and conditions are almost perfect, apart from a puddle near one of the goals. Enter stage right Officius Reffus.

Officius Reffus: Thou teams of olden Bondi and Leichardt shalt today before me offer a great spectacle to rival the dethroning of Aritophanes at the hands of Gwendolir. [Sharp peep on the whistle]

Pierro Slaphead: Nary shall a right back prevent my advance, I will swoop down with pigs bladder clutched in my talons and deliver unto the box.

Julius Caesarean: Is this a football I see before me? The sweetspot toward my head? Come, let me clutch thee, and smite ye into the net. The keeper sees thee, and yet he feels ye not, until he turneth and collect from betwixt the posts.

Jackson of the North: Veritably the first blood hath been drawn, yet my blood streams down my outstretch limb in accord with a scything tackle. I weep a thousand tears tinged with crimson.

Blakey, defensor of the trees: Onward brave souls, climb the peak of cup glory as I speak unto ye. But what be this? A free kick no more than five fathoms from the box? Send forward my trusted weapon, Hammerlet. Et tu, Brendo?

Maurice of Orange: I shalt seek the perfect delivery to evade Burnham Woods and pierce the heart of thine enemy.

Hammerlet: To be in the box or not to be in the box, that is the question. Wether t’is better to suffer the pushes and nudges of war… Hammerlet trips and stumbles mid sentence as Maurice of Orange crosses the ball. It hits Hammerlet on the head and goes into the goal.

Half time arrives, and little ice cream tubs are served with those ineffective wooden spoon things.

Colinnus: Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your money for beers. Good health to all.

The second Act begins

Phlegmus Maximus: A pox on the house of Bracewell, I shall have my pound of flesh, a plague on you… Phlegmus is forcibly removed from the stage

The ten men proceed to score 2 goals to bring the match level, despite the best efforts to resist by Matthiew, Thane of Cuthbert. Then a last minute penalty is awarded to Bondi for handball.

Pierro Slaphead: I hath a reputation for scoring penalties. However, reputation is an idle most false imposition, oft got without merit and lost without deserve. In this instance though, I shalt caress the ball as if it were the soft skin of my dear sweet Juliet.

Pierro scores, and Officius Reffus blows his whistle for full time. In amid the celebrations, there is a ruckus by the sideline as Poh Neetayle, who has been quiet and anonymous for most of the match, confuses an innocent comment for a slur. Cue a scuffle and much accusations of parents not being married before birth and so on. The curtain comes down on a thrilling performance.

Condescending note from author: If anyone can tell me all of the Shakespeare plays that have, quite frankly, been brutalised in this report, I promise to only write nice things about them for the rest of the season.

Match Report by Nick Jago.

The 9-2 final scoreline doesn’t really tell the full story of this match, as at 1-1 with ten minutes of the first half left, it could have turned out different. Fortunately for us, the oppo crumbled like a car jack made from puff pastry in the second half. But who were the real saints, and who were the sinners? We find out by using the recently patented ‘Bondi-o-matic Saint Scale’.

Match Report by Terry Ladden.

Bondi FC won, Leichhardt Saints lost. Movies clips from this game will be uploaded this week.

Match Report by Terry Ladden.

Bondi FC won, Leichhardt Saints lost.

Match Report by.

Match Report by Nick Jago.

This is dedicated to Colin Brennan, who requested at the end of the game that I had “better write nice things about him in the match report”.

On Saturday, Colin Brennan re-invented the game of football as we know it. There are few men who are able to inspire and invent in the same way that this veritable magician is capable of. Ronaldinho comes close, but for pure liquid football and gravity defying feats of skill, Mr B is a clear winner. Once victory was assured against a Leichardt team that could accurately be described as ‘not the best’, Col brought out an original piece of skill that he has been working on in his brand spanking new back yard. In a moment of mind boggling bedazzlement, on a par with the moment that Ben Stillers ‘Zoolander’ unleashed his new ‘Magnum’ look, Col managed to kick a ball backwards, even though he was technically set up to kick it forwards. The precision and deftness of touch needed to pull off this move are so extreme that it is improbable anything like it will ever be seen again.

For the mere mortals amongst us, it seemed certain that Colins right boot was going to connect with the ball and send it 20 to 30 meters in front of him. However, what actually happened resulted in a dummy that sold not only the opposition, but his own players and supporters as well. Some of the spectators have had to have counselling as they thought they were seeing things, as the ball skipped up onto his boot and landed behind his heel. The revolutions on the ball were so severe that it dug a small trench into the ground behind him, creating a dent similar to the effect a small meteor landing on the pitch might have.

Those of us that saw it are now all believers, and Sir Isaac Newton may be resting slightly uneasy in his grave as a new paradigm on the laws of physics is suddenly upon us.

Having wowed the crowd with his skills, he continued to build team morale and the spirit of brotherhood by criticising Will for scoring from 3 yards out in what became ‘Colins goal that never was’.

So there you go, that’s a few paragraphs of positive, uplifting information without any derogatory remarks. It was hard, but I just about managed it.

Special mentions in non-Colin related news: Glen, who managed to get nutmegged by a 60 yard throughball, and Terry, who scored with his first touch and proved that some of the training drills we go through are actually worth it.

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Match Report by Nick Jago.

Every game in this league is important, but this game, against our closest rivals (both in terms of the league table and distance), was an absolute blockbuster, which also reminded me of several other blockbusters over the years. Allow me to explain.
Bailey caught a clearance square in the diaphragm, causing him to cough up a lung, before then realising that the ball was there to be crossed. After knocking it into the box he then collapsed over and made painful squealing noises, in the same manner as John Hurt with the chest burster in ‘Alien’...

Seb was hacked down from behind in the first half, causing excruciating agony to one of his dodgy legs (lets face it, he’s more strapped up before a game than Mum Ra off of Thundercats). The way he fell to the floor was pure theatre though, as if several snipers all at once had taken aim...

In a revised role of Right Back, Maddox was given free reign to stride up the pitch and overlap Tarek. His constant ability to get up and down the line has not been demonstrated since the team who went on the gold run of 80s hit UK TV show Blockbusters a record 7 times.

The magic spell that the midfield trio occasionally managed to weave, with some delicate passing combinations and slick movement, certainly brought to mind a blockbuster that is about to hit the big screen. From left to right: Oscar Iturra, Nick Parker, Scott Lawson

With the game still nicely poised at 1-0, Rich came on and took the fight to the oppo, causing problems and eventually killing them off with a splendid header in brutal, efficient style.

Match Report by Nick Jago

Henriks Prayer

Ikea, which art in Sweden,
Henrik be thy name,
Thy homeward come,
Now that Sydney is done,
In Aussie as it is in Europe,
Give us this day our Swedish meatballs,
And forgive us missed passes,
As we forgive those who hit crosses against us
And lead us not into quiet house parties
But deliver us from snowsuits
For thine is the left wing
The running and the shooting
For ever and ever
Abba.

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Match Report by Nick Jago.

Recipe for success

A little culinary special to mark the climax of Masterchef. Below is the top secret recipe that Bondi used to create ‘Stuffed Thirsties’ on Saturday.

• Baste the opposition in beer for 15 – 20 years until soft and easy to manipulate
• Preheat the day to a lovely 20 degrees with a cloudless, fan assisted sky
• Slice open the defence with some sharp passing. A Lawson knife or Phillips blade seems to work best
• Insert the ball into the net. This is the basis of the stuffing, and will need to be done at least 9 times in order to get the maximum flavour from the dish
• Season your Armah with salt. If you forget to do this he may cramp up and become a bit chewy
• Spread the play wide, running your Maddox and Williamson grease along the edge of the pot to make sure the dish doesn’t stick
• Lob in a cool finish or two from Tarek
• In the case of fowl play in the box, get your Parker tool ready to clear out any giblets. Warning – be careful to strike the meat carefully or you could see a nasty bobble and spoil the perfect stuffing
• Serve with thigh of Colin for an unusual but very satisfying finish
• Warning – eating this dish too many times can cause complacency and bloating of egos

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