Phuket (June 2006)

Picture this, if you will … you’re sitting in a vast, open-air car park a long way from home and civilisation. It’s humid and sticky, but drizzling, hard. You’ve been there for two hours in a bid to get the best seats in front of an upsize whopper TV screen. Around the world, 1.5 billion bums settle into couches and pub seats eagerly awaiting the 8pm kick-off of the start of Ingerland’s memorable journey to the final of the 2006 World Cup -- their group opener against Los Desperados from Paraguay where, for just 150 guarani, you can legally sodomise a llama. You’re tired and frazzled, but the adrenalin’s pumping.

At 8.01, a flicker of worry; the giant screen switches to Thailand's King Bhumibol Adulyadej and a host of royal flunkies waving candles to honour his Diamond Jubilee. You sweat, the consternation grows … but your attention is drawn to a forlorn figure on your left.

ATM (smaller CA) has his head in his hands. He’s endured two hours of thinking/drinking games courtesy of Old Hollow Legs (CP) and cannot fathom how Scoop can go to the market and buy an Igloo and Gardening Gloves, or why Der Kaiser (UN) wants to buy Unlimited Nitrogen or why on earth Big Mac/Golden Arches (AL)  would be interested in purchasing Anal Love. Think about it … Clueless Arsehole.

By 8.05, the Thai King and his cronies are wearing thin. TC gets an SMS … Goldenballs has scored. A sickening feeling swells in the pit of your beery stomach, a guttural roar builds in your throat … and, to top it all, you’ve “picked” Owen Hargreaves in the sweep to open the England floodgates. A lady-boy strolls past heading for the toilet, lovely arse … which door, Men or Ladies? …

Suddenly (at 8.08), the big screen ditches the Thai Royals and you’re pitched into the noise and mayhem of the Waldstadion in Frankfurt, Europe’s banking capital. Crouchy’s leading the Latinos a merry dance, all gangly arms and yellow cards, Gerrard’s whacking shots up into the rafters (but Robinson can top that), a crunching Terry tackle … and then the game settles into a predictable pattern and you recall pretty much every other Ingerland match you’ve suffered through for the last three decades or so ... you neck another Singha to help you through what you know will be 82 minutes of nail-biting, agonizing Slow-Death.

Lady-boy walks back … oh-oh, not so hot from the front, check out the hands and five o-clock shadow and … ATM-Boy pipes up … “I can go to the market and buy Money & More Money” … a collective groan, some half-hearted lobbing of Thai snacks in his direction, and weary, bleary gazes return to the big screen, where Michael Owen is knackered, Ashley Cole is useless … and Hargreaves is still on the bench!

Oh … you want to know about the other game?!

Phuket All Stars 7 BC Tour Party 7 (some even said we won on penalties)

Picture this, if you will … the heat sears your brain, the rancid gargle from an overdose of Heineken, Tiger, Guinness and Singha tickles your throat, your legs don’t work, and a middle-aged man near you is retching to the very lining of his stomach. You’re three minutes into a game of football … and you just want to hide, but your new red-blue-white kit now has your name proudly emblazoned on the back, so there’s no sanctuary in anonymity.

A second BC tour, a second seven-goal haul for the opposition – but at least this time we managed to reply in kind to eke out a draw from the carnage of another long day/late night.

After bugger all sleep on the Thursday night, due to a 5.15 (am!) meet-up at Changi, a 90-minute flight, a 45-minute coach ride, 18 holes of golf (won in spectacular, if a little controversial, fashion by Dell Boy (larger CA), Scoop and Anneka (AM), beer, a 45-minute return to Patong, lots more beer, 90-minutes of heartache watching Der Kaiser and NG celebrate Germany comfortably winning a soccer match, beer, not very much sleep, breakfast and another 30-minute coach trip to … the fully fledged international Surakul Stadium with an upsize whopper pitch, 40-degree scorcher, a big, expectant crowd in the all-seater ground (OK … just the one spectator – the girlfriend of one of the opposition players, but nice thong …).

The tourists lined up with Oop North (IB) volunteering for a first half in goal and AP and CP in central defence. Big mistakes 1, 2 & 3.

CP had turned up late on Friday, half a day late due to previous business travel arrangements, but had overtaken the rest of the tour party’s aggregate beer intake within 26 minutes. With a combined 3-1/2 hours sleep ahead of the match (and three hours during it), the centre back pairing was likely to be caught napping … and it took only a few minutes for a speculative shot from a PAS striker to dissect the back-line and open the scoring.

The PAS – a rag-bag of teachers, plumbers, Austrian chefs, reformed paedophiles (allegedly) and at least one platinum-blonde lady-boy – looked quick up front and had skill to match. Their second goal was a beauty (remember THE Alan Mullery goal for Fulham in the old Division 1 – the volley from just outside the box).

But it wasn’t all one-way traffic. With ATM-boy as stand-in keeper for PAS, the BC were always likely to get some return from some increasingly fluent attacking moves that most often featured Der Kaiser, running wide and wild on the right and peppering the host’s penalty area with inviting crosses. CA and Big Mac profited from these, while NG and MJ also got on the scoresheet in a crazy, frantic goalfest of a first half. Big Mac ended the half coolly slotting home a one-on-one against the PAS keeper.

But each time we scored, PAS had already gone back in front. The Keystone Cops in central defence were more likely to kick each other than the ball and Oop North proved that at a certain age it takes 4-5 seconds to go from standing straight to bending to stop a football. Too long.

As the goals rained in at either end, Anneka suffered under a relentless sun to look even more like one of those old family-sized blocks of Walls vanilla and strawberry ice cream.

Half-time arrived with PAS leading 6-5.

Cometh the hour, cometh the Dell Boy – hitherto in his element: beer, banter, smack-talk, lads, sunshine, sport, Blackberry. Invoking the spirit and passion of a bombastic Churchill, a Wellington, Henry V at Agincourt, World Cup Willy, a Bulldog, David Brent and even a hint of warrior queen Boudica, he proved he should give up the day job and launch a career as Motivational Mentor Guru. Laying into all and sundry for an awful first half performance, he gave inspiration, hope and purpose, tied up in a pretty bow of pride.

Scoop was moved to keeper and staunched the tide (stood idle) as collective heads appeared to clear and aching legs heeded the half-time pep talk. MJ fired up the RB211-535 and played a pivotal role in midfield, Der Kaiser ran and ran until he begged for a spell in goal, DH shrugged off his pubectomy and various other issues to bring us level, TC buzzed, Big Mac and NG created a flurry of chances. At the other end, a PAS German beat Der Kaiser with a low left foot drive after a fine solo run, but I can’t remember through the heat and fug whether that was an equalizer or whether we then levelled.

Meantime, Oop North unceremoniously kicked their striker who’d ruffled his hair, but all in all it was just too damned hot to scrap and the referee (and two uniformed linesmen/assistants!!) did their jobs well enough.

The game ended 7-7, though the BC went on to win an informal penalty shoot-out, with an agile NG pulling off a couple of excellent saves. There were few takers for this as the majority of touring players were dead, comatose, sitting underneath taps, vomiting or otherwise disinterested.

Nice new kit, no Groupies and next stop … Bali, maybe … and almost certainly an 8pm pre-match curfew. Again, thanks to Der Kaiser for the match arrangements and to AP and CA for organizing the trip/awards, etc.