Week 4
Irish Junior Cup Part 2
Just as the lads left the dressing room the secretary of the other team came to wish the boys good luck in his broad accent . “Roight ladds..we're a big honest mixed side, hope the best team wins”. This is actually Belfast speak for we kick lumps out of Taigs and Prods. The cross community spirit indeed continued as paramilitaries from both sides sang together in unison along the side, and what a powerful rendition of “Go home sheep shagging b**t**ds it was”
The match was played in a cauldron atmosphere. Every tackle the home team made was cheered especially if was above knee height. Each time they were tackled the referee was asked to sort out these redneck animals. Big Ron's tricky winger was on the ball from the start and he put his team in front. A fine run and finish it was. Next time he got the ball he was lifted.
Not being the world's most muscular individual he decided to go along the path of mediation rather than confrontation. He decided to talk to the player who was kicking him. “ I hear you write stories and novels” he said cheerily to the drooling defender hoping to engage him in conversation. This caused surprise to an individual who needed a classroom assistant to sign the dole. “Why?” was a grunted reply, “Our manager says you had just finished completing a long sentence inside”. Bang ....before you could say early release programme our tricky winger had a mouth like a graveyard and would be eating stew through a straw for a month.
To make matters worse the opposition scored from a wild header, he controlled the ball and slotted it under the keeper. At half time Big Ron's boys were the better side the other Guys were a threat not in terms of football.......... just a threat.
The second half grew ever more tense. The silky ball players became obsolete and the aggressive players took centre stage. Big Ron made the key move of the game 13 minutes from time. A managerial masterstroke. He brought on one of his quality players, just back from the Baltics he was rearing to go. Olga cheered wildly as her Irish sweetheart entered the fray.
In a moment of madness the illegal, unsigned and misunderstood footballing genius won the game for Big Ron's boys. His scissor kick from the edge of the box was a joy to behold. But could he celebrate in a calm fashion...could he jack, in a few seconds he did wonders for reconciliation in Inner Belfast. He united hoods from both sides when he first blessed himself and then started an Irish jig. Remembering he was a ringer he spotted a camera in the crowd and remembering Big Ron's advice to the ringers he pulled the jumper over his face a la Rooney. Nothing wrong with that except he was wearing an Old Firm top underneath.
World War 3 ensued along the line. In a show of religious cooperation Nelson Mandela would be proud of, the supporters kicked the shite out of the Lithuanian love machine. Big Ron's two psychos chipped in as all hell broke out. With the help of officials from both sides and a UN peace keeping force, calm was restored.
Big Ron's boys were devastated late on when the home side were awarded a penalty for a foul 30 yards out. The ball was brought forward 18 yards for dissent and because this was now inside the box a penalty was awarded. Big Luke came forward and blasted the ball straight at the keeper. After 14 minutes of stoppage time the game was over and Big Ron North West Manager had won his first game.
There were great celebrations in the dressing room. the rival manager congratulated Big Ron's boys on a great victory in a hard but sporting game. All were invited back to The Balaclava for a pint and some food.
The Balaclava was a bar with a unique charm, set deep in the Markets area. It had a specialist clientele, binlids. It had no windows but was well ventilated with a number of small holes in the wall. A baseball bat hung limply above the door. CCTV cameras hung from every wall.
When the boys went to the room for sandwiches there were none left, the supporters had dragged themselves away long enough from staring at the bar maids cleavage to eat all the food. Big Ron was invited to the kitchen for a special bite. He brought the two centre halfs with him. Big Ron had his reservations about Indian food normally but he was assured that the rival manager's wife's curry was a Cristiano Ronaldo among curries. That it was……. it ran the shite out of Ron and the two backs.
At this stage both clubs go through the ritual of pretending they actually like each other and organise a friendly that will never happen. The opposition wish Big Ron's boys all the best and hope they win it, knowing fine rightly they'll be stuffed next round and hoping they get the living shite kicked out of them. Big Ron had the idea of promoting this friendship by taking a photo. He made sure their ringers were in the snap, just in case the slimy buggers protested. Meanwhile his four ringers were in the bus busy drinking the emergency fund money ( Big Ron' s family allowance).
On leaving the local Bin Lid decided he would earn money from some of Big Ron's boys. He offered five pounds to every man that could name him three fruits starting with the letter T. The man was a monster, his two arms had different postcodes. He had live tattoed on his knuckles, he wanted love but his tattooist while cheap was dyslexic. Out of sheer fear the boys took the bet and came up with Tomato and Tangerine. When the lads gave up our friendly local lunatic grabbed the £30 and walked away. In a moment of sublime madness, maybe still dazed, the tricky winger asked “Wat was da fird?”. The angry response was “Tin of strawberries!” Nobody dared question the decision, this really was a Chris Tarrant moment, it was the final answer.
As the teams left hands were shook, backs slapped.. “Tt was great meeting yous” etc. on the bus the boys waved. When the first corner was turned then they picked up the courage to give the finger(s) and yell back “ Ye shower of ....”
The road back from any Irish Cup game follows a ritual. The initial high jinks and playful wrestling always end in a scrap. Piss stops occur every five minutes, at the start they are over in seconds but get longer as more beer is consumed.
On this occasion Big Ron's boys had the piss stop from hell after stopping for piss stop number 7. At this point one of the boys needed a Winnie The Pooh and jumped in the next field. Unable to crouch in Dambusters style he lay down on his side and deposited the hash browns successfully. Unfortunately he was too drunk to rise and fell asleep, of course his friends and the bus drove off without him.
At the top of the hill one of his team mates lost his balance and fell Willie first down a hill into a bed of nettles stinging the John Thomas off himself. In a fit of madness and driven by excruciating pain he dedcided to relieve the pain by wiping the itchy object with a docken leaf. Seconds later the Police pull up and the young gentleman was taken to the nearest station on the charge of indecent conduct on a public highway.
Big Ron's lads are a team and teams stick together but not this time. The silly bugger could get a bus tomorrow.
So the journey continued. There is nothing worse in the entire world than being sober in a bus full of drunk men. Big Ron hated this. Theres always one gulpin who keeps punching you in the ribs and thinks it's a friendly slap. He'll talk close to your face and cover you in slabbers. The pest won't leave until he shakes your hand painstakingly tight 12 times. To end it all you have to tell him you're his best mocker before he goes,
The journey ends with the ritual humiliation of most of the passengers. Grown men you've respected for years will piss themselves in front of you. Others will fall out of their seats drink as skunts. Some see this time as an opportunity to pour their heart out to Ron. Ron finds out that his midfield are not only lacking football prowess but one has gay tendencies and another likes to dress up as a French maid.
Eventually the five hour journey home ends. Big Ron is relieved to back and to return to the sanity of his home and loving family. As he walked up the driveway at 3.20 a.m. his beloved was there waiting for him. She met him with those three special words “W**ker, spare room!!”
After his exertions Big Ron will have a two week break before returning. Next time Ron organises a committee meeting and club fundraiser.
Week 3
Irish Junior Cup Part 1
The week prior to an Irish junior Cup game is always different for a North West manager especially if it is an away game in Belfast. Training numbers double as the prospect of a drinking session looms. Committee members once feared dead enrol on the bus and turn up on the day wearing the club tie?? A cheap black thing with a football sewed into it. The thought of mooching free booze too good to turn down.
The whole ethos of The Irish Junior cup is about more than just football…….it's about playing as many illegal players as possible without getting caught. Irish League players, particularly those with a serious dreuth, will offer their services for away games. Big Ron however is a man of principles and would not sully the good name of the club by putting their names on the team sheet, dear God no.. he'll put them down under a false name. The names of the shite/squad players will be on the first team teamsheet this Saturday alright, pity they'll never know about it.
For the married men in the team the week leading up to the game is spent earning brownie points. The grass is not only cut but the strimmer is used and there's lovely Wembley style lines up the lawn. Pictures that have lay in the cupboard since God was a wee boy are hung. Squeaky doors are oiled and fixed the best ever you seen, Big Ron too is like Handy Andy on heat. To confuse the missus on Thursday she'll be told that “I'm not going to the game, I'm too old for that getting pissed nonsense, you gone ahead and go shopping.” However the thought that someone else's husband would be there and the notion that her beloved would be perceived as hen pecked will have her practically pushing him out the door come Saturday morning.
The single men also have to gain brownie points. When talking to the girlfriend during the week new words like darling and honey will appear casually at the end of sentence. Hands will be held going into the cinema. They'll be no take out on Friday night, a restaurant would be booked. painful and difficult measures I know but all worthwhile to ensure that Saturday went to plan.
The squad players were no problem, a subtle hint that the other team were renowned for being dirty would be enough to see them cry off before Thursday's training. The immortal line “I'm feeling my groin!!” would come into play then. Unlike the rest of civilised males their girlfriends want them to go the game. A day away from his overpowering aftershave would be appreciated plus she can get out and get a bit of rough.
Big Ron gets a huge shock on the Saturday , not only does no one pull out but all the boys are there on time. All the lads have kitbags (full of booze) with them. The bus is fully booked the remaining seats taken by supporters. No one ever watched Big Ron's boys play unless they were walking the dog. These supporters felt it their civic duty to come along and cheer the boys on. They would enjoy the game, Dundee v Motherwell on Setanta (no way were they leaving a nice warm bar to watch that shitel)
By the time the bus is five minutes along Big Ron praises himself on how he has developed the confidence and self esteem of the younger players. Painfully shy lads are having indepth football discussions with him. Soon Ron realises that this new found confidence is due to the fact that they are half pissed after a can of harp, by the time they reach Toome these once shy young 16 year olds are bearing their arse to Primary School girls.
A stop is arranged mid journey for a lunch. The boys stop at a service station. while Big Ron enjoys a salad roll the rest of the boys are beating down battered purty bread, sausages, hashbrowns and soda farls like no man's business. Big Ron's disgust and subsequent lecture on proper pre game preparation were ended when he got hit on the head by a sausage roll. The food, plus the strains of “Sit down ye big w**ker”, were enough for Big Ron to return to the paper.
Just before landing in Belfast Big Ron knew he had to have a few tactical words with some of the lads. It was crucial that the ringers knew what their new identity was and were urged to use this name when they were booked. Like all good ringers however they will not hide in the background, they will wind up the home crowd and invariably get booked or sent off.
The bus arrives at the ground 15 minutes before kick off, nobody told Ron kick off was 1.30p.m. Unfortunately some brain donor said he knew were the pitch was and had a map printed from Google. After arriving at three wrong pitches the fourth proved correct.
When the bus arrived the supporters buggered off to the nearest bar and the squad headed into the dressing rooms. Like all City teams they had training gear and were warming up using cones. Ron's boys would spend the time before kick off in the toilet unloading half a tonne of potato bread and fried eggs.
Big Ron had spent the whole week preparing his team talk. It didn't go well as one player after another trotted past to the one toilet. With the team picked the boys entered the field.
Next week the game….
If you are a victim, or have suffered from any issues raised in this blog please let us know. Your problems will be dealt with in the strictest confidence between myself, the victim and the North West soccer community.
Week 2
First Game
"Bloody hell!! where's the kit?" Big Ron's first thought as he rose on the first day of the new season. Eventually it was found in the back of the pub which sponsors the club. Stinking and covered in mouse droppings it was ready for the boys. The mothballs wouldn't go near the gorgeous ProStar 1992 Range unless they wore boiler suits.
A game against the current league champions was not the ideal start. Smarmy gits they were, they had a new kit and even their very knickers had the club badge on it. The ref seemed to know them all by name and joked away with them before kick off....ominous.
The game started well and Big Ron's boys took a shock lead, the new young player was running them ragged and scored after 8 mins. Soon after he was brought down for a penalty. That was duly converted, this managing lark is easy!!
Things went pear shaped at this juncture. The new young star was dealt with in time honoured NW football fashion. A quiet death threat in his ear was duly followed by a meaty knee high challenge, or as we say.... he was emptied. The player recovered but failed to touch leather until he fastened his belt after the game.
Three quick goals were conceeded before the stuff really hit the fan. At 3-2 one of the decent players walked off shouting the team was shite and that he was heading for Rovers. The one substitute was brought on. Every club has a substitute, someone who plays sub for every team and never gets a game. A player who is loyal and true to the club and absolutely useless. His arrival is the club's equivalent of the throwing in the towel. Just before the break the team pschyo saw red when the score went 4-2 . He headbutted the goalscorer after his badge kissing celebration.
The second half got worse and the score ended 9-2. The opposition showboating and jiking made the defeat more unpalateable. At the bar no one spoke as they downed the hot water and vegetables(soup) and the chicken coujons which tasted of fish.
Big Ron would turn thingd round at Monday's training session. That didn't go to plan!! Two of the players went on the Northern Ireland Football forum and slagged the life out of each other. Wound up by boys from other clubs they tore strips off each other. Neither would play with each other again, one would have to go. Another player was off work with a rash picked up from wearing the kit.
With 7 at training and a league game approaching Ron did the wise thing, he quit. Little did Ron realise that it is easier to leave a paramilitary organisation than it is to quit as a Junior football manager. The one man committee told him he would end up burning in hell if he left and only death or terminal illness would get him out of this job.
With only 7 players available Ron was in bother for Saturday. However, help was at hand. The one man committee knew a man at the council and he would say the pitch was waterlogged late on Friday. Late on Friday night the details would be phoned to the league giving them no time to change arrangements. The scheduled ref wanted to take his wife shopping so h would be a piece of cake. That was one of two stunts junior clubs have, the other being the our boys are on a stag weekend ploy, that might be needed at another stage. The fact that this was the warmest summer on record is irrelevant in NW soccer.
Big Ron had 10 days before his next game, an Irish Junior Cup away game. The Junior Cup is annual provincial Junior Club cheating contest, in which each team tries to cram as many Irish League and Intermediate players, with false names, on a card as possible. It would be no bother getting a squad for this game.....
Week 1
Big Ron was selected for the job in the time honoured North West way. A visit from the one man committee and a plea to take the job or the club will fold. The subtle mix of emotional blackmail and vanity made him take the job and become Big Ron NW Manager. Two weeks later when the wife was in a good mood .he told her.
Ron retired two years ago. His wife and kids threatened to leave unless he did. Children he babysitted years ago were running rings round him in matches, that and sore legs forced him to hang up the boots.
Now a North West manager, Ron needed the gear. A visit to JJB sorted that. New brand name trainers were purchased(Gola ,nothing too flash), Rucanor track bottoms and of course the managers jackets. The jacket, recycled from the hot water tank cover, had the stand up collar that all good managers need. The basic gear and no shower and he was…..Roy Keane.
Pre season was a bit of a disaster. In July only about 7 turned up ,most were on holidays. When the full squad assembled the true task of a North West manager unfolded.
There is a small group of players who are solid, no problems. Good players and no attention needed. For some reason they always arrive to training in workboots and have the worst training gear, old Man Utd tops with McClair on the back or adididas stuff which was the leftovers from The East German Olympic Canoe team of 1972. All contained in a plastic bag. These guys are the heartbeat of the club, but small in number.
Unfortunately this band of men are few in number and most NW clubs will find a marvellous eclectic bunch of players. Their will be a bunch of players known in the trade as ..shite. Clean useless. However, they never miss training and will always be on time. They follow you to the dressing room after training looking for feedback and text you if you hide. Dropping this player would be easy except for a key North West footballing fact.. they drive a big car and will go to away games. They are well liked by team mates..why. For a start they have nice smelly stuff to borrow/nick after training and they have a nice clean fresh smelling car. A much better way to travel to away games than Big Ron's people carrier which stinks of baby's vomit and is covered in Pringles. In time the shite player becomes ….a squad player (drives a car but clean useless).
In pre season a number of young players shine and they sign. They seem the answers to all your prayer until they get their 11+ results. At this stage, reborn academics, they grow their hair down to their arse and bugger off to study Scholastic Philosophy at Darlington Tec. Who knows four years later they might return, if just to get a shower. Fortunately one might stay.. things are looking up.
The key to the team are the tanned skinned, loud boots and white socks brigade. They have talent but they don't train. Nearly all ex Milk Cup, they're hard work. These players don't do reliability and they don't drive!! Having spent most of the summer in Ibiza shacked up with a Lithuanian bird they return home looking a game a week before the season starts. However they have more ability in their toe nail then some of the rest.. a North West manager's job is never easy.
The rest of Big Ron' squad is made up of girners, pole vaulters and psychos. The girners moan about everything, from the local rivals having better tracksuits to the water in the showers being too wet. The pole vaulter is a fine player but jumps the height of himself when an opponent gets within two yards. Every club has a bin lid too, somebody kicked out of Al Quaeda for bad behaviour. Generally painfully quiet this animal comes alive on the pitch when he kicks seven bells out of anything that moves before moving on to the opposition.
With pre season over Big Ron looks forward to his first NW game. On Sunday he feels a bit like the Special One and sees a job at an Irish League club if all goes to plan. By Thursday the Special One is in trouble, three have pulled out. One has gone to Vilnius to spend the weekend with his girlfriend Olga, another has been arrested for breaking his restraining order and the third is on a course (code for watching the Old Firm game on Setanta). On Friday the club hyperchondriac phones in with an injury he heard on Casualty last week.
Big Ron spends Friday on the phone looking players. Men who haven't played in years are recruited, the squad players are not only in the squad they're playing.
Having missed Jonathan Ross pleading with a player not to sign for a local team Big Ron gets to bed at 1.15am. Tomorrow the North West season starts.
North West week 1 next week….
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