WSC 389

[Gangster Octopus]

I wasn't expecting it this week.

[Mumpo]

[Benjm]

I bought it to read on a train journey yesterday but didn't realise that it was just out. I somehow missed Issue 388 then.

Anyway, this one kept me entertained from Birmingham New Street to Watford Junction so gets the thumbs up.

[Felicity, I guess so]

I’d assumed a women’s World Cup cover, but I suppose it has to last through August

[Patrick Thistle]

Mrs Thistle let me know mine has arrived and us waiting for me at home. Would have been handy in flight reading...

[Walt Flanagans Dog]

Not sure if I'm missing the gag, but that isn't the punchline on the cover of the print edition.

[Patrick Thistle]

Yep. WFD's right.

Flicked through my copy this morning.

[Nocturnal Submission]

I assume that Mumpo has doctored it.

[Gangster Octopus]

One has to take mumpo's fanatical anti-Liverpoolness into account.

[longeared]

Good article on SYP. I assume that's the same Matthew Bell who used to edit Flashing Blade?

[Guy Profumo]

"Holland" Back in the big time?

Klaxon alert!

[Duncan Gardner]

Aye they're 9 points behind the big time.

Albeit with 2 games in hand.

Oranje bastards.

[steviecowden]

I wasn't expecting it this week.

the next issue release date's always posted a couple of pages from the back just after the letters

[denishurley]

Are the book reviews back?

[Mumpo]

I assume that Mumpo has doctored it

I thought Salah's newly-espoused philosophy on the opportunity to redeem oneself was apposite given his lack of any impact in the 2018 CL final.

One has to take mumpo's fanatical anti-Liverpoolness into account

I know I'm hardly the one to come to for unbiased comment on LFC-related matters but come on, it's beyond hilarious that after the monumental effort their PR people must have gone to to get him in the Time magazine hot 100 with those quotes about gender equality, he ruins it all with a casual Tweet.


Anyway, I see the Writers' Competition winner is in this month's edition, and very good it is too. Has it really been seven years since we lost The Exploding Vole? Unreal.

Fuck it, since it's hardly likely to see print anywhere, here's my failed entry from last year. Apologies for the formatting (and the quality of the writing)


Danger CXB

Tuesday night football has become something of an institution. I don't mean the overflow from Wednesday's European matches now the Champions League has become a bloated monster, or league games that have been shifted at the whim of a broadcaster, or even fixtures in second-rate knockout tournaments; no, around here 'Tuesday Night Football' means only one thing - a lively kick-around with a group of friends, and friends of friends, on an all-weather pitch at a nearby college. It's been running for over twenty years, and despite the growing fragility of some of its founding participants there are periodic influxes of younger players, meaning games are still played at a challenging pace. And there's none of that fancy 4G stuff - it's a hockey pitch, so the playing surface is like a giant scouring pad. Anyone not staying on their feet is liable to require skin grafts.

In all it's a full-on, satisfyingly frenetic hour's football. And it would be just perfect - if it wasn't for the presence of my CXB.

CXB? Wait, don't go looking on UrbanDictionary, you won't find it there. The 'B' stands for 'boss' - the person who, at a Tuesday Night Football session a few years ago, recruited me to work at his design agency after I'd mentioned in passing that I was a fellow web designer. The 'X' stands for 'ex', because six years later he made me redundant.

And the 'C'? I'll let you read on and work that out for yourself...


It was at the arse-end of the glorious Olympic summer of 2012 that I got the push. I'd had a week's annual leave and on my first day back I was summoned to the boardroom where I was informed, with all the sensitivity of Lord Sugar dispatching a bewildered apprentice, that my services were no longer required. In one respect it was a complete shock because the company had been going through something of a boom, taking on several extra employees. On the other hand there was a grim inevitability about the announcement. It was an enterprise run by a coterie of boorish directors who seemed to value above anything else an ability to engage in prolonged and tiresome banter about the progress of Big Red (and honorary Big Red) football clubs. That, and poker. Those employees happy to restrict their topics of conversation to nothing but BRCs and all-night poker sessions could look forward to a bright future. For the others, like me, the office could be a far from inclusive environment. Even so, there hadn't seemed the remotest possibility that the process of freezing me out would actually extend to giving me the elbow.

It wasn't the first time in my life I'd been made redundant. On previous occasions however I'd been with businesses that slumped gradually into terminal decline, so along with the other affected employees I'd at least had a chance to make plans. This was different. The process had been abrupt, and since the company had eschewed common practices such as staff training and progress reviews I was back in the employment market with a big skills deficit. And to compound matters there was the small question of my aforementioned CXB, who remained a Tuesday Night Football regular. Put yourself in his place - you'd think perhaps that having dismissed one of your workers, you might be circumspect enough to not turn up at social situations where you knew they would be present? Common courtesy, of course. But in his case, not a bit of it.

At first it was merely awkward. We played on opposing teams and didn't exchange words. Having been shat on from a great height, one doesn't try to strike up a conversation with the pigeon. For a couple of weeks it looked like everything might be working out, until one night the essentially random Tuesday Night Football team selection process put us on the same side, whereupon the absurdity of the situation became immediately evident. Was I supposed to play alongside this guy as if nothing had happened, like we were still colleagues? Were we expected to forge a Toshack and Keegan-esque strike partnership? Meld into a slick midfield unit? High-five, roughhouse, trade zingers?

As we kicked off I settled into my usual brisk short-passing game but even when opportunities presented themselves I couldn't bring myself to knock the ball to him. After a few minutes of this the penny dropped and he began to protest, bawling obscenities at me across the pitch with uncouth fury. The insults grew increasingly aggressive and before long he'd become positively demented. I was determined not to take the bait and so refused to react but eventually his tantrum made it impossible for the game to continue. Genuinely worried at this point that I might be on the end of some Roy Keane style retribution I immediately went home, avoiding the possibility of confrontation. Looking back I suspect I should I have stayed, held my ground - it's unlikely the clash would have amounted to more than an unseemly slanging match. Or was it the more dignified option to cut and run?


Domestically, things had started going downhill. Several years of being effectively deskilled meant I wasn't going to walk straight into another web development job. My redundancy pay dwindled and the strain began to take effect on my family. In an attempt to stave off encroaching symptoms of depression and anxiety I began to see a therapist, with whom I formulated a number of coping mechanisms. At first I took a break from TNF altogether, thinking that over time, these symptoms would dissipate - but that smacked too much of defeatism. I wasn't going to let the presence of my CXB, however poisonous, stop me doing something I'd enjoyed for so long.

Eventually I returned and decided I'd simply blank him entirely, avoiding him as one might skirt a lump of canine ordure. Unfortunately on the pitch this proved an impractical strategy, mainly because everyone else involved in the game quickly became frustrated with me scurrying away every time he came near. Turns out it doesn't go down well with your teammates if you desert your position in a defensive line just because you've got a grudge against an oncoming striker. Besides, my aim wasn't to run, to retreat from the problem. Was that the kind of craven spinelessness which had forged the reputation of the world's most respected defenders - the Maldinis, the Puyols, the Maguires? I needed to be there on my own terms and letting him dictate how I behaved wasn't going to help.

So I bit the bullet and resolved to play against him like I would anyone else on the pitch - marking him, tackling him when I had to - even though going anywhere near him made me faintly nauseous. I had to dig deep to find the courage but the first time we faced off I stole the ball from his feet and knew I'd done the right thing. My self-confidence returned and even better, my newfound determination not to be intimidated really seemed to get his back up. In a bizarre reversal of roles he suddenly became the one to resent my presence. It was as if he was genuinely aggrieved that I still bore a grudge against him and consequently saw himself as the victim. Looking back, I think he assumed that being put out of a job was something I'd get over, in time - that the resentment would gradually evaporate. Now it was almost as if he was affronted that I hadn't dropped the matter. Still, people management skills were never his strong suit.

It was at this point that observing his on-pitch behaviour became an entertaining diversion. Never the most restrained or articulate individual, he displayed his animosity at every opportunity. If I was clattered by an opponent, he'd bellow his approval. If I scored he'd redouble his efforts to find the net himself, as he would if I was having a spell between the sticks. I'm almost ashamed to admit but it was good to know I was getting under his skin, that I was finally getting the upper hand.


And that's pretty much how things stand today. It's taken time but I'm back on the career track (turns out class really is permanent) working somewhere that's more high life than pond life. My CXB still hauls himself along to TNF, Big Red banter trailing in his wake, as welcome as Steven Gerrard at a Confirmation. Most footballers might count themselves unlucky to come up against an inept ex-manager a couple of times a season but I get the dubious pleasure almost every week. Not that it matters - he's nothing more than a sour reminder of past adversity now, a ghost at the Tuesday Night Football feast. I still haven't spoken to him. There literally are no words.

Besides, given all that's happened, what would I say?

See you next Tuesday.

[Ray de Galles]

Lovely story on Chertsey's Town's recent Vase triumph at Wembley reproduced on the site.

[Capybara]

I used to work 2-3 days a week in Chertsey and could see the ground from my office window, though it was nearly a 15-minute walk to gain entry to the ground, which I did only once. In the time I was there from the mid-noughties for about ten years, Chertsey Town were unremittingly crap. When I went there they were in the strange little Isthmian League Division Two which sat below the regional divisions and competed for promotion spots with the likes of the Kent and Essex leagues, not that Chertsey were ever competing for one of those spots. They shared the league with the likes of Egham, Croydon and Dorking. Spencer Day was the bloke who went on Wogan in the early 90s as a teenager saying he was going to save Aldershot. After a spell in prison, he emerged with a new identity and took over at Cherstey. It's a shame we can't still add comments to articles on the WSC site. That's what brought me to OTF in the first place.

[Gangster Octopus]

Nice story Mumpo.

[Mumpo]

Ta.

[Cal Alamein]

Great story Mumpo - I am glad you shared it.

[Capybara]

Agreed.

[Patrick Thistle]

Agreed. Good article Mumpo.

[Guy Profumo]

What was with the letter from the Darlo fan kvetching we hadn't received enough column inches compared to, say, Hereford?

Ye gods.

Priorities man.

Priorities.

[gjt]

Isn't there a glaring mistake in the Netherlands Nations League article? If I remember correctly, it was Wouters who elbowed Gascoigne (at Wembley, not in Rotterdam) and got away with it, whereas "gouden pik" himself (Koeman) committed a professional foul on Platt before scoring his freekick in Rotterdam.

[tracteurgarcon]

Isn't there a glaring mistake in the Netherlands Nations League article? If I remember correctly, it was Wouters who elbowed Gascoigne (at Wembley, not in Rotterdam) and got away with it, whereas "gouden pik" himself (Koeman) committed a professional foul on Platt before scoring his freekick in Rotterdam.

I thought this too. Koeman should've been sent off for the foul on Platt, which also should/could have been a penalty.