A home defeat to the Scum has become one of those cliché moments to denote the passing of another season. It ranks alongside such other, expected, painfully obvious clichés as: -
- Footage on the television news of pretty blonde girls hugging and jumping up and down after getting 27 ‘A+ Grades in examinations most domestic pets could pass.
- A live video link to Scotland as the New Year dawns because, for some unspecified reason, New Year isn’t New Year unless fat men in skirts say so.
- A Pakistani cricket team caught cheating.
- Any television news story about anything to do with Australia must show the bloody Sydney Opera House and Bridge at least twice.
There really is no point even getting angry about losing at home to the Direones anymore. What would be the point? What can we do about it? Correspondingly, the pain of losing seems less each time, as though we are becoming desensitised over the years of constant disappointment.
Remember those first few enormous beatings we took at the (webbed) hands of the Scum? They were so overwhelming that most of us went through all the possible permeations of pain and shock over 90 minutes only to come out the other side as giggling wrecks.
Then there was the defeat to everyone’s favourite arse-bandit-Ork, Duane F*ck-Pig Darby, where, even though we had a player advantage for most of the game the sister-fiddling freaks still tanned our hides. That hurt too. But the pain was less because we could see that as Clubs, we were heading in very different directions. They were about to play league games against former top-flight clubs, whilst we were going to be plying our trade against the cream of Essex’s senior leagues.
Last year’s home gumping could be explained away because they were gunning for the play-offs whilst we were treading water after the Chairman had cut funding to such a degree that we were forced to employ the services of “players” of the calibre of Elliott Charles and Champ the Lion.
This year’s loss to a ridiculous own goal, where the Scum barely troubled us for 90 minutes, was accepted with barely a shrug. Home losses to the Inbreds have become so expected that it was difficult to summon up the effort to even be outraged by losing to a team lacking in any sort of quality.
And I’m still not entirely convinced that if Abbey had scooped the ball from the back of his net and took a quick goal kick, that we wouldn’t have gotten away with the own goal!