“No, Owen, you’re not supposed to touch the ball with your hand.”
And would you look at that? All of a sudden, from the depths of score draw ‘mediocrity‘ spawns the notion that Wigan Athletic could just about scrape their way to one hundred poi- er, a respectable League One position once the cat scratching has ceased for another comfortably anonymous season.
Lo! No longer do Latics resemble freelance jesters frolicking in the court of Mad Count Coyle; no longer is Captain Cald piloting a soggy custard copter to the spongy bogs of Robin Park marsh. And yes, both of these analogies have been made on the comic book pages of WAFC fandom. Mainly because *I* wrote them here just now.
Consecutive draws are enough to keep the ogres from your extended personal space for a week or three, but as the articulate chap at the Fan Sites Forum so tactfully mentioned, those solitary points won’t add up to much more than the price of a packet of noodles. Without the odd chunk of juicy 3-point chicken, you run the risk of your ramen tasting like semi-artificial turf mixed with fully artificial sand, even with half a bottle of (Richard?) Branston ketchup.
But on those decidedly meaty terms, Peterborough-Wigan was a complimentary three-course steak dinner with extra crunchy pie crust… three times a day. I dunno what that makes the Colesla- er, Colchester buffet, but I think I’d better visit the fridge or I’ll end up eating this article before it’s finished. Note to aspiring bloggers: never write on an empty stomach!
Speaking of ogres pushing proxemics to their halitosic breaking point, the Posh must believe Janic Wildschut to be the spawn of Shrek himself. Certainly, not one defender dared breach (breech? No, definitely breach) the tangible ‘ring of fire’ surrounding Latics’ seemingly unstoppable support striker, at least in the first half.
When ball met Dutch boot in the centre circle, Peterborough were caught searching for the troll hammer and Yanic the Fan-tannic whipped through five men to punch home for ultimate victory. Er, by which I mean he granted his side a rare and treasured away lead.
(Man, *another* fluffed sentence? Looks like I’ll have to start theeking before I spink.)
Look, I certainly am not saying Wildschut is ugly or anything like that. It’s just a figure of speech, see?
By the time the hosts had retrieved a weapon strong enough to contain Panic Yanic, their opponents had already purloined one more shiny gold nugget from the warchest marked ‘Posh’. Which, in an ironic twist, was actually one of those translucent tubs you get from the chip shop on a Saturday night.
(Come on, surely I’m not the only one that keeps my spare coppers in them!)
It might not have been as clean as either of his goals on Saturday… in fact it was blatantly snatched from the very heels of a sobbing Reece James. But Will Grigg’s 14th minute half-accidental ‘effort’ was just enough to coax one of the officials into awarding a goal in his favour, and the 2-0 half time lead was established within fifteen minutes.
Lost it to Bostwick, yeah
In fact that 2-0 margin would last until just after the hour mark when, following over half a dozen failed attempts, the home side finally cracked Jussi’s icy Icelandic (yeah, I know he’s from Finland really) fingers. Erhun Oztumer wheeled away having worn down the apparently impenetrable barricade of tip-tap one-twos and Christopher Park keepball mini-matches. A solitary goal (for now), but a significant moral and material victory.
I wouldn’t celebrate *just* yet, guys – that’s not how you spell ‘Bostwick’! (c)Bostik
The game had shifted seismically, and Wildschut’s 76th minute substitution was evidence of this. By this point, it had been so long since the Latics attackers (Lattackers?) had seen the ball that they would have struggled to identify it in a police identity parade.
And soon, their lead had melted to salty, lukewarm October rain. Souleymane Coulibaly jinked in for a hard-worked equaliser… only to see it voided immediately when sub Craig Davies (heeey, he’s back!) rolled through Max Power for another ‘leaf blower up the kilt’ worthy winning goal. I’m no Carol Vorderman, but I make that two goals in one action packed, full fat minute of frenzied football.
Take it away, Mr Shrek narrator man!
The victors celebrated as well they might
For they would be spared the cardboard noodles this night.
Three to two remained the score;
From ogre and troll they were safe once more.
And they all lived happily ever after. Except Jääskeläinen, who spent three hours searching for his detached fingers.