“Fulham v Wigan? Well, you may as well go and paint the pantry, alphabetise your BBC Micro type-in games collection or ride your ostrich to Maastricht because that’s a certain draw right there.”
But what if it wasn’t? What if certain individuals contrived to defy convention and each of this land’s ancient laws to manufacture three points for either side?
Why, that would be treason! But wouldn’t it be fun…?
Note: Much of the rest of this article takes place inside your small time Internet weblogger’s (moist) daydream. Hence, factuality of contents cannot be guaranteed. But then that is usually the case on AGL, so I probably didn’t need to tell you.
A Ream within a Ream
As with most daydreams, events began with a rough basis in grim, grim reality. For Latics, this entailed much haranguing of those Fulham fiends who seemed so intent on rolling that hi-tech pig’s bladder among themselves. Against a thrice-reupholstered defensive suite, the Cottagers’ task was one of Garry Kasparov proportions.
But break through they eventually did, when Sone Aluko cut a smokin’ ball across for the worryingly unopposed Floyd Ayite. Just before the half hour mark, 1-0 Fulham.
Accusing eyes were cast at a scowling David Perkins, who trod back to his mark in uncharacteristically subdued fashion. Not that AGL would ever apportion blame, but… well, I suppose we just did, didn’t we? Sorry, Davey Pee – that was not our intention!
Omar Bogle immediately resolved to draw attention away from his sheepish team-mate, leaping on Tim Ream’s pen box beggar-up to fire a mildly misdirected strike into the side netting. Had he sensed Sam Morsy’s presence, he *might* have laid the ball off for him… but probably not, since he would rather have those goals for himself. And so he should.
Though he didn’t actually touch the ball, the Bogmaster can also great take credit for his side’s equaliser. Under massive pressure from Latics’ newest goalscoring superstar hero, Scott Malone poked goalwards – Fulham goalwards. A despairing David Button ground his teeth as the ball nestled comfortably in fluffy white (well, grey) onion sack.
One more…
Now, the small matter of that obligatory goal just before half time. Ordinarily it would go against Wigan Athletic, but you forgot one thing: this was a dream, and odd things were always likely to happen.
Taking control of their own dream with jubilation, the visitors conjured up a smart passing move initiated by… oh, David Perkins! His hangdog expression melted away when Mickey Jacobs popped up to steer Max Power’s cross past Button. Incredibly, 2-1 Latics was a reality… in this reality, anyway.
Real life or not, this is cool.
The half time break was evidently one Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em repeat too far for Jakob Haugaard, as new dude Matt Gilks appeared in his place for the restart. Consider this the brief waking moment when you glance at the clock and realise you have another 2 hours of sleep time.
But Latics knew they were back inside the dream when Bogle performed a precise 180 degree turn to fashion a 1-on-1 with Button. Although this shot was crashed right into the ‘keeper, none were too disheartened – on this ethereal plain, it would be simple enough to create more like this… wouldn’t it?
Oh, you’ve asked for it now.
For balance, the hosts consumed possession as an American truck driver devours triple eggs and bacon (in the films I’ve seen, at least). And soon enough, they would also munch heartily on the sweet syrupy pancake of an equaliser.
The free kick was laid off to Denis Odoi, who threaded an irretrievable effort through the thick forest of limbs populating Latics’ penalty box for 2-2. To complicate matters, it would appear that Fulham had infiltrated this particular fantasy, Freddy Krueger-style. The game of football was now a race to see who could stay in the dream longer.
With Wigan visibly flagging, the hosts seized complete control of this hallucination as stoppage time arrived. Latics awoke with a start just moments before Neeskens Kebano shot through the alarm clock haze, but knowing how dreams usually go, we can assume this chimerical attempt hit the net.
To make matters even worse, Warren Joyce looked down to discover he was wearing trousers nor shorts – in fact, he was completely naked save for a small splodge of mud covering his left kneecap.
Note: At this point, the author also awakes with a start.
Ugh… wha? Yeah, I conclude that none of this could possibly have been real – Fulham-Wigan games don’t end in anything but a draw. Give me a call when the game actually kicks off, will ya?
