Greetings… erm, small time weblog readers? Did I say that right?
I am Ed Q Hitter, otherwise known as the actual editor of this website. You thought it was the wannabe politician, or maybe that teletext guy? Nah, I’m the one running the show.
You’ll have to forgive my extreme rustiness – I haven’t written much in these last few months due to an unfortunate wrist injury. However, it is stated in my contract that I must generate a certain percentage of AGL’s articles, even at the expense of quality or my already-quite-poor reputation.
I trust you won’t post videos of me messing up to big time social networking websites. Imagine if something like that got 10,000 reblogs – it could end my floundering career right here, right now on these sandy fields of Robin Park!
So be a pal and please don’t make us a laughing stock, eh? Go on, I’ll give you Coyley’s leftover rations from the DW canteen: 1,000 litres of branded glucose drink.
I expect this would have lasted Columba just over two days.
We’ve been trying to offload that fizzy pop for a long time – it has already cost more than one player’s yearly wage to store safely. That player is Mr Nicholas ‘Midas’ Powell, and he more than paid for that salary in the space of eleven minutes yesterday.
First the ‘boring’ bits.
But this contest began in the usual cagey fashion, with both sides picking passes only to Uncle Joe’s advertising hoardings and the Invisible Woman. A highlight of the opening half hour was the Barnsley fans’ corking rendition of a certain Wilson Grigg-related song, which we hadn’t heard in blooming ages. Ahh, I wonder where St. Bilbo could be now?
Urged into action by an incredibly restless East Stand, Mickey Jacobs embarked on a few kamikaze sprints at the Tykes’ backline. But on each occasion, at least four defenders came to extract the ball from his person like a gang of roving unlicensed surgeons.
Just as the exodus for half time pies hit its staggering peak, Barnsley stopped everyone dead in their plimsolls with a breakaway goal of great haste. Kent sliced through countless indecisive defenders to crash a quickie against Jakob’s upright. Lucky, eh?
…Except not really, because Adam Armstrong (surprise surprise) was a nifty flick away from snaffling the rebound. You know, the sort of goal that typifies Wigan Athletic’s wretched season. No big deal, really.
The visitors’ second bore many similarities to Rovrum’s second on Saturday. Kent guided the ball across the North Stand goal, but Haugaard’s paper hands melted upon impact and Tykesmen celebrated heartily. Again, nowt so surprising.
Good old South Stand, ya did it
I’m very pleased to say there was a turning point, however: in utter desperation, the South Stand raised enough energy for their first chant of the 2016/17 season. It wouldn’t have an immediate impact, but in the medium term it was a sound investment. Oh, would a hat-trick be a decent return, do you think?
Shortly after the family stand’s X Factor audition followed the aforementioned Irn Bruster, substitute Nick Powell entering play with a Marks and Spencer toaster. In the proceeding 25 minutes, he would use this to place referee Simon Hooper upon so many slices of toasted bread with triple helpings of peanut butter.
It was that very substance –specifically Adam Davies’ addiction to it– which allowed Latics back on level terms within five minutes. You see, the Tykes keeper probably shouldn’t have let Powell’s moderately powerful free kick through his greasy butterfingers.
More than just the one butter finger, I should say.
…And he definitely should not have spilled Colclough’s long range strike, which Nicky P mopped up with a cheeky grin emblazoned across his dirty face. In the space of two minutes, Barnsley had relinquished total control with a couple of potential Haugaard moments.
Not that anyone outside of the North Stand was the slightest bit concerned, of course. ‘Bout time someone gifted *us* some goals, hmm?
Hooper’s Bizarre Comedy Revue
Then came the Powell-Hooper double act, which always followed this formula: Nick falls to ground in increasingly theatrical fashion, Simon obliges by awarding free kick.
And on one occasion, said farce actually led to a penalty. In truth, this was the only way Wigan Athletic were ever going to earn a spot kick at the DW this season. It’s somewhat ironic that this was the weakest shout of them all, as Angus MacDonald’s interference with Powell was minimal at best.
‘Bout time we had a penalty, hmm?
But a penalty it was, and Powell completed his hat-trick with great cheese. No assistance from ‘Haugaard specials’ required here, for that strike was only reachable with eight table tennis bats sticky taped together. 3-2 Latics.
‘Bout time we had a striker that can score, hmm?
From that moment onwards, all but one of the hosts’ frivolous appeals for free kicks were successful. Yep, even the ‘foul’ on Rusty Jakob, who was ‘tripped’ as he lunged to retrieve the ball… which ended up in his net. Well, that was unexpectedly fortunate.
‘Bout time we earned some borderline refereeing decisions, hmm?
Sharpy, can we spend that Yanic money on getting Simon Hooper to ref all our remaining games? G’warnn, it’ll be worth it for the comic relief… goodness knows it would be welcome.
Maybe, just maybe…