When parachute journalism goes wrong.
Hi, sporks fans! I’m ZZZ-list celebrity Alf Hart, and you’re watching Guys’ Sporks News. They’ve parachuted me in at the last minute because their regular monotone ‘expert’ clearly ain’t photogenic enough in this super HD televisual age. In other words, he’s an ugly goit.
…So, er, what’s this report about again? Fuzzball, you say? Ah, yes – the division of labour. Societal hierarchies based on whose ancestors had the sharper stick. Dave Whelan’s billions versus everyone else’s floor scrapings. Players driving solid gold Ford Orions. It’s all ’bout the dum dum diddy dum dum.
There, done! This report is now over, so you can all go back to watching Stars on Sunday on Saturday. Hey, Bill the cameraman, fancy a MankDonnell’s…?
JWAW: Well, at least he’s succinct. Expensive, though.
Hey, this is supposed to be Sporks News.
Oh yeah! Well, I am told the sporks of Shrewsbury’s New (Greenhous) Meadow are suitably serrated, but not so much that you might inadvertently cut your lip while slurping the Shropshire rendition of pea wet.
Thankfully, the football from Latics and the Shrews was much sharper… well, for the most part. A decidedly blunt piece of defending from Reece Wabara awarded Sulley Kaikai the game’s opener, a soggy gravy-soiled, grimace-inducing cheesy chip of a goal. But nothing the mighty Shropshire spork can’t handle!
The hosts’ ‘shock’ lead mightn’t have been representative of the first half as a whole, but did serve as a reminder that true invincibility does not exist outside of Super Mario Bros. The defender’s leg swing was woefully mistimed; as Jussi J stumbled backwards and eventually planted buttock bone on pristine British springtime turf, matters must have suddenly appeared very real indeed.
However, redemption was close at hand. For returning support striker Conor McAleny to finish the half without scoring would be a miniature post-Easter miracle… or the result of wearing one’s underpants inside out. It’s bad luck, or something.
Sure enough, the Shrews’ lead melted in the blistering glow of McAleny’s fourth attempt of the afternoon. *This* one was expertly controlled by his perfectly groomed accuracy-enhancing chest hairs. *This* volley came to rest beyond Mark Halstead’s flying limbs. *This* one was the equaliser for Latics.
It’s goodnight from him
In truth, Conor Mac was forming one half of a music hall-style entertainment act with Yanic Wildschut. Together, the two were challenging any unfortunate isolated defenders in equal measure, and the latter was also to collect his reward.
With McAleny free in open country, a gaping goalmouth beckoned. Skipping past the odd tree trunk, he guided the ball into another – namely the thwarting upright. But a lurking Yanic was the Corbett to his Barker, following up for a good night from him with a satisfying finish. 2-1 Latics.
But the show hadn’t yet ended – far from it.
Cap’n Craig Morgan, injured in training this week, had unfortunately been ruled out prior to the game. And when the hamstrung Wabara hobbled off on 51 minutes, Latics were fast running out of defenders to head home corners. But it’s inadvisable to forget about about Jason Pearce, who was poised to do just that – nod home a Max Power corner, that is.
3-1. Game over yet?
Not quite – there was still the small matter of ref Ross Joyce’s obligatory red card.
Texas-born Zak Whitbread ain’t *really* from the Wild West – what do you think this is, some sort of stereotypical movie universe? He didn’t *really* pop Willsmith Grigg with his Smith and Wesson… but he did impede the Wigan striker just enough for that there ref to mosey on over and award a penalty. Aaaand that merciless quick draw red card, of course.
Game over now? Well, yeah – Griggsy gleefully accepted his voucher for one free penalty goal.
Jussi clenched both fists as watery sun bathed New Meadow in a warm April haze, the stuff of pure nostalgia. His bottom injury long since forgotten, he couldn’t help but echo his supporters’ boasts of Football League progression.
At the very last, there was one more for the flying Will-eye-am Grigg. His 22nd of… who knows how many he’ll score before 8 May has expired. The avaricious look in his eye betrayed the fact he had been promised a MankDonnell’s Fatty Meal by his good mate Alf Hart.
…Who was actually Sharpy all along. Haw haw, a belated April Fool, guys!
