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Without A Shadow Of A Doubt | Mark McLaughlan

1 Feb

I want to tell you something important. Something you need to know. You can actually forget about the other “writers” “writing” their fancy “words” with “punctuation” and proper “grammar” on frankly irrelevant topics such as politics, religion and social issues within this blog. Within mine own words, you will find a wonderment and a meaning in something you previously didn’t think was possible. In fact, you wouldn’t have even thought about thinking about the meaning of this something which I’m thinking – or thought since it is in the past that that thinking, er, thought once … is?, WAS! – until you read these words (well not these words, but the words after these. Not these three though.. four…… fuck….seven even… nine!!).

This…. This is the fucking game changer, my friend, let me tell you!

You’re gonna wish you had never read this, it’s that important!!

Aye. So.

Fives, 5’s, the soccer, the voetball (don’t know how to do that mad wee thing above the ‘e’ (or is it the ‘o’)(it’s like a wee horizontal colon (:)), the beautiful game, THE SOTCHER!! This is the weekly meeting of ten able warriors from all walks of life that are ready to do battle for sixty-ish minutes in an arena where the conditions range from Arctic freezing cold to a stifling vacuum where breathable air seemingly diminishes at an alarming rate.

This is not for the weak of mind or of spirit. This is ten sweaty men and one football that is basically a large tennis ball.

We come not to play or to have fun. We come to win. Scratch that, we come to win and rub our mates noses in it and to feel, once the last ball has been kicked, that one moment of euphoria that even popping a couple of tenner eccies in the morning at T In The Park in 2005 can only only dream of emulating. That’s what we do. That’s all we do.

For sixty minutes we believe we are professional footballers playing in the most important game of their career in front of the big scout from the big club. We gesticulate and we sulk, we lose the plot and we showboat. Some of us even like to accidentally-on-purpose insist the score-line is different from what it actually is. I’m not naming any names, certainly not the names of any other fellow bloggers on this site. In essence, as fish will swim in the sea we are footballers who will play football.

This is Fight Club made real.

We are students, teachers, the unemployed, people who work in banks and do a brilliant job for little money and get hardly any praise but never moan or grumble, shop workers and bar people… probably. ANYONE can play. We are all called in by the hypnotic siren song of the fives. We are the born into slavery gladiators who take stage within the Colosseum that is the Eastwood High games hall where the ball is our sword, our mace, our spiky thing whilst Esther, the sweet little old money lady person at the desk with a cheery smile and a wee cheeky glint in her eye, is the blood thirsty despot Emperor who has our fate in her hands – this fate is so cruelly inevitable though. The thumb always goes down (on the PA system button at 8 o’clock sharp).

Well this is what I think anyway. Could be  just a priceless hour away from the ol’ ball ‘n’ chain for others I suppose. Go and ask them, not me. Sake.

Twitter : @MarkMcLaughlan

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