TEAM:

Kris ‘No Clean Sheets Ever’ Mercelis;

Jean ‘Gonna Score More than Tommy’ Minne, Nils ‘Drive a BMW and fly drones but turn up with a bin bag instead of kit bag cos look how cool I am’ McGrath, James ‘Is it glove weather yet?’ Philpot;

Kevin ‘Concentrate from the Kickoff’ de Roeck, Andrew ‘Gonna get motm today’ Hodgson;

Steve ‘More tackles than passes’ Lamarra, Rich ‘Staying here forever’ McGeehan; Luka ‘Left my razor in a bar’ Novak;

Daniel ‘I don’t play this shit style of football’ Donner, Tommy ‘Der Anti-Bomber’ Kellerman

GAMECHANGERS: Didi ‘Shameless’ Lebbink; Shin ‘Still got my ankle bracelet’ Takeda, Maarten ‘Not lost it yet’ Billiet

RBB on a roll, against youthful and exuberant Coin du Balai. Interestingly, the reporter is reliably informed Coin du Balai are named after the corner where brooms are kept – a silly name, and as I dislike them from now on they shall be referred to as ‘Porte-parapluie’ – umbrella stand: an orifice where phallic shaped objects are inserted. Symbolic for how the game should turn out.

Preparation for Saturday starts on Monday. I wasn’t at training, so preparation begins on Wednesday. Training is a friendly against the high flying 3rd team. They play well, we play badly. The 1st team may have scored more, but the moral victory is certainly with the 3rds – they outran us, out fought us and outrageously nutmegged us (me) with some Kakaesque scoop turn shit. In return, we did not a lot. Hopefully not a foreshadowing for La ‘Porte-parapluie’.

Good news (for some) arrives on Thursday – the 2nd team are also playing at the ground, with the same kickoff time. Captain Rich, keen alcoholic that he is, is quick to suggest a ‘MegaMOM’ – the poor sod that did his best to help his team win the game gets the pleasure of buying a round for both teams. Lucky chap (worse is to come).

After discussions Tommy and I decide not to cycle – good decision by him as I was going to insist he bring his famed ‘villocafe’ to my living room first – my bike needs a good clean. Instead, we join Nils at Flagey. Tommy is late, and, not only does he not apologise, he demands a banana and a coffee to be waiting for him. Mindful of Nils rules regarding hot beverages and his upholstery (and yet, bin bag?) I suggest that perhaps we wait until the ground. Tommy insults me in Bavarian, and so cappucinos all round. Except for Nils. No banana for him either.

We arrive at La ‘Porte-parapluie’ ground through some sort of weird architectural time warp: Stalin-grey cottages combined with Kennedy-era mailboxes in the front garden. No sign of life anywhere. We wander towards to ground with a feeling of distopian horror: some awful parallel universe where all colours have been sucked out of the world. Fortunately, we find salvation amongst the grayscale nightmare – Didi’s trousers. Bright red, a beacon in this concrete jungle in which we find ourselves. We admire your courage Didi.

Into the changing room, Rich runs through the team. We have to focus, get ourselves on top and then we can make the game easy. If we let them have a sniff, we could be in trouble. Jon adds more areas of focus, of which I can only remember purpose and I know that was Wednesday’s keyword but it stuck with me.

Down to the pitch, I’ve been taken off warm up duties after only 3 days in the job. Steve does an admirable job as replacement. The referee decides that saying English surnames is too tricky, (Philpot, not Philipot, Philpot) so he will just say numbers and we shout our own name. Lazy bugger, but this laziness would work in our favour later.

Onto the game. Things are going quite well – we seem to be controlling the ball quite well, I’m kicking it with purpose (keep it on the pitch!), Porte-parapluie can’t do anything beyond long balls that we are well prepared for. RBB’s dominance is rewarded with a goal, which may or may not be in contention for worst goal of the season. RBB counter quickly and win a corner. Tommy is loitering in the 6 yard box (he never actually left it) and calls for a quick corner. Rich scuffs it to the front post, Tommy swings and misses and it hits the defender standing behind him and goes in. Shit goal. Rich will tell you that the ball was intentional and Tommy will say that he dodged the ball, not missed it, but don’t listen. Shit goal. Still, they all count.

One-nil up and RBB are looking comfortable. For all of 5 minutes. A Porte-parapluie attack leads to a great challenge by me, and the ball goes out for a corner. The referee however gives a goal kick, but, through a misplaced sense of sportsmanship, and a desire for acknowledgement of such a great tackle, I tell him it was a corner. This noble gesture is not returned by the karmic being of the universe, the slippery bastard, as the resulting corner leaves defensive talisman McGrath in a heap on the floor. Unable to continue, the team undergoes a reshuffling to 4-4-2. De Roeck at LB, Hodgson at RB, Billiet on the right and Luka using his pace on the left.

The change of shape confuses certain members of the team who are less tactically malleable – what were once nice angled passes and triangles are now all straight lines, but nonetheless we had a great chance to double the lead and put the game to bed. Luka picks out Billiet charging towards goal with a great ball, and Billiet looks like he is gonna score a wonder goal. First touch on the chest whilst smashing the left back into touch, nods it away from the CB with his second touch, smashes the other CB to the floor and then as he lines up the shot shows all the composure of a charging rhinoceros and blasts the ball over the bar from 12 yards out. The first part was all Diego Costa. The second part was all Olivier Giroud. That’s why Arsenal will never win the title.

As the half continues, Porte-parapluie grow into the game. They aren’t playing an overly complex game – number 21 advances the ball to the half way line, they play some passes sideways then he launches the ball up for number 23 to win a header, but they are growing in confidence. A series of corners before half time gives them an opportunity to mount pressure. RBB hold out as best they can, but eventually a loose ball is not cleared properly, and a smart shimmy and then ping into the top corner puts them level.

RBB go into to half time with the wind taken out of our sails. But are we down? Are we gonna give up? Are we gonna throw away a lead? Is the title too big for us? Are we gonna sit there crying? Of course not, we aren’t Tottenham. We have balls (and that’s why Spurs will never win the league). The team talk is tense. We aren’t playing well, we aren’t controlling the game, we are in a fight and sometimes its not the beautiful game, sometimes it’s a test of will and a chance for men to stand up and say we aren’t fucking losing to this bunch of fannies. Still, Daniel tells us that unless we pick up our game and stop only giving him the ball when he has 3 man to fight to get it to he’s going back to Finland where they know how to play proper football.

We go back out for the second half. I’m pretty sure that one of the last messages before kickoff was ‘concentrate’. They kickoff, knock a long ball behind Kev who forgets how to turn properly, slips and then they are in. Across comes Minne with a flying kick to the knee, nowhere near the ball, almost a red card but the ref is lazy, still a lot of danger from a free kick on the edge of the box. Kris lines up the wall, but he didn’t have bothered. Philpot sticks his big head in the way and it deflects over. The second half develops a pattern similar to the first: Porte-Parapluie playing passes in the centre circle, or on the wing, but never near the box – instead they end up knocking it long, which through admirable defense and alert goal keeping, fails to result in any chances. RBB try to exploit the space in behind, particularly with their goalkeeper believing himself to be ABSSA’s very own Manuel Neur. He isn’t, a ball over the top leaves him in no-mans land when Donner scores with an excellent lob from what must have been 40 yards. Terrific goal. Donner nearly has a second from a great cross by De Roeck, the ball trickling centimetres past the post.

With a lead to protect RBB are getting steadily pushed back, still trying to hit Porte-parapluie on the break instead of controlling the ball, yet we are relatively untroubled. After Mercelis valiantly knocks a goalkick out of play to allow a Porte-parapluie player to receive treatment, they return the ball by knocking it out for a throw in 15 yards from our goal. The scum. Take your parapluies and shove them up your portes.

With just a few minutes to go, RBB might just hold out. The suddenly – a long freekick is flicked on into the box, the striker runs through, a blur comes from the RBB goal on a direct collision course– the striker does his best Kellerman impression and RBB hearts are in mouths – has Thom given away his second penalty in recent weeks? Fortunately, if you remember, the referee is a lazy bugger and so waves play on. The patented Kellerman diving technique clearly needs work.

Final score is 1-2 to the good guys – not a pretty game, but a battle. MegaMoM begins, and to make the round even worse, someone decides that everyone deserves Leffe. 15 Leffe and 15 Jupiler then. The barman thanks you. My wallet does not. Without the financial comraderie of Composil and the European Commission I would still be washing dishes there.

Half way through the season, top of the league but a long way to go. Onto next week where I will be ordering a burger, a Duvel and someone dodgy farmhouse eggs from the poor sod who wins MoM.

MOM & Reporter on the spot: James Philpot