BEFC 2 - 1 Deutsche Bank all-stars

Singing "Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid-day, out in the mid-day, out in the mid-day sun".

As we made our way to the infamous dust bowl of Oifuto, remarkably all together and on time, we drove past several tabloid hacks, all wilting by the road-side, with barely enough strength to whisper into their mobile phones: "Headline: Phew, what a Scorcher!".

And so it was that the stout yeomen of England (plus a few lesser nations such as the Scots and Welsh), stood up once again, to face the common foe of the Germans. And the South Americans, and the Irish as it turned out. For the Germans had eight players, so Van as match referee (groans all round), rang his friends (first surprise of the day), and pulled in a few ringers to bolster the opposition in order to give the unstoppable powerhouse that is the BEFC team an attempt at a run for their money.

What could have been a league game was turned into a friendly, due to the lack of opposing players. This gave the Embassy the chance to create havoc (mostly in their own ranks) with a rolling programme of substitutions, at regular intervals, not necessarily to rest our players, but more to allow them all to get a decent time on the pitch, and ensure that everyone was knackered half-way through.

The first excuse of the day to be used by BEFC was that the ringers on the Deutsche Bank team had significantly improved their side. Although nobody was entirely sure who the ringers were, but they were undoubtedly better, and we stuck to that theory come what may. The second popular excuse was that the Embassy, as a unit, was not match fit, having had a long lay off from competitive football. And of course, excuse number three was that it was hot out, although it could be argued that the opposition were able to claim a similar excuse, but bizarrely, without substitutions, they still ran around the park more than the Embassy.

This does not explain the strange fact that BEFC won this game. However, it can be said that we did some things well, including relying on a huge amount of luck (always a good option - much more useful than skill, and infinitely preferable to effort), to which the Bank could not reply.

The Bank had a few good efforts, one stopped three times by an inspired Crowley in goal, who spread himself wherever the ball went. For the Embassy, there was space available, noticeably down the wings when Collier and Bystedt came back for the ball. However, both realised at half-time that they were doing all the running, which was something everybody else knew as well, but weren't going to mention in case they were asked to do it.

The first BEFC goal came from Lynch, sent through down the middle, and tucked away quite nicely, thank you very much, vicar. The reply from the Bank came from a fairly obvious type of shot. In order to beat Crowley (or indeed, The Cat), choose one of the following options: a lob, a lob, or to be a little adventurous, a lob. And in it went.

The Bank hit the woodwork more often then this correspondent could possibly count (three times in fact). But at no point were they actually over-powering. Our mid-field held quite well, with only the usual mutter from others of "get back, come on" regardless of whether they were running back or not. The Embassy defence was sound, if unspectacular; distribution was not too bad at all. Again the predictable cry of "use the short-ball, don't waste it" came up on occasion, sometimes in response to a decent forward ball that had cut out the middle-men (hence the anguished rebuke from the mid-fielders who hate to be ignored). The forwards picked up the ball well, did not get out of position too often, and had some hard runs up field. Anchoring at the back, the 'keeper had another good day, showing good judgement on what to leave (wide balls, high balls, any form of lob etc.), but still, the Embassy was a little flat, compared to the usual displays put on when we give Johnny Foreigner a damned-good 6-1 drubbing in a league game.

The winning goal came from the most unusual source of Jones, getting forward and slotting it away smoothly, like an Argentinian striker in Italy, or a mid-town pimp in Chicago.

The most notable quotes on the day came from the two scorers, but in vastly different circumstances. Lynch was clean through, having beaten his man, who then took a clumsy swipe at the knee as Lynch was passing. Potentially dangerous, but luckily no damage this time. The situation was explained to unknowing bystanders (such as the referee) in quite a succinct fashion when Lynch turned to the defender and said (quote) And you are a dirty bastard! (unquote). The referee and Lynch then spent two minutes discussing this usage of the term, whilst everyone else got on with the game.

Not to be outdone when it comes to wide-eyed innocence was Jones. A long ball into the chest of the forward, back to goal and to Jones. Forward seen sprawling on ground, two large hands prints clearly visible in small of back. Whistle blows. Jones throws hands in air, puts on aggrieved "What, ME?" expression and proclaims loudly, (quote) But I got the ball (unquote). Stunned silence from players, slight giggles from sideline. One brave (but ultimately foolish) Bank player makes comment to Jones. Reply is (quote) You're next (unquote), which would have blown Jones' defence in court had he had one.

At the end of the day everyone went away, tired but happy. Except perhaps the Bank all-stars, but as they were Germans, Irish and South Americans, nobody rightly gave a toss about them.

Team: Crowley, Thornington, Cooper, Flett, Flynn, Jones, Spivey, Bacon, Collier, Sendo, Bystedt, Williams, Watts, Lynch.

MotM: Tim Williams