THE LIFE OF MAREK (A TRIBUTE TO TERRY JONES)

The Life of Marek (A Tribute to Terry Jones)

Born in a barn just outside the small town of Mysliwczow, Poland, in 1987 BB (Before Brexit), in a not so immaculate conception (it was the 80s, after all), little Marek Swirkowski came kicking and screaming and headbutting and slapping and swearing and Chinese burning into this world.

His mother was a hamster and his father smelled of elderberries and was an empty-headed animal trough wiper. In attendance was Mattew the goat, Mark the cow, Luke the llama and trusty family dog, John. Others there included Three Wise Men who had travelled from far away to make absolutely sure that they weren’t the father.

Travelling to far places is something we have to do on a regular basis away from home, and Bexley is no exception. Bexley is quite a charming little village but it is filled with absolute tw*ts. Unlike the Three Wise Men, we weren’t led there by a star but in most cases, by the bottle. For some of our contingent, even home games are a bit of a trek. For those living in North London, and deciding to play for a club in SW London, it doesn’t sound very wise at all. They may as well get themselves a semi by the sea, like in that f*cking awful James Blunt song.

We even had a spectator come all the way to see us, in the form of our very own Black Knight Andy Ward of Hackbridge, after his cut the other week. It’s a shame he’s such a coward as it was but a scratch. I mean, what was he going to do? Bleed on someone?

The referee was over 10 mins late and you’d think he worked at The Ministry of Silly Walks, as he shuffled across from yonder, and even went backwards at one point. Saying he was prosaic, would be an insult to those who lack imagination such as Mills of Newport. He even allowed substitutes when the ball was firmly in Vinny of Palermo’s hands.

To say Marek of Mysliwczow is a team player, would be a total overestimation. He’s individual. Indeed, we are all individuals. Sometimes you’d hope that he passes in your general direction, but there are those times when we just have to ‘welease Mawek’, and after a long throw-in from Remmer of Seaham, Marek of Mysliwczow smashed the ball in at the back post. And Borough’s own Mr Creosote was just a wafer thin mint away from getting on the scoresheet himself, as he shaved the post after some good work from Black of Middlesbrough.

Olsson of Halmstad added the second early in the second half with a smart finish from Black of Middlesbrough’s pass after some clumsy defending from St. Mary's. Nuno of Figueira da Foz was covering more blades of grass in this game alone as he had in the previous 8 games, and no one expects the Portuguese Inquisition, as his pass found Marek of Mysliwczow in the centre circle. After a mazy run, consisting of approximately 73 touches, he got his second Goal-gotha with shot from 20 or so yards, that flew into the top corner like a Holy Hand Grenade.

Old St. Mary's created a few chances, the best of which was smartly saved by Vinny of Palermo, as he dived-fell to his left to parry away. Anything else that got in round the back was easily cleared up by Conan of Some Backwater Irish town of gap-toothed simpletons, and Martin of Prague. That was until Conan of Some Backwater Irish town of gap-toothed simpletons attempted to bite someone’s leg off and conceded a free-kick about 25 yards out. A not particularly good free-kick was heading straight to Vinny of Palermo’s hands, when Martin of Prague’s considerable head had other ideas, and it glanced off him into the net for 3-1.

Some will ask “What have the Poles ever done for us?”, well, apart from giving us Nicolaus Copernicus, Marie Curie, a quarter of Europe’s avian breeding grounds, Robert Lewandoski, kabanos, pierogies, pickled cabbage, at least one Pope (I think. Sorry Catholicism ain’t my bag), Tyskie and of course, Marek of Mysliwczow, who won us this game with his contribution. We just have to remember that he’s not the Messiah, he’s a very naughty boy.