Murder in Successville - A Horse Called Alan

Chapter 1: Wellingborough

Ah, Wellingborough. A place of dreaming spires…

A place where litter goes to die. RIP, Litter. Five years to the day, always in our thoughts.

A place where simple men think nothing of eating three burgers, and calling themselves athletes…*

The game started badly. Cambridge South 2s began with all the intensity and aggression of Peter Ebdon, a noted Wellingborough alumnus, attempting to free himself from a revolving door.

Via a heady cocktail of aerial assaults and a preternaturally talented ginger-haired forward, Wellingborough scored. Tom Anns looked as if he just wanted the naturally iron-ore rich Wellingborough soil to swallow him up. We begged to the ancient gods that they would answer his prayers.

South rallied. Cometh the hour, cometh the man. Captain Cooper, as old and mysterious as the Nene itself, wrestled the ball off a passing child, kissed it twice for luck - the ball, not the child - and smashed a short corner straight down the middle and into the goal. Nev’s bellow could be heard as far as away as Wittlich, Germany, a town twinned with Wellingborough.

The two sides proceeded to trade blows like a heavyweight boxing match, but with twenty-two hockey players rather than boxers. But other than that, the simile holds water.

Jon Mann and Chris Walsh cut a dash through the Wellingborough midfield. Ali Edge ploughed a handsome furrow down the right flank. However, the opposition refused to buckle.

Half time came and went in a volley of physical threats and 18^th century insults from manager, Owen. With his words that he had never seen a ‘sorrier bunch of Stamp Crabs and Cock-Robins,’ still ringing in our ears, we immediately proceeded to concede again.

2-1 became 3-1. But Cambridge South Men’s 2s can never be accused of lacking character. Socially-acceptable levels of decorum and hygiene, yes, but never character. Via the meaty swipe of Jason’s blade, South were just a goal away from deserved parity. 'How long left please, umpire?' asked the rich, exotic voice of Matt Kern, just inches away from the umpire's ear.

There was time for one last short corner. Right post was the call. The die was cast. Cooper delivered expertly, Menzies sallied forth like a 20-45 year old man-child, dived, connected…the crowd held its breath…a woman in the crowd went into labour, mouthing “It’s yours” to an unidentified member of the South team…and the ball flew agonisingly wide. Wellingborough celebrated widely, and it was off to the showers for us to try and wash off the bitter stench of defeat.

BUT TRY AS HARD AS I MIGHT IT JUST WON’T COME OFF.

The End.

*Incidentally, according to Fitbit, this is where Tom Anns’ heart-rate was at its highest.