Cod Almighty | Diary

Diary - Thursday 8 November 2007

8 November 2007

The battle of Stamford Bridge in 1066 can teach us a lot about football, gentle reader. The Norwegians arrived in about 360 longboats, but when those that were left went home, after promising never to be naughty again, they found they needed fewer than 40. Nowadays the other boats would end up as prizes on Bullseye, or being auctioned between middle-aged men on eBay (only used once in a smoke-free home, and look at my great feedback). But your Guest Diarist can't be arsed to find out what happened to more than 300 longboats in those long-gone days.

The Vikings had left their armour on board ship while they sunbathed and swam in the river. When King Harold surprised them, things looked grim. But luckily they had brought a berserker with them and he stood on the bridge for ages, twirling his axes and killing folks who came near and that. But a clever soldier on the English side rowed under the bridge and sneakily speared him from below. That was it then really. Carnage time.

So the young lads who were pressed into service for the reserves yesterday and got completely stuffed 9-1 at Barnsley should think about that defeat positively. A lot better than getting butchered on a four-day mini break near Tadcaster, eh?

Later that week Harold had to dash down to Kent to take on the bloody Normans who had shown up asking for a match. Two battles in a week too much for his lads? Well, it shouldn't have been - they dug in at the top of a big hill and played 4-5-1 for an hour. The Frenchies were fucked to be honest, against that solid shield wall, and were about ready to go home. And then, a self-important housecarl by the name of Leofwyne Fenton (or was it Gyrthe Toner?) buggered the job up by breaking ranks and charging. The discipline was lost; everyone joined in and got scythed down by the opposition cavalry.

But when the Town tapestry gets embroidered it had better not show Lord Buckley with an arrow in his eye. For you can tell your troops what to do until you are blue in the face - but will they listen in the heat of battle? Will they fuck! And then the story gets so distorted by nerdy binocular-wielding match reporters and doom-laden pathetically self-important messageboard nesbits everywhere that you struggle to remember how good the king has been. And still is. Harold was a perfectly good leader, in need of reliable and disciplined support from his troops. Buckley deserves a standing ovation for putting up with all this shit, not arrows in his hat. See yer.