And so it began, with those two simple words. They
were an invite to great adventure, to undertake quests of world shaking import
and to finally learn the difference between left and right.
The speaker of those words of invitation was
Treguard of Dunshelm, a man with the beard of a super-villain and a shit taste
in clothes. He was the dungeon master, the quest giver and he preferred the
company of kids. Hmm not sure about you lot but that seems a bit dodgy to me.
So what was Knightmare? Well besides being about a
creepy bearded guy who liked luring youngsters to his lonely castle, it was
about sending those youngsters on quests in his maze and forcing them to solve
stupidly fucking difficult puzzles. I’m pretty sure that Treguards’ maze was a
major breach of health and safety regulations; it had crumbling walls,
collapsing floors, falling ceilings and the place was infested with vermin, and
he bloody well sent kids down there. The man was a bloody sadist!
“Oooh nasty”, said with a chuckle, was his way of
greeting some poor kids death.
What would happen is 4 youngsters would be lured to
Knightmare castle by the promise of riches, fame and the possibility of sex
with an elf (or was it only me who felt that last?). Treguard the beard would
“welcome” them and tell them what he wanted them to do. Only one hopeful
adventurer could enter the maze, the other three were made to sit in a room and
watch his progress with a weirdo stood behind them. You may ask why they were
even there at all if all they were going to do is sit around and eat sweets,
but they were very useful/useless indeed as you will find out. The youngster
chosen to be the teams hero (from now on called the dungeoneer), would have a
great big fucking helmet, with horns and no eye slots on it, called the Helmet
of Justice.
Did it really bring justice though? I mean I’ve
never heard of it being worn in a court of law, though given the state of our
justice system these days, I’m sure it couldn’t harm anything to wear the damn
thing in court.
So the helmet rendered the dungeoneer blind, poor
little shit. But at least it gave the 3 remaining kids something to do, they
became seeing-eye dogs (in most cases they had less intelligence than a dog).
They would guide the dungeoneer through the deadly quest, using such complex
instructions as, “sidestep left/right”, “walk forward”, “halt” and “oh fuck,
run you’re going to die”. As these were children, and their knowledge of things
such as left and right was a bit lacking, this could lead to some catastrophic
fuck ups.
“Dungeoneer sidestep right”, meaning left.
Dungeoneer falls into a lava pit and frys quicker than an egg.
Anyhow, with the helmet on and the trusty companions
to give advice, the dungeoneer enters the maze known as the dungeons of deceit.
I never knew of a dungeon that was deceitful before, I thought they were all
quite open and honest about their overall purpose.
Let’s get one thing straight, this dungeon was
fucking dangerous. Not only did it contravene health and safety regulations as
I mentioned above, but it was full of nasty shit that wanted to kill people,
quite of while gloating evilly. There were dragons, goblins, horribly monsters
trapped in walls and there was even a giant spider. And what did the dungeoneer
have to help him in his quest? Not a hell of a lot, some wimpy elves and
dwarves and a group of friends generally possessing all the intelligence of a
brick wall. I told you Treguard was a sadist!
The dungeon was all about the puzzles though, and
they were hard, Stephen Hawking would probably have struggled with them.
Usually if a puzzle was failed the dungeoneer would die, just another thing for
the poor little bastard to worry about. Many a time watching I felt sorry for a
dungeoneer, not only did they have morons guiding them, but also every goblin
and his dragon was out to get them.
Perhaps unsurprisingly there were only a few teams
to ever beat the game. And what became of these mighty heroes? What glorious prize
did they walk away with? Where are they now? The answer to all three questions
is ….. I have no bloody idea. Which goes to prove that fame and fortune were
just lies offered by a pervy old man who got a kick out seeing kids struggle.
So back in the day when I was just getting in to
the world of PC gaming (about the turn of the millennium), my friend Allan
and I discovered the game which would turn into our version of crack cocaine.
Seriously the game was that addictive we'd even forget to drink coffee for
hours at a time. Yeah it was that bad!
The game was Baldur's Gate, a CRPG (computer role playing game) of sheer
and utter amazingness! Its sequel which was rather ingeniously titled Baldur's
Gate 2 I shall talk about at a later date.
So where do we begin? Well we opened the box (as you obviously do),
removed all 600 million discs (was about 5 but it felt like a lot more at
times), and proceeded to read through an instruction manual so large it could
probably have brought whole planets into its orbit. Next was the game
installation, always fun on the old computers, you'd generally wait a week just
for the chance to install disc 2.
With the game now installed (and us having gone through sleep and
shaving deprivation waiting for it) we could now play. Little did we realise
that those first few notes of the intro music would haunt our dreams forever
after.
After a few minutes spent imagining swinging swords at charging orcs we
click off the music and move on to the first and arguably most important part
of the game. The creation of The Main Character!
This is serious business now, what happens here will echo through
eternity! Yeah that's bullshit, but I can't resist a dramatic line, so sue me.
First you have sex, by that I mean choosing whether your computerised
avatar will be male or female, so all minds out of the gutter please!
Second there is choosing your race (not the 100 metre's by the way), so
here you can choose to be a pointy eared, bitchy elf, a psychotic looking
dwarf, or any of the other various races on offer for your selection delights.
Third, choose your class (maths and science are not options here). Do
you want to run around with a six foot length of sharpened metal, chopping your
enemies up into little bloody chunks? Or would you rather mutter shitloads of
mumbo jumbo and end up throwing random fireballs around the scenery? The choice
is up to you.
Now we get to the fun bit, the selecting of the stats. This is a process
that could easily keep the most dedicated gamers busy for the rest of their
natural lives! Seriously, I think we spent more time trying to get the perfect
stats than we did actually playing the game.
Finally we can think up a name, preferably something appropriate to the
in-game universe like Chugga the Chunker.
Now that Chugga is created (we never actually called either of our
characters Chugga by the way, but for the purposes of narrating through the
games storyline that's the name I'm going to use), we can jump in to the
action. After a brief intro scene Chugga is deposited in the courtyard of a big
castle called Candlekeep, it's supposedly a library but we'll get there later.
Before I carry on with the business of enthralling story telling I must
make one important point. There is nothing in the entire Baldur's Gate universe
more important than the spacebar on the computer. The spacebar pauses the game,
this is useful because near enough every single fucking enemy on the game can
squish you like a bug for the first few hours of gameplay! So during every
battle the game is paused, a lot, sometimes for long periods of time while you
assess the best routes for running away screaming. Eventually you'll end up
going through the entire game with one finger poised nervously above the
spacebar, thus giving you the ailment now commonly known as spacebar finger. It
is possibly the worst form of RSI known to man.
Anyways back to our story...
Chugga is wandering around Candlekeep waiting for his step daddy Gorion
to finish packing up his dentures so they can go on a long journey never to
return. Because he's basically a nice but dim lad, and because he's been raised
pretty well he's doing some nice little chores for some seriously ungrateful
bastards. From finding books lost in haystacks (obviously), to curing sick cows
(he wanted to go to university to become a vet) and beating the shit out of
some giant rats, he does the lot with a vacant smile on his face and receives
no thanks apart from a few measly gold coins. You need a union to join Chugga,
they'll fight the battles so your simple mind can rest easy.
Finally Gorion is ready, his spare dentures packed away with his
nighttime pipe. And they're off. Off to have adventures and rescue damsels in
distress and what-not, or maybe just to find a pub and get pissed up on cheap
booze.
Tension time is approaching, our storyline's antagonist awaits!
When this guy steps out of the shadows you know he's not there to invite
you to sit round his campfire, toast marshmallows and sing camping songs.
After watching Gorion get cut down and bravely deciding to run away
rather than offer his help, Chugga realises that he's now alone in the world,
well nearly, here comes his best and only friend Imoen. She was seriously pissed
off that she wasn't invited on the damsel rescuing, cheap booze swilling
journey, but she's followed along and there ain't no chance an armoured moron
like Chugga will be ordering her back!
I think it's fair to imagine that all of Chugga's wet dreams and
perverted fantasy's have been about little Imoen. Jus' saying you know...
Anyways our merry twosome are now happily gamboling around the
woods, feeling free to pick up any companions they like, and there's quite the
motley crew of people standing around just waiting to be asked to join up and
head off towards certain death. The characters have a nice range, from an
insane necromancer with a hard-on for dragon rabbits, a megalomaniac sorcerer
with persecution issues and the largest man ever in computer game
history who takes life advice from a hamster, and all manner of crazy in
between.
Ah Minsc and Boo, a handsome pair, just a pity they're batshit insane!
After lots of pissing around in various woods and towns, our hero
decides that it's high time he became a brave warrior and made a significant
impact in the world. Doing his best to protect life, liberty and the Baldur's
Gate way. So he heads off to some poxy little iron mine to clear out some kind
of infestation. Now despite Chugga not following any health and safety
regulations and having no experience of the mining industry, the foreman hires
him on the spot without even asking for any references. How the fuck did this
guy make it into management?
With lots of swings of his brand new, yet trusty sword (and lots of help
from his far more experienced companions), Chugga clears the mine in record
time, and as he contemptuously defeats the end of level boss he learns of a
dastardly plot! Apparently some shady organisation is sabotaging all the iron
mines in the area and attempting to start off a mining rights war (possibly
it's more serious than a war over some holes in the ground, but it sounded
good). This is serious business now, if iron prices go up then swinging a sword
at anything and everything like a moronic imbecile is not going to be a wise
move. Especially when the risk of the sword breaking is a very real
possibility.
It's obvious now that Chugga has to save the day, well none of the other
lazy bastards in the world will, they'll just bitch and moan and drink cheap
booze!
First off in his new quest to bring justice and cheap iron to the free
world is a bandit problem. Well wouldn't you know it, there just has to be
bandits! Apparently these lawless scum are attacking caravans bringing in iron
from outside the region (I think all merchants must be gypsies in the Baldur's
Gate world, why travel in caravans otherwise). This is the kind of problem Chugga
can easily deal with, if he can just figure out how to read the conveniently
found map with directions to the bandit camp on it. Chugga struggles a tad with
directions.
It's a fine morning for bandit smiting, the sun is shining, the birds
are singing, the flowers are all smelling pretty and Chugga has the hangover
from hell! Shouldn't have drunk all that mead at The Burning Wizard last
night Chugga.
Our surly, hungover hero and his merry band finally stumble upon the
bandit camp and proceed to slaughter anything that moves, including some poor
prisoner who was only trying to escape. Life sucks then some big moron
decapitates you. The discovery of yet more convenient letters and maps leads to
a bit more of the plot being revealed and another mine, this one guarded by
giant spiders. Giant fucking spiders! I guess arachnophobes won't be going iron
mining out that way any time soon.
Oh well it's more walking, no one should complain though, it's good
cardio-vascular exercise, perfect for the growing warrior.
Now Chugga is about to become a hero to women everywhere, he's going to
destroy an entire spider population, swoon before him ladies, swoon before him.
With this comforting image in his mind, Chugga and friends happily settle into
their new career in pest control, ah bless their rusty iron socks. Spiders,
wytherns and the occasional pacifist druid are all met bravely and exterminated
(cue visions of me seeing all 6 party members as medieval daleks).
Here goes Chugga again, completely disregarding health and safety rules
to plunge in to yet another mine (the bureaucrats are going to be tearing their
hair out). This mine is just a little bit more difficult than the first, as at
the very bottom is a rather nasty magician with a very annoying habit of
throwing electricity at people. Doesn't he realise that power company's are
raising their prices thanks to clowns like him?
Finally he's dead and British Gas and EON can stop sending him red
letter bills.
There's a big hurray moment here as Chugga finally learns the name
of his spiky assailant from the beginning. His name is Sarevok and apparently
he's a bit creepy. No shit!
Finally the Scooby Gang ... erm party of brave warriors can hit the big
city; bars, brothels and fashion boutiques baby! Apparently the city of
Baldur's Gate is the place to be if you want to mingle with the rich and
famous.
But all is not well, there's sinister things afoot, and weird things
happening to normal people. Once again with no asking for references Chugga and
friends are hired in to jobs they've never done before, they are now Baldur's
Gate's version of the F.B.I.! If nothing else they're going to have quite the
CV when everything is settled.
As they are now fully fledged hero's and can't get squished by simple
monsters anymore, cleansing the city proves to be little more than a light
afternoons work As a reward, and because the head honcho's of the bad
organisation are there, Chugga is allowed to return back to Candlekeep, where
he spent many fruitful years learning not to read books and being treated like
a general fucking dogsbody. And with a snap of fingers the gates of Candlekeep
appear. See that's what it's like if you're a high level RPG sorcerer, instant
travel, no more travelling bullshit map areas and taking months to get
anywhere.
And Chugga is home. He's greeted and welcomed by suspicious looks and
questions about why he looted the body of his step father and left him for the
carrion to eat. There's also an oddly suspicious chap by the name of Koveras on
the look out for information (you wouldn't believe how long it took us to click
on to the name Koveras).
Finally, after what seems a lifetime (and probably was), entry is
granted to the grand library of Candlekeep, the repository of all the knowledge
in the known universe. Apparently though there's not many authors, great or
otherwise, in the Baldur's Gate universe, as on each bookcase in the grand
library is precisely one fucking book, and they are damn history books at that!
Where's the boys own adventure story's? The great philosophical musings? The
erotic literature? This library actually really sucks!
But wait, Chugga is told that upstairs in his old rooms there is great
information awaiting him. And there is, really this time. It's a letter. A
letter from a dead man. A letter from Gorion. Why the hell he would leave the
boy a letter in his vacated rooms when he was taking him along to get drunk and
wench rescued damsels is anyone's guess. Maybe he could see the future? But if
so how come he didn't see his own grisly end at the hands of a lunatic wearing
spiky armour? Such questions have no answers, so all Chugga can do is read his
letter (give him time it may take quite a while).
It's fucking momentous! Chugga, simple warrior and all around dogsbody
is the son of a god. A friggin' god!! He's a dead, evil god mind, but still.
The last will and testament should be fairly interesting to read.
That's Dad, he's not much in the looks department...
Weird things are happening now, it turns out that the head bad guys who
Chugga came here to kill have been killed, and Chugga is being framed for the
murder. Well isn't this interesting.
Chugga is now behind bars, not only that he's squeezed in a one person
cell with all five of his friends, and they haven't had a bath for weeks. Still
things could be worse, he could have been transported deep underground into a
maze filled with evil beasties ... oh he has been, all in the name of helping
him escape of course. Well at least old Tethtoril didn't believe that Chugga is
a murdering lunatic with no redeeming qualities whatsoever, maybe he does but
at least he had the decency not to give voice to his opinions. Let that be a
lesson Ulraunt, oh lord and mighty ruler of Candlekeep, opinions are like
arseholes, everyone has them and they usually stink. Especially yours you
bitter old toad!
Once again Chugga is leaving Candlekeep, this time via the not-so-scenic
route. He's getting to do his heroic thing again though, as yet another nation
of giant spiders is living under the library. Maybe they have a copy of Lord
of the Flies to read?
This running around trying to follow a simple plot is really starting to
stress Chugga out, and he throws a massive strop and refuses to go any further
until he's had a cup off coffee (well actually I did this when I got fed up of
being constantly turned to stone by a pair of basilisk's blocking my escape
route). As it's since been revealed that he is the spawn of a evil, dead god
with a love of blood, Chugga's friends are extra careful when trying to pacify
him, there's no telling when he could develop some godly powers and beat them
all to death with their own torn off limbs.
The aim of the game now is proving Chugga innocent of the murders he
actually went back home to commit. And maybe find out why Sarevok wears armour
with spikes sticking out of it.
To Baldur's gate he must go to clear his name, but there is a bounty on
his head and he'll be instantly arrested once he enters the city. To guard
against this Chugga and friends cunningly disguise themselves as a party of
mercenaries. The simple plans are always the best ones.
There follows a fraught investigation whereby Sarevok is found to be
guilty of near enough all the crimes ever committed (the British police want to
question him on where he was when Shergar disappeared). By collecting evidence
(his abandoned diary), and questioning witnesses (his seriously pissed off
other half), Chugga learns the shocking conclusion to all Sarevok's plans. And
an even bigger revelation!
Firstly the plan. Sarevok is plotting to have the ruler's of Baldur's
Gate assassinated, thereby becoming, after a few dodgy deals and whatnot, the
ruler of the city. Once he crowns himself he plans to turn the world into a
slaughterhouse, killing enough people to achieve his ultimate ambition.
Now the revelation. Sarevok is actually the spawn of a dead god. He's
the spawn of the same dead god who spawned Chugga. He literally is Chugga's
brother-from-another-mother!
Combining the plan and the revelation together it becomes very easy to
see what Sarevok's ultimate ambition is. He wants to become a god. There's a
throne up there just waiting for him.
Naturally Chugga can't let this happen, it wouldn't be very heroic of
him after all. In a daring move he manages to gain access to Baldur's Gate's
Ducal palace, expose Sarevok's plans, stop an assassination and prove his own
innocence. Not a bad days work all things considered. As a reward for saving
their lives the duke and duchess decide to offer Chugga no help at all in
finally killing off Sarevok. Well that's a bit of a lie, they do use magic to
track down his location, but that's it. More ungrateful bastards who want to
use poor Chugga as a dogsbody. He definitely needs a union to sign up to.
There it is, the undercity, Sarevok's final location. Not much of a
tourist destination.
So the final battle is upon them Sarevok and his minions vs Chugga and
the need a bath gang. It's a titanic battle, with blood and traps and the
squeaking of an enraged hamster. But finally and inevitably it's over, goodness
and benign lunacy has won the day. There will be no new god in the heavens.
Well not unless the sequel follows a different path anyhow!
And Sarevok never did give an explanation for that freaky armour of his!
*****
There we have it, a quick run through of Baldur's Gate explaining only
the basics of the plot and probably confusing the hell out of anyone who hasn't
played the game.
Supposedly, in the year 1987, NASA launched a probe
into space. Now this probably did
happen, NASA are always attacking space with something, they say it’s for
information and explanation, but I think it’s just so they can justify their
huge wages. Anyway, to cut a short story shorter, this probe was actually a
little starship (well fuck me, NASA have had starships for years and we still
don’t have a McDonalds on the moon yet). The crew of this starship consisted of
one brave man; you know the type, square chin, macho, bad hair. His name was
Buck Rogers and he represented Earths best hope of winning the up and coming Mr
Milky Way contest (ok so that last part is probably false, but he could have
been sent up there for that reason). Something up there though didn’t like the
gallant Mr Rogers and decided to express its displeasure by kicking him 500
years into the future via a freak “accident”. Now that’s spite for you!
Apparently half a millennium down the line Earth is
going to be … well pretty much the same as it always was, as normal as it can
be after recovering from a nuclear war that is. There are still wars, still
idiots who masquerade as politicians and I’m guessing there are still chavs and
pikeys standing on street corners trying to look tough. The only real
noticeable differences are that robots walk around freely (and speak in an
irritating way), beautiful princesses want to conquer the world and make all
men slaves, and all the cities are now new, for example; New Chicago, New Paris
and New London (I’m guessing there will be a New Leeds and New Manchester as
well). Buck’s not going to find it too hard to fit back in, he’ll probably join
some kind of defence force and be a maverick with no ties to anyone.
Oh he did!
So here we have Buck Rogers, a 20th
century man in a 25th century air force, now that’s taking your
career opportunities in both hands, isn’t it? His new job role isn’t preparing
to fight those pesky Russians or getting ready for Desert Storm, it’s to help
protect the world from alien hordes. Personally I think that a world that wants
to update all its towns and cities and call them “New This” and “New That” needs
a good alien invasion, just to show them that new isn’t always better than old
(how an alien invasion will prove that I have no idea, but I’m sure it will).
Unsurprisingly Buck is a natural at this, must be down to him helping carry
along the cover up at Roswell.
He’s quite the nice guy is Buck, both charming and
witty in a tough, action man kind of way, so why then is his best friend
forever a robot? A fucking robot! Obviously Twiki and his “biddi-biddi-biddi”
catchphrase has cast some sort of robotic spell over Buck’s common sense, ‘tis
the only explanation I can think of.
After a bit of a break and a slight rethink, I’ve
come up with another conclusion, maybe Buck is using Twiki in the same way that
a lonely man might use a baby or dog, namely to attract the attention of a
woman. It is a classic ploy, admire pretty woman, use something cute to attract
her notice, once her attention is secured turn on the charm. Now I’m not saying
Twiki is cute (I suppose you might consider him such if you have unhealthy
designs on robots), but maybe he is Buck’s idea of a substitute for a baby or
dog.
The pretty lady in question is none other than
Buck’s new boss. Most men are a bit prickly about serving under a woman (rather
stupid that as women are often more competent than men), but I’m sure even the
most primitive of male brains would have no problem submitting themselves to
the lovely Wilma (Colonel Deering), and doing whatever she wished. I know I
wouldn’t! Buck is a bit more forward thinking than most of his fellow men
though, thus he can accept Wilma as his boss without feeling any less macho,
the fact that he fancies the arse off her helps as well.
She’s quite the major badass is Colonel Deering
(should that be colonel badass?) and anyone crossing her or her underlings is
likely to be one sorry mess on the floor afterwards.
But no tough astronaut who’s sent to the future
should be without a nemesis and thankfully there is one, well she is kind of.
Just because she wants to conquer the world by flashing her flesh and seducing
men into bed doesn’t mean that Princess Ardala isn’t evil. Looking at it she’s
probably more likely to succeed that way than thinking up diabolical plans that
almost always go wrong. Offering free sex is a great distraction when you want
the world unprepared for your alien invasion.
So Buck’s got his work cut out for him up there, but
I’m sure he’ll get by and make the future safe for all of us. Maybe, with a bit
of luck, he’ll realise that his hairstyle is way, way out of date and he’ll go
for a more civilised look. So spare him a thought as he drifts above us for the
next 500 hundred years, without even the benefit of internet chatrooms to help
pass the time.
Just as an aside, this wasn't written by me, but I felt it was to good not to be shared with people who will have fond memories of playground and street football!!
Duration
Matches shall be played over three unequal periods: two playtimes and a lunchtime. Each of these periods shall begin shortly after the ringing of a bell, and although a bell is also rung towards the end of these periods, play may continue for up to ten minutes afterwards, depending on the nihilism or “bottle” of the participants with regard to corporal punishment met out to latecomers back to the classroom. In practice there is a sliding scale of nihilism, from those who hasten to stand in line as soon as the bell rings, known as “poofs”, through those who will hang on until the time they estimate it takes the teachers to down the last of their gins and journey from the staffroom, known as “chancers”, and finally to those who will hang on until a teacher actually has to physically retrieve them, known as “bampots”. This sliding scale is intended to radically alter the logistics of a match in progress, often having dramatic effects on the scoreline as the number of remaining participants drops. It is important, therefore, in picking the sides, to achieve a fair balance of poofs, chancers and bampots in order that the scoreline achieved over a sustained period of play – a lunchtime, for instance – is not totally nullified by a five-minute post-bell onslaught of five bampots against one. The scoreline to be carried over from the previous period of the match is in the trust of the last bampots to leave the field of play, and may be the matter of some debate. This must be resolved in one of the approved manners (see Adjudication).
Parameters
The object is to force the ball between two large, unkempt piles of jackets, in lieu of goalposts. These piles may grow or shrink throughout the match, depending on the number of participants and the prevailing weather. As the number of players increases, so shall the piles. Each jacket added to the pile by a new addition to a side should be placed on the inside, nearest the goalkeeper, thus reducing the target area. It is also important that the sleeve of one of the jackets should jut out across the goalmouth, as it will often be claimed that the ball went “over the post” and it can henceforth be asserted that the outstretched sleeve denotes the innermost part of the pile and thus the inside of the post. The on-going reduction of the size of the goal is the responsibility of any respectable defence and should be undertaken conscientiously with resourcefulness and imagination.
In the absence of a crossbar, the upper limit of the target area is observed as being slightly above head height, although when the height at which a ball passed between the jackets is in dispute, judgement shall lie with an arbitrary adjudicator from one of the sides. He is known as the “best fighter”; his decision is final and may be enforced with physical violence if anyone wants to stretch a point.
There are no pitch markings. Instead, physical objects denote the boundaries, ranging from the most common – walls and buildings – to roads or burns. Corners and throw-ins are redundant where bylines or touchlines are denoted by a two-storey building or a six-foot granite wall. Instead, a scrum should be instigated to decide possession. This should begin with the ball trapped between the brickwork and two opposing players, and should escalate to include as many team members as can get there before the now egg-shaped ball finally emerges, drunkenly and often with a dismembered foot and shin attached. At this point, goalkeepers should look out for the player who takes possession of the escaped ball and begins bearing down on goal, as most of those involved in the scrum will be unaware that the ball is no longer amidst their feet. The goalkeeper should also try not to be distracted by the inevitable fighting that has by this point broken out.
In games on large open spaces, the length of the pitch is obviously denoted by the jacket piles, but the width is a variable. In the absence of roads, water hazards or “a big dug”, the width is determined by how far out the attacking winger has to meander before the pursuing defender gets fed up and lets him head back towards where the rest of the players are waiting, often as far as quarter of a mile away. It is often observed that the playing area is “no’ a full-size pitch”. This can be invoked verbally to justify placing a wall of players eighteen inches from the ball at direct free kicks. It is the formal response to “yards”, which the kick-taker will incant meaninglessly as he places the ball.
The Ball
There is a variety of types of ball approved for Primary School Football. I shall describe three notable examples.
1. The plastic balloon. An extremely lightweight model, used primarily in the early part of the season and seldom after that due to having burst. Identifiable by blue pentagonal panelling and the names of that year’s Premier League sides printed all over it. Advantages: low sting factor, low burst-nose probability, cheap, discourages a long-ball game. Disadvantages: over-susceptible to influence of the wind, difficult to control, almost magnetically drawn to flat school roofs whence never to return.
2. The rough-finish Mitre. Half football, half Portuguese Man o’ War. On the verge of a ban in the European Court of Human Rights, this model is not for sale to children. Used exclusively by teachers during gym classes as a kind of aversion therapy. Made from highly durable fibre-glass, stuffed with neutron star and coated with dead jellyfish. Advantages: looks quite grown up, makes for high-scoring matches (keepers won’t even attempt to catch it). Disadvantages: scars or maims anything it touches.
3. The “Tube”. Genuine leather ball, identifiable by brown all-over colouring. Was once black and white, before ravages of games on concrete, but owners can never remember when. Adored by everybody, especially keepers. Advantages: feels good, easily controlled, makes a satisfying “whump” noise when you kick it. Disadvantages: turns into medicine ball when wet, smells like a dead dog.
Offside
There is no offside, for two reasons: one, “it’s no’ a full-size pitch”, and two, none of the players actually know what offside is. The lack of an offside rule gives rise to a unique sub-division of strikers. These players hang around the opposing goalmouth while play carries on at the other end, awaiting a long pass forward out of defence which they can help past the keeper before running the entire length of the pitch with their arms in the air to greet utterly imaginary adulation. These are known variously as “moochers”, “gloryhunters” and “fly wee bastarts”. These players display a remarkable degree of self-security, seemingly happy in their own appraisals of their achievements, and caring little for their team-mates’ failure to appreciate the contribution they have made. They know that it can be for nothing other than their enviable goal tallies that they are so bitterly despised.
Adjudication
The absence of a referee means that disputes must be resolved between the opposing teams rather than decided by an arbiter. There are two accepted ways of doing this.
1. Compromise. An arrangement is devised that is found acceptable by both sides. Sway is usually given to an action that is in accordance with the spirit of competition, ensuring that the game does not turn into “a pure skoosh”. For example, in the event of a dispute as to whether the ball in fact crossed the line, or whether the ball has gone inside or “over” the post, the attacking side may offer the ultimatum: “Penalty or goal.” It is not recorded whether any side has ever opted for the latter. It is on occasions that such arrangements or ultimata do not prove acceptable to both sides that the second adjudicatory method comes into play.
2. Fighting. Those up on their ancient Hellenic politics will understand that the concept we know as “justice” rests in these circumstances with the hand of the strong. What the winner says, goes, and what the winner says is just, for who shall dispute him? It is by such noble philosophical principles that the supreme adjudicator, or Best Fighter, is effectively elected.
Team Selection
To ensure a fair and balanced contest, teams are selected democratically in a turns-about picking process, with either side beginning as a one-man selection committee and growing from there. The initial selectors are usually the recognised two Best Players of the assembled group. Their first selections will be the two recognised Best Fighters, to ensure a fair balance in the adjudication process, and to ensure that they don’t have their own performances impaired throughout the match by profusely bleeding noses. They will then proceed to pick team-mates in a roughly meritocratic order, selecting on grounds of skill and tactical awareness, but not forgetting that while there is a sliding scale of players’ ability, there is also a sliding scale of players’ brutality and propensities towards motiveless violence. A selecting captain might baffle a talented striker by picking the less nimble Big Jazza ahead of him, and may explain, perhaps in the words of Linden B Johnson upon his retention of J Edgar Hoover as the head of the FBI, that he’d “rather have him inside the tent pissing out, than outside the tent pissing in”.
Special consideration is also given during the selection process to the owner of the ball. It is tacitly acknowledged to be “his gemme”, and he must be shown a degree of politeness for fear that he takes the huff at being picked late and withdraws his favours.
Another aspect of team selection that may confuse those only familiar with the game at senior level will be the choice of goalkeepers, who will inevitably be the last players to be picked. Unlike in the senior game, where the goalkeeper is often the tallest member of his team, in the playground, the goalkeeper is usually the smallest. Senior aficionados must appreciate that playground selectors have a different agenda and are looking for altogether different properties in a goalkeeper. These can be listed briefly as: compliance, poor fighting ability, meekness, fear and anything else that makes it easier for their team-mates to banish the wee bugger between the sticks while they go off in search of personal glory up the other end.
Tactics
Playground football tactics are best explained in terms of team formation. Whereas senior sides tend to choose – according to circumstance – from among a number of standard options (eg 4-4-2, 4-3-3, 5-3-2), the playground side is usually more rigid in sticking to the all-purpose 1-1-17 formation. This formation is a sturdy basis for the unique style of play, ball-flow and territorial give-and-take that makes the playground game such a renowned and strategically engrossing spectacle. Just as the 5-3-2 formation is sometimes referred to in practice as “Cattenaccio”, the 1-1-17 formation gives rise to a style of play that is best described as “Nomadic”. All but perhaps four of the participants (see also Offside) migrate en masse from one area of the pitch to another, following the ball, and it is tactically vital that every last one of them remains within a ten-yard radius of it at all times.
Stoppages
Much stoppage time in the senior game is down to injured players requiring treatment on the field of play. The playground game flows freer having adopted the refereeing philosophy of “no Post-Mortem, no free-kick”, and play will continue around and even on top of a participant who has fallen in the course of his endeavours. However, the playground game is nonetheless subject to other interruptions, and some examples are listed below.
Ball on school roof or over school wall. The retrieval time itself is negligible in these cases. The stoppage is most prolonged by the argument to decide which player must risk life, limb or four of the belt to scale the drainpipe or negotiate the barbed wire in order to return the ball to play. Disputes usually arise between the player who actually struck the ball and any others he claims it may have struck before disappearing into forbidden territory. In the case of the Best Fighter having been adjudged responsible for such an incident, a volunteer is often required to go in his stead or the game may be abandoned, as the Best Fighter is entitled to observe that A: “Ye canny make me”; or B: “It’s no’ ma baw anyway”.
Stray dog on pitch. An interruption of unpredictable duration. The dog does not have to make off with the ball, it merely has to run around barking loudly, snarling and occasionally drooling or foaming at the mouth. This will ensure a dramatic reduction in the number of playing staff as 27 of them simultaneously volunteer to go indoors and inform the teacher of the threat. The length of the interruption can sometimes be gauged by the breed of dog. A deranged Irish Setter could take ten minutes to tire itself of running in circles, for instance, while a Jack Russell may take up to fifteen minutes to corner and force out through the gates. An Alsatian means instant abandonment.
Bigger boy steals ball. A highly irritating interruption, the length of which is determined by the players’ experience in dealing with this sort of thing. The intruders will seldom actually steal the ball, but will improvise their own kickabout amongst themselves, occasionally inviting the younger players to attempt to tackle them. Standing around looking bored and unimpressed usually results in a quick restart. Shows of frustration and engaging in attempts to win back the ball can prolong the stoppage indefinitely. Informing the intruders that one of the players’ older brother is “Mad Chic Murphy” or some other noted local pugilist can also ensure minimum delay.
Menopausal old bag confiscates ball. More of a threat in the street or local green kickabout than within the school walls. Sad, blue-rinsed, ill-tempered, Tory-voting cat-owner transfers her anger about the array of failures that has been her life to nine-year-olds who have committed the heinous crime of letting their ball cross her privet Line of Death. Interruption (loss of ball) is predicted to last “until you learn how to play with it properly”, but instruction on how to achieve this without actually having the bloody thing is not usually forwarded. Tact is required in these circumstances, even when the return of the ball seems highly unlikely, as further irritation of woman may result in the more serious stoppage:
Menopausal old bag calls police.
Celebration
Goal-scorers are entitled to a maximum run of thirty yards with their hands in the air, making crowd noises and saluting imaginary packed terraces.
Congratulation by team-mates is in the measure appropriate to the importance of the goal in view of the current scoreline (for instance, making it 34-12 does not entitle the player to drop to his knees and make the sign of the cross), and the extent of the scorer’s contribution. A fabulous solo dismantling of the defence or 25-yard* rocket shot will elicit applause and back-pats from the entire team and the more magnanimous of the opponents. However, a tap-in in the midst of a chaotic scramble will be heralded with the epithet “moochin’ wee bastart” from the opposing defence amidst mild acknowledgment from team-mates. Applying an unnecessary final touch when a ball is already rolling into the goal will elicit a burst nose from the original striker. Kneeling down to head the ball over the line when defence and keeper are already beaten will elicit a thoroughly deserved kicking. As a footnote, however, it should be stressed that any goal scored by the Best Fighter will be met with universal acclaim, even if it falls into any of the latter three categories.
*Actually eight yards, but calculated as relative distance because “it’s no’ a full-size pitch”.
Penalties
At senior level, each side often has one appointed penalty-taker, who will defer to a team-mate in special circumstances, such as his requiring one more for a hat-trick. The playground side has two appointed penalty-takers: the Best Player and the Best Fighter. The arrangement is simple: the Best Player takes the penalties when his side is a retrievable margin behind, and the Best Fighter at all other times. If the side is comfortably in front, the ball-owner may be invited to take a penalty.
Goalkeepers are often the subject of temporary substitutions at penalties, forced to give up their position to the Best Player or Best Fighter, who recognise the kudos attached to the heroic act of saving one of these kicks, and are buggered if Wee Titch is going to steal any of it.
Close Season
This is known also as the Summer Holidays, which the players usually spend dabbling briefly in other sports: tennis for a fortnight while Wimbledon is on the telly; pitch-and-putt for four days during the Open; and cricket for about an hour and a half until they discover that it really is as boring to play as it is to watch.
