Kings of Fife...

31st Jul 2010: Lino Likkers 4, East Fife 1 (CIS Insurance Cup)

I trudged away from Starks Piggery this afternoon as dismal as I can ever remember being. We'd just been on the wrong end of the very worst kind of doing... completely horsed by our local rivals; the undisputed Kings of Fife knocked on our royal arses by the bastard sons of the queen's second cousin. It didnae feel very nice at all. However, that swinish disappointment turned into abject horror when I contemplated the further ramifications of today's score.

Naw, naw, naw - ah don't give a fuck about the fact that me an' ma family live among them (we've built up an immunity over the years). And the fact that one of them will be in ma face on Monday morning at work is of absolutely no consequence - the fucker wasnae even at the game so his so-called moral high ground is as yielding as a swamp. No, it's the long term implications for mankind that worry me...

They left the piggery in high spirits, heading for their local watering holes. There they'll Kopparberg themselves into oblivion and reminisce about old times... easy to do; after all, they've only ever won the ONE fuckin' thing! Then, as darkness falls, they'll scurry back their rat holes and prepare for the night... firstly beating up their sisters for "lookin' at them funny" before realising that they'd better apologise quick - well, those that want their hole will have to anyway. And then it's off to bed - big cheesy grins on their repulsive pusses cos they think they're gettin' it kinky. Naw, ya sad fucks - big sis has her back tae ye cos she's still in the huff...

Now, ah wasnae stuck at the away end so ah had plenty opportunity tae get a good long hard look at them (hey, it wasnae easy, but ah did it fur the shirt...). There were just over two thousand at the game so probably about fifteen hundred of them. Ah'm reckonin' on approximately four hundred weemin' (you could tell they were female cos the legs hung doon over their shoes...) so that leaves eleven hundred potential sibling-shaggers when the pubs threw them oot.

Of them, of course, we have tae consider those that are second generation in-bred and therefore firing blanks... say eight hundred. That leaves the portentous propspect of mebbe three hundred consanguine, lino-likkin' degenerates spewin' out of Forth Park just as the season ends next May. That congenital mess and evolutionary migraine is something you really don't want to be happening on your doorstep. Fuck, anyone want tae buy a nice wee flat in Kirkcaldy... goin' cheap? Naw, ah mean CHEAP... really cheap... It truly is that harrowing a prospect.

Anyway... enough of this depressing talk. On an otherwise shitey day, there was one high point; Bobby Linn's goal. It was an absolute screamer of a free kick; a beautifully weighted shot up and over the wall which left the keeper rooted to the spot, able only to turn and admire as the back of the net bulged. Stevie Crawford had been clumsily bundled off the ball and the ref had no hesitation. I have to be honest - from where I was standing it looked more like obstruction but that mebbe made the goal all the sweeter. The Boaby poppoed it away first time from what should've been an indirect. But the whistler wasnae worrying so neither was I. At three - one down there was still a mountain to climb but at least now we looked like we meant business.

And as it was, we should have pulled another one back just moments later. The Wraith defence were trippin' over themselves as we moved into their box. The Craw looked comfortable and might have had a pop himself but he unselfishly slid the ball sideways to the unmarked Rob Sloan who appeared to only have to hit the target to get us right back into the game. Somehow he contrived to aim his shot right at McGurn (yeah, ah know he's a fat fucker but all the same...) - Fife fans saw it ricochet off his fat arse and bounce clear; Likkers of the Lino saw it as the save of the season. You pay yer money and ye take yer choice... It was a fuckin' scunner to everyone in black and gold.

We had similar misfortune shortly afterwords when another shot was scrambled clear. However, at least we were now putting some pressure on the Linos' back line. Sadly, that pressure came to nothing and twenty minutes from time, they put the tin lid on proceedings by exploiting more pitiful Fife defending and banged home their fourth. They pinched the ball at the edge of the box and lobbed over a harmless enough looking cross but the only one interested was Morocco Mole and, sadly, it was wearing a blue shirt. And that was that!

Or so we thought... Some heroics from big Broonie between the sticks stopped them adding a fifth which, at the time, seemed scant consolation. But at ten tae five when the cheat blew the final whistle the anoraks of Scottish football would be recording the final score as 4-1. We all headed home in a deep depression, all but suicidal. But by the time ah was half way home, wanderin' past the Wemyssfield garage, I was knocked back on my heels like ah'd been skelped in the puss with a shovel...

Four - one... four - one... four - one. Could a gubbin' ever taste so sweet. Ma team had just been hoofed oot the League Cup, demolished by our biggest rivals, a team they'll never tire of tellin' us that we've failed tae beat in twenty odd years, two goals scored by that big race-card-playing shite and utterly humiliated. Aye, twenty minutes ago ah was feelin' the pain like ah was wastin' away inside. Now ah was skippin' up the road like ah'd just won the lottery...

Picture this (an' it'll be happenin' in dozens of households all over that rat infested town...)... he's enjoyed his mixed berry cider, he's punched Senga and then made up (hey, apparently a rattle in the puss counts as foreplay when yer high on the fumes of likked lino), and after enjoyin' his twenty seconds of doggy he's slid over onto his back, panting, sweating and congratulating himself on his wanton, carnal prowess.

And as he's just about sliding off to sleep and thinking about what a wonderful day it's been, he has his very own shovel in the puss moment. Boing...! Four - one... Four - one... Aaaghhh! Four fuckin' one! Aye, that's right ya lino likkin' fuck! Four - one. And never forget it. Yer team's no' even the second team in Fife (as anyone from Burntisland will tell you...). Four - one, four - one, four - one. Enjoy yer night ya big sister shaggin' shite. And never forget those numbers. Four fuckin' one. Four fuckin' one. Three words that prove five words... East Fife, Kings of Fife!