3 - 8 (EIGHT)

My beloved Wycombe Wanderers took a right hammering last night in a game that could for once rightly be described as 'a game of two halves'.

The first 45 minutes saw us destroy Aston Villa - 61 places above us in the league pyramid - with a form of devastating attacking football that left their millionaire stars wondering what on earth they'd walked into. We hit them with pace, guile, movement, skill and passion. And they couldn't take it. It was magnificent. Villa were lucky to be only 3-1 behind at the break.

The second half, as you may have heard, was a slightly different story. Our manager, John Gorman, is not one to rest on his laurels. Death or Glory. Is the only story. Even 3-1 up against premiership giants, not a thought of defending the lead entered his head. We came out in the second half like 11 Hamas bombers, with no concept of danger or our own mortality. Villa got a goal back 5 minutes into the second half. Time to hold out for a draw and put 10 men behind the ball for 40 minutes? Not a bit of it. We piled forward with even more urgency. The equaliser came soon after and we responded by charging back at them.. hitting the post and the crossbar. Then disaster struck. Our top scorer Tyson limped off injured. Soon after came a freakish own-goal, a massively deflected shot and a penalty that (clearly) never was. Somehow we found ourselves 6-3 down rather than 3-1 up. 'You'd won, but you fucked it up' sang the Villa fans. We didn't care. We have trancended merely winning or losing football matches. John Gorman's blue revolution rises above such trivialities. It's not about where you go but how you get there. And we get there in style. As if to prove it, Sergio Torres and Tommy Mooney exchanged a backheeled 1-2 leaving a Villa player sprawled on the turf. The terrace purred with delight.

Two more goals went in. 8-3! Insane! 'We're Going to win 9-8' The Valley sang. And even at this hopeless juncture nobody left. Nobody moaned. For 50 minutes we'd played the best football we'd ever seen, and then got mugged. Simple.

At a time when the tedious Premiership is seemingly in crisis from falling crowds, ridiculous ticket prices and negative football, watching Wycombe at the moment is a flashback to a utopian past of 2-4-4 formations, goals galore and a corinthian spirit. We have realised that despite what we're continually told, it's not the winning that's important, but how you conduct yourself. And it's better to lose with your dignity in tact than to win at all costs.

Strangely I feel better after last night's tonking than after many a routine 2-0 victory. Some people of course were furious at the defensive negligence, and embarrassed to have conceded 8 goals. They are wrong. For the first time in years I am looking forward to every game. Sometimes everything will come off and we'll win 5-0... other times we'll get thrashed. Although I still expect us to win League 2, I have now realised that this is not the important thing. After all, if we get promoted we'll just play some slightly less rubbish teams for a few years until we get relegated again. No, the important thing is for the players to enjoy playing and the punters to enjoy watching. And I am certainly enjoying watching this season.

Report from The Times

This is how deranged Wycombe blog SMBU documents the idealogical revolution...

Feeling Gravity's Pull

It was a tough night for Principled John as he saw his dreams of a moustachioed nation shattered in the second half as Aston Villa ran riot to a monstrous extent, reacting as if Rodney King had been beaten to death outside the Vere Suite by the WWST.

Seven Villa goals in the second half gave the game a gloss so thick for the midlanders that it could have resisted the payload of Enola Gay. Meat Clinic spies located at deep locations inside the ground report that Honest John made sure that his bloodied troops stayed true to their principles even as the ceiling fell in on their skulls.

The most important legacy from last night's game is that it has split the supporters into two ideologically fundamental camps.

Camp 7: Purists, artistes and showmen. They are enjoying the romp and pomp, the slick moves and Gorman's rare Detroit groove. Last night was a heroic loss, a charge of the light brigade into the Hughenden Valley. Fireworks light their dreams, Bonfire Night is their Easter Sunday.

Camp 66: Gripe-water enthusiasts. These stern folk found last night torture, each Villa goal akin to a Serbian hitman breaking into their house punching their wife. Proud John is a villain on a par with Norris McWhirter and the sooner he is incarcerated in Long Crendon prison the better.


Now the Meat Clinic has always been above such petty disputes, seeing as we are the ideological enemies of the pathetic Drone Army and their curious ways. Nevertheless, Camp 7 seems to be the home for us for the near future. The world of football is awash with grey at the present and a moribund functionality that makes new-born children staple their own eyelids shut.

Twinkling John may be more flawed than Wellington but he is committed to going down with his troops, firing the cannons of beauty as all aorund cling to their lazily bobbing dour dinghys. We will face the future with salt water in mouths but with our joyous hearts bursting. When we go, we're going the Viking way.

Push me out to sea, push me out to sea.

JACKSON & HIS COMPUTER BAND - UTOPIA