ThatNorthernBloke

Read Episode 7 here.

There are nights when football bends reality.


When tactics, logic, and even common sense all pack their bags and fuck off to the nearest Wetherspoons.


This was one of those nights.

It was a cold, wet Tuesday at Molton Road.


Rain lashed the dugout so hard that Sabbi had to hide under a weighted blanket, his foot still in tatters.


These were the conditions where Dyche, Pulis and Allardyce thrive — mud, misery, and long balls their gospel.
Winter had come. Summer was but a distant fever dream.

After a win and a draw earlier in the week, the third game began like a Cameron Carter-Vickers crime scene.


Four penalties. One red card. Goochball in ruins.


The referee blew his whistle like a man trying to swat a wasp in a hurricane, and by the 35th minute we were 4–0 down and seriously considering applying for jobs at the local Screwfix.

The Molton Road faithful were restless. Guzan’s knees had started their usual clicking symphony, Gooch was halfway through a Shakespearean meltdown on the touchline, and I swear Barry poured holy water into Crystal Dunn’s water bottle and whispered something in Latin that sounded suspiciously like “press higher.” She immediately two-footed someone and got booked.

Even the floodlights dimmed — maybe divine intervention, maybe just the dodgy wiring again.

Then, like the calm before a tornado, Mallory Swanson decided enough was enough.


The Swan spread her wings.

First came a delicate flick from nowhere, slicing through chaos like a surgeon with ADHD.


1–4.


Then a curling strike that defied physics, reason, and the goalkeeper’s will to live.


2–4.


By 70 minutes, she’d smashed home a third — a volley that screamed vengeance and redemption in equal measure.


3–4.

Molton Road was alive again. The dugout shook. Barry fainted.


DaMarcus Beasley did a full lap of the pitch during an injury break just because he could.

At 80 minutes, Sophia Wilson latched onto a through ball, coolly chipping the keeper to level it up.


4–4.


Bedlam. Players roared like rabid dogs, fans howled, and somewhere in the crowd a meat pie achieved terminal velocity.

And then — the 87th minute.


The air hung thick with disbelief and Greggs pastry fumes.


Swanson cut in from the left one last time.


A drop of the shoulder. A chop. A stepover.


A finish so clean it should’ve come with a hygiene rating.


5–4.

The whistle blew. Silence.


Then pandemonium.

Barry dropped to his knees screaming, “REBIRTH!”


I dropped to mine because I’d pulled a hamstring celebrating.

Through the chaos, Gooch found me on the touchline, rain dripping from his fringe, arm around my shoulder.
He looked out over the pitch — mud, madness, and glory — and whispered the words that’ll echo through Molton Road for years to come:

“Ho'way! The Swan always rises, gaffer. Even from 4–0 down!”

For a moment, the world felt still. The lights glowed brighter. Even the rain seemed to fall slower, as if time itself was holding its breath.

And behind us, as the players soaked in the moment, Barry stood in the shadows, eyes closed, muttering to himself. Later, he’d scribble the words into his weathered notebook — a new prophecy born from the storm:

“When the bird of grace conquers the tempest, the heart will return to beat again.
But beware, for after rebirth comes reckoning —
and even the brightest wings must one day face the dark.”

After the Miracle

The days that followed felt… hollow.

Not in a bad way — more like the air after a thunderstorm. Still charged. Still humming. But heavier, quieter, as if Molton Road itself was catching its breath.

The crowd had gone home, the mud had hardened, and Barry spent three straight nights meditating in the home dugout, muttering that “the Swan had awoken the old gods.”

Even Gooch looked different — not happier, but as if a weight was on his shoulders, like a man who’d glimpsed footballing divinity and knew it couldn’t last.

We’d scaled the impossible, pulled glory from the jaws of calamity, and now there was only one question left:
What comes after a miracle?

Turns out, the answer was paperwork, fixture congestion, and the slow death of my Division Rivals dreams.

The Nation Of Domination

First up, this is another 2-week episode. I’ll admit, I got caught up in trying to win the Guantlet (I didn’t) and ended up not getting enough Rivals points for even basic rewards — the club is in a shambles, Tea Lady Tracey is on strike, our fodder is depleted with no sign of being renewed. We’re in the doldrums.

But with the launch (and return) of Ultimate Scream, we looked to bounce back — and bounce back we did. A scarily dominant display in the last week of the season saw us nail our Rivals wins in just 12 games, winning 9, meaning that we get maximum rewards (now in Division 5). The likelihood we pack anything? Zero to none.

I did play a fair bit of the latest Rush event — Nightmare For Defenders. More like a fucking nightmare for everyone else. I know that EAFC players are said to have the lowest IQ of any gaming community, and Rush goes a long way to proving that.

I’ve never seen so many people with so little understanding of the basic tenets of football — pass and move, stay on side, mark your player.

It’s like three headless chickens are having an orgy, and grating my testicles is more fun than playing the mode.

Challenge Time

A very uneventful challenge this week — at least on paper.


The gods of random fate delivered us a strange one: He’s No Finnish, He’s Only 28 — field a team with no player under 28 years old.

On the surface, simple enough. In practice? Like trying to get Barry to fill out a tax return.

The squad looked more like a veterans’ five-a-side down at the leisure centre than a team of professional athletes. Knees clicked like metronomes, backs seized up mid-warmup, and Brad Guzan had to stretch his hamstring using a car jack. 
 Even Gooch muttered something about “needing a mobility scooter upgrade.”

But football is a cruel temptress — and what started as a test of endurance quickly spiralled into ninety minutes of pure, unfiltered madness.

Lynn Biyendolo — drafted in as our surprise weapon — rolled back the years like a fine supermarket wine left out in the sun.


Two goals.


Two thunderbolts from nowhere.


And at one point, she celebrated by pretending to take her teeth out.

The rest of the team followed her lead, in what can only be described as the slowest game of pinball ever played.

Every attack ended in calamity, every defensive clearance ricocheted off someone’s backside, and by the 80th minute the scoreboard looked like a broken calculator.

6–6.

By the final whistle, half the squad were wheezing, Barry was trying to summon the spirit of Pelé through interpretive dance, and Guzan had started icing both knees and his ego.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t tactical. But by god, it was unadulterated Goochball — geriatric edition.

Moving Forwards

I’m not going to lie, I do have a headache. Thanks to EA deciding that pretty much the only position they are going to give American Ultimate Scream players is CM, I have a choice between approximately 6.3 billion central midfielders in a formation that has only two.

I think I’m going to wait for the 99 stat upgrades to see who to play, but for now no one can dislodge Crystal Dunn — she is the player that makes everything tick for the team. A rock in defence, a menace in attack.

Next week is the start of a new season, which usually means that Rivals becomes an absolute slugfest as relegation takes place and players battle for promotion.

We have found our favoured formations — a balls-to-the-wall 4-1-3-2 where our fullbacks join the attack and we go full heavy metal football, and a 4-3-3 (2) which is more solid but equally as devastating in the final third.

We’ll see next week whether those formations can bring success, or if the new season will bring new waves of misery.

The Halloween Prophecy

As I was packing up for the night, Barry appeared in my doorway — half in the faint light of a full moon, half in what appeared to be a pool of pig’s blood.

He didn’t say a word at first, just placed a lone Fun-Size Mars Bar on my desk and stared at it like it was a sacrificial offering.

Then he spoke — voice low and raspy, smelling faintly of burning sage and raw cow’s milk.

“Some say there’s a thin veil between those who trick and those who treat. When the Beaver Moon takes hold, we will have a decision to make. Oust those who have been faithful in favour of traitorous boosts… or keep faith in the old guard, and deny the Lord of Darkness his lustful vengeance.”

He sloped off into the shadows, muttering something about “the devil being in the hearts of those who egg.”

I’ve not a bloody clue what he was on about — and when I went to eat the Mars Bar, he’d already taken a bite out of it.

Classic Barry.

Until next time, 
 YEEHAW