Gobbin’ off …..

Footy players, chiselled athletes, fit as butchers dogs and packed full of skill. I mean, have you ever tried to do what they do as second nature?

I tried it once, and only once. I was playing a fairly low grade crunchie, aggro-packed match against some suppliers to our Company. They were dead, dead fit… I’ll rephrase that, they were extremely quick, had boundless energy and generally played us off the park. I suppose it was their licensed way of getting back at us, of turning the tables and wreaking a bit of revenge for all the nagging and moaning that we, as master clients did on a day to day basis.

Tackles were flying in. The pace was frantic, in an elderly pedestrian struggling along a street kind of way. Soon, my bloated, blubbery body began to react. I looked down to my thighs, marbled like a well slapped slice of corned beef, knees buckling under the strain, heart and lungs in danger of packing up forever.

My mouth began to flood with gob. I felt sick, the riptide within my throat was in full spate – and rising by the second. I must get rid of this stuff flooding into my mouth – no problem there then, I’ll just do what every footy player does as second nature and spew it out, onto the grass.

I ball. I masticate. I manoeuvre. I tongue the gobbette to the front of my mouth and ffffffttttthhhhhhuuuummmpppppphhh. It’s gone…… and oh my God it’s coming right back at me. The orb has just assumed poly-elastomic properties - I didn’t fully expunge the mass. It does a full 180 …… one end lands straight onto my chin and the other flops right down onto my nice shiny, sponsored shirt.

Have you ever tried to wipe sloppy white stuff from your front? I’ll rephrase that, have you ever tried to get magnetic gob off the front of your chin and footy shirt whilst making a fantastic last gasp tackle to save a certain goal?

No, neither have I. I was so preoccupied with trying to wipe sticky bile from my front, chin, hands and sleeves that their number 10 nipped round me and slotted home from 18 inches.

So how do the Pro’s do it? They ‘vent’ like a turbo thrusted jet engine – from every facial orifice. Nothing ever lands on them does it? That is until one of them scores a crucial goal – then does a 20 yard knee slide, lubricated by onerous cobs of ductile gob. Sometimes, it’s a wonder they can get up from the floor, such are the adhesive qualities of ‘GobStick’.

How did I cure my inability to yocker successfully? Every time I trotted out onto the green sward I would take a nice crisp ironed ‘kerchief with me. When I felt the need to ‘gob’ – I simply whipped it out of my pocket and pressed it to my mouth ……… civilised and stylish.