Soccer lesson

In Competition No. 2856 you were invited to recruit a well-known author of your choice to give Phil Neville a masterclass in the art of football commentary. After his commentary debut, unkind comparisons were drawn between Neville’s style and a speak-your-weight machine, and when the England physio was stretchered off injured, a Twitter user speculated that it was because he’d ‘slipped into a coma when a live feed of Phil Neville’s commentary was played into his earpiece’. There was lively and stimulating punditry on offer in the entry, serving as a shining example to Mr Neville. Commendations go to Adrian Fry, Hugh King and Nick Booth. The bonus fiver is D.A. Prince’s; the rest take £25 each.

Oh the volitional errors and buggery of that snotbrown ball, that bag of all the combative air and terribility! If he knocks his sconce on its limity leather, tapping it with ineluctable modality, we might yet see the present burst into crick crack crick crack and through the goal posts nicely. Ha? No no no: look away now and bury hope in the footfall dark. There he is, our two feet in his boots at the end of his legs, and what does he do? He should be hanged from a heaventree for that pass, for his passive passing, for that scrotumtightening grunt of a kick that came forth, came fifth and will lose us the match. The itch of failing throbs between his legs, pippy as a blackberry, and the ball only a stone in the plummy thick when it should be flying high in the effulgence symbolistic. No Whrrwhee! Whrrwhee! again.
D.A. Prince/James Joyce
 
And lo, I watched as the eleven Pilgrims, who did but lately sojourn in the Plain of Ease, how they then needs must pass through the Jungle of Expectation and after meet with the Men of Rome on the Field of Trials.