Foreword. 

This is the second part of my Harefield Trilogy. If you are easily offended there is more bad language in this episode but I believe it is essential to the plot and contrary to popular belief, swearing is big and clever. Any character’s similarity to real persons dead or alive is purely intentional. I have genuine affection for all the people of Harefield . If I have upset anyone and you bar me from your pub, well I don’t drink anyway. Read on and discover who created the universe and why the Horse and Barge really closed. 

Christmas Day

Christmas morning finally arrived and the snow ceased falling. An untouched virgin layer of snow covered the whole of Harefield, six inches deep and as white as, well, snow. Outside the famous Bombay Garden Curry House the snow penis built by Julius and Splashly still stood erect and proud. Some revellers had placed litter bins on top of both speed cameras on Church Hill as a jape and decorated them with tinsel and lametta. Lord Cameltoe had abandoned his Rolls Royce in the Kings Arms car park where some jokers had built a snowman on the bonnet, with beer bottle caps for eyes and a snow-filled condom for a nose. A wag had drawn the obligatory cock and bollocks on the windscreen.  Ducks on the pond skittered across the ice pecking at the pitta bread from kebabs that had been purchased the previous night but left uneaten as the would-be consumers had sobered up on the way home home and in a moment of clarity had realised how disgusting kebabs really were, and lobbed them on the frozen water for the mallards

The first Harefieldian to venture forth on Christmas morn was the council road sweeper Jamie Paraffin. Munching on yesterday’s cheese burger with onions and spluttering on an untipped Woodbine, he retrieved his barrow from behind Rameshes’ Revenge and All-Nite Convenience Store in Gilbert Road and set about clearing the snow from the pavements in the High Street. He was mildly pleased to see that underneath the snow the local takeaway proprietors had cleared away all the detritus from the previous night’s customers as usual. The village was blessed with several excellent eat in and takeaway establishments and also some dodgy ones. Ali Baba’s Cafe, the Foo King Ada Chinese, Harefield Kebab and Horse Burgers, Peri Peri Chickens In A Basket, the Bombay Garden Curry House and of course Fishy Mitchell’s Chip Shop. No relation to the original Fishy Mitchell, Ivor, who was a prince amongst men, this Fishy’s idea of saving the planet by recycling  was to use the same frying fat over and over again until all of his produce tasted just like Jamie’s stale greasy burger.

All over the village children were waking to the tidings that Santa had been and gone, having left bulging sacks of toys and various other presents. The poor children from the Alms Houses and the orphans from the Old Workhouse were delighted to receive gifts such as oranges and chocolate pennies In their stockings whilst the youngsters from the upmarket Dovedale Estate found quad bikes and radio controlled drones at the end of their beds, which would come in very handy for their narcotic deliveries. Parents rising while suffering from iffy tummies and pounding headaches would blame their maladies on ‘that dodgy last pint’ or ‘that chicken korma’ rather than the previous ten pints with whisky chasers they had necked the night before whilst proclaiming “Christmas? Well, it’s a time for children isn’t it?” In every household across the village light breakfasts were prepared with small sherries on the side for medicinal purposes only of course. Presents were exchanged and families settled down in front of their wide screen plasma TVs to watch Christmas With Wogan.

Santa isn’t the only one who works just the one day a year at Christmas. Traditionally publicans would give their staff the day off and put in a shift themselves for once. Whilst elsewhere children would be squabbling over their new toys with their siblings and parents arguing over whether to watch The Snowman or White Christmas on the telly, all across the village the pub landlords were preparing for their busiest lunchtime of the season.  In the Kings Arms the guv’nor Sean decanted a pint  of Tescos Value Brand Whisky into the Glenfiddich Single Malt bottle and diluted the Courvoisier brandy with Lucozade. He removed the poster advertising last night’s band, The Sweet, and replaced it with one proclaiming. “CHRISTMAS DAY CLOSING TWO O’CLOCK. NO AFTERS!!!!!!!!”

In the Spotted Dalmation Mr. Jolly was also putting up a poster. “ONE FREE DRINK LIMITED TO REGULAR CUSTOMERS ONLY !!!!!!”   “Bleeding Christmas!” He muttered to his long suffering wife Penny “All these once a year merchants cluttering up my pub. Tell them it’s one free drink for my very regulars like Erroll and Lumber. If that Tommy South comes in with his dad give Tom a drink and tell his old man to fuck right off!”   He then put the Mackeson clock above the dart board forward fifteen minutes so he could close early and went back to watering his lager.

Down the High Street in the Harefield Inn Mr. Ho Ho Ho the licensee tip toed downstairs in his lime green Paisley patterned  kimono and matching night cap, stepping over the snoring recumbent form of Hoppy the Geordie who had stayed overnight having claimed to have been snowed in and unable to reach Merle Avenue, twenty yards across the road. He pressed a tumbler to the optics and helped himself to a large Laphroaig single malt that he tossed back with a practised flick of the wrist. Being the landlord of the official Best Pub In The Village bore great responsibility and he had standards to maintain. He laid pristine white tablecloths across the polished oak tables and placed a vase of fresh poinsettia in the centre of each. He buffed the brass beer pumps until he could see the reflection of the optics in them and stood back admiring his handiwork. What a fine selection of ales he beheld! Old Bedwetter, the local Harefield ale brewed in the Village Malt House since time immemorial, Tim Brooke-Taylor’s Landlord, Smudger Smith’s IPA, Badger’s Arse, Wife Beater Strong Ale and of course the old favourite Golden Rain.  Although everybody knows that lager is the devil’s piss, he still sold the best continental lagers for miles and the pub’s Stella Artois was endorsed by none other than the official Stella Monster Mr. Shifter himself. Mr. Ho Ho Ho polished the pint pots and busied himself preparing Chinese finger buffet food for the bar, Dim Sum, prawn crackers and mini spring rolls were laid out temptingly awaiting the first customers to come through the door at twelve on the dot. Martyn the part time cellar man clanked and sloshed around downstairs in his wellies adjusting pressure gauges and banging plugs in firkins or knocking bungs in casks or whatever it is cellar men do. “Thar she blows!” cried Martyn as a barrel exploded. “Mmmmpppfffgguummmmpfffpifffuuugggg” spluttered Hoppy the Geordie who was asleep on the floor behind the bar and had just been drenched by a jet of Cold Guinness.

There are two other pubs in Harefield . The Old Orchard is an expensive gastro pub solely for outsiders. The only villager to drink there is the two hundred year old local wizard Hairspring who visits daily to accept his free pint of Old Bedwetter in return for the spell he casts which ensures the establishment a clientele of wealthy out of villagers and no local trouble makers. Here a team of master chefs, sous chefs, prep cooks and line cooks had been preparing turkey, beef, pork, lamb and all the trimmings  since the day before Christmas Eve. The maitre ‘d was supervising the silver service waiting staff  in their smart black and white uniforms whilst outside in the car park a team of liveried footmen were waiting in readiness to valet park the customers’ luxury limousines that were about to start arriving . Meanwhile the only other drinking establishment in the village, The Halfway House, lay derelict after the disco riots of 2009 when a contingent of bargees from Harefield Marina had clashed with ravers from a Northern Soul all nighter and the pub was half destroyed. Plans were afoot to renovate the old place, paint it a gaudy colour and re-name it Yogi Bear On A Boat in an attempt to emulate the Old Orchard’s success and attract wealthy punters from nearby Mill End.

The village also boasts three members clubs. In the Royal British Legion Ex-Serviceman’s Club tucked away behind the Church Hall the club steward Alf Price had finished clearing away the snow from the car park and was now shovelling up the mountain of dog ends from the entrance hall in readiness for the first brave ex-servicemen to arrive for their halves of mild and games of shove ha’penny. He placed a large plate of cheese and diesel sandwiches on the bar, turned the light on the dart board, put a washer in the juke box and selected Merry Christmas Everyone by Shakin’ Stevens. “Perfick” he muttered to himself as he drew the bolts and sat waiting for the pikies to turn up.

At the Cricket Club Mr. Fingers the barlord adjusted his ‘special Christmas prices’. Operating a two tier system he put an extra ten pence on a pint for members and doubled the prices for non-members. “Keeps the riff raff out? Keeps me in foreign holidays more like” he chuckled. He checked the list of members that Lumber the membership secretary had left him, crossed a few more off, then some more just for luck and closed the curtains to keep out the daylight.

Next door in the Football Club the chairman Dhont Dhillydhally was in the kitchen stirring a large pot of turkey curry. The club could no longer afford to employ a steward so Arsenal the barmaid had volunteered to fill the shift. The fruit machines were turned on and rigged to not pay out for the session, Roland the Ratcatcher cleaned the lines and the giant sized TV screen showed Christmas Deal Or No Deal. All across Harefield everything was set for the big opening time.

At twelve o’clock prompt the doors opened and drinkers flooded into the village’s boozers. Regulars at the Harefield Inn were not surprised to see Hoppy the Geordie already on his second pint of Guinness. “If you can’t have laties have  earlies” he explained. It was mostly the menfolk in the pubs and clubs, supping as much as they could force down their necks in the allotted two hours. Generally the women of the village would stay at home pretending to be cooking the turkey dinner they had really prepared the day before, but in truth drinking as much cooking sherry as the men were drinking beer. Every establishment was six deep at the bar with thirsty customers trying to get served, with the exception of the Football Club where the only drinkers were Moulder, Hanky, Con and Sibbo. “Turkey curry anyone?” begged Dhont Dhillydhally from the kitchen.

Well the pints were sunk and the drinks were drunk, as were the customers in all the boozers that lunch time. The talk was talked, the walk was staggered and a good time was had by all. Christmas cards were exchanged, the part time drinkers arranged to meet the same time next year, the full time drinkers arranged to meet the same time on Boxing Day, the last bell tolled for everyone and at shortly after two fifteen the village landlords shooed the last of their customers out of the door and drew the bolts. Drunken kisses were swapped, handshakes of a certain kind were made and goodbyes were said. The gentlefolk of Harefield made their way home through the snow that was falling heavily again, full of good cheer and spirits of the alcoholic kind, home to loving families and a turkey dinner. TVs were turned on for the Queens Speech followed by The Great Escape and the the good people of the village fell asleep in front of the box before being woken up to a tray of turkey sandwiches and starting the eating and drinking all over again.

Boxing Day

The sun rose late on Boxing Day morning to a fresh fall of snow. After the inertia and ennui of the previous day the village came alive again. Dog owners took their pets out for a walk and a shit in the woods. Ramblers and backpackers trudged through the snow blowing away the Christmas cobwebs. Children rode their new bikes in the parks and on the common. On the upmarket Dovedale Estate residents held speed trials in the street for the children on their new scrambling bikes.  Today was a big day on the sporting calendar and outside Bill the Bookies regular punters Moody John, Garry Oaks and Arnie Spencer impatiently waited,  anxious to spunk away their Christmas bonuses. In the pubs the landlords, exhausted after their two hour shifts the day before were putting their feet up upstairs and relinquishing their duties to their reliable stalwart bar staff. Harefield is blessed with the most beautiful and efficient barmaids in the world. One, affectionately known as the Panda, can simultaneously work shifts in both the Cricket Club and the Spotted Dalmation. Her sunny smile has brightened up the day of many a dirty old man. At the Harefield Inn the barmaids are so gorgeous that the waiting list to join includes former beauty queens whose ambitions are to travel and work with animals. Credentials for the job include the ability to draw a cock in the head of a pint of Guinness and to be able to drink until dawn after work and still turn up at ten am to clean the pub ready for midday opening. 

Harefield is very strong on traditions and a yearly ritual is the skating on the pond on Boxing Day. The villagers gathered on the common at eleven in the morning in anticipation of the first celebrity skater, the two hundred year old village wizard Hairspring. The elder is so light on his feet that his clothing weighs more than he does. Nobody is allowed to take to the ice before him and applause rang out as he tottered down the steps by the war memorial and onto the rink. He performed a series of pirouettes, back flips, toe loops, flip jumps and axel jumps to gasps from the crowd. The Boy Scout Brass Band played the Bolero and a camera crew from Sky Extreme Sports were on hand to film the event for a New Year’s special. Hairspring exited the ice to great acclaim from the assembled throng and a kiss on the cheek from Harefield’s very own member of royalty, the Duchess of Harefield herself Lady Julie Davy-Crockett. Before the general public were allowed to skate the ice had to be tested to ensure it could take the weight of several hundred villagers dancing on it. After the lightest man in the village it was the turn of the heaviest to have a go. The village taxi driver Dick Deans was lowered onto the surface and waddled across to the middle of the pond. When the ice didn’t crack a big cheer rang out, the surface was pronounced safe by the Mayor of Harefield, Atul von Londis, and the villagers took to the ice en masse skating around in an anti clockwise direction. Outside the Kings Arms Sean the guv’nor was doling out mugs of piping hot chocolate to the frozen hordes whilst the local copper PC Backhander turned a blind eye to the stall Mr. Fingers had set up in the Cricket Club car park selling mulled wine and hot toddies out of licensing hours. 

In the Spotted Dalmation Mr. Jolly, frustrated by being too far away from the lucrative skater’s market, had phoned the police to complain about the noise coming from the Football Club. Boxing Day was the biggest day in Harefield’s sporting life, the annual local ‘Breakspear Road’ derby between Harefield United and their local rivals, Hillingdon Borough FC. Big crowds were expected, local pride was at stake here between the two communities, Bill the Bookie had already taken big money in his Harefield shop while his brother Ben the Bookie from Ruislip was likewise fleecing the punters of Hillingdon. At Preston Park, home of the Hares, preparations were beginning. The club stalwarts were hard at work, Moulder and Badly Drawn Roy putting out traffic cones and organising a one way system around Gilbert Road while Jamie Paraffin  was testing the public address tannoy. “ONE TWO ONE TWO!” he shouted, “CAN YOU HEAR ME?”   Mr. Dhont Dhillydhally the club chairman was in the kitchen re-heating the unsold turkey curry from Christmas Day. “I’ll get Jamie to advertise this over the Tannoy ” he said to himself. ” ONE TWO ONE TWO OI MOULDER IS THIS FUCKING THING WORKING?” he heard from outside. “Perhaps not” thought the chairman. 

After the display on the pond the villagers dispersed to their favourite watering holes for pre-match cocktails. Some went to the Kings Arms and the Harefield Inn but most followed the Boy Scouts Brass Band who marched to the Football Club along Breakspear Road North to the tune of Vindaloo. Soon the club was rammed with thirsty football supporters ten deep at the bar. Arsenal the barmaid was rushed off her feet. “One at a time, one at a time!” she shouted “Now who’s next?”  ” Me me me!” the fifty strong crowd called in unison. Arsenal’s hands were a blur as she pulled pints like there was no tomorrow and in the kitchen Mr. Dhillydhally was ladling turkey  curry into plastic bowls desperately trying to keep up with rising demand. Soon the club house was full to bursting and the overflow of supporters spilled into The Spotted Dalmation. Mr. Jolly rubbed his hands together and raised his prices. Over in North Ruislip the away supporters were gathering. The Hillingdon Borough club house, known locally as the Four Cs, Mrs Singh’s Curry Cafe and Conference Centre, was fit to bursting and both the Woodman and the Breakspear Arms were rocking. After a couple of hours of heavy drinking the Boro’ mob would make their way the mile or so along Breakspear Road by car, mini bus, taxi or some on foot. Some had started early in Harefield, taking over the Cricket Club as the away pub where Mr. Fingers the barlord had hired extra staff and was profiteering mightily. 

At two o clock the local bobbies PC Brigade and PC Backhander, joined by Sargeant Garry Gay the bent copper, signalled to Badly Drawn Roy to open the gates and admit the crowd that they couldn’t hold back any longer. Slowly the capacity crowd filed through the turnstile past Jamie Paraffin who collected their five pounds entry fee  “Wiv a free programme mate”. With only the one turnstile the crowd was mixed with home and away supporters but the banter was good and friendly. Meaningless chants filled the air, ‘Here we go here we go here we go’ and ‘You wot? You wot? You wot you wot you wot?’  A bunch of middle aged heavily tattooed shaven headed men started singing a traditional Harefieldian folk song, handed down from generation to generation, so ancient that nobody knew what it meant anymore. 

BERTIE MEE SAID TO FRANK SAXON, HAVE YOU HEARD OF THE NORTH BANK HIGHBURY? NO SAID FRANK I DON’T THINK SO BUT I’VE HEARD OF THE HAREFIELD RUBBER. LA LA LA LA LA LA LA. LA LA LA LA LA LA LA . LA LA LA LA LA LA LA . WE ARE THE HARFEIELD RUBBER!!!!!  Then Come On Eileen was played over the tannoy and they all jumped on top of each other. 

All four sides of the ground were full, the away supporters in the Dog End, named not after the cigarette butts that abounded underfoot rather the nearby pub the Spotted Dalmation. The home supporters congregated in the Bitter End, so named because it often was. The officials from the league and committees from both clubs were led into the posh seats in the North Stand whilst those seeking cover from the elements gathered in the South Stand, named after a Harefield legend called Scobie.  Jamie Paraffin was issuing instructions over the tannoy. “NO STANDING IN THE STANDS! ” then “NO STANDING IN FRONT OF THE STANDS!” and “NO SITTING ON THE DUGOUTS!”  “I SAID NO STANDING IN FRONT OF THE STANDS, OI MOULDER MOVE THEM LOT OUT THE FUCKIN WAY”. “OI I FUCKIN TOLD YOU NO STANDING IN THE STANDS”   

At ten to three the Boy Scouts Brass Band struck up the tune Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life and the teams took to the pitch side by side led by referee Lady Boy Leng and his two linesmen Deathray Green and Robin Holiday. Harefield were wearing their traditional red and black strip,  Boro their blue and white. The pitch had been cleared of snow by the 1st Harefield Girl Guides who had offered as in their motto to ‘lend a hand’.  One of  the Boy Scouts was acting as the ‘Boro’s mascot. The Hares’ mascot was a little crippled boy that the Harefield manager Glen Bellend had crippled himself that very day. The white of the goal posts and nets glistened under the floodlights, flakes of snow shimmered in the air and the grass on the pitch was a vivid green. The atmosphere was electric as the sides shook hands and Lady Boy Leng called the captains up to the centre spot. The Harefield captain won the toss and elected to kick off. Lady Boy blew his whistle to signify start of play, the Hares’ centre forward touched the ball forward, the inside right sliced the ball to the Boro centre midfielder who booted the ball half the length of the pitch over the head of the Harefield keeper and into the net. “Bollocks!” screamed Bellend as the home team were one-nil down after three seconds. The visiting supporters went crazy, throwing bog rolls and streamers at the Harefield keeper. ‘One nil to the Boro Boys!’ they sang to the tune of Go West by the Pet Shop Boys. ‘You’re gonna get your fuckin’ heads kicked in!’ the Hares fans sang back at them to the tune of You’re Gonna Get Your Fuckin’ Heads Kicked In. “You wan sum? I’ll give it ya!” said the Wealdstone Raider who had turned up at the wrong game. 

The game restarted, Harefield surged forwards and with intricate passing in a Barcelona  style forced their way into the Boro penalty box. The right winger feinted one way, went the other past the Boro left back who then lunged at him waist high sending the unfortunate winger sprawling onto the grass. The defender then kicked the attacker in the testicles for good measure. “Penalty!” appealed the Harefield players and supporters. ” No foul play on!” replied referee Sam ‘Lady Boy’ Leng. (You all thought it was Tony didn’t you?). The right full back cleared the ball to the right winger who dribbled the length of the pitch before crossing to the centre forward who leapt unmarked like a salmon and headed the ball into the Hares’ net. Two-nil down after five minutes was not the plan and the crowd were restless. “Bellend out! Bellend out!” they chanted. 

After that things went from bad to worse. By halftime the Hares were six-nil down and manager Belllend was hanging his head in shame. The team trooped off the pitch disconsolate into the dressing rooms to await their halftime bollocking. “You all want pulling off at halftime!” called a member of the crowd as they trudged by. “Is that an offer?” quipped the slightly effeminate creative midfielder. As Bellend unlocked the dressing room door he noticed a shadowy slender figure in a hoodie already lurking in the corner by the whiteboard where someone had scrawled WANKERS on it. Hairspring (for it was he) tapped the board with his staff and screeched ” That’s what you are! The whole bloody lot of you!”  Manager Bellend sniggered. “And you too Bellend!” exclaimed the wizard “Now go and tell that tosser of a ref you wish to change your team before the second half”.  “Er you can’t do that sir” replied Bellend, “It’s not in the rules”.  “They’re laws not rules!” shouted Hairspring “And I make them! Now go see the ref!”  Bellend stomped off the the ref’s room expecting to return saying I told you so. ” I created the fucking universe” muttered Hairspring to himself ” I’ll change the fucking laws to fucking football if I fucking want to” 

Manager Bellis tapped cautiously on the referee’s dressing room door. ( Note from the continuity department. Gaz, you changed his name to Bellend)  oops sorry , Manager Bellend tapped cautiously on the referee’s dressing room door. “Enter!” Came the reply. ” Er, can I make a request please Mr. Lady Boy?”  “I’m not a ladyboy” answered Sam as he tucked his private parts away between his legs ” It’s just a figment of the author’s imagination and as a running gag it’s not very funny. Now what do you want?”  “Er, I’d like to make a half time substitution please sir” requested Bellend.  ” Not a problem” replied Sam, “How many?”  ” Just the one” said Bellend “The whole team”. “The whole team? That’s not in the rules!” exclaimed Sam. “LAWS!! THEY’RE LAWS NOT RULES AND I MAKE THEM” boomed Hairspring from the home dressing room. “Look I’ll prove it. ” Sam explained. He opened his FA Laws of Football manual, flicked through the pages until he came to the relevant section. “Look, here you go…….  a team may make up to three substitutions only in a match. There, told you so! Oh hang on, there’s more ….,,,,,,, it says here unless the home team is losing six-nil at half time in a local derby on Boxing Day where they can make as many substitutions as necessary. Well I never knew that. So who do you want to bring on?”  “Well that’s the thing” retorted Bellend “I haven’t got anyone “. ” So stop wasting my time and let’s get on with the game” shouted Sam ” Let’s get back on the pitch everyone!”  

The Hillingdon Borough team sprinted back onto the pitch to great applause from their own supporters. ” We Are The Champions” they sang and “We Will Rock You” and “Fat Bottomed Girls” and other Queen songs. “Shall we do Crazy Little Thing Called Love next?” asked one supporter. ” Don’t push it son” was the general consensus.  Referee Sam had injured himself at half time trying to shave his Adam’s apple  so he was replaced by his father Tony Ting Tong Leng. The eyes of the whole stadium were on the tunnel from the dressing rooms from which the home side had failed to reappear. Ting Tong Leng blew his whistle long and loud. ” Harefield if you don’t put a team out now I’m awarding the points to Hillingdon!” he ordered. Two figures emerged from the home team dug out and walked slowly towards Ting Tong in the centre circle. The first was a slight stooped silhouette wearing a hooded cowl and carrying a staff. It was Hairspring. The second was a fuller figure pushing a bicycle. It was Dicky Jives, Hairspring’s acolyte. The wizard stopped on the centre spot, raised his arms in the air, stamped his staff on the ground and chanted a spell  ” Maximus Potentus Humilis Homoeroticus Fuckus Your Luckus Come On You Hares”   There was a clap of thunder, a bolt of lightning hit the Spotted Dalmation and knocked out their electricity and the crowd gasped in amazement. From the tunnel onto the pitch ran a team in the Harefield United classic strip from the sixties, gold shirts, black shorts and black stockings with three gold bands at the top. Harefield legends to a man, led by giant five foot six goalkeeper Eddie Briggs there followed such local heroes as Johnny Franks, Kenny Sibley, Kenny Evans, Freddie South, Jeff Collett, Alan Barr, Billy Charlton, Stuart Leavy, Gary ‘Willo’ Williams, Alex ‘Browny’ Brown and ex-Chelsea and Scotland international Steve Finniston.  The substitute strike force of Raoul Sam and Pedro Herbert attempted to enter the field of play too but manager Hoppy the Geordie who in his capacity as darts captain had replaced Bellend at half time told them “Divvent tek the piss bonny lads, we’ve got twelve on already!”  

The Harefield players formed a continental style huddle. ” Right lads!” Briggsy ordered ” We’re doing this for the little crippled boy that Bellend crippled. Let’s get at ’em!” Hoppy the Geordie barked his orders ” Okay ye aall knaa yer positions. Finniston gan hooker, Browny and Willo prop forwards, Southy scrum half, Hanky fly half, number eight yer play the number eight position, Moulder you’re a flanker” ” No I’m fuckin’ not !” Interjected Kenny Evans ” And the rest of yous get stuck in an’ hirrem first!”   Ignoring Geordie’s Rugby Union instructions the players assumed the old fashioned W formation. Ting Tong Leng blew his whistle and the Boro centre forward kicked off the second half. 

United quickly gained possession, Evans received the ball and danced down the wing on fresh youthful legs. He mesmerised the heavy Boro fullback by demonstrating the Roeder Shuffle, the Cruyff Stepover and the Norman Wisdom Stumble before crossing the ball into Sibley’s  path who fired it into a bulging net. The Hares were on their way back but it would be an almost impossible task. Boro restarted immediately and sent the ball forward  flying into the United box. The ball scrambled loose, boots hacking at it until a Boro foot sent it flying upwards where it hit the crossbar, bounced down onto Briggs’ head, back up onto the crossbar again and down over the goal line. One – seven was the score and the six goal advantage for Boro was maintained. 

The score remained the same until the eightieth minute.  The Harefield veterans battled valiantly, had most of the possession they but could not seem to break down the Hillingdon defence. Hairspring slipped into the dugout and sat beside Hoppy. “Ok I’ll take over from here son. ” he advised the Geordie. The elder unscrewed his half pint hip flask, poured himself a pint of Old Bedwetter and muttered a spell. “Omnipotus Erecticus Dignitas Magnaminous Achy Breaky Hearticus Come On You Hares”   Immediately the snow started falling heavily but only on the half of the pitch that Harefield were defending. The other half was bathed in brilliant sunshine which was odd as it was after dusk. The last ten minutes saw a perfect hat trick from Collett, left foot, right foot and header, and a brace of long range daisy cutters from Billy Charlton in the style of his Uncle Bobby. “THE REFEREE HAS INDICATED SEVEN MINUTES OF TIME ADDED ON” announced  Jamie over the PA system. The  crowd urged their heroes on from both teams, the Boro fans whistling for the referee to blow time while the Hares’ supporters nervously glanced at their watches. The giant five foot six Harefield goalkeeper Eddie Briggs had been building a row of snowmen on his line when he received a back pass from Johnny Franks. He booted it up the pitch to Stuart Levy who flicked the ball onto Stevie Finniston who did a one two with Browny and belted the ball past the flat footed Boro keeper to make the score seven all. The home crowd erupted and a few fans ran on the pitch to hug the former Scottish  international. ” GET OFF THE PITCH!” shouted Jamie into his microphone. ” How long ref? ” asked the Boro captain. The ref stuck two fingers up at him to signify two minutes, the Boro player took the gesture the wrong way, advised the referee on the benefits of sex and travel and got sent off for his trouble. 

With seconds left Boro kicked off again, the Harefield  number ten Alan Barr received the ball in the left back position and ran the length of the pitch with it. The referee was checking his watch. “SOME PEOPLE ARE ON THE PITCH” commentated Jamie, “I TOLD YOU TO FUCKIN GET OFF!”  Alan reached the edge of the Boro penalty area and sweetly struck the ball over the keeper into the away team’s net. “Gooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaallllllllllllllllll!!!!!”  shouted the reporter from Harefield Hospital Radio into his microphone. Eight-seven to the Hares, the referee blew for full time and the crowd went crackers. There was a pitch invasion, the United fans carried the players off shoulder high and were applauded by both sets of supporters. In the dugout Hoppy, Hairspring and Dicky Jives danced a merry jig. Back in the clubhouse former manager Bellend sat slumped at the bar over a pint. “Anyone could’ve done that” he muttered to Arsenal who totally ignored him.  

Out on the pitch United Chairman Dhont Dhillydhally was spraying the players with champagne and the opposing  sets of supporters engaged in a good natured snowball fight.  Players from both sides exchanged handshakes and shirts, the Harefield players from the first half tried to get in on the act but were mostly ignored and settled for autographs instead. As the crowds filed out of Preston Park hawkers were already selling gold and black Harefield United scarves and the pubs began to fill with celebrating happy Harefieldians. 

Chairman Dhillydhally had laid on a banquet for the players and officials of both sides. While they were eating and the speeches were being made DJ Myleash set up his equipment for the evening’s entertainment. The demand for tickets had been immense so only club members were re-admitted. The rest of the village partied long and hard that evening well into the small hours but the celebrations at the Football Club lasted for so long that they saw in the New Year. Harefield has many fine entertainers amongst its residents and each night a different act played at the club. There was Jim Spicer’s Playboy Band with the wonderful Judith on vocals and Gaz Del on bass, Barry and the Tellers, Deane Roy Edgeways and his ukulele, Gazza and the Chevrons, Smudger Smiff and the Zodiacs, and on New Years Eve the members danced the night away to Harefield’s very own Frank Ifield impersonator Colin Silver who had been discovered on the TV talent show Britain’s Got Tourettes, backed by his two sons Ricky and Danny and their band My Girl Shirl. 

On New Years Eve the whole of the village partied like they did in 1999, In fact like they did every year. The High Street was closed off for traffic and the victorious Harefield United Football Team led a carnival of floats in an open top 347 bus. Chairman Dhont Dhillydhally, managers Glenn Bellend, Hoppy the Geordie and Hairspring waved from the front of the bus, Kenny Evans sported a pair of comedy breasts, players sprayed champagne everywhere and goalie Eddie Briggs dropped the Athenian League Cup that the Hares had held since 1984 under the wheels of the bus. On the stroke of midnight the Duchess of Harefield Lady Julie Davy-Crockett lit a beacon on the common that could be seen as far as the Sarratt Treacle Mines and Lumber Wood set off a firework display even bigger than Boris the Mayor’s effort alongside the River Thames in London. The villagers linked arms on the common, in the Kings Arms car park and all along the High Street and sang Auld Lang Syne. Whistle Sleighrider went door to door first footing in the traditional  short dark stranger guise and the revellers danced and drank until dawn. It was the end of another wonderful year in the magical place that is Harefield and everyone looked forward to a new year ahead and the promise of even more happy times. 

HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE!