The Perfect Season Comes To Close

Dear, dear readers, I, Sir Grufflebahm Oxshire, must bring your attention to the fact that the Loyalists Summer Football Season has come to a close. Of the eight matches, our Loyalists managed remain consistent to the end... zero and eight to complete the season.

Cruses Pickles! How Dare You!

"Of all the cruel events to befall mankind, your birth and persistance in existing, remains top on the list of unfortunates. Now for the love of all that is right, take down your daft website, man!" Bartholomew Bedfellow

Set Aside Your Monocles!

"It's a pity that you've been on the run dear friend, Oxy. Here's to your rapid return to health, and on behalf of the empire, I send my sincerest gratitude to the fellows running the septic systems in your village.

As for this evening's match... Loyalists... take off the top hats, set aside your monocles, groom your proud mustaches, and tear the bastards apart! May the Gods Grant Victory To The Loyalists!

A final word tonight, if you will allow me... I have established my own place on the world wide web to post my thoughts on the current state of the empire, to discuss the most urgent issues of the day, and provide you insight into some of the most pressing topics facing mankind. The site can be found by clicking here."

Earl Wapfroth Pickles of Kent

Dame Pennilson's Party Hath Wrath Me

Oh dear friends... I, Sir Grufflebahm Oxshire, am distraught to have been so absent. What should have been a simple afternoon tea on the 13th of August, at Dame Penny Pennilson's great estate at Tattleboro Woods, found your faithful scribe a fallen victim to a case of crumpet treachery, all due to the most horrible guests... the Berhams. It is no mystery that this couple, Oscar and Matilda, are people of limited good taste, but it was thanks to their over-indulgence with baking their crumpets with excess butter, so overwhelmingly so that I ponder if the engineers at the Royal Academy could use the same quantity to replicate Big Ben, that I, Oxshire, fell terribly ill. Oh friends... the consequences of the Berhams's wretched crumpets are only comparable to my experiences with malaria. In fact, this day is the first of the past fourteen that I have dared to travel more than a few paces from my blessed loo. Woah is the embarrassment.

Alas... back to the football... today features an important match for our brave Loyalists. With two games left in the season, the lads face a difficult task tonight - especially since they remain without a win. I partially blame myself... for I haven't been by their side in the past weeks.

God speed tonight Loyalists! God save the Queen!

Top Hats & Coat Tails Evening a day away!

Tomorrow eve, the thirteen of August, the Loyalists will face off against Euros at 8:30 pm. All are invited to attend what promises to be a smashing match. Being proper fans, please be sure to dress in appropriate evening wear, with coat tails and top hats strongly recommended. All editions of the Financial Times will be checked at the door, and discussions during the match concerning economics and American Tax law will be sternly reprimanded. Bringing good spirit and a booming singing voice is a must, and arrival by 8:15pm will allow you to participate in the customary three 3 shot cheer. Until then, good evening and good night. God save the Loyalists.

Phoenix +10, Loyalists 2: The Official Match Report

Good evening.

Perplexed by the final score in Sunday’s disappointing loss to the football club named (horribly so, might I add) “Phoenix”, I, Sir Grufflehahm Oxshire, lament to write that I have been so over come with despair that I have been unable to give a proper recap of what could have been a glorious victory for the lads an evening ago. Even now, as I attempt to sip my Toth & Bridge tea, the usual sweet accent of honey, that I add to liven up my last cup of the day, brings about a pointedly bitter bite causing my face to contort in spasms of decidedly extraordinary distress.

Numb yet with apparently hyper sensitive taste buds, I sit in my study slumping in my favorite worn leather chair, given to my father by the great Lanscroft B. Fellows of Summerset on Walrum. Usually, it is in this place I oft come to find solitude in trying times.

And indeed these are trying times. For an eve ago, I witnessed a match in which the royal blue coated Loyalists looked primed for victory against a team that outmatched them position by position on the pitch. And yet against impossible odds, our proud men stood strong and tall… just as Nelson did against the French fleet at Trafalgar… and put up a worthy fight.

Well deserving of the highest praise was Loyalist Carlos, who faced an onslaught of firepower from the men of Phoenix (whose name I must again point out remains one of the poorest in all of football). Shot after shot, Carlos dove, kicked and smashed away like a man possessed in a raging tempest. It was only during a regrettable and terribly unfortunate run of 5 back-to-back goals, did the ill-named Phoenix crack the seemingly impenetrable Loyalists goal.

And as went 5 goals, so did another, until the score line became better recognizable as a bakers dozen, plus some.

Oh dear friends, I moan at the thought of the final score! Woe… is the pain unbearable. +10 against, 2 for.

I am certain that it is in the enormous variance between goals scored “for” and “against” that the world press will snatch upon this story, and declare the Loyalists “all fancy, and no skill.” But one must understand that the tale of Sunday’s match is truly one of more triumph than disaster.

Of principle note, the great Prince Phillip the Bee scored a thumping goal with hardly any time spent in the match, Earl Brian “the bearded one” roared terrifying shots all evening (scoring one that nearly shredded the netting), and Lord Mark of Birchwood Manor maintained a pit bull-like command of the midfield for long glorious spells. I shall not overlook the contributions of the others… including Prince PJ the P, brother of Phillip the Bee, who was his unusual rhinoceros-self, thundering about the pitch with ferocity and making many of the men of insufferably-unimaginatively named Phoenix run screaming in terror. And then there was “the roman emperor” Franco who led the ladish Nicholas and Matt in defense of the Loyalists final third, forcing the field before them to become an epic battleground reminiscent of the no man’s land at Verdun.

Throughout the evening, these men fought hard like lions for Queen, country and the glory of Loyalists name.

May luck run its course for you on Wednesday.

Now I must retire and rest my weary head.

Match Feedback: Phoenix +10, Loyalistis 2

“Ahoy! Erragarbs… T’was loaded to th' Gunwales last nite… me hearties! Bare'ly could find me boot’straps, and me parrot mad' off wid me eye patch! Arrghbah… oh th' buggery!! still shakin’ off me head… avast! last eve… I slogg'd me grod back wid me newest mate, Simon Lewis, a landlubb’n insur'nce fellow, a son ov a biscuit if I hav’ ev’r met one… in thar Oakwood pub, as me ‘nd Lewis watch'd thee Loyalists bastards git th'r arses crushed! Arrrr!!! Wh't a sorry sight… had me money on t’em… lost a chest of boubloons… shot some bastard’s horse outside, and fell in a bloody ditch…” Captain Blueberry Pancakes, the greatest, grand pirate of the Atlantic!