Gary Mastic and Poundstretcher Football


I was in Poundstretcher and ‘Gary the Mastic’ who I know quite well came up to me spitting and blathering about the whole Fosun thing, lack of a striker, unsure about investment, the team, the whole madness. What can I say? I was looking at Bog roll. In Poundstretcher. Crazy. There he was covered in whatever shit he messed with at work hassling me about the dealings of a Global company with interests that wriggle like the chopped off arm of an Octopus. Strikers Gary? Angel-Crease bog roll is £4 for eight rolls but you’re in danger of getting a shitty finger. Softy-Bum is £6 for eight rolls and shitty finger is a problem one may forget about as you peruse the bog library. Striker problems? What Striker problems? Dwight fucking Gayle not coming? Some Dutch gonad pulling out at the last minute? Probably a first for him. Chasing players here and there trying to get them to sign so Norman Northbank can get at least half a semi on for transfer deadline day? I want Strikers driving up to Jeff Shi’s house and banging on his door begging to play for Wolves. That’s the player I want, not Doogalooo Dunrunnin from AEK Dynamo Wankspanner who scored four goals last season and one of them was an own goal. I want people who NEED to score.

But Gary Mastic is resolute and follows me up and down the aisles talking about it, mashing his gums as the mastic has rotted his teeth out. He’s like the Wolves Facebook group ‘Dingles Ay We’ in fact he’s typical of the absolute meltdown rhetoric that I used to read on there before my ban. But Gary? Who the fuck would we have bought really? Looking at the dickheads being put forward by various people had me in a depression. Is this what money brings you? Is this what transfer day really is? I was looking for Nuno interviews as an antidote to it, I was getting caught up in the madness of it. Gary was obviously in some kind of delirious state. Sky Sports had got him. I knew Gary had a big fucking telly nailed to his living room wall. I knew Gary sat in front of it with his nightly four tins of Carling Black Label. I knew his dog would be looking at him for love and attention as he constantly scanned the internet and the TV for news. It was a mess, he’s a mess, I was a mess.

‘Gary I think Fosun have it all under control’ I said, and he nearly fell into the shelves of out of date sweeties. Anger and hostility. I felt like I was defending this multinational Global entity from Gary Mastics ire, his anger palpable and raw and I clutched the bog roll to my chest in protection as his little thin legs made the Umbro trackie bottoms he wore shake like those fan driven blow up wavy arm things outside Carpet World. Jesus Christ.

So the transfer window ended without a signing of a Striker. Bloody hell. Tins of Salmon for a quid. Cool. Gary followed me around singing the praises of Steve Morgan and the abyss of Moxey….or ‘Moxley’ as Gary called him. Remembering those halcyon days in the 4th Division when ‘everything looked bright’ but really it didn’t did it? It was shit. It was settling for something, anything. It was the party that really failed to ignite any kind of push forward. Afobe gone. Sakho gone. The dullness of a few seasons of making do with Kenny Charisma and Paul Lamberto. The slow relentless push for points, the dullness of work mate barbecues. Wondering whether to send a dirty private message to your mates girlfriend. Anything to pull your mind away from the resolute fucking failure to ‘push on’ the keyword of the post match interview. Excuses mate, they fall at our feet like a turd just rolled down your trouser leg and onto the dusty Poundstretcher concrete floor. The majority of our previous squads should have thrown themselves in Compton cut and done us all a favour.

Now the zeitgeist is different surely? Looking at the play we have developed under Nuno I feel a familiar feeling. When Neves has the ball my ballsack shrinks in anticipation. When he plays it to Jota I grab the poor bastard who stands next to me (who puts up with some madness I’ll tell ya). Who else do I pick out of the roster of sexual footballing pornography Jeff Shi and Fosun have brought us. And there again I’m bigging up and defending the global and the rich. Later on I will be smashing open my piggy bank where I have £60 saved to buy this site. I’ll have £22 left and people are moaning at me about 18 million quid strikers. Ruffles Raspberry Coconut bars £1 for six. Get in.

I’m not hassled mentally like Gary Mastic. What I’m about is novelty and dynamics. I want to see new ideas and new madness behind the club I love. I want just ‘something’ to happen whether its sexy football or raging 40 yard cross field accurate passes, a rush of players into the box, some doughnut to push it into the net so I can go home happy in the fact we got points and 2000 drongs from Shitstick United get back on the M6 with big glum sad faces. Gary Mastic is endemic of the rainy day mentality of ‘some’ of our support. If he read the Daily Mail then he’d probably be phoned up by Tarquin Flashtwat Sports Sub Editor for a chat about ‘those fucking chinky bastards ruining our club’. But I don’t give a shit about Gary Mastic, I don’t give a shit about the Daily Mail, I don’t give a shit about any of the gloom squad. I don’t give a shit about them simply because I’m excited and positive. For the first time in a long while I’m looking forward to the season whether we have a striker or not. Because to be fair to Dicko, as much as I tried to mentally propel him towards the madness of scoring goals for fun it was obvious that he’d had enough, and that’s cool. Bye. What you going to swap him with? Of course talking to actual half insane on mastic fumes Wolves fans is a lot different to waxing in 140 characters on Twitter. It’s dynamic, at least he’s talking about it and not the letter from the environmental health about the state of his front garden. I see it and I feel it. I just wish he’d turn his face upwards for a few minutes and look at those lofty limbs of global brand footy instead of the Poundstretcher football we played for the last few years. Gary look up mate. Get your chin out of your chest and just fucking believe for a few moments.

Fosun can defend themselves. Jeff Shi gets paid. Everybody gets paid. Some of us just pay. I bought the Angel-Crease bog roll. I’m a risk taker, a positive thinker, a three sheet kind of bloke who likes to take risks. Whether or not we end the season with a shitty finger well…who knows? But imagine we end it with a pristine bum hole…we can but hope.

23 thoughts on “Gary Mastic and Poundstretcher Football

  1. Genius and spot on! I’ve told my dad to get off his arse and get down there because he’s seen nothing like this team since the 70’s. I’m pretty sure he do t believe me. Yet. Not being on sky has helped keep our little secret a bit longer too. It’s only bloody happened! Keep up the positive work!

  2. Ok Ahk I watched us against shit West Ham today from Menorca, Bless Fosun for the magic of Wolves TV. Gary Mastic isn’t catching on, he’s a dinosaur like me, but he’s one of the ones who took a wrong turn at Gigg Lane when we started on the long journey from Division 4. I was there that day, wooden stands and a long miserable drive home but I dared to believe we were on the up. Funny thing is I’ ve been where Gary is, hanging on every piece of sad Sky speculation, but this season Nuno, the Portuguese God of divine football, has calmed the fever. A belief and someone I understand (where the hell did Lambert learn our language – should have asked for his money back) has descended on the Golden Palace. We will be fine, goals from everywhere. Great read as ever, look after yourself and keep up the good work!

  3. First time of reading your prose and very funny indeed. For me the darkest hour was the Chorley game. I was in the military at the time and used to throw antennas over trees to bring in the World Service wherever I was around the globe which just gave you the results and not match details. The depression was severe at times until Mr Bull came on the scene. What we are witnessing now though is the first real Wolves team I’ve scene play like proper clubs…..the future is Gold……

    1. I’m glad you enjoyed it my friend and yes I remember those times very well indeed, it’s strange how in the glow of positivity we tend to remember the dark days also. But out of darkness cometh light they say, I think it’s always true.

      1. Those were the (darkest) days my friends in my lifetime too, at least the days that I remember best, fewer rumours (no social media), blackest of hours, deadlines, council stepping in, etc, etc, then some great campaigns, (Turner, Taylor, Jones, even MM (not Merlin the Magician), which are now just chinks of happy memory light, The euphoria of Cardiff, and the damp squibs that followed, more disappointment and desperation (the madness of Saunders) and déja vu dark days then happy days with Steve the builder (did Gary Mastic work for him?) in League 1, and here we are all starting over again. A new dawn, a new day, hopes and expectations and will we ever be truly happy? Well in these moments I am grateful I am still here, still witnessing the revolution and still able to enjoy the rollercoaster ride with a wordsmith lighting the path and keeping the reality close by. The pen clearly is mightier than the sword, Lord Nuno may Jota’s mandolin play its sweetest tunes in a gold and black shirt. UTW

      2. I agree totally with everything you have to say and I’m saying something about that in tonights edition of the dysfunctional world of my relationship with the club…such sweet tunes tho eh?

  4. ha ha ha – priceless! And bang on the money. Who knows where we could end up with Fosun and Nuno. I have a good feeling about the future for the first time in eons.

    Makes the 200 miles round trip worthwhile knowing we have supporters with such a gift of the written word and as barmy about the club.

    Maybe you should write for the Mail!

    1. The Mail? Alas I am so working class that one wouldn’y like to stink up the great opulent carpeted halls of the monied and the great. Yes, I am quite happy standing among the empty plastic bottles of Carling, the worn out shoes and the ragged coats of my brothers and sisters in the Southbank, but thank you for your kind words, and well done for making that journey too!

  5. Read this for the first time since it was posted. Makes even more sense now than it did then. Leaning a little more to a pristine bum hole than a shitty finger.