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Goal of the Season winner Rich Littlechild casts his mind back over the third day of the 2006 tour...
The team rose sluggishly, then hurriedly in time for the 10 am departure to the Dagnente tournament and subsequent festivities. By all accounts the errant Peepers had drifted in between 6 am and 8.30 am, whilst the canal-side Casuals had checked in around 4. Not what you would call ideal preparation perhaps. But from the moment Paddy 'Wandering Eyes' Cavanagh swaggered out the hotel and belted out a glorious "Top o' de mornin' te ya!" it was clear this was a man who'd done more than peeping. And if he still had energy, so should we all.
The parade of vehicles ferried the team up to Arona, we checked into the hotel, got our kit together and headed for Dagnente with fire in our bellies, pains in our legs, sporting rubber-studded, backless, PVC hot-pants (well Scotty was anyway). The Milan virgins had a nervous anticipation of the wonderful setting that was about to greet us, could it possibly be as good as had been described? No. It was better. We wandered up the path to the pitch, soaking up the sun and picture card setting, staring in disbelief at what confronted us. 'Wow, what a view of the lake!' 'Jesus, this place is massive!' 'Is that an amphitheatre?' 'Is that Evo by the pool in grey Y-fronts?'
The beautiful surroundings and Toby's banana hammock were pushed to the back of our minds and the usual pre-match procedure ensured. Which meant oiling-up time for Donny. Fortunately for our hosts and their children, his boxers stayed on. This was neither the time nor the place for the girth. No, the talk of the team this time round was the new kits, courtesy of Mrs Jim Eyre. A beautifully crafted yet simple, block colour kit with a retro feel, gave most players a late 50's, early 60's flavour. O'Toole remained firmly in the 70's.
We settled in and watched the first game, doing our personal preparations. Big Gay Al took seventy-eight photos of the opposition playing, wore down his battery, thereby having no power for when we graced the turf.
Our first game was against 7-a-side specialists Rino's. The opposition started brighter, and CPR looked understandably jaded. Rino's took an early lead, before Walshy fired in a rocket from the half-way line. On an ordinary day, this would be outright winner for goal of the tournament, but this was to be no ordinary day. CPR were seemingly destined only to score wonder goals throughout the tournament. Rino's scored a few more in quick succession, and built up a healthy lead come half time. Accordingly, CPR adopted an all out, guns blazing assault on their goal. Buoyed by a Walshy hat-trick (including a superb diving header) CPR were in the ascendancy when the final whistle prematurely blew, and a draw resulted.
The team retired to the sidelines for 40 minutes rest until the next game, when from nowhere a deep, tumultuous rumble sounded. Confusion permeated the troops as the blue skies belied any kind of impending thunderstorm. The attention then turned to Paul, who was longingly rubbing his belly and scouring the grounds. Budgie immediately spotted the danger and served up pizza for all. We had had our behaviour warning from Samy, the last thing we needed was Peppers eating the host's babies.
After a long wait, we took to the field for our second game. This time CPR adopted attacking football from the off, which would have been more fruitful were it not for the goalkeeping heroics of the opposing no.1. Inevitably, as we pushed forward we were liable to counterattacks, and were duly punished by some clinical finishing. Not that CPR heads dropped. We went out there to play nice football and enjoy ourselves, and every man played his part, except Toblerone who lasted less than 30 seconds (insert sexual performance joke of choice here). Mid-way through the second half Paul conjured the highlight of the tournament. Picking the ball up deep in the CPR half, in the right back position, he took a touch, looked up and drilled it into the top corner. A stunning strike that was rightly declared goal of the tournament. Despite some nice football, we couldn't repeat the heroics of the previous game, and trudged off the field having bravely lost 5-3.
After another long wait, a vastly changed CPR side took the field, knowing we needed to avoid defeat to claim 3rd place. We did not start well, with CPR's net bulging like Donny's denims during a lap dance. A forgetful first half was invigorated in the second by Budgie's return to goalkeeping duties, with Steve and Donny forming CPR's answer to the Mitchell brothers in midfield. Donny received the ball - the crowd went wild. Donny did some stepovers and passed to Scott - the crowd went wild. Scott had a shot - the crowd just pissed themselves. Eventually we got what we wanted, Donny's first goal for CPR in his last game, a low drilled shot from range. The crowd erupted.
Scotty shocked onlookers, firstly by successfully connecting left foot with ball, and then secondly, by using said connection to execute a fine lobbed effort on target. Sadly for him, the keeper made a fingertip save. The keeper was a very bad boy. Scotty vowed that he and Signora Spanky would discipline him later. The game ended in a surprise draw, courtesy of a late attacking surge from Steve, Saif and Rich P. CPR finished 3rd, which was a very respectable result given the exertions of the previous nights.
The tournament produced many memorable CPR goals worthy of a quick mention: Stu's power finish from an angle, Walshy's diving header, Paul's guided curler from range, Rich L's volley following wonderful build-up play, Paddy's power header, Saif's cultured finish (definitely NOT a tap-in) following some quick one touch passes, Donny's long range effort, Steve's from similar distance, and, of course, Paul's wonder strike.
The presentation ceremony was shrouded in nostalgia and emotion. Nostalgia as Danny announced his retirement as Captain and full-time player, and emotion as Walshy reminded Stu who was CPR's top scorer for the tournament. After the presentations, all CPR players were summoned to the pool, and once testicles had been gently coaxed back down to their rightful place, it was back to the hotel for hot showers and preparation for the end of season dinner.
The team spruced themselves and donned respective Vialli-collared shirts. Budgie took great pains to ensure the car formation was executed correctly, furiously ordering various people to swap seats and change vehicles, whilst all the time blaming Luca for disrupting the feng shui of our taxi parade. When the cars were full, the mournful convoy started. Perhaps it was a thoughtful tribute from our taxi drivers marking the end of Danny's captaincy that they chose to drive to the restaurant with all the zest of a funeral procession. In fact, it later transpired the cabbie on point didn't wish to drive his impressive new wheels above 30kph. Some might ask why he chose to use such a factory fresh car as a taxi. But not us. Having quietly and politely enjoyed the gentle ride, Toblerone secretly promised to interfere with his daughter.
We took our seats at the crowded tables and prepared for the feast of wine, meat and pasta that was to confront us. Saif and Jon sat back, dreamt of quorn burgers and cursed their luck Linda McCartney wasn't Italian. The wine and conversation flowed like CPR's football had all weekend. Stu seemed to be quaffing an extraordinary large number of glasses, before it was revealed the waiters had mistaken him for a 7 year old and given him a glass to match his age.
As the evening passed, Toblerone took an increasing liking to the waitress. She was female and breathing after all. He chose to appeal to her primal instincts and adopted the courting ritual of the Giant Anteater (Myrmecophaga tridactyla) during which the male impresses the female by demonstrating the versatility of his nose. In this instance the ability to drink a glass of wine nasally was apparently the gateway to mating. Sadly, despite the size of his proboscis, the entire experiment left him literally red faced, as a cascade of mucous and vino rosso showered the table and his giggling visage. Still, it was bloody funny. A few cheeky comments later, and she'd finally had enough, running her sweet little ass back to the 8ft owner, whom she calls 'Hubby'. Clearly not a fan of nougat-based Swiss chocolate or British humour, the owner then spent the next 20 minutes glaring menacingly at Toblerone, Paul and Paddy, before w*nking in the steak sauce.
The tournament awards were first on the agenda. Player of the tournament controversially went to Rino's goalie, who gracefully accepted his award, and then in an instant was also awarded the much coveted 'Tache of the tournament. Saif's face was a vision of pure disgust. He was in a tough group for goal of the season, but 'Tache of the tournament was his back up, his dead cert. He slumped back in his chair, and scowled at the thick plumage on the Rino's goalie's upper lip.
The CPR awards were next, with Stu taking the top scorer award, and Rich L taking goal of the season - Saif would sleep sober and medalless that night. Walshy deservedly went into CPR folklore as player of the season, and forced down the requisite volume of Grappa. Gifts were handed out to those who had sacrificed spare time and effort to make the whole season possible, and applause sounded all round.
The dinner was nearing an end, the talking stopped and the singing started. Peppers told of his disappointment on Friday when hearing the Italians sing 'We're all going to the tittybar' revealing he thought they were singing 'We're all going for a Yorkie bar.' Sympathetic nods all round. Luca ferried the first batch of revellers down to the club, while the remainder waited for taxis. Pete O'Toole, fearing he may be sobering got a jug of wine in. With half a jug left the cabs arrived.
"You'll have to leave it, you can't down wine," he was told.
"Yes, I feckin' can" came the response. Judging by his state four hours later, he was wrong.
The entire CPR team drank, danced and drank the night away. Stu slapped people's faces. Walshy was force fed any number of different spirits, matching most challenges poured in front of him, until the double Tequila finished him off with aplomb. He took his seat in the courtyard and had a much welcome nap. The dribbling was less welcome. As for what happened in the next two hours, who knows? Well, Saif, that's who - although the facts speak for themselves; in remembering everything that happened, this man chose to sit 10 rows away from the team on the return flight. From photographic evidence, we can conclude there was chanting, stage storming and falling. As the lights came up, O'Toole went down, and we reluctantly left.
In the car park, the customary 'Shit ground, no fans' echoed as we stumbled home. O'Toole showed Stu how to play the slapping game Dublin style, wherein concrete, not hands, are used to administer the facial blows. Luca drove the bleeding Scot to hospital, O'Toole giggled. Then fell over. Everyone was concerned for the wee man's well-being, and when we'd finally rushed back to the hotel, via the lake and the kebab stand, we awaited reports of his progress. Steve was particularly disturbed by the incident, expressing concern that the price for Stu's anal virginity would drop at least 25% if he were permanently disfigured.
Everyone filtered back into the hotel to the slapping sound of flesh on marble - O'Toole had taken another tumble. As heads fell on pillows one oddity filled everyone's mind. 300 minutes of football in 72 hours and Rich P never once got cramp.
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