Bloody Des Walker

The research into fantasy that is part of my Project Onan is yielding some fascinating insights, readers. Initially I just had it down as a cheap and enjoyable way to have a project of any description but I guess my innate curiosity and empathetic nature get people to tell me stuff.

I thought I knew a fair bit about fantasy from reading the work of the Contessa Alexia von Lichtenstein, aka Dave the Roofer, as regular readers might remember from this post. And then I thought I knew a bit more when I started reading Ellie's blog, but then she told me it was all true! And that made me feel a bit like Kenneth Connor. No the reality of it is, as I suspect it is with most things, that you generally don't know the half of it.

Take Mark Baker, one of my sales colleagues at work. He's a normal looking guy and the thing he seems to feel most passionate about is sport. He loves his football, his golf, his cricket, his rugby, the lot. But it turns out he loves them to a greater extent than most people. We were having a conversation about fantasy in the pub on Monday when he confessed that his most frequent fantasies while engaged in matters pre-ejaculatory were sports based. And not, as I initially assumed, like David Mellor, who liked odd looking women to put on football shirts while he nobbed them.

No, Mark actually fantasises about being a high achieving sportsman while he's on the job, be he alone or coupled to his long-term girlfriend, whose name I can't tell you because she's actually rather famous. I would tell you, but I assume even she doesn't know that Mark's pretending to be an 18-year old Michael Owen in the '98 World Cup, scoring that wonder goal against Argentina while they're doing the nasty. To be honest, I imagine she'd be pretty upset, although she might take solace in the knowledge that there are plenty of blokes out there who probably pretend that they're Mark Baker while they're at it, because she's a noted beauty. Odd, really, because Mark's not really a mover and a shaker. Apparently she's just very loyal. Plus Mark's in charge of the drugs.

So I thought I'd give it a go; try and fantasise about sporting achievement. I didn't do it Monday, because I watched the One Show and concocted a delicious little vinaigrette about being interviewed by that Irish girl whose name I can't ever remember about Judo and then us going out after the show and me showing her some holds, if you know what I mean. Maybe I'm weird but the best part of it was the next morning when Adrian Chiles found out and got really moody. (That was part of the fantasy, he didn't find out I'd been fantasising about her and then get really moody. Although he probably would; apparently he's in love with her. That's what Susie at work said, anyway.)

Nope, I saved this up for Tuesday.

Being a Notts Forest supporter, I had to trawl back a little way. There's not been much to shout about of late. I settled on a very satisfying goal from the FA Cup final of 1991. In a glittering career (that was ending in an alcoholic fug) Brian Clough had never won the FA Cup. Forest were up against a much fancied Spurs team, that contained one Paul Gascoigne (arguably the best player in the country at the time). Gazza was so ‘up for it’ that he threw himself into a wild challenge on Gary Charles some 10 - 15 yards outside the edge of the box. The challenge was probably worthy of a red card but Gazza stayed down on the turf, having ruptured his cruciate ligaments (the very injury that had effectively put an end to Clough’s playing career years before).

Gazza would never properly recover from that injury, and like Clough, would end his career a booze-addled wreck. It's a sad tale, but an all too familiar one, I'm afraid.

Anyway, back on the Wembley turf, one Stuart 'Psychic' Pearce stepped up to strike an impeccable, unstoppable, pile-driver of a freekick into the net (something I don't doubt he had predicted the previous day). Forest were one-nil up and Spurs had lost their best player.(By this stage readers, I was absolutely flying. I felt like I was on the pitch and I started to see exactly what Mark Baker was on about. God, it felt amazing! I actually had to hold off because I was enjoying it so much. I had to do that thing which is like the male version of pelvic floor muscles, like you do when you're trying to stop weeing! This was my big mistake. In my sexo-sporting ecstasy, I'd forgotten the outcome...)

Spurs rallied, continuing to dominate, Lineker had a goal disallowed (he's a swordsman, so they say), then had a penalty saved by Mark Crossley (only two keepers had saved penalties in Cup Finals, Crossley and Dave Beasant – who himself would later play for Forest. Good for a pub quiz that one). Eventually, in the second half Paul Stewart equalised and the game went into extra time.

(By now I was losing momentum. Even worse, I was getting unaccountably angry. Even worse, it was impotent rage!)

Spurs continued to apply pressure and won a free kick deep in Forest territory. The ball was whipped across the box and Forest’s England international defender Des Walker, 264 appearances during his first stint with the Reds and one goal to his name, turned the ball into his own net. Des Bloody Walker!!!

I shouted a string of swearwords and the neighbours banged on the wall. It was nearly midnight, to be fair.

So there I was almost out of time, close to missing my first Project Onan deadline and soft as a kitten!

I had to be quick. Ironically enough, I just thought about Mark Baker's girlfriend and I made it across the line with a couple of minutes to spare.

"You'll never beat Des Walker," they used to sing back in the Trent End. How true, how very, very true.

ND out.