The Internovella continued

Joe found himself arse up in a muddle of thistles. Not only was this undignified but it hurt, pricks everywhere and his ankle to contend with. He heard the sound of cheers - his ignoble act was being applauded. A bunch of boys with a football gathered around him and grinned. But these boys - lanky and small, fat and thin, pimply and smooth skinned also had compassion in their eyes and, stranger still they all had blue shirts on with something about 1875 on their badges. I'm Bassie said one and he's Fat Buddha- pointing to yeah, a Fat Buddha, and my best mate is IP Freely, he dribbles a lot. The lanky one is our goalie - we call him Spionkop - he once saw a film of Lev Yashin and then read a book called "Goalies are Crazy" and he is, so he fits the bill.

Joe was dazed and drained, and the boys recognised that and one offered him his sacred botttle of Lucozade. At least it had started out as Lucozade but his Mom had thinned it down so many times it now tasetd like sugared water. But to Joe this was better than any beer or wine or whiskey that he had ever supped - this, to him was the sacred nectar. Bassie asked if he should run home and call an ambulance. "No please don't do that", said Joe, "We need to pow wow". "Just like the Indians did", said Bassie. Jo felt the pain in his ankle returning - what to do, what to do ..