Report by Reevaldo

In the First Great War, such was the treacherous state of the fields of Flanders that during the bitter winter of 1917, heavy pieces of artillery disappeared entirely, sucked under by the quicksand-like mud. And in many cases, so appalling was that mud, the donkeys yoked to the big guns were pulled under whole, never to be seen again.

Less bold team managers, then, might have feared for Jez Brown's safety after looking at the Somme-like conditions of the Hillcross Avenue battlefield. But undeterred by the worrying historic precedent, Supremo Groom still opted to play his all-rounder from the off on Sunday, and was rewarded by a typically marauding performance from right back which despite producing a goal - and the right end, too - was not quite enough to snatch a point from the fortunate Gardeners' Arms.

Much like the distant generals of World War One, who sent their men trembling into battle from the comfort of the firesides of their London drinking clubs, Groom had opted not to join his brave heroes on the field of play, despite there being a space in the squad. "Don't worry, chaps. I'll change at half time if you need me," he barked to his shivering charges as he fastened his Greatcoat, evidently having shrewdly examined the state of a playing surface that looked from a distance to be reasonably playable.

Nonetheless, as hostilities commenced, Logica were hopeful they could carry into 2002 some of their pre-Christmas form in the cup. Unfortunately, the first half performance served only as a demonstration of how good had been their through-Christmas form with the beer glass.

Although Logica had the edge on possession, there was too little quality and too many silly errors. Perhaps it should have come as no surprise that the Gardeners would be better equipped to planting their feet in the slippery soil; certainly they adapted better to the conditions in the first 45 minutes. Both their strikers created problems for centre backs Trovato and Hatton by coming short for the ball and turning the Logica defence - a ploy not used to such good effect the more isolated Hoyland and Taylor up front.

After 15 minutes, Gardeners harvested their first when Logica, not for the first time, gave away possession cheaply, leaving themselves exposed at the back. The Gardeners front man hit a sweet strike from 12 yards, to beat the acrobatically diving Gill [0-1].

The second wasn't long coming as Gardeners exploited room on the left wing. This time the shot was low across the face of the goal, and despite being tantalisingly close to Mainwaring there was nothing the full back could do without adding to his own-goal tally. Not happy about scoring such a mundane tap-in, he could only hope the ball would drift wide. It didn't [0-2].

Instead Mainwaring waited for a more spectacular opportunity to put himself further in deficit, onionbag-wise. A Gardeners free-kick was dinked into the box, where it met the Captain's swinging boot which scythed it over Gill's head into the top corner [0-3].

The frustration was that Logica were playing some half decent football. Field was making good use of a rare strip of grass down the right, but couldn't quite find the crosses that Hoyland and Taylor craved. McWilliam was also making a nuisance of himself down the left.

The best chance fell to Hoyland, after he had been put through following good work from Reeves, McWilliam and Taylor. Clean through, he looked sure to score until an intervention by the Slime Gods - who were enjoying themselves while the Bobble Gods took a mid-season break. Only they, surely, can have been responsible for Hoyland's graceful face-first fall to earth like a ballerina who'd had the carpet pulled from under his feet.

Then, minutes before the end of the half, Gardeners' big striker Dave again turned well and unleashed a shot from the edge of the box. It wasn't perfectly struck, but it somehow squirmed beyond Gill's reach, off the post, and into the far corner [0-4].

By the second half, conditions had deteriorated to near farce as fossils from the Mesozoic era began to be excavated by the players' boots. Another prehistoric figure, Reeves, had been given a role in centre midfield alongside Clarke. It was a hard-working (if not necessarily hard-tackling) partnership that began to pay dividends. For virtually the entire second 45 minutes, Logica laid siege to the opposition goal as the Gardener battalions found themselves entrenched in their own half. It's not much of an exaggeration to say that Gill barely got a touch.

Hatton had sussed out the Anelka-like figure of Dave, who spent most of the half sulking, and began to distribute the ball intelligently from the back. Clarke and Reeves laboured to get the ball out of the mire of the centre and into the channels, where McWilliam in particular began to play a more influential role. The main problem was that by now the Gardeners' penalty area had been excavated down to the Paleozoic era. Once the ball arrived inside the box it became so coated in mud it was like those old medicine balls you used to see Henry Cooper training with.

So despite their territorial domination, Logica's attacks tended to founder with the final shot - although Hoyland and Field both went desperately close to both posts. Eventually their perseverance began to pay off. Mainwaring, on one of his many overlapping left-side runs, swung the ball over dangerously. Hoyland controlled it, swivelled and thumped it in off the underside of the bar [1-4].

The second again took a while to arrive. Taylor's characteristic long throws had been shortened by the weight and greasiness of the ball, but they still caused concern for the Gardeners' defence. McWilliam seized on one from the right and stabbed the cannonball across the box. And who should be waiting there but the Wandering Brown? Flamboyantly emulating his hero Steve Bull, the Wolves wonder slammed the ball - again with the help of the cross bar - into the roof of the net and set off on a belly-out run like a fearless private going over the top of the trenches [2-4].

Brown continued to rampage forward dangerously - although he picked up a booking for one reckless challenge which was so late, several geological ages had passed by in the meantime.

The clock was ticking on. General Groom introduced Banoub (for Hoyland) and Fazel (for the exhausted Clarke) and both made instant impacts. Banoub had a decent shout for a penalty turned down - but won no bouquets for his melodramatic Meldrew-esque 'I don't believe it' act when nothing was given.

With just a handful of minutes remaining, Fazel had a better shout as he darted into the box and was upended. This time the ref made no mistake in pointing to the... well, the messy ploughed-up area where a spot might once have been. Taylor took responsibility, as nobody else could be sure of actually reaching the goal, and blasted it in off the underside of the bar [3-4].

Sadly, there was no time for a well-deserved equaliser, and Groom was left to reflect again on another performance of two halves. And as he surveyed the mud-pocked landscape of his broken dreams, the words of one of the Great War's generals, visiting Flanders after peace was declared, may have drifted across his mind. "By God! Did we really send our boys out to die in that?"

Private Reeves prepares to go over the top for the
umpteenth time.