The circus rolled into town again for a pre-Mother’s Day encounter that offered little for the football purist. Clapham went into this game knowing that a trio of wins from their remaining three games would gift them a place in the play-offs. Yet, the Clapham clowns left Earlsfield wiping pie from their faces after a chaos-strewn amalgam of tactical mismanagement, inexplicable goalkeeping errors and elite levels of profligacy upfront.

From the kick-off it was Clapham who dominated possession, Sam and Mark weaving phantasmal webs of footballing deception, entrapping the Hampton flies in their sticky substances, while unleashing the mercurial James Allen. Indeed, it was the old Dutch master, Sam Emmery, who set up the Clapham hitman for his trademark curling shot from the left-wing. It seemed as if the home team would only add to their tally when, just before the break, Xaverians’ stand-in goaltender recreated a series of slippery half-moves lifted from Break Dance 3 (Electro Boogaloo: The Hate Continues) to allow Hampton’s nippy frontman through to bundle in a leveller.

The second-half saw Hampton sitting back and seemingly settling for a draw, with Clapham building pressure without much penetration (one can only harken back to David Bromfield’s tenure in various post-match showers). Then disaster struck as Andrew “Mumm-Ra” Brannon showing his winger too much respect on the left, allowing his opponent to loft the ball, innocuously it seemed, into the goaltender’s hands. Or so you would think. Unfortunately, a momentary mental paralysis took hold of the hapless Douglas, who ushered the slow-motion sphere into his goal like Bill Cosby coaxing a blonde onto his casting couch.

This defensive disaster seemed to galvanise Clapham into more tenacious attacking settings, with gaffer Steve Gordon hitting the tactical panic-button by playing three at the back. Concerted offensive forays seemed to pay dividends when Mark Hignett was cynically scythed down in the box. Penalty! Unfortunately, midfielder Jason Quinn was still spinning Pop Will Eat Itself mega-mixes in his befuddled brain, fusing the connection between mind and boot, his shot weaker than a Prince Andrew alibi and easily fended away by Hampton Vets’ heroic stopper. Hignett came closer with a powerful downward header which, again, was well saved by Hampton’s No. 1.

The visitors’ continual, but highly understandable, timewasting seemed to rile many of the frustrated Clapham side. Fortunately, the calm head of Joe Gnanhoua settled things down when it opened (and closed) negotiations with a Hampton bonce, accelerating the advent of the final whistle and the end of Clapham’s promotion hopes.

Post-game drinks found no want of scapegoats – with most of the team copping it at one point or another (Matt Cefai notwithstanding). There were also growing calls for a change in management – the clamour rising with every pint of Neck Oil. In the week where Patrick Viera lost his job on St Patrick’s Day, those in ivory towers would be well advised to check their calendars for the names of homonymous martyrs.

MoM: Mark Hignett

Spencer Grady