COWHC Men's 1s vs Addiscombe Men's 1s - 01st April 2017

“You must suffer me to go my own dark way.”
― The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
...
‘The Strange Selection Meeting of Dr. Jekyll (and Mr Rob Gorgy)’

*** Sun 29th January, 2017 ***
I have been busy bothering in the lab. Too busy to bother with this here diary (as much as I’d like)—even though my Chemistry A-Level coursework looms near, and my exams stalk with even stealthier steps, taking up my precious Whitgift study time—but that is not what truly bothers I.
What bothers I is the 2s. (Where I have featured in selection after falling folly to the magnificence of the first XI.) For months now the 2s have been questioningly ineffective upfront, settling for draws, the team sterile and vacationing. No catalyst, no chain reaction, little in terms of results or efficacy.
Literally, no chemistry.
What kind of fate is this?
So for the Purley Walcountanian away fixture—using my A-Level chemistry background—I devised a serum to take before pushback. Having cultivated it for months prior beforehand—since unsuccessfully moonlighting with the 1s—I concocted a potion to make me stronger. Use my organic chemistry nous to jump me into the first XI, away from the final 23 mediocrity of the 2s, and beyond, away.
And it worked, for a period. Gave me strength beyond my wildest dreams. Hulk-like power and vigor, furiously crushing the Walcountanians all over the astro with my superior fitness and fast-twitch muscle fibres and monstrous finesse—despite a paltry 1-1 draw—... or... so I am told; do think...
...Because after... I do not remember the Purley Walcountanian game. Nor any highlights. Only the haunting after-effects, having taken the serum, piecing together the evidence recounted to me: the blood on my stick (that does not wash), the flashes of yellow (for which I took a walk and rest)—ridiculously carded by the chumpire. And voted DoD, no less, somehow. And for what? I, Dr Rob Gorgy? No! Apparently, I am in debt to the sum of a match report to those flat-stick, knuckle-dragging Neanderthals for such sins—sins I refuse to be accountable to and for. That petty piece of creative writing piddle can wait, for I have made much progress in the lab.
I have lofty designs and dreams on how I can brew my elixir even stronger.
How I can be stronger. Better. Harder. Faster.
*** Mon February 27th ***
After yet more match draws in the 2s—yet few defeats—I have dabbled with the measures and scale. In lower doses after January, I have been slipping it into the 2s’ half-time team gummy bears, their Lucozades, their Chicken McNuggets. For a short period, they were marginally more effective, actually injecting shorties with some semblance of accuracy; not trapping with the usual-hand-eye co-ordination of a palsied scarecrow. Actually drag-hobbiting balls onto the bodies of goal-line defenders to win p-flicks instead of the usual limp slinging of atrophied stick. Progress is progress, even if appearances deceive at first sight and eye. But I could feel the change. We could see it. Believed it.
But sadly, it did not last. And still they/we score too little.
So further supplementation is needed. Much more. I shall tweak the formula. Boost it. Promotion—like my chemistry coursework and exams—beckons, but the band of ungentlemen they call ‘D-Unit’ (not Aryan enough) cannot weather this storm for much longer. They need help.
The lab awaits, but I cannot not lay low.
Forgive me, skip.
*** Thu 9th February ***
In training, they still hassle me for a match report, but I have been beastly. Hulk-like and furious, still, under the influence of the serum. Dominating and unplayable. But while under the dream of the potion, events are regrettably... hazy. Again, vividness of actualities during a game or training... uncertain. Did I kill a man? Do I take the serum, or does the serum take me? I fear I am weak to weening, my willpower, petering...
And still the autoclave calls my name, like a Siren—but does it call for I, or my furious hulking alter-ego...?
Bring your serum; bring your colloquial Charles: Robert W. Gorgy is having a party.
*** Sun 12th March ***
In recent weeks time has flown, and much has happened. Above us, we have beaten Leatherhead and Surbiton. I will increase the dose. I must. But the men in this team, I fear their bellies grow more portly, their beers in shower more complacent. Aspirations of champions, but the workrate of truants (‘training’? draining, more apt, alas!). But no matter. After some extensive tests treating Pink Himalayan sea salt under severe gamma radiation, I found the synthesis to be useful, a by-product of trace minerals transferable.
This science percolates and excites my veins. To the testubes/showers!
*** Sun 19th March ***
Old Cranleighans 3s, away. Mother neglected to pack the elixir serum in my hockeyday Marie Curie lunchbox. We are pumped 8-0, and pumped so very far away from home. Curses.
*** Mon 27th March ***
I have gone back underground. Laid low (unlike some and many; they know who they are).
Why? Because I made one mistake.
All academic year, despite being surrounded by incompetent peers and buffoons, I made one error—for which I am now being sorely punished. All year, my research team has carried the class. Our projects noble and innovative. Our methods, clinical and double-blind test repeatable, again and again, success updated and emailed, our results great and statistically significant. We made our Whitgift professor look good. Until Big Pharma companies circled like vultures, looking to pick the best of my cadre for other projects, other ambitions in other leagues of greatness.
But then they turned on I, Dr Rob W. Gorgy. They have short memories. Very short, indeed.
Because I know someone has tampered with the formula. And yet it is my fault. For I did not watch my back; I did not prepare adequately. Did not insist on simple measures.
And that mistake, that one made error, for which all season I have been magnificent, while my peers in the field have made many. Every week, their schoolboy errors which now pass as the norm under this brand of chemistry, compounding pressure and expectation onto our projects.
So under duress, one day, I do not take time to clean the autoclave. Did not make sure the kindred space was prepped and ready for use, the simple measure to start the day’s experiments and vigorous onslaught of testing between the posts in the lab.
This formula, it has been tainted. Its side effects, uncertain. We have gone into downward spiral, slipping league positions. It intoxicates without benefit, inspires without performing.
I will lay low. Be un-meme-like. I will go back underground and wait for results to go our way.
*** Fri 24th March ***
I have been missing training, but I am so very near. So very near indeed of rectifying the serum—yet I have been having these rancid nightmares, bouts of fitful and sweat-drenched sleep: dreams of Harvey Price staring into my soul, telling me to lay low.
What terrible machinations are these? Is this a sign of higher power from the 1s?
Please, dear, dear Harvey, let me rest. I have forgotten what it is to sleep, to be low. Let us prepare for Cheam in peace.
*** Fri April 7th ***
The formula, the final iteration is but almost ready. The 2s are seemingly finished. In their Cheam game, they could not convert any of their gifted 5+ short corners. Did not bravely commit their diving bodies or sticks to chances that flashed wide of gaping goals that surely would have seen the net ripple, the backboard bulge. Their jet-black and foam-addled stalwart within the cage, for a heartbeat, sloppy and cavalier in the piercing heat. They do not want it, the 2s. They would rather squander and turn possession over cheap, passing to phantoms.
It is a sad end to a testing season. But who knows what fortunes and perils lay in the harvest of a juggled league and this weekend, sans serum, post-potion?
Onwards. They have been roofied long enough. They must cope without my chemical alchemy, for I have coursework to submit, exams to attend, and a match report to parr off...
...But the 1s, ah the 1s will soon surely play a stacked Surbiton side in their quest for regional glory. And with my newly-improved Hulking elixir ready to be imbibed, I am now free (—as long as SHL officials do not test my urine...—) to aid in being a furious champion, and share upon that mighty platform. Taste success. Pirouette past ringers, dragflick missiles through their eyesockets. Crush them under the coattails of my labcoat.
And next year, the first XI will beg to have I—Jekyll Rob, Hulk Gorgy—to be at their disposal.
Until then, this is Dr Robert W. Gorgy—midfield daemon, wide diamond monster, attacking altered-ego—signing off.

Farewell.
...
PS: To any prying, cursed eyes reading this PRIVATE diary: if you find a Marie Curie lunchbox, it is mine. Thx, lol. eggplant emoji