Ray Bradshaw dares to represent his country…at three-sided football?

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Dare : Represent your country at something

When and Where: London, 26/1/13

Gavin Hastings
Archie Gemmill
Andy Murray
Chris Hoy
Ray Bradshaw

Legends the lot of them, a group of true sportsmen who were proud to represent Scotland at something they had worked hard for all their life. I am humbled to be part of such a group.

Now some of you are probably reading this thinking that I’ve lost the plot, while others have opened a new tab to Google my name and see what I achieved as a youngster (a few swimming badges in Cubs). The truth is I recently led my country to glory in a competitive sports competition and I’m awaiting the phone call from Alex Salmond and a sponsorship with Tunnocks any moment now.

I was dared towards the end of December to represent my country at something and got working on it quite quickly. A quick Google of obscure sports came up with a few belters and I proceeded with my enquiries. Soon I had it narrowed down to two giants of the world sporting calendar……

Three Sided Football
Or
Shin Kicking

Yep you’ve read that right, Shin Kicking. Essentially getting a load of straw stuffed up your trousers and trying to break the other persons shin or, as it’s known in Fife, “foreplay”. Sadly the world shin kicking championship isn’t until May (I’m probably going to still do it) so that left me with three-sided football.

Three-sided football is a game played with six players on each side and the pitch is in the shape of a hexagon. There are three goals set up on the pitch and each team rotates to each goal after every 20 minute third. The winner is the team that concedes the least goals. Got it?

Luckily there was a contact email of a fortnightly game that plays in London and after speaking to Mark who runs the organisation, we managed to sort out to most people’s knowledge the first ever international tournament. It was going to be a strictly British affair with my glorious Scotland team facing off against England and yep you’ve guessed it, Poland. The game was set up for the last Sunday of the month in January and the mind games between each camp began.

The next step in my road to world domination was for me to rustle up a team fit enough to take on these giants of the three sided game. Luckily I had a plan. Some would have posted an advert on the internet to get players, others would have gone to the SFA to try to coerce some talent to join my Pythagoras-based revolution. Me, I just texted a few Scottish people that I knew that lived in London. I sent out a text that simply said:

“Fancy helping me out with a dare and getting to represent your country at the same time?” The replies were varied…

• “I’m not gonna have to get up on stage and have to make an a*se of myself am i?”
• “Bradshaw what the f*ck are you talking about?”
• “Yes” (I think he’s a bit lonely)
• “Represent your country in a pride sense or in a BNP sense?”

And by the end of that day full of awkward explaining and issuing proof that I was not starting a hate campaign, Team Scotland was born.

It consisted of:

Ding, a man who looks a bit like Colin Murray if he had the lips of Pete Burns
Steve, whose ideal woman would love darts and McEwans lager.

Matt, who is possibly the only player to have come through the ash pitches of Paisley as a youth that now wears a hairband as an adult.

Tommy, a throwback to the older days of footballers that would turn up hungover and someone who insisted on wearing Adidas Sambas while playing.

Ally, a mysterious gentleman who the England captain put me in touch with who was born and bred in Lanark. I was fully expecting an English spy turning up to play for us while putting on an accent reminiscent of Fat B*stard from Austin Powers. Thankfully that was not the case.

The final piece of the jigsaw was myself, someone who would undoubtedly become the fans favourite with some nice footwork and the crushing inevability of kicking a ballboy.

As my comedy career is on fire I had been gigging the night before in Sowerby Bridge (I had to Google it as well) so I got on the 8am train and ended up in London for half 10 where I was met by an eager Steve who was already on cappuccino number three. He was so on edge that he managed to fall up an escalator. In doing so he swung his bag in front of me and soon there were two Scottish idiots strewn across the escalator laughing like buffoons while impatient Londoners tutted and made their displeasure know that we were a) still alive and b) holding them up. I could tell that the big game nerves were getting to Steve so I knew he would need some words of wisdom to calm him down. Otherwise we could have a horrendous repeat of the infamous Steve Nash performance in the p7 local derby between Jordanhill and Broomhill. No-one wanted that.

We met up with Ding and Tommy and made our way to Deptford for the big game. Most of the pre-match chat was about the game and how the fuck it works. I say most of it cos at one point a really big dog got on the tube (with an owner obviously) and we just stared at it for a while. It was well big. We talked about getting it to play in goals for us but without being able to verify its ethnic origin at such short notice we decided against it in case FIFA pulled us up for it afterwards.

We got lost after getting off the tube because we all insisted on going and buying a pre-match can of irn-bru. I don’t think that happens to other Scottish internationalists, but after Craig Levein’s time in charge I can’t be 100% sure. Finally we got directions from a shop that doubled as both a barbers and a travel agent and made our way to the park.

And it was just a park. I wasn’t expecting a colosseum or a stadium but it literally was just a park with a hexagon marked out on it and some people setting up goals. That was when we realised we needed to get changed in a park.

For some people taking their trousers off in a park is a regular occurrence. I am not one of these people. I was very aware that normal people were walking about with their kids and dogs (normal-sized ones this time, much to our disappointment). So there I was on our big day standing in my pants with football socks on apologising to every old lady that walked by. Then I saw that Ding had his balls out for some reason and I felt like a much greater human being. I’m still not sure why he had them out. Maybe big game nerves got the better of him and he had to change his pants or maybe it was his way of trying to relax us. In a strange way it worked. What a team player. That’s a true friend, someone willing to get charged with indecent exposure for the sake of getting one over the English. His balls truly are a modern day William Wallace.

We were soon joined by Matt and Ally who turned out to be fairly normal with a convincing Scottish accent. It was decided that we should probably attempt to try and put a goal up while at the same time trying to strike a merger with Poland to gang up on the English. These negotiations hit a snag while Steve was trying to put one of the goal frames together, struggled and proclaimed loudly ‘I f*cking hate poles’. If Ding was our William Wallace then Steve was quite clearly our Berlusconi. Tommy and Ally tried to appease the Poles while Steve apologised and tried to convince them he was definitely not a racist. It was pretty fun to watch.

I channelled my inner Berlusconi as well when the ref who was from Serbia noticed that I had a Croatia top on. Nothing like trying to win a ref over than wearing the top of a country they’d been involved in a bloody war with.

When the game kicked off it was clear that Scotland had the better players, a sentence that you don’t often read. We started strongly and seemed to be attacking the English goal with Poland in tandem at most opportunities. Then Matt had a rush of blood to the head.

He picked up the ball in the middle of the park and faked a run towards the English goal motioning for the Polish players to make space for him. Then he swiftly turned and ran towards the Polish goal before unleashing a furious shot into the goal that almost decapitated a small Polish child who was near the goal. His dad was the Polish captain. Not only had we become traitors but potential child killers as well. The alliance was broken. The game was now a free for all. The English breathed a sigh of relief. Most goals are met with jubilation and loud over the top celebrations; this one was simply met with a cry of ‘what the fuck are you doing?’

Matt tried to win his enemies over by trying a fancy flick but instead of beating a man he just fell flat on his face. Usually this would bring huge guffaws of laughter, this time it barely raised a chuckle. Matt then scored against the English and the tartan army were in full voice (by tartan army I mean the six of us and possibly one of Ding’s testicles). The English scored a couple of goals past the Polish and by the end of the first third we were the only team not to concede, meaning we were in the lead.

The first interval’s chat was based mainly about going for pints after the game. We may have been professional athletes but as we all know Sunday is like the fourth best day of the week to go drinking and we weren’t going to let that chance pass us by.

I dropped back into goals and let Ding flourish for a while outfield and the onslaught of our goal soon began. Because we were in the lead both other nations ganged up on us furiously but our goal was still intact through a combination of luck, great goalkeeping and sh*te finishing from the others. There was something beautifully Scottish about our backs to the wall performance that actually spurred us on more than Ding’s balls ever could.

Finally we conceded a goal to a wicked deflection and we were back on level terms. Steve jumped in nets to see out the rest of the third. Sadly, just before we went into the break we conceded another goal as he was left two on one and Poland took full advantage. We went into the break in second place having conceded two goals to England’s one.

The next interval was spent still talking about pints but also how none of us had actually passed to an Englishman during the game, despite passing to a Polish player on numerous occasions. The pre-match Irn Bru had obviously worked.

We began the final third attacking the English goal and trying to convince the Polish to do so as well. They didn’t. It’s funny how long it takes someone to forget someone nearly maiming their child. Then came the moment that changed the game and earned me a place in the Scotland hall of fame.

I’d had a reasonably good game up until this point. As most football fans know, all gingers possess an inner ability to play like Paul Scholes for a short period of time. I’d been using my inner Scholes quite well in the game; my passing had been excellent, my tackling woeful and I couldn’t string more than two sentences together when talking to the press.

I picked the ball up just outside our goal, looked for options and noticed the English keeper was off his line. I spoke to my inner Paul to see what I should do. He obviously didn’t talk back, he’s dead shy. I decided to just go for it. I swung foot back and hit the ball perfectly.

At this moment it was like I had used Bernard’s Watch to go to Scotland and face all the electric fans down towards this game just like we did for Ronaldinho’s free kick in 2002. The ball soared through the air in slow motion before arcing down over the keepers head and nestling beautifully in the back of the net. I’d scored against England from thirty yards out. I could now die happy. It was one of the most beautiful moments of my life.

Then everyone ran and jumped on me. I had gone from sheer elation to having my face in someone’s gooch in under two seconds. Now I know how David Cameron felt when he got elected.

The goal angered the English……………….
I told them cricket was sh*te……………….
They were livid…..…….
We told them that none of us would ever vote Tory………..
They were fuming……
We told them that Tim Henman was a f*nny and Andy Murray was well better…
They agreed and we began playing football again.

The game was now a cagey affair as Poland was essentially out of the game while England and Scotland were now level. The auld enemy were facing off. Who would be the first to crack?

Luckily it was them. Ally played a lovely through ball to Steve who was just about to unleash a shot as hard as a Danny Dyer punch but he was scythed down from behind by an English Player.

Penalty.

I jogged forward to see who would take it. I looked in Steve’s eyes, the horror of Primary 7 was clear to see. I was going to have to take it. I placed the ball down and thankfully sent the keeper the wrong way to put us in the lead with less than 10 minutes to play.

We didn’t celebrate this time; we ran back to our positions and just began singing Flower of Scotland and We’ll Be Coming, a favourite of the Tartan Army. We probably would have done Loch Lomond but it would have been tactical suicide by the time we got into the big circle as the other two teams could have played round us.

It was backs to the wall and we lumped the ball as far away from our goal as possible anytime it came near us. Ding further alienated us from our Eastern European counterparts by constantly shouting “attack the Poles” as if he was in 1930s Germany.

The final whistle went. We’d done it. Cue shaking up cans of Irn-Bru like champagne and us getting called tw*ts by the others.

I would love to say that afterwards we got a huge trophy and rode off to countless celebrity orgies on the back of that huge dog. In truth what we really did was get changed in the park again, got p*ssed before 7pm and went back and watched the Royal Rumble. We are the perfect role models for young Scots.

I’d like to say thanks to Mark and all the guys at 3sf for accommodating us and helping set up the game and of course my wonderful team mates, without whom I probably still would be friends with the Polish team. A big thank you as well to Irn Bru, Ding’s balls and any other blatant use of product placement in this story.
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To check out other dares Ray has also risen to the challenge of or to challenge him to some more, visit http://www.idarerayto.com/

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About the Author

Having made his comedy debut in September 2008, Ray has quickly established himself as one of the most exciting new acts on the comedy circuit. A two time Scottish Comedian of The Year finalist, Ray has travelled the lengths and breadths of the country telling jokes to anyone that will listen, making his name as an MC for various promoters.

Ray is a Partick Thistle fan who has an unhealthy obsession with Jean-Yves Anis and Paul Walker. The only players who have ever come close to such admiration since are Emile Heskey, Marlon “Fox in the Box” Harewood and Charlie Adam (his left foot only.) 

Ray currently manages a saturday morning amateur team known as the mighty West Glasgow, where he is affectionately known as the “Ginger Mourinho” or simply the “Dick on the touchline”. A keen footballer, Ray likes to think his dead ball skills are similar to Shunsuke Nakamura, but at time they are more like Hiro Nakamura from Heroes. As a well known John Hartson impersonator, Ray is versatile in the emergency striker role when needed and can also kick Eyal Berkovic in the face upon request. 

“Very funny” – STV

“a very promising writer, able to create some enjoyably twisted punchlines” – Chortle

“Has a Clear Comedy Gift” – Edinburgh Evening News

“Funnier than a falcon…” – Frankie Boyle

You can follow Ray on Twitter: @comedyray

Check out Ray’s Website http://raybradshaw.co.uk/

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