A melt, a muppet, a fraud, a bungler, a Judas, a taker of bribes. A good boy, a lad, a maestro, a beauty. To the crowd at Real Bedford Football Club on a sun-bleached evening in August, the referee was all of these things within the span of half an hour. The Bedford fans, separated from the soccer field by a crooked metal railing and about a meter, held a running dialog with the players throughout the game: “Number 3! Number 3!” shouted Simon, one especially vocal supporter, “That was a fucking exquisite touch!” Number 3 returned a knowing grin and a thumbs up.
This is nonleague, semiprofessional English soccer:
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