The Week 7 Game Thread: Baguettes, Chicken Wings and Medically Necessary Heartburn

Phil predicted there would be about 25 comments in the game thread this week. With half the usual suspects in Paris and another contingent in Birmingham, it seemed a reasonable estimate.

There were over 500.

Apparently, even when we export the fan club, we retain sufficient domestic capacity to question a third-down defence.

The Paris photo meet had gone well, with Paul (Fieldo), Angus, Luke, Darren and Lucy among those representing the group. Meanwhile, in Birmingham, Jason was covering himself in chicken wing juice. Olympus had temporarily relocated to the West Midlands, where ambrosia now came with wet wipes.

Back on the thread, Laura welcomed the lovely lot, Phil announced sponsorship by French baguettes, and Rob settled onto his usual sofa, hoping he wouldn’t have to change seats at half-time again.

Following last week’s comeback, the upholstery was now part of the coaching staff.

Here Oui Go

Rob supplied the opening French pun. DAZN supplied no commentary.

For a few strange minutes, supporters watched Warren batter his way through people without anyone explaining what they were watching. Fortunately, the thread stepped in. Phil described him as an “aggressive psychopathic love child of Thor”, which covered most of the relevant scouting points.

The opening drive brought encouraging running, decent blocking and a missed interference call that immediately established the afternoon’s relationship with the officials.

Boswell supplied the points. The commentary returned. Nobody could guarantee that either development would improve everyone’s mood.

James arrived late, having thought kick-off was at 14:30. Given the number of weeks we’ve spent waiting for the Steelers offense to start playing, this was an understandable scheduling assumption.

But this time there were things to enjoy early. Warren was running with purpose. The offensive line was earning compliments. Stu was happy with the first quarter.

People were having quite a nice time.

Naturally, this required investigation.

A Ruling from Olympus

Tampa had put us through five quarters of emotional damage. New Orleans offered a different challenge: repeated exposure to the replay booth.

TJ produced a play that set the thread alight. Celebrations erupted. Then came the review, followed by the familiar suspicion that the officials had travelled to France specifically to annoy us.

Phil reminded everyone that zebras could be eaten.

And then the clouds parted.

From high above Birmingham, possibly between wings, Jason delivered his judgement:

“Looked loose to me.”

Four words. No appeal. The mortals would have to get on with it.

Lee advised everyone to move the chains instead, a sensible suggestion that was rewarded with Rodgers launching a deep completion to DK.

“RODGERS IS NOT DONE,” declared Phil.

Jason reported that Rhys had been asking why they were paying Rodgers all that money immediately before the completion. Nigel confirmed that watching Rhys eat his words in Birmingham had already made the day worthwhile.

The food options there were clearly more varied than we realised.

Then Mount Washington scored, prompting the usual collective astonishment that someone that large could also catch like that.

When commentary described him as a 265-pounder, Richard clarified: “Yeah mate — when he was born.”

Buttered Bread and an Empty Stadium Kitchen

The Saints remained irritatingly involved. A prolonged stand near the goal line featured enough hope, frustration and review activity for Martyn to observe that it had lasted longer than the first quarter.

Lee faced an additional complication: every Saints touchdown meant disappointment followed immediately by the discovery of fantasy points.

Supporting a football team is difficult enough without having to declare a personal financial interest in the opposition.

Boswell helped close the half with more points, and Phil’s famous half-time stats arrived, sponsored by buttered bread.

“Because without the butter, it’s just bread.”

It was the sort of dependable analysis people had come for.

Over in Paris, however, Lucy reported that the stadium had run out of food before half-time.

An international sporting event in France had managed to exhaust its catering while Birmingham was still applying sauce to the founder. Somewhere, a logistical enquiry was surely being opened.

Phil passed judgement on the half-time music, recognised that he had become one of those people who thinks music was better when he was young, and then resumed normal service by explaining French posthumous marriage law.

There are broadcasts charging substantial subscription fees that offer less range.

Please Leave the Heartburn Alone

Peyton Wilson’s interception finally gave the thread a turnover it could celebrate.

Phil still expected it to be overturned because somebody in the crowd had broken an obscure rule, but it stood. Wilson was everywhere, Warren kept carrying people’s afternoon, and Rodgers earned perhaps the highest praise available in Phil’s vocabulary:

“Warm apple crumble and custard kind of good.”

Then Martyn revealed the sacrifice underpinning the entire performance.

He had heartburn. There were tablets in the kitchen. But the Steelers had been winning since the heartburn began, so he couldn’t risk treating it.

“I need help man!”

He certainly did. Unfortunately, nobody could responsibly recommend anything until the final whistle.

Last week Rob had protected a comeback by refusing to leave his sofa. This week Martyn was preserving a lead through untreated indigestion. We are developing a comprehensive medical department, although its methods may struggle under peer review.

Old Man Run

The game was there to be finished.

The thread requested a two-score lead. Phil anticipated a win, a brew and possibly a burrito. Richard hoped it could all be wrapped up before the Leeds match started.

The Steelers responded by keeping everyone involved for a bit longer.

A missed Saints field goal brought relief. A disappointing Pittsburgh possession removed it. The defence was asked to go back out, and the familiar fourth-quarter vocabulary returned.

“Strap yourself in,” advised Colin.

From Birmingham came another message from Jason:

“Not sure we’re grimacing or happy atm.”

Even Olympus was finding the distinction difficult.

Queen delivered a huge stop. Warren and Dowdle kept working. Then Rodgers tucked the ball and ran.

The thread became a chorus of “OLD MAN RUN!”

Rob shouted it. Lee shouted it. Aaron joined in. Ruth encouraged the old timer. Richard welcomed the arrival of dual-threat Rodgers.

For a brief, glorious moment, an entire fan club sounded like relatives encouraging somebody through the last few yards of a sponsored walk.

He got there.

Eventually, Pittsburgh reached the point where it could kneel, and Jason issued the final decree:

“That’ll doooooooooo.”

The clouds closed. Someone could fetch another wing.

Victory Lundi

Martyn could finally take his heartburn tablet.

That was the first essential piece of post-match business.

The rest followed: praise for Warren, Wilson and the offensive line; relief that the group in Paris had a victory to celebrate; good wishes to Birmingham; and the pleasing sight of 5–2.

Phil thanked everyone for the company. Ruth looked forward to another Victory Monday. Michael supplied the local translation: “Victory Lundi”.

A supposedly depleted thread had delivered more than 500 comments, running jokes across two countries, an argument with the replay booth and one man’s refusal to compromise a winning run by settling his stomach.

Next up, the Browns and the Manchester watch party.

Phil says they’ll be in the library.

Presumably the quiet section has been warned.