Dum de dum de dum. Well, I suppose I’d better think about dusting off the keyboard. Opening day is upon us and JESUS H.CHRIST ON A MOTORCYCLE!! Where the hell did you spring from eh? Fair old scared the Carshalton out of me you did, sitting there in the dark like some little blog hungry goblin. I’m an old man now don’t you know, you can’t go round scaring late middle-aged folk like that, it’s just not normal. And how the fuck did you get in here anyway? What? You’re waiting for the opening day blog? Well, if you’ll kindly mind not giving me a coronary and an aneurysm all in one, I’ll get to it right away. Now, if you wouldn’t mind putting the biscuit tin back and getting the fuck out of my missus underwear…
Yes, hello dear reader. We have returned and in more ways that one an’all. After the inevitable end to a pretty awful season that rated a solid 9.2 on the ‘Load of Big Floppy Donkey Dick’ scale, we’re back whence we came and like a particularly scary, slightly senile Auntie, La Bastarda is once more beckoning us back to her saggy boobed, mono-toothed, nicotine stained, brown ale addled embrace. Can’t fucking wait. It’s been a long old summer too and not because we’ve had the Euros and then the Olympics back to back, oh no. I largely fucked the former off simply because that come May, I’d had about all the shit football I could stomach and having heard the wailing and gnashing of teeth about England’s hilariously dour trundle to their second International final in 3 tournaments, I was bloody glad I’d long since given up on all that cobblers. That and VAR. VAR can fuck off. And when it gets there, it can fuck off a bit more. You know I’m right, just ask my old mate Romelu Lukaku if you don’t believe me. He’ll back me up.
As for the mighty and now formerly Football League U’s, well the times they are a changing. And then some. Steve Morison wielded the axe over the break, in much the same way Patrick Bateman wielded one in American Psycho, just without the natty rain mac and the Huey Lewis & the News soundtrack. Out the door went, well pretty much fucking everyone to be honest! Including old favourites such as Easty (Wealdstone), Beauts (Woking), Goodliffe (Colchester) and John (Ebbsfleet). Also doing the offski were the likes of Harry Smith (Swindon) and Omari Patrick (Tranmere), both having relegation clauses in their deals which unsurprisingly both activated despite still having a year on their deals at GGL, although this news was met with differing amounts of disappointment from amongst the populace of the PROWS. I’ll leave you work that one out for yourself. In the end, of last season’s squad, only Josh Coley and Steve Arnold remained of those who’d actually played a game. Matt Kerbey being another.
In their place, Steve’s recruited a much younger and less experienced outfit. However that’s not to say there’s not some gems in there. Siju Odelusi and Eduino Vaz came in from Aveley, the former being in the league team of the year. We also nabbed Matt Rush from Maidstone, a forward who’d banged in a good few goals last season as well as some other interesting additions. Although most could be filed under ‘promising’ rather than ‘known big ugly National League bastards’. Still, beggars can’t be choosers I suppose. Elsewhere, Wycombe nicked our training ground out by Heathrow and we have now returned to the Borough with the David Weir Centre up at St Helier now serving as our base of operations. This recruitment clearly got the board’s approval as the week before the season started, they awarded Steve a 2yr contract extension. Odd timing, but there you go. And speaking of odd, that brings me to our new co-owner.
Last season we ended up hosting a chap by the name of Paul Brunson at a game. Now, being a white, late middle-aged man, I had not the first fucking clue who he was or why him being at a game would cause a fuss in the first place. Turns out he’s best known for a role in the show ‘Married at First Sight’ (nope, still none the wiser) and other such televisual delights that daft lasses watch. Being American, he’d been set up on ‘Sunday Brunch’ (nope, not a clue there either) to pick a team out of a hat from amongst the 92 PL & FL sides and like a complete div, he picked us. At the time, we were 92nd. Still, despite this great misfortune he happily came down to a couple of games and it appears he absolutely loved it. So much so, like an even completer div, went and bought a fucking stake in the place! Yes folks, the lad off ‘Married at First Sight’, got Married at First Sight to a football club. No pre-nup either from what we hear. Good lord. Still, it was a nicely daft little interlude with which to kick off the season and welcome us back to the absolute Wacky Races on Acid shitshow that is the National League.
Ah yes. Opening day. Suppose you’ve had enough filler by this point and we’d best get to that! Well, as predicted by yours truly, the magical NL fag packet and biro gave us Tamworth away. A new ground and one situated in a town that hosted a colourful display of this country’s extensive modern ‘culture’ just the weekend before. And by culture I actually mean racist cunts smashing the gaff up and trying to torch a hotel containing women and children. Joy. Still, pogroms and onset of the Fourth Reich aside, there’s a CAMRA Pub of the Year to hit, it was only £22 return on the rattler and I don’t have to get out of bed until nearly 8am. Nope, I’m not convinced by the argument either if I’m honest, but I digress.
Still not entirely enthused by the return of the beautiful game to my weekends, I’m out on time and handliy just miss my bus to Croydon. Still, I’ve plenty of time still and rock up with enough to spare to bag the train to Victoria. Here it’s a quick swap to the Vic line and off the tube I spot Bob & Cathy ahead. So I follow them like a weirdo before announcing my presence about 5 minutes later as we get to the top of the escalators. I wave them off to get coffee as I spot the rest of the rabble waiting in the sun outside. Mr X is puffing away as usual, building up his fix for the train, Steve’s munching on a sausage bap from Saino’s (the last one as well, the absolute prick) whilst Tatey, on a rare away day, is constantly badgering his carer for the day, the aforementioned Mr X shaped chimney about all sorts of nonsense. Also milling about are Robbo, Indy, Magnum and Dr Bell. I head for Saino’s myself to see what Steve’s left and clock Keepo and Dirty Barry coming the other way. Good day gentlemen! A couple of croissants, some melon bits and an orange juice later, it’s time for the train.
JR and Robbo have darted ahead, but claimed seats in an already busy first couple of carriages and some of us instead move down to a quieter part and thus this means that it’s a much quieter trip up as I’m joined by 4Days, Tatey (having seperated from his carer for the day Mr X) and Steve. The hour and a bit run is largely uneventful and there’s not really much of any note to speak of. Still, as we approach our destination and I’m looking up 11am opening boozers, Steve’s checking the weather. “10% chance of rain” he says, as we pull in and rain starts pissing down the glass. “Looks about fucking 100% to me mate”. We hop off and there’s a lot of familiar boats on the platform with us. We briefly formulate a plan outside and with Fish deciding to stay under cover and not ruin his hair, we set off for the boozer with me in charge. Here I channel Mr X and promptly fuck up twice, leading us the longest way round possible to our destination, the Globe. Still, even with the steady rain falling, no one fancies giving the Stop the Boats Arms we pass along the way a go. Can’t think why. Still, we eventually hit the pub and get a damp round in.
On the telly, a bit of the Olympics is one show and it’s ladies climbing! Of course, being the utter wankers that we are, we’re soon pontificating about all things rock climby and critiquing the ladies style and technique as we watch. Oh come on, we all do it. The British lass briefly takes the lead and Tatey soon declares he reckons he’d be a dab hand at the event, justifying this absolute heap of bullshit with a simple “It’s just like going for a piss in Spoons!”. Sadly our lass can’t cling onto a medal and comes in 4th, just as we sup up our second jar of the day and set off for the next stop, the Tamworth Tap. This is the aforementioned CAMRA Pub of the year and we make sure on the walk over that 4Days won’t be full on beer snobbing it up and moaning the whole time comparing it to his own gaff. He agrees in principle but is making no promises. Outside, we bump into the Chalmers, fresh back from their honeymoon in Sri Lanka and we leave them to go exploring while we get our pints on. Inside, there’s plenty of Sutton in, including such luminaries as AB, Chairman Bruce and Kiddo. It’s packed though and once the round is sorted, we head up to the top floor, find it deserted and having popped some windows open, kick back and enjoy the refreshments. Our arrival is timely as within 20 minutes of getting in, this spot is rammo too.
We sink a few rounds here, talk shit and Magnum bores some poor locals. But then with 2pm arriving, we decide to head for the ground and once more ruin a perfectly good day out with some football. Will we ever learn? Absolutely not. The walk is a pleasant 15 minute amble along the river and we’re soon finding the away end at the Lamb. Tickets secured old school on the turnstiles, like back in the old days (2018) and we’re in. The away end is pretty busy too, which is a nice thing to see away from home on opening day. Certainly looks more than the 250 I’d guesstimated on the way up.
Arnold, Jackson, Vaz, French, Muller, Odelusi, Boateng, Simper, Davies, Harris, Da Silva SUBS: Coley, Sims, Nadesan, Sivi, Ransom, Waller, Wadham.
A memorable contest it is not sadly. With the first half instantly forgettable and chances at a premium. The only real event of note is the lively looking Da Silva stretching for the ball on a run wide and copping the full weight of a perfectly sound challenge off a defender and earning himself what will probably be at least a month on the side lines with some form of knee knack. The hosts look every bit their don’t concede many, don’t score many reputation and we simply don’t get going with a number of lads failing to deal with simply not being given time on the ball. Welcome to La Bastarda fellas, we remember the days when it was us doing that! Elsewhere, Ben Goodliffe’s already notched a double for Colchester at the Wombles.
At the break, I head for a much needed lash and I’m confronted by Deano’s very much not officially licenced apparel, a somewhat loud knockoff Sutton United Hawaiian shirt. One that’s fresh out the packet too as you can clearly still see the fold lines. “I don’t do ironing!” he complains as he gets dogs abuse for his less than sharp turnout. I also go for a bacon roll off the grub van, which whilst on the steep side price wise at least comes in a proper fresh roll and proper butter. “It’s Lurpak too!” boasts the lass behind the jump. Well, that would certainly explain the price, as most supermarkets put fucking security tags on that stuff round our way! At the break, Nadesan replaces Odelusi, as Steve decides to give the utterly isolated Davies some support. It doesn’t really work to be honest and as the half wears on, the hosts slowly get on top.
French gifts them the ball with a blind pass but Arnold saves the eventual shot on the run, he then has to beat away another effort after some more sloppy play from our lot in our own half. But as it looks like we’re heading for an enthralling 0-0, we of course drop a bollock and fuck it up. The so far faultless Arnold mishits a clearance weakly to a forward about 30 yards out and no one ever gets quite set as he advances and picks his spot past the rooted U’s stopped. National League ago-go! It almost gets worse a minute later when Vaz tries to play out of trouble rather than clear lines, the pass out is poor and with Arnold stranded, their lad plonks a lob just inches wide of the post.
From here though, they seem to settle back a little and perhaps maybe try to hold what they have and this gives us a fraction more room. We build up our first real spell of almost pressure with a couple corners etc and with the board going up for 5 added, Jackson puts a cross in, Davies acrobatic effort fails miserably and the ball runs to Coley, who takes what looks to be a slightly heavy touch before rattling a piledriver high past the keeper from about 10 yards out. There’s little celebration on the pitch, as we get the ball and look to restart immediately. Meanwhile, there’s palpable relief on the away terrace. A point will do I suppose! We try and press for a winner, but like much of the afternoon so far, it’s rather bitty stuff and in the end we at least avoid defeat on our Bastard League re-debut. Right, can we pack up and get drunk now?
Outside, Keepo, Fish and DB decide to head for the early train, but with us booked on a much later one, we retire to the Market Vaults opposite the Tap to discuss options. These are short lived as it’s soon revealed that the next two services are cancelled and terminating at Rugby. Which is of no fucking use to us whatsoever. So, resigned to our fate, we sink a couple here before edging closer to the station with a couple in the Robert Peel by the Globe and a handy chippy we saw earlier. Fittingly, the boozer has a spot called ‘Bullshit Corner’ although we refrain from occupying. Here the days efforts also get a little too much for some with Robbo nodding off briefly. Soon it becomes time to go and we head out for chips only to find it’s not serving tonight, which I think you’ll agree is about as fucking perfect an analogy for the state of this country. First Nazis out on the streets and now fucking chippys up north not even serving on a Saturday night? Absolutely gone to the fucking dogs this place. Right, Morrisons it is.
Mr X and I do the cans and snacks run, bagging numerous edible items and a load of booze. As we leave with our bounty, a bloke helpfully suggests we go another route as it’s far quicker. Turns out he’s not wrong, but misreading the time and thinking we have only 6 minutes, I encourage the man of mystery to hop over the short two foot wall surrounding the station car park and cut across it. This he does begrudgingly but manages to scrape his knee in doing so meaning I have to put up with his whinging the whole way to the platform, whinging that soon increases in volume once he discovers said wound is leaking claret more than he’d have liked and on realising my time error that ’caused’ the injury in the first place. This could be a long journey home!
The train’s on time thankfully and with a spot secured, we tuck in to grub, cans and what turns out to be without a doubt the most vile crisps we’ve ever tasted. I forget who was responsible for obtaining them (probably Mr X!), but we can with great confidence state that Morrisons Gyros & Tzatziki flavour ridge cut crisps are absolutely fucking minging. Just don’t, save your money. From here, it’s the usual blizzard of cans, bullshit and other idiocy, the main part being Tatey interrupting Mr X’s constant complaints about his terrible knee injury by suggesting he sanitise it with a splash from his can of IPA. Gordons G&T also is not a successful option. Oddly, Dr Bell stays silent on this ridiculous medical carry on, which given that despite his area of expertise being nuclear physics, his mantra of ‘put it in water’ would put this firmly in his field of interest. Chili flavoured peanuts also don’t stop bleeding. Don’t ask how we know that.
Eventually back in London, we wearily head for the tube and once back at Vic, we wave off the Republican denizens whilst I, Steve and Magnum flee to East Croydon. Time of return to HQ? Gone midnight. Fuck my life. Still, I guess the only way is up from here.
Like bollocks it is.
Taz
Excellent at ever!