Hello there, us again. And yes, you’d be right in guessing this is mainly as we’re getting into FA Cup season once more and as you are well aware, we’ve got quite the history with that old pot and well, we’re probably overdue some old nonsense on here again as well. It’s a months since the welcome 3 points at Southend following our little blip in form and since then we’ve still largely flattered to deceive a little and left points on the table with defensive performances being our a chillies heel in the main. A late home win over struggling Ebbsfleet largely overshadowed the fact that we tossed a 2-0 lead in the process, we failed to score at home to a tidy, yet toothless Yeovil and largely dominated a poor Woking, but only squeaked home 2-1 with another rick from Steve Arnold making life a little more difficult than it really should be at the end. But last week’s defeat at Hartlepool was a prime example of how things are going. 2 up and cruising, the advantage was surrendered early after the restart and we trailed 3-2 before Simper levelled late on only for us to cock it up and concede before the end.
Going forwards, we’re dangerous. Sadly, our defending could be described in much the same way. Thankfully, I wasn’t put through that particular wringer on this occasion. With the trains up North being a shambles and not fancying a 2 night stop over in the North East that would cost the same as a week in the Costas, I firmly sacked off the endeavour and replaced it instead with a day’s jolly up to the South Coast with Dirty Barry and some other reprobates to catch up with PRoWS president-in-exile Totts. With his new beau Bexhill away in the middle of nowhere Sussex, we instead met up for pints in Lewes before hopping the train down to Seaford to see them take on Infinity FC in a county league match. Sadly, he, I, Keepo, DB, Smarty & Dr Bell only got to see a 0-0 but it was a top day out with all the sort of bollocks you’d expect with this mob on the piss. And we’d not watched our lot spaff a 2 goal lead up the wall either. Top little setup to at the Crouch too and a nice bunch, well worth a visit if you’re in those parts.
On the way back after a long day’s action on the gas and needing a little more soakage to assist further with the day’s intake, I stopped in at a recent addition to Croydon’s culinary landscape, Popeyes Chicken. The opening of which a few months back had people queueing around the block for it. Now whilst in my advancing years, I tend not to indulge as much in the old junkier end of the scale these days, but I’m still open to new things and I fancied a quick and easy bit of scoff, so in I went. Big mistake. What I got was possibly the worst thing I’ve ever eaten in my life. Smothered for some reason in a load of fucking honey. Ironically, the last thing I ate was this bad was from a branch of Wendy’s just outside Chicago several years ago. A branch of which now stands opposite Popeyes. Sadly, it seems the American pennies produce, maximum markup shit food has finally fully arrived on these shores and the spinach obsessed cartoon strongman should definitely speak to his lawyers. So yeah, avoid this slop at all costs. There, bet you never thought you’d get culinary critique on here amongst all the other shite eh?
Fortunately, for this years opening salvo in the cup, the FA have kept things fairly local and given us an away trip to Chertsey Town, an old oppo from the early 90’s Isthmian era who are now back on the rise after dropping as far as the Combined Counties a couple of years back. But they had some success in the Vase and now are back up to the Southern Prem. This means we don’t at least need to lay out 60 quid to get somewhere at the crack of dawn and instead get a relative lie in on the Saturday morning, so I’m at least able to get showered and even grab some toast before I head out the door at 9am. From here, my plan is to walk to Hackbridge, get a train one up to Mitcham Junction and then the tram to Wimbledon. The main reason for this being that Croydon Road, that runs right past HQ, is currently completely shut due to emergency sewer works going on practically right outside my gaff meaning pretty much all other options are bit on the moody side.
This means whilst the lack of traffic is delighting Mrs Taz, the 7 days a week work digging etc less so. Still, the mostly non-UK workers grafting away have been tickling her with their banter. She can of course understand none of it, other than it being interspersed with the odd “Fuckin’ Hell” or “Fucks Sake”. Either way, I hope they get it sorted sharpish, the back streets of Wallington are a fucking nightmare to navigate currently thanks to the increased rat runnage. That and getting to Croydon’s a right ball ache as well of late. It’s a nice day for a stroll anyhow and I’m to Hackbridge in plenty of time for the rattler, with no sign of local celeb Hackbridge Harry either who Totts swore blind lived under a bridge round here, I’m soon changing and on a tram to the den of the Wombles. Up on the concourse, I find Rax lurking and after a quick cuppa and bacon roll stop in Greggs, the other faces appear. Indiana Jones, Mr X, Tatey and Ben, his lad doing his first away join us and we head to the platform. “We going for a Popeyes later Taz?” enquires Mr Tate as we wait. Yeah yeah. “Did you get tea this time?” I ask the Man of Mystery, nodding at his large Starbucks. “I did” he replies “Not sure Tatey likes his Pumpkin Spice latte though”. “You picked up the wrong fucking order!” he counters! Yep, these two dickheads have inadvertently robbed someone else’s order. Amy and Brian’s to be precise. Whoever the fuck they might be. “To Amy & Brian!” declares Mr X and he and Tatey tap cups to toast the unfortunate couple as our train pulls in.
We trundle out into the Surrey wilds and generally shoot the shit catching up. Mr X confirming that getting to Hartlepool was about as much fun as a weeks all inclusive in Beirut and that some of the sights out on the town after the game were something to behold. Indy feels he personally should be fine after a couple more therapy sessions. We hit Weybridge and here cross the bridge to get our change of train, only to not realise it’s on Platform 1 and instead as that pulls out, blindly get on a train pulling in at the same time on Platform 2. Doors close. “Did the PA just say this is going to Waterloo via Surbiton?”. Oh for fucks sake. Yep, we’ve got the wrong train and not only that we’re heading back the way we’ve just come. “I did say it was the wrong train” counters Rax as the blame game starts “Not fucking loudly enough!” being the general response from the rest of the group. We hop off into the rain at Walton with the aim of going back and trying again and as we get to the footbridge, Indy suggests we instead go to the pub outside for a pint. “We can get Ubers round here too” adds he who cannot be named and that settles it. Pints here, cabs to Chertsey. It’s the only way to rescue the situation. He we settle in, crash back 2 pints and with noon approaching, we rustle up a couple of sherberts via some popular rideshare appage and are soon finally on our way to Chertsey. Our first port of call is the Thyme Tavern, which is largely deserted but does enough pintage to keep us happy. “The whole town’s been talking about this one since the draw was made!” the landlord informs us. Yay, just what you want. Motivated oppo.
A pint is necked here before we head over to the Crown Hotel and find Chalmers and Magnum waiting for us. Turns out they’ve been waiting a while as Tatey sent them here rather than the Thyme. “Couldn’t read the sign over there without my glasses, but I could see the name of this gaff” he shrugs by way of explanation. “Fucking idiot!” is all PC has to say on the matter. We do a quickfire double here and are joined by 4Days, literally fresh back this morning from Wales away trip to Iceland, where he got to see his second 2-0 lead surrendered inside a week and also the Northern Lights in all their glory. “Big fucking deal, we had those here” scoffs Mr X. Next up is the Prince Regent, which is a timely move as just after we get in the gaff and rustle up a pint, it absolutely lashes it down outside, so this means there’s time for two here as we leave it as late as possible before making our move to the ground. There’s plenty of familiar boats in with the Cocktail Crew, Vegan Bev, Keepo and DB amongst others. I also get to catch up with Porn Star and Nutsack before they head out. Before long though, with the rain easing off, we decide to make a move as news comes through of few turnstiles and queues forming. So, we make the stroll and along the way spot an antique shop with his window full of old Sutton Programmes from the 60’s through to the late 90’s. Niche. Wonder how long he’s had that lot?? Probably took ’em in a trade with Totts for some old wirelesses no doubt. Bet he won’t be shifting many anytime soon! Thankfully the queue at the gate isn’t bad and we’re soon inside for a quick pre-kick off snifter in the big marquee they’ve got set up for the occasion.
Sims, Waller, Kirk, French, Okoli, Odelusi, Coley, Simper, Davies, Rush, Sivi SUBS: Arnold, Da Silva, Harris, Nadesan, Barbrook, Vaz, Boateng.
From the off, the hosts come out flying and quite frankly, we simply don’t get started at all. Inside the first minute or so, they have a couple of sighters where with a bit more composure, they should convert. Still, they’re ahead inside five anyway. We don’t close down quick enough wide, ball across finds a lad unmarked about 8 yards out near post and he spins to hook one past Sims inside the upright. Aye lads, great stuff that. Away to lower league side, giving ’em a leg up early doors is exactly what you want to do. Still, the response is fairly swift. A long ball forward is nodded down by Coley and Rush arrives in the middle to sweep in the leveller before we’ve played ten minutes. That’s better. Within another 5, we’re ahead. Coley continues his great recent run of form, drifting in off the left hand touchline past a defender and bending a cracker into the top far corner. From here, we largely dominate with Rush beating his man corner of 18 but his low finish comes back off the far post and their keeper has to make a couple of decent stops to keep his side in the tie. Meanwhile, Sims isn’t overly tested other than having to punch one set piece away from his near post under a lot of pressure.
So ahead at the break despite the dreadful start and we really should be out of sight. Need to finish ’em off quick here lads, don’t let them get a second wind. And from the restart, we do exactly that. Coley again is the troublemaker, finding space for a dig from 18 yards, the keeper parries and Rush is on hand to knee in the loose for 3-1. The home defenders protest vehemently for an offside, but the lino’s flag stays firmly down. That is until the ref goes over for a chat and after a minute or two of discussion, he rules out the goal. For offside. Which the bloke in the best position of all to see hasn’t given. It’s an absolute James Hunt of a call by the man in the middle to be honest and suddenly Chertsey have their lifeline and start throwing everything they have into the tie. There’s a couple of nervy moments but nothing terrible until just after we make a triple sub, Sims makes a superb stop with his legs when their lad looks certain to score.
This looks to be it, but the ref’s doing basically all he can to keep the game alive the whole half, with the usual horseshit of ignoring fouls and offences one way and blowing us for every single little infringement. The worst of which is when he awards a penalty to the hosts with about 10 to go. It’s another bollocks call to be honest, a ball over the top has Sims off his line and he gets to the ball before the attacker, punching firmly clear, but is adjudged to have fouled the man arriving about 5 minutes later. You genuinely have to ask yourself what goes through the minds of some of these lads when they put the whistle in their mouth. Still, Sims guesses right and has it covered, but matey can’t convert and cracks his freebie off the foot of the post. The miss seems to knock the life out of Chertsey and as we grind through 9 minutes of added time we look more and more likely to finish things. And with a couple left, we finally put the matter to bed. Nadesan finds space wide, sweeps it across to Davies in the middle and the covering defender just gets there first, but can only lift it over his over keeper and into the back of the net. Job jobbed.
We file out and head back to the Regent for a couple of snifters. Here Rax seems unhurried to make it back to Leatherhead for a 50th he’s supposed to be attending tonight. We scarf some beers here whilst some painfully unentertaining boxing from Riyadh takes place on the telly. One fight ending more like a WWE job with the lad flipping his oppo over the ropes and then getting the arse when they call it a draw on the scorecards! Dunno how anyone can watch that nonsense these days to be honest, bent as fuck. Right, let’s get out of here! We head for the Station and find that our planned rattler out is running several minutes late, meaning we’ll now miss the connection at Weybridge and have to wait half an hour. Joy! Suddenly, Rax starts googling divorce lawyers as his arrival back in his manor slips even further behind his initial estimate. Eventually though, we get out of Chertsey and trundle back into Weybridge, where we’re treated to some fine modern British carry on of rude wankers barging onto the train before people can get off. The odd thing about this behaviour is that this one terminates here and doesn’t sod off again for almost a quarter of an hour! Mr X in particular is unimpressed by this behaviour.
With a bit of a wait, we head outside to consider train cans but Google makes that a good 15-20 minute round trip and there’s also no boozers anywhere nearby, so we sack it off. And worst of all, the next train doesn’t stop at Wimbledon either. Fucks sake! Right, pints in Surbiton it is then. Back on the platform, our incoming train is still sat there, much to the Man of Mystery’s amusement. Bored, he heads off to make his point “Still fucking here then?” he enquires several times through the open door to anyone who’ll listen, before finally boarding, farting loudly and once more disembarking, pressing the button to close the door behind him to seal in his little air biscuit gift. Naturally, none of us finds this remotely amusing. Back in Surbiton, we hit the boozer outside the station to kill time before the next Wombles train and continue to question Rax about his evening’s plans. “You still here?” enquires Tatey on more than one occasion. We’ve only time for one though and we’re back on the train once more to finally arrive back in Wimbledon where we finally wave off Rax to what remains of his evening and head to the Alex for more beers.
A few more follow and the usual nonsense chatter keeps us amused for a while, but eventually Tatey and Ben disappear for stodge, with the young man having thoroughly schooled in the sort of utter fuckwittery that is a Sutton United away day. And yes, we regularly are this shit at trains. With time getting on and hunger pangs rising, we all call it a night around 10 and head for the Thameslink back around the loop to civilisation. Mr X hops off in the Republic and I’m left by Indy and 4Days at Sutton to finish my run to Carshalton and dinner thanks to Pizza Go Go on the high street, which is a damn sight better than some far more overhyped chicken joints I can tell you. I’m a happy little hector as I weave my way back to HQ stuffing deep pan double pepperoni into my fizzog. Stumbling in the door, my phone goes. It’s Tatey on the Gandermonium whatsapp group. “You were right Taz, Popeyes is fucking shit”.
Told you.
Taz