Blimey, is it really a whole month since we did a bit on here?? Feels like a lot longer if you ask me. But then again, with that spell straddling the festive period, it’s no great surprise really, as slogging through first Christmas and then the post-season of goodwill to all Men misery that is more commonly known as January usually makes getting chained to a radiator in a Beirut basement look appealing. That’s a Terry Waite joke there. Yes, you know. Terry Waite. Oh just fucking Google it will you. Bloody kids these days….
Anyhoo. Bloggage. The last time we were in the chair, it was for the somewhat tame 1-0 defeat at Alty. Since then, we’ve lost to Tamworth at home in the League, then pissed away points to injury time equalisers to both Barnet AND Aldershot over Xmas itself, before squeezing past Tamworth in the Trophy and finally binning off yet more points at the Field of Dreams that is the Stade de Gigiell to old muckers Wealdstone. So no League wins since November. Yay. Still, trying to remain positive, the performance at Barnet was half decent until we fucked it around the 100 minute mark and had we taken chances we would have been comfortably past both the Shots and the Stones. But we didn’t. And we’re not positive, we’re grumpy. So fuck off.
Which brings us to York away. Now this one was always going to be popular with our lot given it’s a really nice city full of culture, history and shitloads of pubs. Fuck-tons of pubs in fact. We are talking biblical levels of pubbage here. So much so that if we died and went to heaven, the pearly gates would probably be one of the entrances in the city walls of York. So that’s quite a lot of pubs. And we like pubs. Not sure if we’d ever mentioned that before? We have? Cool cool. Whatever, this attractive aspect to the venue meant we were on it like a car bonnet and had this one booked donkeys ago. And even better was the fact that the early decision meant that train tickets were bagged for as little as a bullseye return. Which in this day and age of mostly shareholder and executive bonus focused franchised rail services is practically free. And yes, we know LNER is run by the government these days. This is something on the internet and thus your unfunny whataboutery facts have no place here. Begone!
Most of the gang elected to shunt up there from Friday afternoon, arriving early evening in time for our customary “couple of pints and a curry” night out (more on this later). I however decided to do some adulting for a change and with 2024 proving a bit of a shitshow with work and time off at a premium, I booked the Friday off and aimed to spend the day actually looking at the bits of York that weren’t pub interiors. Do a bit of yer actual culture and that. Weird, I know, but there you have it. My reasoning being that on the 3-4 times I’d been to this ancient city, I’d never so much as even thought to look around and being of advancing years and firmly enjoying being a boring bastard of late, I fancied doing some tourist shit. So the 9.08 off Kings Cross and annoying the locals by getting in the way taking shite pictures whilst cooing at old buildings it was.
So, of course I’m up at 7 and showered etc and out the door at half past. Bus to Croydon, that takes bloody ages and I’m soon on a Thameslink to St Pancs. Steve’s on my train as well this morning, but he’s a good 15 minutes ahead and kindly volunteers to get the grotty McDonalds breakfasts in. What a nice man. On the trundle into town, the train is busy as the commuters head in for their shift at whatever fluorescently lit open plan coal face they’re heading for. I get a seat at London Bridge and here quickly notice that an abandoned coffee cup is rolling about the place, spilling it’s remaining contents all over the shop. Across the aisle, it stops against a woman’s foot, but she just nudges it away rather than simply picking it up and standing it upright to stop it’s messy caffeine infused silent rampage. As soon as it inevitably hurtles my way, I scoop it up and park it out of the way under my seat, all whilst tutting loudly. It’s been on the floor of a train love. Not in a fucking plague pit.
Off at St Pancs, I cross the road and go looking for Steve on the concourse, which isn’t hard as he wears a bright orange jacket these days. I scarf down my McMuffin and after grabbing a brew, we head for the train. Of course, being a government owned outfit, we get the 1980’s era powered rattler and not one of the new modern leany ones. We board and check Steve’s seats, but it’s busy so I leave him to sort himself out and go find my spot. Right by it is an empty table and it’s basically unreserved. Result! Quick call to the lord of Southampton and he’s soon joined me in sprawling out for the journey North. He is all sensible and gets his laptop out to do some work. Now, I could have done that too and cracked on with some important year end tasks, but I’ve not brought mine, so I can’t. Oh well, some Star Wars on Disney plus it is then! The trip is event free and we’re soon hopping off in York 10 minutes before our scheduled arrival time.
We quickly locate our hotel a short walk into town and whilst the Radisson doesn’t look much from the outside, the interior is smart and pretty modern. Of course, Mr Rewards Program has his room already sorted for him and also gets a ‘VIP Upgrade’. Wanker. Me? I’m just a peasant who’ll just have to wait. So I ditch my bag in Steve’s room, use his khazi for a piss as well as a sneaky fart and leave him to his work while I trot out to ponce about exploring. It’s cold out but not insufferably so and I meander towards the Minster first, dodging tourists as I go. However, it’s pretty quiet out and not too busy at all. In the Minster grounds, I find a Paddington Bear statue and get a selfie with the sandwich munching immigrant, much to the amusement of one lady walking past. From here, I wander aimlessly, just following any side streets that look vaguely interesting, walk the Shambles and just generally nose about whilst enjoying a couple of cups of tea along the way. As suspected, York is quite nice and old and I’m glad I’ve taken the time to have a proper shufty at the gaff. By this point, it’s gone 2pm and the old belly is rumbling so I start heading back towards the digs and bell up Steve.
“It’s gone two. Pint with lunch?” I enquire. He agrees and meeting in reception, we make the short dig to O’Niells over the bridge. Scoff and pints are ordered and we catch up with the progress of the other dickheads joining us this weekend. Greek is in town already having driven up and is meeting a work contact in a place called Harkers. Mr X has also rolled in on the train and will join there. Meanwhile, Not Irish Pete is having trouble tracking down Magnum, Robbo and Indy back at Kings Cross, which is annoying him as he has their train tickets. Of course, we fully encourage him to deploy Rule #1 if he’s in any doubt. You know the one. “No man left behind, unless mutually inconvenient to the rest of the group”. Sadly, he refuses and eventually the others join him in time to head North. Two pints in, I leave Steve to head back to the hotel to finish his day’s graft whilst I locate Harkers, a Nicolson’s boozer along the river over the bridge. Here Greek is enjoying a pint with his work contact Sam and Mr X. Introductions done, we sit around and enjoy a couple of rounds and just generally chat shite.
Whilst he’s not a York lad, he has lived here a good while and is feeding Greek with plenty of local knowledge. Pleasingly, quite a lot of the boozers I’ve been advised of from my own contacts are ones he’s calling out too. Sweet! From here, we amble over to the Guy Fawkes, a tiny 2 room place that is 10% pub, 10% restaurant and 80% beer garden, with no less than 3 to choose from. Even better is they’re covered and heated. Suits us. We do two here and then next pitch up at the Three Legged Mare a short walk away. Finding a spare table at the back, we tuck into more pints just as news of the others arrival filters through. Naturally they fanny about and by the time they join us at almost 6.30pm, Greek, Mr X and I are now 7 pints deep and Sam is heading home for his dinner. Steve soon completes the party and of course, the abuse starts to fly as a couple more are sunk here. At which point, those of us who’ve been out the longest start turning their thoughts to dinner. With a large group, we decide our best bet is probably a pub for some scoff and we head to the Fat Badger next along the street tucked up next to Bootham Bar, another of the old city gate houses. Here we find they do some decent nosh and can accommodate us, so we settle in and order up.
Most enjoy a mix of tapas type dishes, but Steve and I go steak and it’s just what the doctor ordered. With some soakage on board, the next stop is the Evil Eye, which from an earlier discussion with Sam seemed to be a spirits heavy bar we’d done in similar circumstances way back when up here before facing Harrogate on the opening day in the National League. Far too much was sunk that night and I blamed a manky cheeseburger for my wounded state the next morning when it was actually just industrial quantities of gin. Here we get a round in and I make the mistake of pointing out a bottle of Buckie on the bottom shelf to Greek. Big mistake. Soon he’s located the manager and offered for the whole bottle, sadly (for us!) it’s a popular tipple and they’ve a crate of the stuff in the cellar. 25 quid later and we’ve got a full, fresh bottle on the table and nine glasses. “I really thought he’d fight me a bit harder on that one!” chuckles Greek as others aim less than pleasant comments his way. This also leads to a few suggestions for the blog entry title one of which was a nailed on dead cert until some Twitter nonsense post-match. See below!
With the Buckie killed off in one round, Steve and Pete decide this is a good point to depart for the night, we then head down an alley and visit some loud clubby type bar where we decide we’re way too old for this shit and down one quick before settling into the Punchbowl, not far from where I’d met the lads earlier. Here we sink a couple more before Mickey’s hands indicate it’s gone 1am and once more our ‘couple of pints and a curry’ Friday night away weekender bullshit is exposed for what it is. Here I bid the others good evening while they sort a cab back to their digs and I make the short walk back over the river via an offy to pick up some water and I’m soon back in the warm, in my pit and snoring my box off. We never learn do we?
Naturally, with the Radisson doing breakfast until 11, I’m not out of bed until gone half 9. But a bottle of water, some vitamins and a shower later, I feel a bit more alive and head down for some food, which proves harder than it looks. My checking docs said breakfast is in the ‘Paddle Room’ but stepping out of the lift, there’s not a soul to be seen nor even a hint of a buffet. In the end I have to go to reception to find out I actually have to walk to the arse end of the gaff to get to the restaurant where they actually are serving breakfast. Fucks sake, a sign would help lads! In the right place, I then mistake tomato juice for a smoothie and am soon joined by Steve. Fed, I wander back upstairs, take a 20 minute nap and with 11am upon me and 4Days sliding into my Whatsapps wanting to know where we’re going first for a pint, I decide it’s probably time to rock and roll. With no one else making a call, I shout the Market Cat as a meet location as it’s central and easy to find. Soon I’m walking back over the river cursing my life choices as it’s far colder than yesterday and the last thing I want right now is a pint. Like I say, we never learn.
I pull some cash from the ATM and as I do spot a tall beardy man in a brightly coloured bobble hat. My initial assessment of it being 4Days is soon proved incorrect as this bloke is holding the hand of a small infant, and Welsh wonder doesn’t have one of those. Not unless he’s nicked one between the station and here that is. In the pub, I find Magnum, Mr X and Indy all settling in and not even remotely up for another session. We sit and stare at pints hoping they’ll evaporate to save us drinking any more as slowly, the rest of the crew rolls in. Robbo, then Greek, Chalmers and his good lady Hayley too, having driven up this morning. Bob & Cath appear, greeted by a hungover “Fucks sake” from Mr X. It’s slow going and we manage to knock back two here in over two hours. Not our usual pace! We then move a little further along to the Stonebow so some can grab lunch and so it’s easier to get cab pickups. We watch the Bournemouth v Newcastle game on the telly and spot a few familiar faces in the swim around the bar. But before we know it, 2pm is upon us and some Sherberts are rustled up for the trip out to the ground. Tipped out front, I, Steve Robbo and Pete wander in the rather cold afternoon air to bag ourselves some tickets. All sorted, it’s inside to huddle under the stand out of the wind. To aid this, I go for a pie as it warms my hands followed by my insides.
Sims, Taylor, French, Toppallaj, Vaz, Coley, Simper, Woodyard, Barbrook, Nadesan, Davies SUBS: Evans, Boateng, Muller, Sandat, Da Silva, Jackson, Ransom
Ah yes. The football. The bit we normally try & gloss over and get through as quickly as possible. The hosts start bright, threaten a little and then from our first two serious attacks, we really should be in front. Coley first is sent clear through the middle but a defender just gets a foot in as he pulls the trigger and the shot dribbles wide. Then soon after he’s in wide, but his shot is straight at the keeper and Nadesan scuffs the follow up with Davies also unable to turn it onto the target. Please god don’t let it be one of those chances wasted days. Thankfully, 15 minutes in a corner from the far side is whipped in and ex-York man Davies nips in a the near post to bullet a header across the ‘keeper and into the far corner. We did a goal! Less than 10 minutes later, a great touch from Nadesan tees up Davies who ignores the return run of the Gillingham loanee and instead takes it on himself, stepping inside and rattling the ball high into the net for 2-0 barely 2 seconds after I’ve called him a greedy bastard out loud for not feeding Nadesan. I’m still waiting for my call Sky. You won’t get insight like that anywhere else, I can promise you.
So, midway through the half and we’re 2 up against a top side who’ve not lost here since it was about 20 degrees warmer out. And they don’t like it, they don’t like it one bit. As the half wears on, they become more and more frustrated as our shape and discipline simply provides them with a problem they just don’t have the answers for. In fact, the main events of note on their side of the ball is Ollie Palmer looking a bit lost in a deeper role whilst the striker they’ve reputedly laid out 350 thousand sovs for from Wigan is largely anonymous and only manages to contribute a booking for a pointless body check on Sims long after he’s gathered yet another overhit ball over the top. The only other event of note is our observation skills, or lack of, as I comment there’s no scoreboard, which is a bit odd for a new build. Mr X points out the empty looking steel frame construction in the corner to our left. “Not put it in yet” he suggests. Behind us, Tatts gives us a tap on the shoulder and points over his own to the huge scoreboard at the back of the stand. “Blind twats!”. Fair comment really. Nothing further to add m’lud.
At the break, we all feel that they surely are going to get torn off a strip by their gaffer, surely can’t be that bad again and that we’re in for a long second 45. We’re partially right. They make a sub and reshuffle which makes them a little more threatening, but by and large, they simply knock the ball about, eventually push it wide where that bloke finds his way barred and pops it back infield. By and large, despite a few corners they mostly cause us little concern and Sims has little to do. Although as time ticks on they almost pull one back when we don’t close down quick enough wide, the ball is popped into the box and their expensive lad darts in, his touch takes him past Sims and with the goal gaping and a debut goal on the table, Toppallaj gets back to make a superb block to deny the chance. Into the last 10, we have to make a change to take off Nadesan who’s copped a knock and can’t continue. From a corner, we don’t clear that well, they come again and an inopportune slip allows Palmer to get wide, slide it across the 6 yard box and a big lad in the middle shins it inside the far post. Ah shit, here we go again.
However, we dig in and frustrate, wind down the clock enough and they start to get properly aggy again as, well, they’re not winning. In the end, the 6 minutes of added time becomes nine thanks to some toy chucking on their part and eventually, the final whistle brings joy to the away end and an inevitable load of handbags as toss off ‘ballers spit the dummy about getting turned over at home. Sorry lads, it’s a competition not a fucking tea dance. It’s a fantastic result and one that gets the lads a well deserved ovation from 244 travelling fans. Right, it’s fucking freezing, can we sod off now please? Back outside, we sort out getting to the main road for ordering cabs, although with all of them coming from town, by the time they arrive there was no traffic for them to avoid. As we wait though, we notice a kids slide atop a fence, the slidey bit pointing out. “Wonder if the kids have used it like that?” wonders Greek aloud. Back in town, we go to the Black Swan near some of the herberts Premier Inn and get in a couple of liveners in the cosy back room.
Here we find Moose, who’s originally from this manor and he gets chatting to Ray. Apparently he reads this shite too and tries to persuade me to do it more regularly again. I politely decline. Still, you can have a mention mate, best I can do! Oh and thanks for the Curry House recommendation. Went down a treat. Here we indulge a couple and work out where to go for dinner, however it being Saturday night and there being nine of us, no one’s interested and in the end we head down the road to try out Moose’s favourite curry house and wave off 4Days for his train back to the smoke. As we dine, we’re treated to the joy of the York chairman getting his rich knickers in a bunch over an innocuous Will Davies tweet, which then earns him a ton of ‘womp womp womp’ type replies from not only U’s fans but neutrals as well. Seems Mr Uggla has form in this regard from what we can tell. Just another rich bloke it seems proving that you can have all the cash in the world, but it can’t buy you any wit or fucking brains. Tit.
Fed, we wander more into town and decide to camp out at the Guy Fawkes. Here we lose Steve and just Greek, Mr X, Magnum, Indy and I along with PC and his missus remain. After one, Magnum declares and heads out and with the outdoor covered seating closing, we head inside to finish off our remaining drinks. We stick it out until 11 but at this point, we wave the white flag with Friday’s endeavours once more having taken their toll. Will we ever learn? Will we bollocks. I bid farewell to the rest and once more stopping via the offy for more H2o supplies am soon tucked up in Bedfordshire for an early alarm for the train back to London in the morning.
I’m up at 8 and straight into the shower, getting down for breakfast before half past. This time, the staff have put out a sign indicating where to actually go. Very helpful that. Steve wanders in soon after. We both scarf down the usual sharpish and head upstairs to get our crap, check out and get to the station. When we arrive, the others are already on board so Steve and I head for our carriage and sitting close by each other, natter away until he jumps off at Newark to get a connection to Nottingham for Southampton’s latest Premier League defeat. Enjoy! I then cosy up, get some Star Wars on and pass the time all the way back to town. Hopping off at Kings Cross, I wait for the others on the platform and we head for the underground. Back in Victoria, we check for trains on the boards whilst a lass rolls around on the concourse floor atop what looks like a bit coat whilst some geezer snaps away with a big camera and flash.
We leave Pete and Indy here whilst JR and I head for East Croydon. Of course, we just miss a bus on arrival, then using the tram discover the secondary stop is closed due to roadworks and finally having found a stop and got a bus then get stuck in traffic as some genius has decided to put temporary lights on a road where people’s motors pack both sides of the street. As it is, I crash through the front door busting for a leak and dreaming of doing nowt on the sofa with a cup of tea.
The blog? Ah, you lot can wait. No rush right?
Taz