Hello. Us again. As we plunge deeper into the second half of the season, we realised that we were fast running out of the old long haul awaydays and figured that away to Oldham probably warranted some sort of mention on here. And like bollocks are we doing Gateshead away later this week, so yeah. With the next episode now probably not due until we head to Boston at the end of March, this one gets the treatment. So best get the kettle on. We’ve a lot of horseshit to get through.
Of course, we were last annoying you just a couple of weeks ago with the trip to Kiddy in the Trophy and since then, we’ve once more put another pinhole in the tank of hope with a rather underwhelming home defeat to a hard working and organised, but rather unspectacular Hartlepool side. We can see what we’re trying to do, but we really do need to buck our ideas up at Gander Green Lane if we’re gonna go anywhere. Our home form last year was a big reason we’re back in La Bastarda now, with far too many points dropped in our own back yard against sides no better than ourselves. Still, if nothing else, the rather short notice evening with Mr Morison on the Tuesday to talk more about our prep and approach to games was apparently rather enlightening and showed a softer side to the gaffer.
Sadly, I was unable to attend as I needed to be up early the next morning, like proper Northern awayday early, to get to Gatwick for a work trip to Oslo. Despite being busier than a Sky Sports pundit on deadline day, it proved a nice break from the UK, mainly as they had this big fucking orange thing in the sky. No idea what it was, but I wonder if the UK government could look into getting us one. Even though it was three times colder than back home on the thermometer, the big bright ball made if feel far more spring like. Very nice. The beer is still a bit on the painful side cost wise though, with two almost-pints coming to a princely £17 on the Wednesday night as I killed time before dinner.
I returned to gloomy old Blighty late Friday, which was of course Valentines Day and arrived home to find Mrs Taz having enjoyed her money-can’t-buy gift of my total absence for the day. Whatever lads, I know what my lady likes. Plus I came bearing chocolates, so she was almost pleased to see me. She was less pleased though when I regaled her of the tale of my unfortunate encounter with a fox on the way back up the A23. Let’s just say whilst the motor miraculously escaped without so much of a scratch, I doubt the same could be said for Farney’s nut after it pinged off the bumper of my odd Japanese import at just over 40 miles an hour. Made a rather unnerving sound too. Sorry Mr Fox, nothing personal you understand. Of course, having arrived home late, I then firmly marked myself in her ladyship’s good books by getting up at 6am again to fuck off to Oldham. Thank fuck I remembered the chocolates.
With an early start, I can’t be arsed with a bus so rustle up an Uber and of course a 410 sails past as my sherbert pulls up. Typical. Still, I’m on the platform nicely before 7am and just in time to catch a slightly delayed Thameslink to St Pancs rather than have a 10 minute wait. Sweet. This gets me to town a bit earlier and I can take a leisurely stroll through Somerstown to Euston to meet the other idiots who have nothing better to do with their lives. I do my good deed for the day by helping an old dear with her bag up some steps, figuring we’ll need all the good karma we can get today and having popped to Sainos for the usual load up, find Indy and Ipswich Lee outside staring at the departure boards. And that’s all of us. Mr X had decided he couldn’t face another early start and made us of some Booking.Com credit to get a hotel in Manc Friday night, Magnum is off watching fucking Abba or summat and Dr Bell was apparently having his eyes removed. Also, 4Days is in Ireland at his brother’s wedding, so will have probably drowned in Guinness by now.
The lads go on ahead and I grab a cuppa, catching up on the train. Here some foreign lad (I couldn’t quite catch the lingo, so wouldn’t want to make a guess) was playing dumb on nicking not one, but two of our 4 seats. Not wanting a row before fucking 8am, I do the true British thing of not making a fuss and seeing a spot across the aisle is free, I plonk down there instead. The geezer should think himself lucky that Mr X wasn’t present, as he’d have told him to fuck off out of it quicker than you can say “Fuck off out of it”. We’re soon on the move and Lee is suffering after a near 2am stop out for a gig in Kingston the night before. He’d apparently been woken by his alarm at half 5 and initially cursed his missus for leaving her work alarm set on a weekend before it dawned that it was his and he was going to Oldham today. He also comments that he saw the B Team earlier on the tube already on the cans and was thoroughly disgusted.
Our trip north is uneventful and we mostly kill time talking about magic doors at football grounds allowing sneaky access, general kit geeking between myself and Lee and the Ipswich man showing us pics of the tat he’s acquired from his gig at FA HQ up at Wembley, which includes an England C international cap and not one, but two ‘Player of the Match’ awards from Lionesses games that strangely went unused. Before we know it, we’re off at Piccadilly and waiting the other side of the barriers looking like he’s spent the night on a park bench rather than a hotel, is Mr X. We briefly consider getting the tram out to our destination, but then with it involving changes, we decide we can’t be arsed and Uber it instead. Besides, this means we can find the local Spoons, down a couple of early ones and then hit the good pubs from noon. As we head out up Oldham Road, Mr X tells us all about his amazing night in with a microwave tuna pasta along with a side of bombay potatoes (also microwaved). A happy valentines day indeed for the man of mystery.
The cab bins us in Oldham on the corner by the pub, just as some spots of rain start to fall. So we head inside sharpish and get some beers in. Well, we do. Lee still being fragile from his late night starts with a soft drink, which I sternly warn him is all we’ll be allowing him. The Spoons is as you’d expect at half 10 on a Saturday. Although the highlights are a bloke arriving in shorts (it’s 2 degrees outside), before not long after this is topped by a lad coming in wearing sunglasses. “Either he’s very optimistic or he’s forgotten his fucking dog” chuckles Lee. After we start our second pint, some of the younger lads show up, including Harry and Johnnie. We polish these off and make a move to the next stop, the Ashton Arms around the corner. Harry tags along I guess to see how us pensioners do it and soon after Johnnie follows too. Here the conversation gets a bit weird, with Dog Shagging, Gay footballers and Safeguarding all being on the list as well as some disgusting Gingerism. My Fox encounter the previous evening also draws some abuse.
Someone also states something about ‘Wanking to my hearts content’ before Johnnie confesses he thought they’d said “Wanking to Sam Hart’s content”. Which is an interest that could only be described as niche. I mean, are you employing Mrs Palm and her five young daughters whilst watching some sort of content created by the ex-Sutton full back and 2023/24 Supporters Player of the year on a platform like YouTube or is simply to his highlights reel? Because if it’s the latter, that’s just fucking sick mate. What has been an odd pint is soon capped off when a local comes out of the gents next to us and makes the delightful offer of “Smell me ‘ands lads!”. It seems this is because the antibacterial hand cleanser available from just outside the door has a rather sharp odour on it, but the rather strange manner of the offer means there’s unsurprisingly no takers. Although once he’s out of sight, we of course all have a squirt and a sniff. And he’s right, it does you know.
We move on to the Fox and Pine next, again just around the corner. Much to the amusement of the others after my little canine encounter the previous evening. This is livelier and we manage to grab a spot in the middle of the busy bar. On the way in, I notice there’s sausage rolls on the go for £2.50 so I pop back to bar and get a more chewy round in for some soakage. These are excellent and I’m gutted they don’t have any pies in today. We neck a couple here and I continue to cop Fox related ‘banter’ whilst chat with some locals who they assure us that cabs are dead easy to get before kick off, so we head out finally at half past to make the short hop to Boundary Park, a venue I know better than most for reasons I’ve touched upon on here a few times. A quick painless pay on the turnstile with my card and I set off for a meat and potato pie chaser for my earlier sausage roll.
Sims, Jackson, Kirk, Taylor, Vaz, Topallaj, Wadham, Simper, Woodyard, Da Silva, Davies SUBS: Kerbey, Odelusi, Coley, Sandat, French, Boateng, Muller
The game is not memorable, but I’ve certainly seen a lot worse 0-0’s. Proceedings are competitive and play to’s and fro’s engagingly enough, but neither side can really create that one moment of magic to create a really good chance. The second 45 is a little more lively, but again opportunities are at a premium. Our best comes early after the restart, but we make a pass rather than take a shot and Wadham falls over when it looks like at least making the keeper work is on the cards. As the game wears on, they get a little more offensively minded but barring Sims having to come and punch clear under pressure a couple times we remain largely untroubled and a point apiece is about right at the final whistle. We head out onto the colder than Oslo Sheepfoot Lane and walk up to the main road to get a sherbert ordered up to get back into Manc. Half way up, Mr X realises he’s left his overnight luggage in the ground and dashes off back to retrieve it. “If you’re not back before the cab, you can get your own!” I call after him as he scuttles off back down the hill.
However, our trusty SLO saves his skin and he’s back well in time for the cab. Piled in, we start the journey and matey’s got the seatbelt alarms for the back dialled up to 11 and the fucking things won’t shut up. What then takes place is the sort of wresting on the back seat of a saloon car usually witnessed by Dirty Barry down dark country lanes. But eventually we get it sorted with Mr X cackling that it’s merely my Uber rating at stake. Wanker. Traffic back to town is heavy and eventually, the cab gets us a few minutes walk from Piccadilly and we decide to call it quits and bail out. We’re wasting VDT after all! The Piccadilly Tap is the port of call and we soon bag pints and a table. But as we start to relax, news arrives that our train back at 5 to 7 is cancelled. As are a lot of others thanks to signalling issues. Shit, here we go. We work out that the 7.15 is a goer, but it’s about 10 minutes late, so we neck a second pint before heading to Co-Op for cans for the trip home.
On the platform, the train has just arrived and is already swarming with people wanting to head south. We walk the length but we know it’s in vain, however not wanting to get stuck here for the night, we’d rather stand and take our chances. So we hop on three from the front leaving first class unchecked. Then we’re waiting on a driver and as we do, the guard announces he’s declassified the service. Result! I wander into Premium Standard and find a table for four, perfect. This’ll do! Although had we nicked the win, you better believe we’d be taking the piss in full first class. Soon we’re settled into nice seats and a few minutes later a driver shows and we’re on the way home. Although thanks to the delay, we’ve already scoffed all our snacks, which is not good. Despite going full chat, we still lose time on the way back south and we start to wonder if we’re even making progress at all. Soon we reckon that the arrival time is actually a year and not the time. So we start wondering if the year 2205 has flying cars like what Tomorrow’s World said it would. Although there is the down side of everyone we ever knew being long dead. Oh well, flying cars!
Back in Euston, sadly it was time and it’s still shitty old 2025 out. No hoverboards, no flying cars, no androids. Bollocks. Mr X, having spent the last hour trying to work out if he could make a Thameslink to West Sutton, from St Pancs immediately sacks it off and joins us for the tube back to Victoria. Once back, I leave the lads to get their Sutton service and I make the run for an East Croydon train. Back in Croydon, I’m peckish again, so hit McD’s for a cheeseburger and having got in and out, still make my bus home. Result! Back on Croydon Road, opposite HQ, as I cross the road a Fox is coming the other way. It stops to consider me with what feels like a slightly accusatory gaze.
Oh don’t you fucking start sunshine.
Taz