God, do I have to do this?? Really? Oh come on, I’ve got other stuff to take care of. What? Oh I dunno. Your mum? Return some video tapes? Watch a sunset? Feed the cat? Actually, I don’t have a cat, so add ‘get a cat’ to the list. Take your pick dear reader. Either way, here I am typing and I gotta come up with some vaguely amusing horseshit to lead into yet another load of old bollocks on here. Which I think this bit of whinging does a reasonable job of if you ask me. Right, where were we? Oh right…
Let’s be frank folks. Much like last, this season can fuck right off. Then when it’s done fucking off, it can buy a Carshalton Season Ticket and fuck off some more. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not been a generationally shit campaign that you’ll be using to scare the grandkids with tales of at bedtime in years to come (unlike like last season) and we’re thankfully in no real danger of a repeat of crashing through the trapdoor, but it’s definitely got the stench of death about it and has done for a while now. A bit like a mouse getting in under the floorboards really. I had actually planned to do a blog post-Maidenhead and to be quite honest with you, despite some decent material provided by the gang on the day I quite simply could not be arsed to spare the time when it came to putting fingers to keyboard. We even won to boot. So why did I bin that blog? Well, lets start with the massive fuck off that was the Spennymoor Trophy tie at home shall we…
Wank. To a man. A Quarter final, at home. Against lower league oppo. So you know we tossed it. Like had we had a fucking tenner on it in a 12 fold at the local bookies. Absolute shite. Two games from Wembley and the side didn’t show. Not even remotely. So yeah, we were a bit narked by that funnily enough. Oh sure, “What did you want Taz? TWO Wembley visits in 4 years after waiting over 40 for one??”. Well. Yeah. Fuck me for being selfish eh? Anyone would have thought a National Final at the National Stadium would look good on the CV of someone calling themselves a footballer. But nope. Knock one off the wrist, 2-0 home defeat.
Since then? I really cannot be arsed with going over it all, mainly as I’d have to do more research than your average mainstream journalist does these days. Suffice to say, same old same old. We cannot defend and we cannot score enough. To top it all off, in the midst of being as mid-table as it’s possible to get (win, draw, loss columns all very similar, -1 GD) the club decided that after a 3-0 face fucking at GGL to an efficient but unspectacular Halifax side that renewing Season Tickets was what we all needed to get excited about, and not only that, having won a grand total of 11 League games at the home of football since August 20-pissing-23 we were going to be required to pay a bullseye more for the privilege. And that’s the advance price! Because we’re big loyal fans or something. Guess how that went? About as well as Elon and his ‘Roman Salute’ did for Tesla’s share price.
Still, unlike Elon, we have SLO Loffers to pull the shit out of the fire and after some behind the scenes discussions, a meeting on the morning of the Daggers home game last week established a solution, part of which included the gaffer offering to cover the difference between last season’s price and the new one for that first week. Good lass is our SLO, taught her everything we know. She’s of course ignored every word of it, mainly because she’s not a complete fucking moron. But hey, we tried. And we’re still kind of claiming some sort of credit for it. You’re welcome. You can buy us a pint next time you see us. The Daggers game? Rubbish. 93rd minute leveller being about our only real effort on goal. Strangest part about it all is that it left us still only 6 points off the play off places. Which tells you all you need to know about the quality of the division this season.
Right, Boston away. Now most of us are mainly doing this one because it’s a new ground and being the desperately sad bastards that we all are, most of us need this one to complete the old GM Vauxhall Conference once more. Some of us ancient sods had last been up here in the 80’s during that first leap into the big time, but since then the pilgrims have vacated their famous York Road ground for the usual anonymous 3 sided new build a couple miles out of town. Oddly though in this case, the old gaff remains intact and still standing and not turned into flats like you’d expect, as we found out when coming past on the way to Grimsby a couple of years ago. No idea what’s gone on there to be honest and again, I’ll be buggered if I’m doing any research into it. As per, we all book well in advance and there’s signs that this might not be a busy rail route when Steve joins the party about 6 weeks later and books the seats right next to ours.
Sadly both Greggs are rammed so grotty McMuffin it is. As I head out I see Johnnie heading out and give him a wave. Back on the concourse, I scarf my food and Johnnie soon reappears having already fed. Guess Greggs wasn’t quite as busy as I’d thought. Next along is Indy, complete with the 19th century shiny toilet paper style tickets entrusted to him by the Man of Mystery. Soon after PC, Steve and 4Days are on scene, with our remaining traveller Robbo sacking off via Whatsapp with a bad back. So after obtaining a cuppa from Starbucks that takes longer to make than Steve’s flippatop lambada macchiato with extra steam, it’s off to the rattler we go.
Some people are more excited than others, with Magnum PI and Greek, still not heeding the life lesson that was two nights in Barrow, deciding to do a weekender in a market town in the arse end of Lincolnshire. No one else is interested funnily enough until that week when Mr X folds and decides to pump up on the Friday with them and drink lots. Regardless, I have to be awoken at 6am on a Saturday to get my arse out and up to Kings Cross in time. I cannot be bothered with the complexities of the local bus services at this time and just Uber it to East Croydon. This is handy as it means I walk onto the platform and straight onto a train to St Pancs. The sun is shining brightly from the chilly springtime blue skies as I exit at my destination and cross the road to Kings X with a good 40 minutes to spare. So, with time to burn I go looking for breakfast.
The journey up is pretty uneventful. We catch up with Steve’s Dubai holiday tales, 4Days post-Wales away in Montenegro briefing and other small talk along with the customary “Who’s ground is that?” line as we pass through Peterborough. And an hour later, we’re piling off at Grantham to change to the Skeggy line. Here we spot the B Team and also start discussing pubs. Having dismissed Indy’s intensely detailed pub intel (“I remember a yellow one!”) we realise Mr X has got us tickets to arrive shortly after 10am, so a Spoons is our only real option anyway. Fortunately, there’s one a short wander from the station. Plan? Plan. Then it’s another train, complete with disembarking Palace fans(!) and a very flat trundle into very flat Lincolnshire. Did we mention it was flat? Finally at Boston, we get our stroll on and hit the Spoons, grab a table and tuck in. On the telly is a re-run of York versus Liverpool from the 1986 FA Cup 5th round, which is notable for two diabolically chalked off goals by the same lino, one in either half. Chalmers looks up the replay and finds Grobbelaar and co won that 7-0. Next up is Everton v Telford!
Mr X saunters in soon after and is disappointinglh sprightly despite too much grog and not enough sleep. Although he does start with a soft drink. Soon after we’re joined by Magnum and Greek along with SLO Loffers. Due to the early arrive, we’re caught between rounds come 11 and having decided to leave the good pub by the station (the Eagle) until afterwards, a few of us decide to wander over the bridge into town more while a few others polish breakfast and we’ll see them in the Golden Lion after. We spot the Stump and Candle, but not fancying a Craft Union, we head a little further up to the Magnet. Our choice is a good one, not because this is a better pub, but because the B Team are in here having got chucked out of the Stump not 10 minutes before! Seems one of the younger lads perfectly valid ID was deemed ‘fake’ by the bar staff.
Still, the gaffer of the Magnet doesn’t care, apparently greeting the lads with “Even I’m barred from there!” when the piled in. Their loss is his gain. We grab a quick one here and as we sup more Palace fans appear for their early kick off Cup tie with Fulham. Who knew this part of the world was Little Croydon?! This pint down, we head back over the river to the Golden Lion, which sets Indy off once he spots the colour of the gaff. “I told you there was a yellow one!!” he crows. No one’s having it. Greek, Loffers and Magnum are waiting when we arrive and Pornstar pops in with Nutsack soon after. We sink a couple rounds here before heading to a nearby rank and grabbing a couple of cabs out to the game.
Sims, Young, Vaz, French, Topallaj, Adom, Barbrook, Simper, Woodyard, Nadesan, Davies. SUBS: Ransom, Jackson, Odelusi, Boateng, Wadham, Tume, Kerbey
A pie is obtained for soakage before kick off and that does the job nicely until half time. On the pitch the hosts, who barring Barnet currently pissing their way to the title, are about the only side in any form in the last 10 and are looking to finally haul themselves out of the bottom 4 where they’ve spent most yof the season. A revenge slap for the 3-0 humbling we took at GGL earlier this season will not be easy to obtain. Naturally, with the wind at their backs from the open end, they bombard us early on. Harrying and hassling at every turn and sticking the ball into the box at every opportunity. We see out the mad first 15 intact and manage to get out a couple of times soon after with counters that we waste with a poor final ball or decision making. Then as we’re expecting things to open out a bit, we leave their shortest player unmarked from yet another long throw and we’re behind.
Sakes! Still, we plug on and the lead is relatively short lived. Vaz puts a free kick in from the far side and Davies stoops to nod in off the far post for his 20th of the season. He had a slow start the lad, but his production since has been decent. He’s one of the truly consistent threats we’ve had all season. If he had some regular help from elsewhere, we might well have won a few more this season. The game to’s and fro’s from there, but barring a flap from their keeper at one, we largely go in the happier at the break. We’ve soaked it up, now we can get on the front foot. Although one black mark is the replacement of Jack Taylor right before as he clearly pulls his groin giving a clearance some welly. It looks more than a tweak, so he’ll no doubt join the growing “See you in July” list.
Second 45, whilst Boston’s tempo remains high, they struggle to get out of their half and create much momentum playing into the wind, mainly thanks to their keeper’s largely atrocious kicking. We ourselves have a fair bit of ball, but largely we fail to create much of note with again that final ball not being right usually the cause. However, with about 15 to go, a decent move finds Odelusi in a bit of room wide and he squares a nice low ball into the box. It finds Davies, he turns smartly and the defender bings him down for an obvious penalty. Sadly, the season as a whole is summed up by a firm but poorly placed effort from the top scorer and the keeper guesses right to save. Fuck our lives.
They ahve one chalked off for a clear offside soon after and then the game kind of enters another to & fro stage but again without too many chances. But with the board having already been shown for added, the ref awards them a freekick far side having ignored a blatant foul on Vaz. It’s put into the box, we never quite deal with it convincingly and it eventually falls to a lad on the corner of the 18 who shanks an ugly one into the turf that naturally kicks up and loops perfectly over Sims. I make that at least 6 now this season where we’ve chucked points from about 85 onwards and after last season’s endless kicks in the balls late on, it’s getting a little old now. Again, it’s the story of our season. A largely decent performance ruined by our inability to take chances and defend when it matters most.
We barely get the ball back before the end and that’s all she wrote. So I head outside to call a sherbert back into town whilst we say farewell to Magnum, Greek and Ossie who are staying just over the road. We meanwhile need a pint! The wind is proper Baltic as we wait for transport and with our cab finally appearing, we pile in and are faced with a long line of traffic to get out. Fuck that, we’re wasting VDT. So I hop out and lob an obstructing cone out of the way allowing our cabbie to pull a U-turn and cut the line. What? We were thirsty! As we head back into town I get a text from Mummy Taz. It says “Why do your team always let in late goals?”. I WISH I FUCKING KNEW MOTHER!! Soon we’re at the Eagle and getting a round in, finding Keepo, DB and Fish downing a quick one before their train back. So depressing was the result that whilst Indy gets the beers in, 4Days goes around to the other side of the bar to get himself a ‘pain pint’ that he skulls and comes back around to claim his round entry.
Greedy bastard. Can’t say I blame him though! We all have a moan about our dour season and smash a couple of quick pints before we elect to get a train back to Grantham as Keepo and the boys have informed us the station pub there is a decent watering hole. Suits us! A quick google identifies a Sainsburys a couple mins walk away so that’s cans sorted. Off we go! We bounce the train back to Grantham with 4Days accosting the poor lass with the trolley for a can the moment he gets aboard. I stand the rest of the mob a round to keep them from getting too restless over the next 45 minutes or so. The Whistle Stop provides pints and a white wine for the lady, I mean Chalmers. We down our first and then he and I head to Sainos for supplies. A process greatly sped up by use of the self shopping beep beep handsets.
We return to the boozer laden with supplies and neck our next pint before our actual booked train back to London. Enjoying a drink with Catch & Bob before they head off for a night out in the bright lights of Grantham. We’re a discerning bunch and no mistake! The journey back is uneventful other than Chalmers realising he has no implement with which to eat his pasta he’s bought. Eventually, his attempts to make do with a thin wooden stirrer stick and helpfully suggest he crack open the pack of the Frazzle knock offs we’d got and use those as makeshift spoons. I must admit, it works much better than my banter intending mind had imagined. Certainly better than the stick he’d using before at least! Before long we’re back into Kings Cross and disembark, but as we do, I realise I need a piss. 4Days helpfully suggests a train on the opposite platform that’s just seemingly arrived as well. Hoping I don’t get trapped and wind up on my way back to Peterborough, I dive in and use the facilities. Of course, as I get near the end, the doors start beeping. Fuck this, I’m out. That’ll do for now!
We hop the Tube back to Victoria and along the way two lasses are having a laugh and are clearly a bit worse for wear after a night out. One has an inflatable microphone that we correctly deduce has been liberated from wherever they’ve been. We depart at Vic as they break into a rendition of “I will survive”. Good night ladies! As per, the Sutton crew just miss a train back to the Republic and decide to go for a quick pint after Mr X has had a smoke. Meanwhile Steve and I do the usual East Croydon dash. He leaves me for the tram at the other end and I’m left on my tod to await a 410 back to HQ where I find Mrs Taz readying for bed. She doesn’t need to ask how my day’s been simply with one look at my face. Knows me all too well that one!
Six to go.
Taz