Cash or Handjobs

Traditionally for us the last away game of a season is usually a fairly fun and jolly affair. A chance to let your hair down after a long old season, have a few beers and a laugh with matters on the pitch usually largely settled. This season though, it’s fair to say enthusiasm levels are low with recent results over the last month meaning the season has gone from promising so much, to drifting aimlessly and rather clumsily towards the end like a pisshead at last orders heading for the bus home. Which is perfect fodder for the penultimate regular entry of the Gandermonium 2.0 era, I think you’ll agree. Yes, don’t forget folks, this nonsense is largely getting knocked on the head after this season…

Still, it could be worse. We could be one of those mobs who insist on traditionally going fancy dress for such games, like our old muckers at Maidenhead who have to traipse up to Gateshead today for a game that, if results don’t go their way, could very well see them relegated from the National League. Fuck that and the horse it rode in on. Don’t get me wrong, each to their own and so forth but even a sad sack lower league watching lifer like me has their limits. There’s no fucking way on earth I’d want to be in an away end having just got binned off on the last day of the season whilst dressed as Barney fucking Rubble or Mr Blobby. Fair play though lads and lasses, you’re braver and dafter than I’ll ever be! There was even briefly talk amongst the yoof of some sort of similar effort for this trip to Rochdale, but thankfully for their sakes that poor recent run has largely knocked the stuffing out of most and it seems it’s been quietly forgotten.

Still, last away is last away and for this we decided way back when we were actually winning the odd game to make a weekend of this one and booked up some Premier Travelodges to doss in after spending the night out in the bright lights of Rochdale. No, you fuck off. Can’t say many of us were as fired up during this week after that Colchester game as we were when we originally planned this shit, but none of this crap is refundable so we’ll have to bite the bullet, pack our stiff upper lips and keep calm whilst carrying on. As such, the alarm goes off at 6 and I tumble out of bed bleary eyed as one usually is at this time and head for the shower. All clean and stuff, I grab my bits, peck the still sleeping Mrs Taz a farewell on her cheek and bowl out into the early morning spring sunshine for a bus to East Croydon for the last time this season. And there’s one due in 3 minutes! Result. Except there isn’t and almost 15 minutes later I’m still stood waiting and using lots of bad words under my breath. Still, having just pulled out my dog to get an Uber, this does the trick and I’m soon on the move again to South London’s premier Pound shop Manhattan aboard a 410.

The bus delay is again slightly costly, as is having to get off 50 yards short of my stop as some dopey twat in a lorry trying to get into the Box Park loading bay has blocked the road, as I just miss a 6.58 off to Victoria. Still, it’s not a disaster as there’s a 7.01 to St Pancs and I hop on that instead. The walk to Euston will do me good and get the old ticker calibrated for another day of beer and League 2 disappointment. The run into London is trouble free and before I know it, I’m back out in the morning sun wandering the back streets though Somers Town to meet the rest of the mob. Waiting for me as I amble up are the usual collection of idiots and should-know-better-at-our-ages, Mr X and Greek are puffing away on vapes to build up their fix, whilst Dr Bell, 4Days, Robbo and Not-Irish-Pete mill about. Meanwhile Indiana Jones remains MIA thanks to an expedition somewhere in the jungles of Darkest Peru. That or he tore a muscle in his Fleetwood Mac and is laid up at home on painkillers, I forget which. Magnum & Steve have beaten me here too having got that Victoria train I missed at Croydon. With greetings exchanged, mostly a mix of grunts, rude hand gestures and calling each other cunts, I head off to Sainos for the usual pre-train breakfast stodge whilst we wait for Chalmers to show up and complete the travelling party.

PC soon appears, much to everyone’s feigned disappointment. Then with tickets distributed, we all make the stroll to Platform 13 and settle down for the journey. Of course, this being the shitshow that is Avanti, we’re late leaving thanks to a late arriving member of crew and 10 minutes after time, we finally roll out and trundle out of London. “We’re not going very fast are we?” mutters Mr X not long after and almost on cue, the lass is on the PA announcing there’s been trespassers on the line at Milton Keynes and we’ll be going slow due to the backlog in front of us. Refunds incoming! Also on our carriage are a bunch of lads that look about as stag do as you can be, a fact soon proven out when one geezer emerges from the khazi in a wedding dress. With the journey slow going, we amuse ourselves with the usual pointless horseshit. First Chalmers has everyone reaching for phones when he mentions fantasy football teams as everyone has inevitably forgotten to check their teams and needs to make changes before the deadline. Mr X then tries to take a picture of a QR code to get some cuppas from the buffet from across the carriage, which he fails miserably at and I eventually have to place his phone inches away from it to get it to work, then only to find there’s no ‘to your seat’ option on this service before finally admitting defeat heading in completely the wrong direction for the buffet car.

As we pass MK and finally pick up speed, Magnum’s deafness after years of loud rock gigs is exposed when Chalmers refers to ‘Cash in Hand jobs’ and the PI hears ‘Cash or handjobs’ instead. Cue much piss taking from the rest of the mob and lots of responses of “What?” and “Half past three!” whenever he then engages in the conversation after that point. A lad walking past on his phone and doing the fakest laugh ever also has us chuckling away and replicating his effort. Greek & Magnum’s usual stupid Saturday bets gets people talking about our game today and a couple even look up the odds. Rochdale being outsiders has a couple bunging 10 quid on a home win, meanwhile Robbo goes silly and checks out the odds on a 4-0 home victory. “We’re probably getting beat, but there’s no way they’re putting four on us” I confidently predict. Oh mate. Future me is gonna be cursing that one later. Finally though, we roll into Manchester Piccadilly an annoyingly non-refundable 14 minutes late and having decided on VDT over cost, head for the cab rank and Sherberts to Rochdale. Here, one taxi will go to the Medicine Tap in town and get the beers in, whilst those of us staying in the Travelodge and having an early check in booked, will take the bags for storage and collection by the Premier Inn faction later. 30 minutes and 40-odd quid in a roasting hot cab later, I, Dr Bell and Pete arrive outside a good half hour before early check in.

With Beer-o-clock already past and feeling confident, I decide to have a bash and roll out the old Tazmondo charm to get things smoothed over. “Leave this to me lads!”. Jacqueline behind the jump is in a good mood and for the princely sum of a Trip Advisor review, which I accept with a wink and a cheeky “You’re in luck love, I’m in the top ten percent of London reviewers!” she agrees to sort us one of our rooms a touch early. “Oh you fucking smooth bastard” chuckles a clearly impressed and not at all sarcastic sounding Dr Bell. Room sorted, bags dumped, we jump back in an Uber and a couple of minutes later we’re tipping out at the Medicine Tap and joining the rest of the crew for pints whilst we discuss the game and tough seasons with a couple of locals. Having skulled 2 pints in short order, we move onto the Flying Horse over the road but not before Robbo and I dip into a nearby American sweets shop for a nosey. I have to look in and see if they do those Almond M&M’s Mrs Taz loves so I can get all of the brownie points when I get home tomorrow. We’re disappointed to find there are none to be seen and matey behind the jump confirms it. But as we leave, he suddenly calls us back having remembered he has 2 big bags hiding amongst others on the display! Get in there! With my sweetie booty secured and Robbo sorting himself out some milk duds and other goodies as well, we head for the pub.

Here, we grab a table and settle in for a couple more and Robbo kindly decides to open a pack of his sweeties up and hand them round. Seems he’d spent a few quid and the lad had done him a freebie. Amusingly though, this pack of ‘sweets’ actually turns out to be choc chip pancake mix, much to everyone’s amusement. “What we supposed to do with that you dick? Snort it?”. We pick up the pace here and down a few before, with 2pm rolling round, it’s time to get our arses down to Spotland for the game. Shame, we were having such a nice time as well! Luckily there’s tons of cabs on the town centre rank round the corner and we’re soon on our way and before we know it, we’re outside the ground. A couple dart off to take in the legendary chippy just by the away end whilst others of us try & locate the away end ticket booth, which is handily absolutely nowhere near the bloody away end. As we buy, we note that there’s a couple of terraced houses that wrap around just into the road running behind this stand and decide that number 3 Pearl Street must be prime dream home real estate amongst the keen ‘Dale fan out there. It’s so close you could probably tip out your front door in the pissing rain and be in the ground without getting wet.

House, Kizzi, Milsom, Goodliffe, Rowe, Smith, Beautyman, Boldewijn, Ajiboye, Kouassi, Wilson. SUBS: Rose, Gambin, Hart, Angol, Ridley, Charles-Cook, Dundas

Inside, I grab a decent meat & potato for soakage and catch up with the other travelling faces currently in the swim on the concourse. An unexpected face is B-Team Beckett who’s decided to make the trip, but he’s not in a good mood after some nonsense at the pub they were in that has lead to one of their lot taking a tumble and getting carted off to the local A&E with a suspected broken arm. Still, as things are about to pan out, I think he might very well have got the best deal of any of us as the team largely plods about and then utterly folds to relegated opposition. Already two down inside half an hour, Brad House catches an onrushing striker on the 18 yard line in a 50-50 and despite the ball flying out of play and the lad having no chance of scoring, the ref has a red out sharpish and an already looming shitshow is now in full effect. Worse thing is, Rose looks injured when he comes on and has to be full stretch to prevent it going to 3-0 from the resulting free kick. Enzio steadies the ship a touch before half time when we finally play a bit of football, carve them open with 2 passes and he reduces the deficit with a smart finish, but no one’s under any impression that we can rescue this. As I head down for a cuppa just before the break, I spot another long time fan has his phone out looking up train times. “When’s the next one out of Rochdale?” I jokingly enquire as I pass. “Genuinely, if a third had gone in from that free-kick I was off mate!” he replies with a chuckle. Now, there’s an idea.

Any hope that we’ll keep it tight 2nd half and make a contest of it are soon banished as within 10 minutes of the restart, the hosts have added two more. Quite frankly, we’ve seen enough and invoke the ‘Rule of 3’ and head for the exits. Pub? Pub. Ubers are quickly sorted and we’re back in the Flying Horse in quick order with beers on the go. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not usually one for tossing games off in such a manner and I’m not expecting a ‘Spurs Refund’ or owt like that. I paid my money, I made my choice. But that was crap and my choice was to go back to the pub thank you very much. Right, fuck the football, can we get drunk now? We sup a couple in the Horse and then Alan, who’d joined us in bailing early, heads off to the station to get his train back into Manchester. Although his brother PC isn’t convinced he’s gone the right way. Then the Premier Inners head out with a key to our room at the Travelodge to grab their bags and get sorted for the night out whilst the rest of us decide to stay and have another pint whilst they sort themselves out. Eventually though, we too cab back to the hotel and sort out our other 2 rooms, but the lass behind the jump can’t work out whose name our 3rd is booked under and I have to dip out to call the Travel Sec and find out what the score is. With info sorted, I return a couple of minutes later to find the previously deserted reception now packed to the fucking rafters with a Uni Athletics team and all their gear. Fuck my life.

Still, the lass gets through them all relatively quickly and finally it’s my turn. Then we find that the family room booked isn’t available due to a cock up and it now means that I and Dr Bell will be spooning in a double tonight. Anything else? Anthrax in the kettle perhaps? A drive by shooting in the pub later? Still, we get it sorted and handing over my key card, I’m told we’re in Room 13. Jesus wept. Right, let’s get the fuck out of here before they change their mind and stick us in a share up with the Javelin throwers or the shot putters. Back in town, we find the mob sat out the back in a little shed at the Hogarth. Here we do a couple and as we sup, we decide that being adult and having a bit of grub rather than just smash pints is probably sensible. First a Curry is mooted, but then we find the place doesn’t open until 9pm, so instead a Steak place round the corner is happy to take the booking as we down our beers and head off for dinner at the oddly named ‘Tribez’. Here we are most definitely the whitest customers in the gaff as it’s clearly a halal\middle-eastern type place and not somewhere the locals tend to frequent. Not that we care, we just want some dinner! An average sized cow is soon sacrificed to feed out rumbling, ale filled bellies as we finally take a breath and catch up on the day’s footballing events elsewhere.

It seems that our friends at Maidenhead live to fight another day in the National as despite getting pumped 4-0 at Gateshead, Torquay have drawn 1-1 with champions Wrexham at home and failed to achieve the win and 7 goal swing in goal difference required to see the two sides swap places. In the end, the Magpies stay up by just 2 points. Like I said earlier, bollocks to doing that dressed as fucking minion or something, although I largely suspect they couldn’t care fucking less right now! Elsewhere Hartlepool’s return to the National is confirmed despite turning over Barrow thanks to their home loss to Crawley last weekend and it seems Ipswich Lee has had an infinitely better day than us as his mob have fully pulled down Exeter’s pants in a 6-0 paddling that confirms their return to the Championship. With no doubt the biggest relief here on his part being that we aren’t going to be shithousing our way into League 1 to play at Portman Road anytime soon, the lucky bastard. With soakage well and truly on board and the bill settled, we head next door to the local Spoons simply as it’s the nearest gaff and settle in for a couple more pints. From here, most of the Premier Inners decide that food comas are inbound and slope off with still a couple of hours drinking time left. Lightweights!

This just leaves myself, Mr X, 4Days and Dr Bell to carry on the festivities and after a couple more in Spoons, we decide on a change of scenery and relocate to the Pint Pot a few yards away, a nice little micro pub that’s quiet, has decent beer and other Sutton fans in it as we find Bob & Cathy supping away in the corner. Dr Bell in particular is pleased to see them as they’ve blagged a spare prog from being in hospitality today and the good Doctor’s able to relieve them of a spare. Here we just put our feet up, talk bollocks and 4Days get the snooker up on his phone which keeps some amongst us entertained. I also get Mr X a large after he asks for “All the gin” on my round, before deciding he’d rather have had “most of the gin” instead and gets himself a second tonic to further dilute his drink with. No pleasing some people eh? With last orders called at midnight and no one in the mood for any more, we finish up and bidding farewell to Bob & Cath, head for sherbets home to Bedfordshire.

I’m awoken at around 8am by little spoon Dr Bell, who seems keen to inform me that some people in our party are going for breakfast. Like I give a shit, especially as A: We still have 3 hours to our train home and B: Those particular people aren’t even staying in our fucking hotel. Worst. Alarm. Clock. Ever. With the good Doctor showered though and last night’s intake needing to be evacuated, I surrender my hopes of getting any more kip and head for the bathroom. S&S achieved, I throw on some fresh clobber and we both stumble out into the morning air and head for the pub behind the hotel for some scoff. Just ahead of us is Robbo and just taking a seat as we arrive is Chalmers. We chuck back bacon and agree to re-assemble for the walk to the station just after 10. The walk through the back streets of Rochdale takes about 15 minutes and we arrive at the station a good 20 minutes or so early. So Pete, I and 4Days amble off in search of Ribena. Mr X can see us heading off from the elevated platform and messages “No shops that way!” only for us to pass a Polski Sklep and return soon after flicking the V’s with our sugar laden liquid bounty. Pechowy kolega! as the Poles might say. Or not.

As there’s no trains south out of Manc today, the plan this morning is to hop over to Bradford and bag a Grand Central back to Kings Cross instead. Sadly, this plan involves using Northern Trains, a firm so shit even Avanti take the piss out of them and the mob who abandoned us in Barrow. So of course, the train is seriously delayed leaving Manchester and we’re soon looking at alternatives, including cabs to Bradford to make our connection. Then Mr X spots that this train stops at Halifax on the way in and so does our London bound train out of Bradford. So we elect to jump off here instead as it means we can intercept the train home. Thankfully there’s no more delays on the way out and we peer out at the nice countryside slipping by as we trundle into Halifax. Here we hop off and go in search of a brew. Dr Bell offers to hang around with the luggage and I thank him by dropping a fart of the quality you can probably imagine after 12 hours on the piss and a massive steak dinner, his somewhat vocal complaints echoing up the stairs as I giggle my way to the café on the concourse for a cuppa. The London train is on time and we hop on and get settled for the run home. It’s fairly quiet although we do give the lady guard a chuckle when she asks “Any good?” about the game the day before, getting a perfectly timed chorus of “No!” from all of us in unison. Now, let us never speak of it again.

There’s no more delays from here and we pull into London a good 10 minutes early, which excites the Sutton mob as it means they can probably make their train back from Victoria without hanging around for ages. I, Magnum, Steve, Pete and Chalmers head for St Pancs. Here we wave off Pete back to the wilds of Kent before the rest of us jump on a Thameslink south. At East Croydon, we leave PC to head on into the sticks whilst the rest of us hop off. Steve darts for a tram leaving I and Magnum to wait for a bus back to our manor which thankfully shows up in short order. And after stopping at every last red light along the way, I stagger into HQ busting for a piss. Still, at least I have those M&M’s for the missus, so at least one of us will be ain a good mood today. One game left, thank god. Both for this season and on here.

See you next Monday kids.

Taz