It’s been a few weeks now since we were last bothered to put anything up on here. The last you heard of us was opening day when we went to Tamworth and got a draw in what was an uninspiring clash and since then, we’ve seen off the rest of August with what could be fairly termed ‘mixed results’. Our first home game was quite the contrast though, as we took on one of last year’s play off contenders in Alty. “That’ll be a tough one” we all decided in a sage like and wizened fashion. So of course they shat the fucking bed and we ruthlessly punished every single one of their myriad of mistakes in a rousing 5-0 win. As we’ve said before, if SKY or whoever are interested in our summarizing skills, they need only give our agents a shout. Our rates are very competitive.
After that, we ground out a 1-0 win at Wealdstone and suddenly the season is up and running. A home draw in a pulsating game against York with only a late leveller denying us another win and then utterly bossing early league leaders Eastleigh away, but only getting a point thanks to not putting away chances. Then we came to FGR at home live on DOZY tv, or whatever they’re called and whilst not a great performance, a late equaliser had seemingly set up a grandstand finish only for us to bollocks it up instantly and lose our first game of the season. Sadly, we’ve then followed that up with two more and the last week has been something of a low point. A 3-0 humbling at home to a Boston side that will surely be in the bottom 6 this season was definitely not on the menu, with a performance so inept, so dire, that a lot of us thought we’d died suddenly, wound up South of Heaven and were being made to relive fucking September 2023 over and over again to atone for our sins. Sadly, we then backed that up with another one at Dagenham during the week, at which point the patience of a few people made to watch a years worth of football that was mostly shit finally snapped and the new squad & management got called all sorts of naughty things. Shame really as it’s not entirely their fault we’re where we are and not really a mess of their making. Also a shame we didn’t do it sooner on a couple of occasions last season with the previous lot to be fair, they might have bucked their fucking ideas up and won a couple more. Hindsight eh?
Still, could have been worse, I could have actually been present at that stream of haemorrhagic fever outflow. Instead, I was a reasonably safe distance away in Oslo for work at the time, having had a really nice steak dinner to boot. There’s a lot to be said for the Norwegian capital to be fair, clean air, cleaner water, great quality of life, banging social healthcare, a transport system that works. But on this particular occasion, “being here means I don’t have to watch Sutton United” was definitely my favourite aspect. I think this mood was also helped by finally getting in a couple of games whilst in town as my last 2 visits had coincided with an International Break and the place being Winter Wonderland, thus meaning my Association Football options were limited. And whilst this time was also a fucking international break week, my hosts had at least had the good grace to schedule a home game against Austria for the Monday evening and with my arrival early Sunday, I also had at least a couple of lower level options to dip one’s toe into. So, having landed at half 12 and negotiated the third world queue of shame thanks to an Emirates flight from somewhere abroad landing at the same time, I just had enough time to check into the digs, tip my bag and hop on the old metro out to Helsfyr a short walk from the Intility Arena, the home of Oslo stalwarts Valerenga. Today though, I’d be watching their stiffs in a 3rd Division clash against IK Junkeren, a team who had quite literally travelled further than me for the fixture, being as they are from up near Bodo in the North West of Norway. 1200+km. Which is a bit like Barrow away, only on amphetamines. A lot of them. Wonder how many they’ll bring?
With about half hour to kick off, I locate the turnstiles, which is basically the disabled entrance door at the end of the stand and set about trying to sort a brief out for the contest. This is turns out requires the ‘VIPPS’ app, whatever the fuck that might be, for payment and once the nice gentleman on the gate had established my ignorance of said app via the medium of me standing there with a confused “Dat sounds like a forrins fing” look on my boat, he happy clicked his counter on one and waved me in gratis. My season may very well have peaked ladies and gents. The stadium’s a decent modern affair and in the end about 130 or so people wander in, including 4 away fans a good few minutes after their lads have taken a 2nd minute lead. “Hope that’s not the only one for your sakes boys” I mutter to myself. Fortunately, it’s not as Valerenga’s stiffs are about as good at defending as we were a year ago and by the break they’re 4-0 down. After an odd hot dog\tortilla combo snack at the break, I get 3 more goals in a 5-2 away win that really should have been more like 8 or 9-2. The international the following night? Largely dull, but some lad called Haaland prodded in a late winner without his third touch of the night, so the locals went home happy at least.
Safely back in Blighty Thursday evening, attention of course turned to the weekend’s debut trip to Southend. Mainly in the manner of “Do I really have to?”. Of course the answer is yes, as it’s a new ground and that alone is enough to guarantee my attendance these days. I also resolve to try and knock some of this old shit up as well, because my life isn’t hard enough right now. The plan is simple, meet at Liverpool Street for 9.30, get the 10am to Southend and then go sink enough beer to make whatever transpires either easily forgettable or somewhat memorable. With a busy week behind me though, I’m slow to move and emerge from HQ 10 minutes later than I’d like and miss a bus. With the next one not for 15 minutes, I decide to give public transport bollocks and call an Uber. Here I’m treated to the weird experience of requesting one and having it accepted inside 20 seconds, then looking up to see a Toyota Prius pulling up next to me. “You Dan?” asks the cabbie. Today has surely peaked! Thanks to this bit of snappy transport fortune, I’m at East Croydon sharpish and on a London Bridge train barely 15 minutes later. With the weather being glorious out and being more than back on schedule, I elect to walk my regular route to work, hit a café round the corner for a bacon roll and munch on the trot to Liverpool Street from there.
The walk from London Bridge is one I’ve done a million times now already. Over the bridge, up Gracechurch onto Bishopsgate and round to Benjys, which is of course closed today. Fucks sake. Oh well, Greggs by the station it is. A few minutes later, I bowl in, barge past some tourist wankers after some fucking Pumpkin spiced shite and order a bacon roll to go with a bottle of juice. Here things get complicated. The lass just rings me up for the juice, then has to do it all again when I remind her I wanted bacon as well. She then goes to do the roll to find out there’s no rolls. And then having got some, finds out there’s no bacon either. Yep, I peaked with the cab. I knew it. Eventually, after a good 10 minute wait, I’m finally munching and crossing the road, I spot Dr Bell and Indy heading into the Hammy Hall for a cheeky breakfast pint. Dirty alcoholics. And yes, you’d be correct in assuming I’ll be joining them in short order once I’ve scarfed this roll down.
A pint of Guinness acquired, Magnum PI wanders in as I head to join the other two outside. And once the foursome is complete, I get the full autopsy on Tuesday night’s debacle. “Should have been 5 or 6”, “Can’t defend”, “Score in a brothel” are all terms utilised and I’m soon yearning to change the subject. With train time approaching, we down beers and locate Mr X on the concourse. “Have you been filled in on Tuesday?” he enquires as he doles out the tickets whilst trying not to drop his brew from Starbucks. “Good, fucking saves me reliving it again then” he adds after I confirm that I have indeed been fully briefed on said shitshow. As 4Days looms on the horizon, I dash for cash and leave the rest to go to platform 17. Then having swerved the ATM that was only doing fivers to a maximum of £50, I head on over myself and in a complete daydream find myself halfway up the platform before realising I’ve no idea what carriage the rest are in, so I hop on and amble back to find them. Here I discover that Mr X has abandoned his tea, mainly as it wasn’t tea. “Stupid twat gave me a coffee!” complains the most definitely not Coffee drinking Scotsman as the rest of the mob gives it the full nine at his misfortune.
The trip up is fairly sedate for us, with our age dictating that chatter is mostly weather and work related. Of course with no Dukey around to bring things into the sewer these days, we all sound positively well adjusted and normal to anyone earwigging. Well, almost. The ‘Christmas Pub’ in Benfleet staffed by a Don Goodman-a-like gets a mention too, as well as the current health and wellbeing of former Canvey Island supremo Jeff King as we trundle past his little island fiefdom. But before anyone starts getting too bored, we pull into Southend Central and go to get a pint in the pub opposite. Mainly as it’s open and not a Spoons. Yes, we do occasionally have standards! Here Magnum is Mr Sociable by firing up the cricket on his fondleslab to watch Surrey bomb out of Finals day. We tuck into a pint and soon after arrival, Porn Star wanders in wearing a very Dr Bell-esque Barrow overcoat. “Been moonlighting at Pickfords have we mate?”. Not long after that, we spot Keepo and DB wandering out of the station and I let them know we’re about with a quick “Oi!” and flicking the V’s through the open doorway as they pass.
Next up are Chalmers and his missus who are making a weekend of it and have just dumped their gear at the hotel. From here, we neck pints and head to the next stop, the Cow and Telescope. No, really. ALong the way, the high street is brightened up by some temporary graffiti murals that certainly help what’s a fairly bog standard main stretch. The same is continued in the main road underpass by the pub. Could do with some of that round the civic centre back home to be fair. Here a quick one is necked and seeing the sunshine outside, Hayley sacks off Chalmers and the game and instead goes for lunch and a nice stroll in the sun by the front rather than watching us all be miserable at a shit National League game. Can’t see the appeal myself, but horses for courses I suppose. Elsewhere, it seems the B Team have accosted our management on the front and dragged ’em in for a photo with the gang. Still, everyone seems smiley, so that’s hopefully a good sign after this week. Next stop for us refreshment wise is the Old Trout and here we find some locals who give their view on what could transpire, although most seem to be just happy their protracted ownership nonsense has been resolved and they can now at least look to the future, rebuild and hopefully regain their own Football League place. Can’t say I blame ’em to be fair. Here we sink a couple more but before long there’s no escaping the fact that we sort of travelled here to watch football, so should probably go and do that.
Arnold, Jackson, Waller, Okoli, Ransom, Barbrook, Harris, Simper, Nadesan, Davies, Coley. SUB: Sims, French, Odelusi, Rush, Vaz, Boateng, Sivi
As this is my maiden visit, I decide that I’d like to get a proper ticket stub to mark the occasion. And Porn Star is of the same mind it seems. So of course, having walked past their main ticket office to the one we think is serving the away end, we get there to find it firmly shuttered and that we have to walk back the way we came. Sakes! Naturally there’s a queue and the desk is staffed by bored Uni age lads. Eventually at the front, I offer to pay with card to speed things up for me and Porn Star, thinking of course we’ll just do a bit of tappy tap and be on our way. Oh no. Got to enter card details manually here. SAKES! To top it off, the bloke having done that then charges me for just the one ticket, not two, meaning we then have to repeat the whole fucking process again. Seriously, here we are in 2024 and there’s seemingly an ongoing effort to make life harder for ourselves at every turn in this country. Thanks to this fucking about, we get in through the turnstiles (with the ticket scanned manually by someone on the gate, not on the actual electronic turnstiles in place) just as the lads line up to kick off. This better be bloody worth it for all this faffing.
The first half is largely a lot of what we’ve seen so far this season. Some flashes of good stuff, some hesitant lacking in confidence stuff and of course some absolute calamity. It’s the latter of this after about 10 minutes that gives the hosts the lead. We lose the ball, it’s knocked goal wards and Arnold comes to kick. Instead he loops a weak effort barely into midfield and some little fella immediately pings it back first time into the open goal. Keep it tight first 10 lads, don’t do anything stupid….oh never mind. You haven’t and you have. As you were. Having said all that, even we can’t resist a wry chuckle at the home fans singing the ‘Super Steve Arnold in goal’ song back at us. The rest of the half is mostly Southend with us having the odd foray, but they ask most of the questions and Arnold has to save smartly from a free-kick and then block a 1 on 1 when the ball breaks favourably to a lad in the box. But as we’re all sighing and expecting to go in behind at the break, it’s the Shrimpers turn to make a pigs ear of things. A ball forward is left for each other not once but twice by their two centre backs and tired of this pissing about, Coley nips in and races away from the halfway line on goal. He draws the keeps on 18, skips past him and just as a defender recovers he rattles it into the back of the net to level the contest. Now that should change the half time team talk a bit and then some.
At the break, I head down for some soakage, but find that all their pie selection bar some veggie nonsense is long sold out, so I go for a burger instead. Although having stood behind the most stoned looking fella in the world. Two people bypass him when he ignores the lad behind the jump and when my turn comes, I tap him on the shoulder to make sure I’m not being rude and get the sort of stare you’d expect from someone who’d just seen us lose 8-0 at Stockport. And then done a whole lot of drugs after. Best way to watch us to be fair. The many drugs that is, not losing 8-0. From the restart, we look a lot more at it and begin with a bit of a spring in our step. And with 5 minutes played, a ball is whipped in from wide and the defender in the middle covering Harris can only bullet the ball low past his own keeper off his shin and into the Sac d’oignon. Fucking Ada! We’re in front!! From here, we largely play with a lot more confidence and cause them far more issues than the first 45, but it’s not until the last 15 we get some daylight. A poor kick out from the keeper doesn’t break halfway, we move it forward, Davies darts into the channel and sweeps a low one back across the box for Nadesan arriving back stick completely unmarked to crash in number 3, this comes just moments after Porn Star’s made a dash for the early train home for a party back in the Republic. The damage should be more too, as Sivi curls one narrowly wide and another good run from him sees Simper have a good sighter well blocked by a defender.
That’s not to say that they’re out of it by any means, but they’re largely restricted to weak nods or pokes straight at Arnold as the Ransom\Okoli partnership grows and does lots of National League type things, like winning headers and clearing their fucking lines at every opportunity. Don’t get me wrong, as a wise man once said, there’s lots of ways to win a football match and the way to win this one is by not fucking pissing about with it around your own box. The ref has a ropey last few, giving them a throw in when their lad completely unchallenged heads it into touch and appears to book their goal scorer late on for dissent which some of us are sure is his second. Nice to see the officials have improved in those three years away eh? Fortunately though, we keep it simple, don’t fuck up and see out the win for a big and very much needed three points. We wave off Magnum at this point, as he too has a do to get back to back in South London this evening and begin our own trudge the very long way back to the Old Trout for victory pints. Along the way, we’re amused by a ‘puncher repair’ sign on a tyre place and discuss recent form with KBB along the way. Back in the boozer, we stock up on refreshments and get our win on.
There’s a few to be had and we’re soon joined once more by Hayley, fresh from her sunshine stroll, a nice seafood lunch and a full bottle of plonk. No one’s having it that this was a far better use of a sunn Saturday afternoon than watching the mighty U’s get three points at Roots Hall though. Well, except for Chalmers that is, but he’s still got to buy her dinner tonight, so sort of understandable. We eventually settle on a train around 8pm and head back station-wards via the high street. We go for fast food to speed things up and here again, the shitness of the modern world is exposed in McDonalds. I order a perfectly normal on menu item and am left standing waiting for it for 20 minutes whilst they mostly serve the army of Deliveroo and Uber Eats lads in to collect orders. All I wanted was a fucking Chicken Big Mac and chips! Fast food my hairy ginger behind. They take so long that 4Days has time to go to the offy and collect the train cans and get back to the boozer to have one for the road before I’ve even got my scoff. Still, with terrible junk food inhaled, I’ve still time for a farewell pint in the Dickens myself before we hop on the train back to the big smoke with that win firmly tucked in our sky rockets. Back in London, we make use of the Lizzie line to get to Farringdon and from here I wave farewell to the Sutton bound mob and stumble onto a Croydon-wards Thameslink and a bus back to HQ.
And so, shortly before the might of mid, I’m outside home nicely lubricated, with very sore feet and really quite tired after a mad old week. Amazing the difference a few days makes in football eh?
Taz