Gather round children, for we have a tale to tell. One of shit football in the cold, beer and spending absolutely jeffing hours on a train. So yeah, the same old shit we’ve been doling out on here for years now. What of it? Hey, at least we’re not boring the tits off you on the weekly with it these days. Now it’s more like a rare expensive treat to get some awayday nonsense from us, served to you, our discerning audience, with great reverence on a fine platter. Like a Ferrero Roche in those old ads. Except that brown stuff wrapped up in the gold foil ain’t chocolate. And we most definitely are not fucking spoiling you ‘wiz zis’.
Still, it’s been a hot minute eh? We had a little burst of activity a few weeks back as Dukey once more got the Surrey Cup out of his system and then Clarkey dropped the Maidenhead missive on our toes. Following that, we were planning on bringing you the Halifax trip in full technicolour Dolby surround sound, but of course we’d forgotten about the fact it’s a shit pit of a pitch and any games up there arranged for us this time of year must coincide with the sort of weather patterns that made Napoleon decide Russia wasn’t quite worth the fucking effort after all, so of course it got binned off on the Friday. Still, it was a lie in, toast and staying in the warm instead of slogging north on LNER. The Tuesday re-arrangement earlier this week? Like fucking bollocks did we. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. The one that says “Why do these wankers always shut the M1 after 9pm?” on it.
Including Maidenhead, we’ve been in half decent form of late as the U’s tightened up a bit on their defensive issues from earlier in the season and going into today had collected 4 consecutive clean sheets in the league and 10 points from the last 12, which had edged us into the last play off spot. Nice. Although that is slightly tempered by the fact we’ve now conceded 5 at GGL this season over 2 games to Ebbsfleet, who currently look to be as shambolically bad as we were last season. Still, we at least showed some fortitude in the Trophy tie on Saturday and recovered from 3-1 down to level it late on and sneak through on the old 12 yard lottery. Did I go? Nope. Acute disinterest as well as a nasty cold meant I was once more snug as a bug in a rug with tea and toast at HQ. The days of not missing games are long gone boys and girls, I can tell you.
I did briefly think that the man flu would prevent me making this one, but by Friday I was back on form and not wasting 70 Sovs on a train North. I wasn’t the only one crook though, as Indy cried off Friday and Robbo too was feeling rough the night before, so unlikely to put in an appearance. Short handed again it seems lads! Alarm at 6:30, I was showered and the rest by 7. In East Croydon by half past and annoyingly moments too late to grab the 7.31 to St Pancs. Thoughtfully, it then sat there for several more minutes with the doors firmly locked. Yeah, Merry Christmas to you too pal. Of course, then the 7.33 is cancelled and my best option is a London Bridge service a couple minutes later. Northern Line here I come. Thankfully though, the rest is uneventful and as I’m trundling up the escalators at Euston with 20 minutes to spare, the Wing Commander appears with a cheery ‘good morning’. I beg to differ sir.
Outside I find Mr X puffing away on a snout and having bagged my train briefs, head for breakfast. On return, Magnum and 4Days are in attendance and that is all she wrote as far as Gandermonium attendance today is concerned. We head for the train and whilst Magnum and 4Days bomb off for the seats, the man of mystery & myself head for a brew. Sadly, I queue for several minutes before finding out they actually don’t have any tea bags. Which is quite frankly a fucking outrage in this day and age. Shouldn’t even be allowed to open if you can’t even produce the simplest beverage on your menu. So, I sack off in a huff and resolve to get something on the rattler once underway. At least I have bacon, that’s something. As we pull out of London, we settle in and 4Days enquires why Magnum is carting around a white envelope with him. “Work!” he declares. Seems that late yesterday, someone had dropped a job on him in Altrincham no less. And seeing as he was going to be local anyway, he’s taken it on himself rather than sub it out to someone Manchester way. “Does that mean we can put today on expenses then?” enquires Mr X. “Fuck off” is the small business owner’s considered response. We’ll take that as a maybe then.
The trip up is fairly uneventful, except for the carriage being hotter than the sun and the train’s leaning mechanism being banjaxed, so we’re instantly in for some delay repay as it adds a good 20 minutes to the trip thanks to not being able to go full speed. At Crewe we’re joined by some Wealdstone lads on the way to Oldham who’ve clearly done the cheap run this far and are bumping the rest of it to preserve VDT. Fair play, Avanti are wankers, so anyone mugging them off is alright by me. Mr X, who had earlier shown little sympathy for my tea issues at Euston is soon reaping what he’s sown when returning with a second round to declare that the train too has run out of teabags! Luckily I’ve gone Earl Grey, so I’m sorted, but he and Magnum end up having to share Avanti’s last teabag to make theirs. Another reason Starmer and his mob should be hoofing these fucking Italian fraudsters out at the first opportunity. Seventy plus quid, the train doesn’t work properly and you can barely even get a cuppa. This travesty is probably why the chat soon turns dark and once more to Mr X’s collection of Genocide Museums. “Must be chomping at the bit to get into Syria then after this week” chimes Magnum. This is probably why he genuinely also suggests Albania v Serbia as a suitable end of season football trip for the group. Fucking hell, I think I’d rather take my chances in somewhere like Syria to be honest.
Almost a year to the day were got molested here 8-0 thus ending the Matt Gray era, we roll into Stockport just before 11. “Why Stockport?” I hear you ask? Well, it’s as far from Alty as Manchester is and a score cheaper on the train. Simple. We locate Johnnie and Harry from the Yoof on the platform and head for the Cab rank to help split the cost. Pub please James and don’t spare the horses! After a longer than anticipated run, we pile out and head for the Spoons whilst Magnum pops off to do his bit of business. With all the boozers being noon openers round here, the Spoons is our best option for one to kick off with. Here we get to mock Harry’s tiny Spoons fry up and his huge mobile phone. Nick Returns from a trip to the khazis to report a small flood has taken place, which we of course blame him for. Oh look, it’s 12. We’d best get a move on I guess, before the Welshman breaks any other facilities.
Next up is the Cheshire Tap over the road. We get a round in, with Magnum randomly buying Mr X a tequila rose chaser as he’s apparently been turning down too many drinks at home games lately. Soon after parking up, a strangely dressed couple appear. The garb is very middle eastern looking, so we of course assume they’re some sort of Mary & Joseph pairing. Turns out, we’re on the right track, but not quite right. After a while, we fold and enquire and they’re apparently the innkeepers. Which makes sense really, given that we’re in a pub. “Are they gonna hang around and tell another funny dressed pair with a pram to fuck off at some point then?” I wonder aloud. What? We know our nativity round here you know. No Room at the Inn and all that. Some of the other yoof lads pop in for a pint whilst we neck a second one here talking the usual shite. Sadly though, Mary & Joseph never show up, so we don’t get to see them have it out toe to toe with the innkeepers after all. Shame. Christmas certainly ain’t what it used to be.
Next stop is Costello’s not far away over the road, a well known drinking spot in National League circles, I’m fairly certain we stopped off in here on my last visit back in about 1988. Here we catch up with other faces like Cathy & Bob as well as the Wing Commander. In the round, Magnum orders a pint of Inches cider. “You fucking need those!” chimes 4Days, referring to his lack of verticality and not of course, other things. We chat with a few locals, sink a couple more pints and generally chat more shit as the clock ticks past 2pm. Oh well, guess we’d better get it over with. Still, on the upside, we’ve at least managed to bag a couple of left over comps so that saves some notes for more beer tokens later on afterwards. Having bagged the briefs on the way to the turnstiles, we’re in and it’s time for a pie to soak up the ale before kick off.
Sims, French, Simper, Barbrook, Muller, Waller, Sivi, Wadham, Topallaj, Nadesan, Davies. SUBS: Okoli, Ransom, Odelusi, Vaz, Boateng, Jackson, Roberts
The pie is better than the game, I can tell you that much. Decent steak effort. Good crust, plenty of filling. Very good. Oh, you want more on the game? Really? Oh alright then. The first half is fairly scrappy with the hosts clearly looking to put right the calamity of their defensive performance at GGL and appear to be firmly on a ‘no fucking freebies’ order from the bench. They start brighter and 10 minutes in a simple ball over the top finds Muller dozing, his man gets away and is in to slip the ball under Sims with barely 10 minutes played. Great start. We miss a good headed opportunity, with a free header looped miles over when surely it was easier to get something vaguely on target. We have a couple little flashes, mostly from Sivi wide but their keeper remains sadly untested at the break.
Second half isn’t much better. We struggle to get any real momentum going whilst Sims is definitely the busier of the two keepers with a couple of really good stops, including one point blank effort. The best we can manage is a high bouncing ball that the keeper has to take under his own bar but under no pressure really from French nearby. Right, that’s enough of that nonsense. Taxi! We rustle up a couple of Ubers sharpish from outside the ground and zip back to Stockport so we’re well positioned for the train back to London. We decide not to bother with Bask outside the station after the less than friendly welcome from the landlord last time around, so walk round the corner to the more traditional locals spot of the Wellington. Here it’s Magnum’s round and when told it’s 31 quid, he queries it as it’s clearly too much for the 4 pints he’s ordered. The old barmaid behind the jump is a bit miffed at her error and when 4Days gives it the “We don’t let him out often”, she instantly replies with “Aye. Don’t go bringing him back in here again”.
We stick a couple pints down here, are reminded of the 8-0 by some locals (yeah cheers lads) and get to admire the somewhat poorly positioned hand washing facilities in the gents that looks like it’s purely setup to make you come out looking like you pissed yourself. With time ticking on, we head for cans and some munch for the train back. I do the booze run for G&T and Mr X it seems doesn’t trust me as he’s soon in Sainos, Subway in hand, shovelling more cans into a basket. Bit rude if you ask me. We then head for the train which rumbles in after a short delay up in Manchester. With the customary “Sorry those are our seats” hoofage undertaken, we settle in for the trip back to the smoke. Although it’s not long before the tone and intelligence levels are lowered. Johnnie and Harry indulge in a volley of farting that both Magnum and Mr X are appalled by but that 4Days and I, sat upwind can’t smell so much as a waft of. Harry also cops some shit from us veteran sad acts when he reveals two cans of Grolsch, of course once a sponsor of that Kingstonian mob. Remember them?? “You’re all so fucking old!” groans Johnnie as we begin to rudely question his colleague’s Sutton United credentials.
Still, karma gets the message across far more succinctly than we ever could with basic abuse, and soon after a sudden braking episode by the train has Harry reaching to steady his beers. Sadly, he grabs the still sealed one and the the open container takes the opportunity to escape and promptly relocates from the table top into his lap in short order. He thinks he’s largely rescued the situation with a quick grab, but his rapid uprighting of the open can just makes it erupt further soaking his lap in Grolsch foam. Of course, we’re completely sympathetic to his situation. “Kingston twat” chuckles Mr X. The run back is again delayed and we pull into Euston late enough for another claim up, meaning there should be about a score coming back our way from Avanti. It’s not a fortune, but it’s better than a kick in the chuff.
We wave off Johnnie here and the rest of us head back to Victoria, where we find that the Sutton posse have just missed a train, or at least they wouldn’t have had they been arsed to run for it, so Magnum and I graciously hang back and join the lads in a nightcap at Spoons whilst they await their next one. Once they’ve departed, Magnum and I also sup up and head for the East Croydon services. Arriving back in South London’s answer to Manhattan, we have a quick jog over the road as a bus rolls up handily right on time and soon after, I’m back at HQ with my first long awayday in a good while on the books.
God I really am getting far too old for this.
Taz.