Well, I bet you didn’t think you’d be hearing from us again in a hurry eh? Fiver says you all reckoned we’d long since put our feet up for this season after that day out in Boston over a month ago. And to be fair you’d be almost right on that account, but not quite. However, even given the somewhat underwhelming campaign we’ve witnessed over the last 9 months and the more sporadic nature of our entries these days, it didn’t feel quite right leaving our last entry for 24/25 be way back in March. It made sense to at least knock up some stuff to bookend the season and kind of draw a line under everything.
So, here we are. “But Taz, you hate doing blogs for home games!” I hear you shout. “Surely doing Yeovil away with all the accompanying beer and bollocks would have surely been a better way to wrap things up?”. Yeah, again, you’re probably right there, but I’ll level with you. I couldn’t be arsed. Like, at all. The final straw for this season for me was the Ebsfleet game, where a fucking joke of a performance saw us swept aside 4-1 by an already relegated side with a grand total of 2 home wins to their name all season and almost 90 goals against at that point. I personally made my excuses and pissed off long before the final whistle and was back in the pub in St Pancs by 10 past 5 with a double G&T, a pint and a coke to keep me hydrated until the others followed and caught up.
After that load of old nonsense, the last 2 aways at Aldershot and Yeovil suddenly were about as appealing as going for a weeks fly\drive in Florida on a Mexican passport in the name of Commie McLiberal. So I jogged them on. I had intended to do maybe cover the latter contest for my end of season ‘thing’ on here, but instead I went shopping with Mrs Taz and had a nice Chinese takeaway. Sorry, not sorry. Of course I still did the homes with a hilarious OG nicking a win over a knackered looking Rochdale and our single effort on goal nabbing an almost last-kick point against Southend being the best of the bunch. This latter event I missed however as I’d again long since headed to the bar. I can see why Robbo finds this approach so appealing to be fair. You get beer and there’s no really tedious football to distract you.
Anyhow, as seasons go, we’ve had better and we’ve certainly had a lot lot worse. Now most of us older heads were not expecting a glorious and immediate return to the Great 92 72, there were just too many variables at play there. About 20 or so in fact, as Steve had to rebuild the entire side almost from scratch. And whilst the signings themselves largely seemed very promising, an immediate return would have been almost as much of a miracle as getting to the Football League in the first place. My main optimism was that the side once settled should be able to show what it could do and I predicted we might kick on after Xmas. To be fair, we sort of did. Should have won at Barnet, progressed in the Trophy and won away at York with a cracking performance. One that we didn’t get within a country mile of reproducing for the remainder.
Yeah, we’ve had injuries. But so does everyone. The real disappointment was that despite having looked a promising young side on paper, the squad resolutely failed to noticeably improve over the season. Just as we solved one problem, we’d seemingly fall back into other bad habits or we’d learn to defend but forget how to score. Can’t imagine how frustrating it was for Steve to stand and watch literally no one really kick on and be a proper stand out. Although we did get a small insight into that when the lads shit the bed at home again against Leeds kids in that stupid bollocks NL Cup. A final, in your own back yard and you can’t get going? Oh dear. Still, there are some decent bones there. Sims did well when he came in, Taylor and Kirk looks a good partnership at the back, Simper really got his eye in from the New Year onwards and Davies 20 goals was the first we’d had that many from a striker since Dan Fitchett a decade ago. So hopefully this summer it’s more a case of evolution than revolution.
What we need is the sort of optimism the lad I saw getting into his Nissan Juke during the week had, who then tried to drive it away with a big fuck off DVLA ‘untaxed vehicle’ wheel clamp on it. Although knowing Sutton United, that metaphor could possibly be recycled at a later date for other more unfortunate circumstances, if you catch my drift. Hashtag fuckedhismotorupinnt. Right, enough coulda woulda shoulda. Woking at home eh? Joy. Naturally, with the game scheduled for a Bank Holiday Monday, the big orange thing in the sky we had recently been graced with the presence of found something else to do with it’s time today and buggered off to go back to shining relentlessly on some sand in the Sahara or whatever it does the other 360 days a year it’s not hanging over the UK. So, it was quite the shock first thing when I wandered out to dispose of the recycling in just a pair of shorts and my new Malaga third shirt. Let’s just say it was bit parky. Yeah, cheers Britain you twat. Naturally, upon returning to the relative warmth of HQ I decided to look up the weather online. Definitely jacket weather I see.
Finally ready, I bagged up the main rubbish to drop off at the bins on the way out, popped on my clogs and headed out for the bus. In Sutton, it’s the usual bit of fodder for the stroll down and as I pass Spoons, there’s already a healthy smattering of away fans around. Most in fancy dress and the majority dressed as bananas for some reason. I’ve established my feelings on fancy dress on here a few times before, so I’ll move swiftly along at this point. Of course, it’s pretty nippy out and as I emerge from the churchyard into Robin Hood Lane, I’m firmly slapped in the face by some lovely driving rain. Bit incosiderate that, given I’m trying to scarf down a ham and cheese baguette from Greggs. I mutter some bad words, zip the jacket up as far as it’s go and flick my hood up. Head down, one foot in front of the other, munch baguette and think of pints.
The rain finally relents a few minutes later as I emerge onto the beautiful processional thoroughfare running through the heart of the mighty PRoWS that is Gander Green Lane. I should bloody think so too. Up the drive, through the turnstiles and into the bar. A quick scan reveals no faces around, so I grab a Guinness and park up on an empty table in the corner next to Johnnie’s little bookstall he’s set up to flog his latest printed work. Normally, I’d say hello and let him relieve me of the better part of a score at this point, but not on this occasion. Oh no. Not falling for that old bollocks this time. Mainly because he’s sent me a freebie earlier in the week on the proviso I actually read it and give him a write up on here. The big fucking mug. Still, stay tuned, I’m aiming to try and rip through it in a week or two and get something on here ASAP. He does a steady trade though, so fair play and I sit and enjoy my beverage whilst having a bit of a doomscroll.
Soon I’m joined by Belly who offers to buy me a beer and who am I to refuse such a polite offer? Steve then appears from next door, pint in hand and promptly nicks the old boy’s seat as he’s popped to the office to bag a ticket for Dundo’s testimonial in a couple of weeks. My protests about ‘respecting his elders’ fall on deaf ears and elicit nothing more than a Partridge shrug in response. Before too long, 4Days and Lil’ Chris are in, swiftly followed by Greek and Ossie, fresh from lunch. As we sup and start nattering, I notice Mike the Pod waving frantically at me from across the bar. Oh well, let’s investigate I suppose. It appears that he’s been chatting with some visitors from out of town and wants to introduce me. It seems they’re over from Grand Rapids State University in Michigan and are here, ominiously, to study English football fan culture. So christ knows what he’s doing wasting their time with the likes of me then. Still, my mummy didn’t raise no rude bastard, so I happily chat away and answer any questions they may have.
Of course, having dropped me on their toes, the U’s premier independent broadcaster almost immediately makes his excuses and gives it legs, leaving me to it. Yeah cheers mate. Last time I’m listening to your stupid wireless program you git. Still, they seem relatively entertained by my Guinness powered repartee and we discuss many different subjects such as the move to professionalism from part time, dull generic modern fan chants, drums being shit, Detroit City FC and the Indian sport of Kabaddi. I also direct a couple of the party Johnnie’s way as someone worth talking to and one of the lads returns with a copy of his last tome ‘Match Fit’. Bet I don’t see any fucking comission off that one either. “Did you get him to sign it?” I ask. “Aw no. I didn’t. Would he?” the lad enquires. “Yeah, just ask”. Jokingly the fella asks “Would he sign my forehead too??”. I ponder for a moment. “Well, he doesn’t drink any more, but if you asked nicely I’m sure he probably would”. Having given them some info on Selhurst Park where they’re off to next, the mine of information that is The London Football Guide and encouraged them to hang around after for AB’s Strikers are Key shitshow, I take my leave to go and secure a fresh pint before kick off.
Here I catch up with JR, Not-Irish-Pete, Burgers and Magnum. The latter is chatting with AB and soon we’re joined by our esteemed Chairman Mr Elliott. He’s quite proud of himself today as he’s apparently gone the whole pre-match lunch without laying into West Sutton’s top PI. “You must be going soft in your old age Bruce!” I offer, before he promptly responds to some Magnum waffle with an actually pretty passable “Mi mi mi mi mi mi!” style impression of him. “Ok, maybe not quite that soft after all”. Pint necked in time for kick off, we head out to see the sides emerge and Will Davies cop for Supporters Player of the Year. Which to be fair, is the least his 20 goals deserved. “Charlie Waller was fuckin’ robbed” grumbles Mr X.
Sims, French, Ransom, Vaz, Topallaj, Simper, Woodyard, Da Silva, Nadesan, Davies, Wadham. SUBS: Odelusi, Muller, Boateng, Jackson, Kerbey, Sandat
It’s a home game, so if you’ve seen us at GGL this season, this was much the same stuff. Sluggish start, give away a poor early goal and to be honest, really could be 2 or 3 down before we finally show some life. The best we can manage though is a Ransom header from a Simper corner that the ‘keeper does well to touch onto the bar. Apart from that, the half is another damp squib with the only other talking points being a couple of rubbish yellows from the ref, a Kite being flown in the Rec, said kite then getting loose and disappearing off over the railway line in St James’ Road direction and Indy commenting somewhat oddly that the kite was “better than the dick”. Now, I think he may have been referring to the ref, but I can’t be sure. Mr X’s “The fuck did you just say?” sadly prevents the rest of our efforts to change the subject, although we never do quite get to the bottom of the matter.
So, behind at the break at home again. Having taken up a spot on the Rec End, I notice that the slight whiff of rubber\latex I’d noticed earlier is getting stronger. What on earth is that?? Of course, I pick myself as the most likely initial suspect and after a quick sniff down my top I’ve confirmed it is indeed me. It seems the badge and manufacturers print on that new Malaga 3rd Shirt are of a rubberized material and responsible for my Eau de Condom scent. Nice. Thank god no one else has noticed it, I’d have got slaughtered by the dickheads I hang out with. Ah, second half time. Our showing is a bit better after the restart “Ah, this might be the good half!” chuckles Rax. We at least cause them more issues and just past the hour, Wadham glances in a header from Ransom’s nut back across the box and we’re level. A couple of minutes later, Simper stings the keeper’s glove with a low pile driver, Da Silva bobbles the follow up onto the post and Davies following up can’t quite up his tally to 21 for the season. And that’s about it really. Another home draw it is, our eighth of the season and you have to wonder where we’d have wound up had we turned a couple of those against the likes of Weladstone, Braintree and Aldershot into wins. Ho hum.
Belly and I make a dash for the bar as the team do their lap of honour but we stall out by the tunnel, not because they’re not letting people through, but because it’s chocker block with kids trying to ponce players shirts. Our of the way pesky minors, you’re wasting my VDT! Eventually we get in, but as the rest of the mod arrive in dribs and drabs the round takes like 4 transactions to secure and to top it all off, my tappy tap doesn’t work on my card any more. “Cash is king!” crows resident luddite Belly. Although as he grew up when ricketts was still a thing and ‘matinees’ at the ‘motion picture house’ were big business, he can do one. We tuck into a couple of rounds, natter about what we need to do for next season to improve and who we reckon is going to be getting the chop at the contract meetings tomorrow. We leave SAK alone this week and later find out that the goalkeepers and defenders have bagged the final pot of about 1100 quid! Still, our skipper sticks it behind the bar, so it’s no bad thing. Always liked you Tyler. Top lad.
A quick look at the table reveals a top half finish for the mighty U’s. Which is annoying as I’d predicted one place lower in 13th way back in October. Good job I’m not a gambling man really! Elsewhere, at the bottom of the table, we’ve sadly lost the Magpies from York Road as their 8 year stay in the National comes to an end despite a 3-0 win over Boston. Wealdstone are the beneficiaries, their own win over Halifax does enough to keep them afloat for next season, although they do require a big fat assist from Solihull, who’s draw with Dagenham condemns the East London mob to the drop instead when a win would have kept them up. Painfully, the Daggers go down on 52 points, with a -1 GD and having scored more and let in less than we have way up in 12th! Football, she can be a harsh old mistress and no mistake.
Time ticks on and in the end I elect to grab a cab home around 7. Letting the missus know, she decides an Indian is in order and gets on the Googlewebs to get that sorted for dinner. So, for the final time this season 1I bid my farewells to all and sundry, well at least until Dundo’s big bash in a couple of weeks anyway and head out for my sherbet home. Soon I’m hopping out at HQ and as I’m heading for my front door a lad practically hops out of the bushes with what looks to be a takeaway bag. He enquires to what road this is, making sure he’s in the right place and having confirmed he is, I have to ask. “Is that for number 51 mate?”. Dinner is served! Upstairs, I appear bearing gifts and wonder why this doesn’t impress Mrs Taz in the slightest. Upon entering the kitchen with my curry bounty, I realise why. Sitting there is the bagged up rubbish from earlier when I got ready to go out. Like a soppy div I’d completely blacked out putting my shoes on and fucked off without it. Ooops!
I guess I’ll, uh, just pop downstairs quickly while you get the grub ready eh love? Ahem.
See you next season folks.
Taz