Things have been looking rosier around GGL of late. New manager Chris Agutter has managed to start getting a tune out of a squad of players that looked be heading only one way, down and has slowly turned the season around. Out of the bottom four, three straight wins at home, a first away win in the league at Truro as covered here on these very pages. Then last week, we faced a struggling L2 Shrewsbury side at home in the FA Cup 2nd round.
An entertaining tie was largely dominated by the U’s playing some really good football. But the lack of a fit striker up top meant chances weren’t taken and in the end, we fell to a last minute worldly before gifting them a shocker early on in Extra time. So out we went, missing out on a trip to Wolves in the 3rd round to boot. But still there was huge pride in the performance. Optimism. Things were looking up. It might have been different if we’d been able to retain the services of Osman Foyo from Wimbledon, but thanks to the dithering of the FA, he’s now once more sat on the side lines until the end of January.
Having copped a ban for breaking gambling rules, he’d served his time and been allowed to resume his career before glacial beauracrats up Wembley way appealed his penalty as too lenient and a couple of weeks after being back at work, he copped another 2 months on top. Yeah, cheers lads. Don’t get me wrong, players these days are fully schooled on not geting into all that and he really should know better. But having been done for it and then spent a month sitting around doing fuck all, surely that was an adequately sufficient spell for the FA to get their ducks in a row to lodge their appeal and get this sorted rather than effectively punishing him a second time a fortnight after he’s back on the pitch playing?
So out of one FA comp, our attention turns to another this weekend with the FA Trophy. Of course, the FA has fucked us there too. As with the Cup, they basically decided that us being a bit less than impressive this season means we get all the fucking upwardly mobile lower league outfits that have barely lost a game. This time, we cop for Walton & Hersham, who’ve not lost at their new leisure centre base in over a year and at the time of the draw hadn’t lost a league game. In fact, by the time of the tie they still hadn’t. Any danger of a nice easy one lads? No? Well fuck you I guess. Still, it’s a new ground for most of us at least. Sort of. So there’s that at least.
Now if Totts was still on the firm, he’d have done this one hands down and regaled you with all sorts of 70’s punk tales, Sham 69 and other culturally significant gubbins. But he’s not. Sorry about that. My initial plan for this was to be up and out by 9am, head to the Tram, trundle to Wimbledon and pick up the train from there, getting into Walton for 11. No mean feat given that I’d been out for Xmas diner and drinks in Shoreditch with my works team the night before. But on being up and around, Mrs Taz realises I’m heading out and having thought we were at home, lets me know she’s got a docs appt this morning. And could I drive her. Of course, there’s no option here, so eventually I’m back at HQ dumping the motor just after 10. Straight to the bus and I’m soon at Wandle Park. Elsewhere, Indy & Dr Bell are arriving at the pub outside Walton station by half 10, with the former apparently somewhat fuzzy after his own works do the night before.
I know the pub, as we’d ended up there prior to last season’s FA Cup trip to Chertsey after some dozy train fuckery on our part, so at least I can’t get lost! At Wimbledon, I pop out to get train tickets and hoover up the remains of the morning breakfast offering at Greggs. Then a short wait for a train the short run to Walton myself. As it turns out, my planned arrival was just before 11 and in the end I amble across the road, taking care not to get run over by an Aston Martin convertible, at a shade before half past. Not bad. Left an hour late, got in half an hour behind. I’ll take it.
In the boozer, a hungover Indy, Dr Bell, Mr X, Magnum PI, Rax and 4Days are all sat tucking into pints. Well, they are, Indy’s still mostly staring at his in the hope it’ll evaporate. Yeah, that one never works mate. I go to get a pint and have to wait for some lass dithering at the jump before the lad will serve me. When she finally managed to work out how contactless works, the lad watches her go and once out the door starts softly bumping his head into the till display. “Having a good morning?” I enquire. “It’s not even 12 and I’ve had loads of divvy questions. Mostly from that one. She started by ordering scrambled egg on toast, without the egg. Took me 5mins to get through to her that she just wanted toast, which is also on the menu”. That’s not all though. “Then she realised she actually wanted scrambled egg and not the toast”. Poor bastard. “All the nutters come out in December” is all I can offer as sympathy while he pours my pint.
Back in the swim, chatter topically turns to grounds we’ve been to that are now demolished, with Walton’s old gaff at Stompond Lane high on that list for many of us. Having sunk one here and had Steve join us, we decide to grab some sherbets into the town itself, mainly as we don’t fancy wasting 25mins VDT on the walk. Next stop is The Regent, a former cinema and also a former Spoons that seems to have gone into private ownership. Steve’s happy here as Saints are on the box against Norwich and we settle in for a couple. A nearby Pool table attracts Mr X’s attention and he challenges Dr Bell to a game. “I ain’t played in ages, my eyes are shit!” he complains before accepting. What follows is about a pints worth of the worst pool we’ve ever seen. “No one’s trying to pot anything, it’s all tuck ups!” observes 4Days. “It’s a tactical cuntfest” shrugs the man of mystery.
On the telly, Saints get a pen, which Steve correctly predicts is going keepers left at mid-height, sadly for him, the Norwich keeper must have heard and goes the right way to save. Back in the pool, Mr X finally loses the titanic battle of shithousery. “You just lost to a blind old man” I advise. Despite this, he demands a rematch and subsequently loses that too. “You’ve lost twice to a blind old man” I remind him. “Fuck off” is his pithy response. He then sits faffing about with Meta AI trying to see if it can predict the U’s line up today and it fails miserably, selecting 2 players no longer with us and 2 who are out on loan. Load of old shite that is. Dunno what the kids see in it.
Shortly before depart, we’re joined by Rax’s mate Paul who’s tagged along to a few games this season, mostly when we’ve been shite. Silly lad. We’re of course already teasing him about his poor life choices “Definitely have a replica shirt by the end of the year” being one comment. From here, we head round to the Swan by the river. A lovely old Youngs gaff charging Youngs prices. Inside we find Keepo, DB and Dave hanging about and mostly complaining about the price of the beer. So we decide to neck one and nip through the Swan’s beer garden to reach the Anglers, right on the river itself. From here, the ground is a 20 minute walk up the tow path.
Still there’s time for JR to declare left handed sportsman are shit. And then somehow we get onto the subject of Gabriela Sabatini, at which point all the blokes takes a wistful moment with their imaginations. Right, drink up, next pub! On the way, a lady warns 4Days still on his crutches to be careful on the stairs as they’re a bit uneven. Inside the Anglers, the 2 barmaids aren’t impressed when a dozen or so hairy arsed football fans wander in, but after I lay on the charm, we’ve soon got ’em onside and treating us like we’re old regulars. We sink a couple in here but with time getting on, we have to go waste 90 minutes of our drinking time on some football. A lovely stroll next to the Thames ensues but not before Rax & I realise we’ve picked up and stuck each other’s jackets on! “I don’t have a wooly hat!” he claims “And my pockets ain’t all soft lined!”. Sartorial mix up resolved, before long we’re in the ground and catching up with the usual old faces.
Sims, Jones, Taylor, Muller, Pruti, Jake Taylor, Jennings, Simper, Critchlow, Harris, Vorster SUBS: Halim, Bell, Vaz, Tizzard, Reeves, Njoku, Aziaya
We take up positions behind the far goal and with the low sun in our eyes, it’s hard to see a lot of what’s going on. Which given the performance that unfolds, is no bad thing. As with Farnham, the “Keep it tight first 20” mantra is ignored and we weakly give away the ball on the edge of our own box and Jack Taylor makes a great saving tackle only for the ball to another red shirt and he fires it past Sims into the corner. Seven minutes. Sakes. The rest of the half is very bitty, Sims is forced into a couple of decent stops as we get caught a few times on the counter with simple direct balls in behind. Our own efforts amount to Harris shooting across goal and an otherwise anonymous Critchlow lifting the ball over an empty net when the keeper under pressure from Simper shins a clearance to him 20 yards out.
On the walk round, last season’s comment of “I hope that wasn’t the good half!” can be heard from 1 or 2 of the mob. Sadly for us, it is. We change to young Mehmet Halim up top to try and freshen it up, but we give him zero to work with and on the hour, we give it away cheap again in their final third, couple quick passes and there’s a red shit in acres clear on goal. 2-0. Simper flicks a header off the foot of the post soon after but it’s game over when Pruti appears to dump a lad on his arse well away from play and inside the box. Ah yes, we’ve not had a brainless fucking peno in while! The no.7 steps up and rolls it down the middle for 3-0 and his hat-trick.
At this point, activating the ‘Rule of 3’ is being strongly debated and a return to the Anglers via the toe path is looking very tempting. Then with a little over 15 to go, another soft as fuck pen is conceded (how many is that this season now? 12? 13?) and that’s tucked for 4-0. But not before the soppy ref shows Jake Taylor a straight red for some reason. Right, pub? Pub. I head off with Dr Bell in tow and we walk back down the riverside path with just enough ambient light left to see where we’re going. The afterglow of the sunset gives us a lovely view and a couple of nice pics for the ‘gram at least. Hello again ladies, two pints of your finest please! Soon after, news reaches us that Charlie Bell’s come on and pulled one back and the ref’s added 11 minutes on at the end! Fuck that.
Slowly but surely, the rest of the mob wander in with Mr X not far behind us. Magnum’s darted for a party back on the manor and Steve’s called it quits too and headed for home. We debate going to the Swan after, but with the run of the pub here as people filter in for the evenings ‘Drag Bingo’ event, which is exactly what it says on the tin, upstairs in the restaurant we decide to camp out here and cab back to the station in a while. Eventually though, it’s time to go and with the drag queen swanning about Dave, Keepo and DB depart back to some Karaoke in the Hood “..before Barry goes getting any fucking ideas!”. “You gonna be Dave’s Kiki Dee Keepo?” “Get fucked!” “Aww, don’t got breaking his heart mate!”. With that level of banter, at this point we too decide it’s time to rustle up some Ubers back to the station.
They’re here in quick order and having gone for a pre-departure piss, I have a light jog to make up ground as my sherberts already arrived. Up the deadly stairs I go before I’m dsitracted by my phone going and I miss the last step, sending me sprawling. Ouch. That’s going to sting in the morning! I wave away the concerns of some smoking onlookers and dust myself off to gingerly lower myself into the cab. Back at the Ashley Park there’s enough time for one pint and zero sympathy for my recent disagreement with gravity. Standard. Then it’s the train back to Wimbledon, which everyone’s disappointed to see 4Days overcome our expectations with a hobble taking far less time than we’d assumed to make the train.
Back in the land of litter obsessed rodents, we head into the Prince of Wales over the road and get a couple of rounds in, enjoying the covers band banging out the tracks up front. But by this point, fatigue after the previous evening’s festivities are starting to bite and I decide to withdraw for the tram home, but not before I bid my farewells and grab a grotty Big Mac next door. Luckily, there’s no real wait back at Wandle Park and a 410 has soon whisked me back to HQ and I’m stumbling over the road to bed, glad that I’m giving Solihull a big fat swerve next weekend. Fucking dozy DAZN and their streaming bollocks.
See you for Southend most likely. So Merry Christmas and all that folks.
Taz