Yeah yeah. I hear you. “Southend? That was Tuesday mate. Today’s Friday! What time do you call this??”. I’ll level with you folks, I wasn’t gonna do this. Couldn’t be arsed. Mainly as having got into that endless black hole that exists between Boxing Day and New Years, I’d not noticed Southend was a Tuesday not a Saturday. And with Scunthorpe away looming a couple days later, I wanted to keep what little powder I had dry and go all in on the Leo rather than some lame mid-week jaunt to Essex.
But then the UK got a bit Baltic-like and our weekend hosts threw in the towel on Friday afternoon. Some woke nonsense about a ‘frozen pitch’. Fannies. I thought they were all well hard and stuff up North? Still, it means I don’t have to get out of bed at like half 6 to schlep out in the freezing cold up to Kings Cross and beyond. Small mercies and all that. However, this does now leave me with something of a gap in my 100% meticulously arranged schedule on here, meaning the next load of tedious dross on these pages would be probably Tamworth at the end of the month. Sigh.
So, if you could just imagine I’ve not B movie exposition-ed that load of shit above and pretend like we’re still in the middle of our Quality Street and Pringles powered festive stupor and not actually already into 2026 dreading being back at work if not already actually back at work, then we can crack on with this pointless charade. Deal? Deal. Right, you go get the kettle on sweetheart and I’ll get this shit sorted. No milk please. One sugar.
Seasons greetings one and all. I hope you are suitably stuffed with all the usual accoutrements of the festive period and were also fortunate enough not to enjoy the dullest of 0-0’s with Aldershot on Boxing Day. I hate to keep banging on about it, but Aggy’s “That’s the worst you’ll see under me!” statement post-Braintree is, I feel, going to haunt him a little further down the line that he’d like this season. At least in that game we created fucking chances! The Shots game was quite the snooze fest, with little threat from either side and the the second half in particular a total non-event. At the end, I think everyone left GGL not really entirely sure if it was a point earned or two squandered.
So, if ‘family commitments’ kept you away from that one. Well done. I’m jealous. No, seriously. At least you were warm and had easy access to Quality Street. Still, the performance should come as no surprise really as we’re currently back to carrying an injury list that would make a Russian NCO sat in Donetsk wince. And with the gaffer making it clear that all the lads going out on loan are going out because he doesn’t think they can improve us at all, we’re a bit short on the old legs front with at least the two Taylors (Jake and Jack), Muller and Njoku all showing out whilst about 70% fit at best. Keep calm and carry on I think is the saying? That and hope he’s got some right bastards lined up as replacements. And soon.
Since we last spoke, we also followed up the 4-1 Trophy pumping at Walton with a Bastard League 4-1 pumping up at Solihull. A game I swerved so hard due to it’s ridiculous 12 noon Kick off that I almost broke my neck. DAZN can get fucked lads. You ain’t Sky and this definitely isn’t the Premier League you cunts. To add salt to the wound, most of the Gandermonium lot got stuck due to shafted trains and didn’t arrive at Jaguar-Land Rover’s premises, stone cold sober, until a good 30 minutes in the match. Still saw all the goals though, poor fuckers. Which brings us to today.
I’m having the laziest Christmas ever thanks to work shutting up shop entirely for the festive period, so I’m making the bastard most of it. Never up before 10am and rarely showered before noon. Merry fucking Christmas indeed. So naturally, having realised that Southend was a Tuesday night, my desire for attendance was not high and peeling myself off the sofa took quite some doing. Still, Keepo and Fish the Cabbie were going for pints up town and I’d said I’d try and meet them for one before we jumped on the rattler. Be rude not to. Out the door at half 2, I then spend half an hour on a bus doing a 15 minute journey and wind up at East Croydon between services. Don’t fucking test me universe, I’ve not had any pigs in blankets leftovers for a good hour or two, I’m not in the mood.
Eventually on the move, I find out that Keepo and Fish have bumped into 4Days and set up shop in the Ship round the corner from Fenchurch Street. Lovely, I’ll hop off at London Bridge then, stroll over Tower Bridge and be there in two shakes of a lambs….oh bollocks. Christmas markets. South Bank’s gonna be a tourist packed nightmare isn’t it? And so it proves, with loads of gurning bastards hanging out in the cold paying a tenner for a mulled wine and looking at shit they wouldn’t have bought before Xmas Day, let alone the week after. Head down, hood up, commuter two step engaged and 20 minutes later, I’ve carved my way thought half of planet earth, ruined about two hundred thousand tourists festive photos. Those definitely won’t make the cut for the ‘gram I can tell you.
In the boozer, the lads are parked up and in short order I’ve got a round in and joined them to do the usual ‘Nice Christmas’ bullshit before we get down to the nitty gritty of discussing what a shit show the US portion of the Summer’s World Cup is likely to be. We also notice behind the bar, there’s a ‘smashed glass’ count table. “Is Fish on there?” enquires Keepo once more raking up the Cabbie’s closing time fat fingered-ness that almost got us barred in Manchester a couple of years back. “Fuck off, you’ll be banging on about the hairdryer next” he complains before adding “No, I didn’t bring it. Can’t get it through the turnstiles these days”. We down a couple quick ones and then head off to the train, ignoring 4Days suggestions of a cut through to the main station entrance.
Of course, the side one we go for is shut and we have to double back with the Welshman complaining the whole way. “He’s not gonna let that drop is he?” observes Keepo. Probably not mate, probably not. Still, I get a comedy photo of our still mildly disabled Welshman hobbling past the ‘Crutched Friar’ pub up the road. So swings and roundabouts. Up by the platforms, the station’s a ghost town and not just because it’s half 4 on a Tuesday between Christmas and New Year. All the shops etc are all gone, so once tickets are sorted, there’s no opportunity of a train can or even a bag of crisps. Shocking. Broken Britain etc etc.
The train departs on time and we settle in for the trundle. About halfway, 4Days goes for a piss and when Keepo and I then subsequently make our own trips to the facilities, we find it out of order. “What the fuck did you do in there you dirty bastard? I’ve got to hold it all the way to Southend now!”. Thankfully the need is not desperate and soon after, we alight at Southend Central. Right piss and a pint I think, in that order. “Ah bollocks” exclaims Fish. “I’ve left my jacket on the train!”. Here we go. Never dull around here is it? Right, Gandermonium rule #1. I’m going for that piss\pint combo!! Fish & Keepo try to contact C2C lost property, but they’re just told to fill out a form, which doesn’t help Fish as all his cards and house keys were in the inside pocket. Not good. After a bit of fruitless googling, a simple plan of attack is hatched.
Meet the train coming back to London from Shoeburyness and see if it’s still there in 20minutes and if not, then hop the next one to the end of the line to see if the cleaners found it. As we down our pints, Mr X wanders in fresh from some sightseeing around town after parking the car by the ground. And soon after, Beeney appears. A one time PRoWS parishioner, he’s now based down here and hasn’t watched us since Wembley in the Pizza Cup final. “It’s not got much better since then” mutters Mr X. Ain’t that the fucking truth! With beers done, the lost property seekers head off to see what they can find whilst the rest of us decamp a short walk away to the Trout for a couple more pre-match liveners.
We catch up with Beeney here, exchange the usual small talk and eventually there’s good news from the lost property front. Fish has located his Billy Goat at Shoeburyness and they’ll be with us momentarily. This is good news as it’s a touch parky out tonight and kipping on his front step wouldn’t have done our Hackney Carriage licensed friend any good at all. They join us in time for one before kick off, but with time pressing on, we pull up our collars against the cold and head on out whilst 4Days rustles up an Uber as he’s lazy. And crippled. We cut down through the back streets using Beeney’s local knowledge and soon enough, we can see the floodlights over the rooftops. Then the stand with the large ‘Away Supporters Only’ sign on the back of it heaves into view.
Lies. I have my ticket scanned twice to no avail before the lass thinks to ask if I’m an away fan or not. Of course, we’ve got the corner and the stand clearly labelled as away isn’t for away. Nice. Even better, they won’t let us walk the 100yards up the back of the stand to our turnstile as that’s the ‘sterile’ area to separate supporters. Despite the fact that we’re stood outside mingling with dozens of home fans at this precise moment and instead have to walk all the way round to come in from the far side to access our entrance. As it is, I dip in just as the game kicks off out on the pitch. What a fucking palaver that was. Any danger of putting a steward out on the street, or even a fucking sign, to direct away fans to the actual away section??
Sims, Ecclestone, Taylor, Muller, Tizzard, Jake Taylor, Jennings, Simper, Njoku, Harris, Ogbonna SUBS: Rodari, Mrisho, Bell, Vaz, Jones, Urpens, Aziaya
The game? File under ‘same old same old’ for this season frankly. They start strong first 10 and just as we seem to have seen off the early rush with only a good Sims save from a header the only real moment of note, Jack Taylor makes a good saving tackle on one time Sutton loanee Charlie Kendall in the box and the ref weakly buckles to the shouts of several thousand people and points to the spot. It’s never a fucking pen in a million years but as we well know, officials in this league are about as mentally strong as a 13 year old lass who’s just heard her favourite K-Pop combo’s called it a day. Especially when faced with a large home crowd like tonight’s.
To rub salt in the wound, Sims guesses right, saves well to his right and his defence fails to back him up with the ball being prodded back across and weakly bobbled into the back of the net by a following up blue shirt. Fuck my life. Still, we at least dust ourselves off and have a go. Soon after, Jennings free-kick is headed on target by Ecclestone, but it appears to strike someone, ping off the post, then bar and plop into the keepers arms. Then not much further along, Simper gets some space and fires in a dipper that rattles the crossbar. Further proof of our designated official’s lack of spine comes when Simps is clearly blocked out in the box going for a 1-2 and the ball then can be clearly seen to strike the defender’s hand before being cleared. It never ceases to amaze me how you can spot a fairly straightforward infringement like that from 100yards away, but the ref and linos can’t from five times closer, at least.
If that wasn’t enough to show it’s not our night, Njoku getting wiped out by the keeper well out of his manor and not even remotely trying to play the ball after our press causes them a right old mess at the back is completely ignored by the ref. Utter clown. At the break, I go for something pastry related to munch but in true away end fashion, there’s just dog burgers and hot dogs. The burger is ok, but my initial assessment having seen Mr X munching one just after arrival isn’t further improved. And at seven quid for the privilege, it’s really a case of whether the shame or the burger itself gives me the shits first.
The second half, much like Boxing Day, is pretty much a non-event. We try, bless us, but we’re gassed and that slow passing build up is never going anywhere against one of the best defences in the division. Having said that though, even though they can bring on a full compliment of 5 subs against our walking wounded, they never really truly cause us any worries at the other end. Basically, if Charlie Kendall’s your first choice up top, you ain’t scoring enough. Mark my words. The Shrimpers will need reinforcements if they’re to match last year’s play off final run.
So, another narrow defeat on the road. At least it’s not another 4-1 though and we kept all 11 on the pitch as well. With an offer of a lift back from the Man of Mystery, I and 4Days wave off Keepo and Fish and jump into the X-Mobile right by the turnstiles to head on home. But not before the ‘sterile’ area nonsense of earlier is further exposed for the utter bollocks it is as a large group of home fans wander past as we’re all filing out and start giving it the bigg’un. Plod nowhere. Still, that one lad I advise to go climb back on his sister has little further to offer proceedings if nothing else. Right James, home! And don’t spare the Range Rovers!
With a clear run home only interrupted by a brief delay for plod to recover a stranded motorist on the M25, who receives an unsympathetic mutter of “Yooooooou cunt” from Mr X as we pass, I’m dumped outside HQ just after 11 and head in sharpish to get out of the cold and find Mrs Taz already snug as a bug in a rug hogging the duvet. So I elect to play the long game and go scoff some crumpets in the kitchen whilst she nods off, making recovery of said bedding that less strenuous.
Up here for thinking, down there for dancing as my old man says. Maybe I should start a Youtube channel? Or a podcast even? Give some of these lads who think chinless nonces like Andrew Tate can actually offer them anything when it comes to the ladies an alternative. I ponder this for a while, munching my butter drenched toasted goodies.
Nah, fuck em.
Taz