“Sunny days, Sweeping the clouds away. On my way to where the air is sweet, Can you tell me how to get. How to get to Gandermonium Street?”. Oh hello children. Welcome back to Gandermonium Street, the home of your favourite fun Non-League muppets! You have Taz the grouch, Big Nick the Greek, Magnum PI and Mr X all joining us for some silly japes and of course, learning some big fun lessons! Like “We really need another fucking hobby” and “We’re far too old to be spending two days on the piss” as well as “”Edinburgh isn’t the most logical route back to London”. Now, today’s episode is brought to you in association with the letter L and the number 21! Now, on today’s fun and exciting edition we’re going to be learning all about some big grown up words.
First let’s talk about ‘In-con-sis-ten-cy’. Oooh. Isn’t that lots of letters? This is a word that refers to a lack of uniformity in behaviour, quality, or logic and indicates a tendency to change frequently or contradict itself. A good sentence to use to practice this would be “Sutton United FC have been a model of inconsistency over the last two seasons”. Why don’t you try it! Good job! See, it’s not so hard is it? Our next word is ‘In-furi-at-ing’. Which means situations, behaviours, or things that cause intense frustration! A fun sentence to use to practice this in would be “Fuck me Sutton really are infuriating this season”. Ha ha yes, they are quite long aren’t they? But don’t worry, we’re here to help you and they’re really quite easy to master with some practice. Keep trying! They’re also really important to know if you’re going to be hanging out with us all here on Gandermonium Street. But hey, enough huge words, let’s go see what our ol’ pal Taz the grouch is up to shall we??
Oh not you lot again. Do me a favour and do one eh? I’m over this season. Done. Finished. Kaput. Leave me alone! What? You want a fucking story? Now? Oh I’ll give you a fucking story. I support a bunch of useless twats. The end. No? You want more than that? Jesus Christ you lot are persistent. Fine, if you insist. But once we’re done you can all fuck off and go do jaegerbombs with Big Greek or count to ten with with Dirty Barry, as long as you leave me in peace and quiet here in my metaphorical trash can.
Yes folks. After the draw up at Halifax, it’s been a weird old week or so for us here in the PRoWS that partake in the old fifth tier Association Football scuffing. Firstly, the team backed up that very solid point at the Shay with an even better 2-0 away win all the way up in Hartlepool, a result that surprised most of us and was provided by our on loan Womble duo of Jennings & Foyo. Two tough aways to play off chasers, four points in the bag? We never saw that coming. Now, has the corner been turned? Is this the start of a relaxed procession to the heady heights of 13th? Hahahaha. Oh dear lord, fuck no. No no no. Not even close. Of course, the lads returned to GGL and once more pissed some hard won optimism up the wall in front of their own fans in a manner that quite frankly shocked even an old cynic like me.
Being 3-0 down in 20 minutes to a Morecambe side so rooted in the bottom four they could claim squatters rights proved, I must confess, too much for your dear author and I promptly gave it bollocks. I wasn’t the only one heading for the exits either as at least a dozen other people at the Rec end found themselves demanding a startled steward on the gate let us get the fuck away from this shit 5th tier purgatory NOW. I went back to the Hood for a sulky pint, muttering ‘cunts’ a lot the whole way up Collingwood Road and having arrived at the bar, whilst awaiting said sulky pint to be poured, found that those aforementioned ‘cunts’ had conceded a 4th and picked up a brainless red card in the time it had taken me to get there. Which even by our admittedly ever declining standards, really is quite the achievement. Such a horror show was this that I even found the Scotland v France 6 nations game on the telly vaguely entertaining as I supped my Guinness. And I fucking HATE rugby.
As such, I’m mentally done this season. What happens from this point on, happens. But I’ll lay it on the line, I simply don’t trust this squad one bit. Not even slightly. They’re just as likely to sleepwalk into 21st on the last day as they are to make 50pts and safety. And having said that, of course they ponced off up to Play off chasing Scunthorpe on Tuesday (a game I completely ignored and only looked up the score of at full time such was my utter disinterest) with their arses still gaping from the Morecambe match and bagged a 95th minute win thanks to the nut of Brandon Njoku. The bunch of utter fucking oddballs. So naturally, I’m properly looking forward to the weekender in Newcastle for Gateshead away. Another relegation haunted outfit firmly in the bottom for and with the < checks notes > worst home record in the league and also < checks notes again > the worst defence in the league. Fuck my life.
For full effect, we’re doing a Friday to Sunday on this one, mainly as it’s Greek’s birthday trip and to make things even less chaotic and weird around here, with the trains back on the Sunday being banjaxed, we came up with a genius plan that was cheaper than the 7 hour, 4 changes train trip back and elected to fly home from Edinburgh instead. And when I say home I mean ‘Stanstead’. Which as you probably know, isn’t really home at all. I know, the stuff that swirls round between our collective ears never ceases to amaze me too. People will do studies of us and stuff in years to come mark my words. So it’s a day off work Friday and a lunchtime amble up to Kings Cross via, of course, St Pancs. I sweep up some lunch from M&S and walk onto a far busier than it was for Halifax concourse near platform 9 3/4 to find the other mentalists doing this bullshit with me awaiting. Those mentalists being Greek, Magnum PI, Indiana Jones and Mr X.
We board the train and hoof some woman out of our table as she seems to think having boarded with a veritable picnic, complete with salt & pepper shaker, with which to feed her two teenage kids supersedes our seat reservations. No, no it does not love. She annoys a couple of others too once removed as the train is pretty jam packed. Fortunately, the lass train manager is having none of it and given that she looks like she could probably handle half a carriage of Leeds fans on her jack jones, picnic lady is left to make do with a couple of single seats. That’s not to say we don’t have our own picnic, as Mr X produces a 6 pack of Spanish lager, some canned cocktails and some assorted goodies from M&S, which include some mini Colin the caterpillars and a pack of shortbread. Having had a few beers with old colleagues the night before, I elect to stick to a brew and some iced tea with my luncheon.
The journey north is pretty uneventful and pass the time talking the usual bollocks, noticing that Magnum talks to himself a LOT (our eternal gratitude to Greek for pointing this out), Greek spaffing 30 sheets on online roulette in less than 3 minutes and generally wondering what Sutton United will turn up this weekend. This discussion lasts about as long as Greek’s roulette session thankfully however. We arrive in Newcastle just after four and disembark to see the Plymouth service pulling out. “That takes 5hrs 5mins” Mr X informs us after a quick google following our chorus of “Fuck that”s. “Five hours I could do, but that extra 5 minutes is just too much” opines Greek. Outside, we set course for the hotel and see our first Bigg Market lass of the evening, tottering along on the way to her first venue before the working day has even completed.
After a walk down LOTS of stairs and another chorus of “Fuck that”s at the thought of repeating this in reverse on Sunday, we locate the Premier Inn right by the Tyne Bridge having briefly stopped to pay homage to the bench Chalmers located Sean Connery’s Stuntman sat on after THAT trip up here a few years back. Checked in, we go for freshen ups, bag dumps and agree to meet in the Founders a few yards away. My room is a bit of a faff, with having to enter the magical wardrobe for Narnia, make a left at the mink coats, use the B elevator to get to the 4th floor, locate the secret entrance behind the bookcase before being shown to my haunted attic room up a narrow staircase by the ghost of Jackie Milburn. All that’s missing when I get in is a load of cobwebs, a creepy doll sat in the armchair and a fucking Victorian era rocking horse in the corner. Still, I have to confess, the view out the one tiny window is decent. Even Milburn’s ghostly apparition knocks off his Geordie moaning to admit is ‘canny’.
Back down on planet earth a while later, I struggle to locate the pub right in front of me but eventually gain my bearings and join the others for a pint to kick things off. Greek arrives soon after with Ossie and he sets about going Rishi Sunak on the fruity by the bar, although on this occasion he’s only able to jib a little under 40 notes out of the local economy. Although having said that, it’ll be going right back in over the course of the night, so he’s investing more than that Tory cunt ever did up here. From here, we head up the hill to Be At One where Greek and Ossie have reserved a table. It’s not my cuppa frankly and the beer selection is somewhat lacking, but it’s his birthday, so you know. Needs must. After 2 Guinness and a G&T, I make my excuses and head off for some scoff before dipping into Trillians, a cellar rock bar I’ve wanted to visit for many a year. Here I post up, listen to some decent tunes and get some pints going whilst I wait for the band to start. Here some locals turn out to be major Bloodhound Gang fans. Either that or they just simply like singing about ‘titties’.
The rest of the mob get done with their martinis and daiquiris and wander in to join me about half 8. When the band starts up, even Greek doesn’t mind their mix of 80’s rock and glam stuff. “Even I know about 50% of this!” he crows. Everyone’s entertained but once the band finishes, Greek suggests we head to a soul/Motown place round the corner. So we all shuffle up there once we polish our drinks to find it playing absolutely neither of those genres. All the supplies is some evil looking green drinks, a midnight closing time and a lad throwing up all over his mate at the next table. Chucked out of here at closing a couple call it a night whilst we head straight back to Trillians for some nightcaps. Here we squeeze in a couple more pints before a bouncer with a small megaphone asks us all to sup up and leave. We of course get him going and amuse the other remaining patrons whilst we converse with him. Us in normal voices, him via the megaphone.
Back at the hotel, we find ourselves being interrogated by security as to our names and or room numbers to gain access. Most of us are past remembering such facts by this point and just wave our key cards which appears sufficient. Unsurprisingly, back in the haunted attic, sleep comes quickly. The following morning, I’m awakened by the tiniest gap in the curtains allowing a perfectly aimed laser beam of sunlight to be aimed directly into my eyes. Oh do fuck off!! Sunshine? Up here? What are the odds of that?? With morning ablutions complete and a Premier Inn fry up in me, I head out to take a walk up the Tyne in the sunshine to help blow out the cobwebs before heading round the corner to the Crown Posada to find a freshly arrived 4Days, Greek, Indy and a passing Kiddo and missus chatting. Right, it’s about 11. Pint? Pint.
We settle in and slowly sup the first livener of the day before being joined by Magnum and Mr X, the latter who announces his arrival by standing in the middle of the tiny snug we’ve bagged and farting. We mostly mumble a lot and stare at our pints although spotting the bloke on the stained glass appears to be showing us a red card does briefly amuse both in person and online. With midday upon us, we decamp to the Bridge Tavern followed by Johnny & Dan from the Yoof. Here I get more Tyneside sunshine in the eyes and spend my first pint constantly shifting in my seat to hide it behind various objects placed between me and it. Knew I should have brought my sunnies! There’s a few knocked back here before we eventually decide we should probably go get some cabs to the game, given that’s actually the excuse we’ve used to make the trip here.
Sims, Donkor, Bell, Muller, Pruti, Taylor, Jennings, Simper, Foyo, Harris, Francis SUB: Urpens, Njoku, Eze, Ogbonna, Rodari, Reeves, Haigh
At the ground, we find the turnstiles and head in past a load of Newcastle women stuff. Upstairs, I partake of the hottest pie in the world. So much so, I have to leave it in my pocket for a good ten minutes before it’s edible. Still, I do better than 4Days who is still eating his until shortly before half time. The game? Oh yeah. That. On the pitch, the start is lively and the first 20 or so ain’t bad. We cause them some problems and Harris forces a decent save from the keeper, but we slowly fall away from here and on the half hour, we’re behind. Same old story really, too much time, too much space, slow to react and the bloke’s got all day to line it up and pick his spot from about 12 or so yards. Still, at least it’s not another fucking penalty I suppose.
The job gets harder as Jake Taylor limps off shortly before the break with 17 year old Dan Urpens making his debut as Bell moves to a more familiar central role from the left to cover. The only other thing of note is the ref’s pretty shit and pissing off both sets of fans equally well. After the break, the game really fails to catch light and whilst there’s plenty of to and fro, nowt really happens. We make changes to little effect until with 5 to go, we take a quick free kick, Eze finds some room and cracks a belter low past the keeper from about 20 yards into the far corner. Of course, they hit the bar with a free header literally moments before the end but this time the bed remains un-shat and we earn a vital point at the final whistle, which sees both sets of fans boo off a somewhat ineffective ref. With the team applauded off, we head round the corner to the ‘Fog on the Tyne’ (formerly the Schooner) for a couple of post-matchers.
4Days accompanies us for one before bagging a cab back into town for his 6pm departure home via about 4 changes to get back into London by about midnight. Yeah, good luck with that mate, rather you than me. Then we have a couple more before heading back over the bridge ourselves. A few of us aim to get some dinner back in the Bridge Tavern, but having negotiated the 3 lasses from the same group ordering separate 35 drink rounds one drink at a time, this turns into a quick pint as they’ve long since stopped serving. So it’s off to the quirky Redhouse round the corner where we shovel a cracking pie and mash down our necks and feeling the effects of 2 days on the gas, simply sit here until we’ve had enough, although we do expose Magnum’s modern pop music knowledge as he can’t ID a Dizzy Rascal track and then needs the chorus to work out Will Smith’s ‘Boom, Shake the Room’. Come 10pm though, we’ve all had enough and with an earlyish start tomorrow, decide to turn in. Although going via the Offy on the way back to the Hotel, Magnum spots that they sell ‘Poppets’ sweets, which for you old farts out there used to be made on Croydon Road about 5 mins from HQ. It’s a fucking BMW garage now.
My plan of rising at shortly before 8 the following morning is scuppered by the fact I’m a bell end and set my alarm for ten to 9. Which is daft as we’re heading to the station at quarter past. Fortunately, my bladder has me up 5 mins before, so I’ve just about time to shower, pack my shit and be downstairs to meet everyone else. A Greggs breakfast baguette will have to do! Up at the station, we grab cuppas and other snacks and head for the train, however on the platform we can’t tell which way to go for our carriage so send the PI to investigate where coach G is. He gets to the next one and immediately turns back so we start heading the other way only to very soon find he’s sold us harder than Cryuff did Jan Olsson in 1974 with that turn of his and we eventually retrace our steps to find him held up by his wheely case, barely able to stand as he’s laughing so hard at the outstanding success of his little jape. We let him have his moment in the sun, with even the argumentative Greek unable to conjure up anything to remotely counter it.
The Edinburgh train is pretty quiet, which is probably for the best given the positively evil fart I drop somewhere between Newcastle and Berwick, which is so bad Greek abandons his seat for one several rows away. Mr X is unimpressed with his cowardice until it finally reaches him. “I got it” is all he can gag before he pulls his sweater up to cover his face. Personally, I’d rate it an 8/10. But had the carriage been busier, there would have been a stampede I think. As we cross the Tweed at Berwick, we admire the view and the fact that it immediately starts to rain on the other side. “Aaah, home!” sighs the Man of Mystery as the water streams down the windows. Half hour later, we pull into Waveley and with Magnum, Greek and Indy electing for a pub opposite for some lunch, I and the plastic Jock Mr X head off for some tourist wankery, which we instantly regret having climbed about 400 steps to get up to the Royal Mile.
Still, we weave through crowds of tourists, check out the sights, peruse some tat and eventually end up at the end of the road in front of Edinburgh castle with a stiff breeze in our faces. “Is it fucking snowing?” I enquire after a few minutes admiring the views. Mr X raises his chin to better expose his fizzog to the wind before confirming that yes, it is indeed snowing. “Shall we fuck off then?”. We head down a steep hill and amble past the National gallery, then up past the Scott Monument. By which point the sun is back out and we’re both sweating our cods off. Then his Scots-ness need for Scotch pies overwhelms him and he leaves me to amble back over North Bridge to find some meat & pasty based goodness. Meanwhile, with Mothering Sunday today and wishing Mrs Taz to not feel like I have abandoned her, I pick up some tourist tat myself to cover both bases before heading back to the pub to re-join the party for the penultimate leg of the trip.
A cab is bagged at a nearby rank around one and the driver is soon regretting having five fat fuckers in the back as it bangs and crashes over every single little pothole between the centre of town and the drop off point at the airport. “Sorry about that!” I offer as I disembark and give Indy a nudge to slip the geezer a decent tip for his trouble. He’ll be needing a couple of new shock absorbers after that fare! From here we bid farewell to Scotland and finally begin heading South again. Back in Stanstead on time, we head down the steps with a gale blowing rain into our faces. Nice. A train to Tottenham Hale later, then a Victoria line through town, Magnum and I leave the others to head to Stockwell as it’s the only way back to the PRoWS with nothing out of Victoria. We however can get back to Croydon from there and after the usual train and 410 combo, I’m falling in the front door to find my beloved has bagged us a chinese for dinner. And that’s before she even knows I’ve got her a pressie!
Eight to go, seven points required. Next up? Truro at home. The side with the worst away record in the league.
Oh for fucks sake.
Taz