Well, I suppose we’re about due another installment of Bastard League carry on eh? It’s been a month since we were last gracing this dark dank corner of the internets and anyway, my therapist says it’s good for me to get things out in the open. Helps with the PTSD of watching this cobblers on the regular. And he should know what he’s talking about, or at least he should for what he charges by the hour. Right, so where were we?
Ah yes. We last polluted your screens back at the end of last month with the trip to Halifax, where a point was rescued about 20 seconds after we’d just seemingly fucked away all three. The performance wasn’t half bad though and after the previous win over Eastleigh, hopes were that we might finally be getting back into our stride after that fast 4 wins in 4 start to the season. But of course, we’re all idiots as this is Sutton United we’re talking about and the footballing gods are still slowly and agonisingly still extracting their pound of metaphorical flesh from our tortured souls, one razor thin slice at a time. With the edge of a rusty coke can.
Since then, no league wins. We followed up the Halifax draw with a turgid 2-0 win in the Surrey Cup over Epsom out in Chessington. A performance so lacking in any drive that even Dukey failed to crack a smile at some rare success in his favourite cup competition. We then welcomed FGR to GGL and with 5 minutes gone in the 2nd half, they looked set for a perspiration free win having gone 2 up. But like last year, one of their lads went full dickhead, picked up a cheap second yellow and game on. We pulled it back to 2-1, went immediately 3-1 down and then somehow hauled ourselves level at the death. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t a defeat. Of course, we then followed it up with a pathetic toss off away at Tamworth midweek (2-0) with barely a shot on goal. A performance that even the happiest of clappers would struggle to put a positive spin on.
Up after that was Kiddy away. A game I’d fully planned to attend and blog, but due to me getting lumbered with a hospital appointment early the following week, I decided a day on the lash probably wasn’t the best idea (and nor was the fucking inevitable ear bending such a choice would have no doubt copped me from Mrs Taz) and sacked off, selling my ticket to Southampton Steve. Thankfully before the shitshow at Tamworth could take place and put him right off. Seems we got a decent point overall, but they still only scored due to our latest viral social media fuck up (courtesy of young Mr Brits) which kinda sums up life watching this club the last couple of years. Buoyed by the grit shown, the gaffer bigged up he midweek home game with current league leaders Borehamwood. They’ve not been tested yet he says, we’ll give ’em a game he says. And we did. For 45 minutes. Sadly, we were unable to last the distance going toe to toe, made three changes at half time and largely sank without trace from that point on. 2-0 home defeat.
Still, there was promise there and the tempo first half was the best seen since probably Shrewsbury in the cup last season. However, it is still 1 win in 9 now where three points are the reward, so currently, I think it is fair to say that we are not extracting much of a wooded nature from the earth where the National League is concerned. And concerned is a word many used in conjunction with the FA Cup tie with Truro at GGL. 4th in NLS and scoring goals, this looked tricky. But a first half goal and a crucial late sprawling stop not only put us into the hat in our own right, but save a midweek schlep down to Cornwall. Our reward in the 1st Round? A trip to fucking Guiseley. Like I said, football gods, pound of flesh, rusty coke can. Remember?
Next? Harrogate away. 2nd spot, scoring goals, not getting beat at home. Just what we need really! With those streaming twats deciding this should be a 12.30 KO for some fucking reason, I sacked this as well and boy was my therapist glad I did. Sitting at home as Storm Boelo lashed Gandermonium HQ, the team pulled another fat no show out of the bag and having got battered for half an hour, eventually caved and let in 3 in 5 minutes before the break. 1 win in 10, not that we’re counting. “See you Wednesday….maybe” muttered a frustrated Aggy on the post matcher. So yeah, he knows. And that brings us to Aldershot, where we did indeed see Aggy! Fortunately for him, Aldershot seem as shit as us and we’re 2 up in 11 minutes, including a goal from Carter inside 40 seconds. We probably should add more, but a wins a win and three very welcome points sends us to his old stomping ground on the South Coast with a teeny tiny ray of confidence.
Being an hour away, a blissful lie in begins the day. Which is quite helpful considering I’d got in at 1am from a work department do the evening before. It wasn’t my intention to be that late, but the fucking Thameslink took over 90 minutes to get back from bloody St Pancs. Killer. So I’m a bit weary when I pop out just after 9 for the bus into Croydon. Fortunately this is quick, so I have time for a cuppa and a restorative bacon roll from Greggs. In the station, I find Indy and Irish Pete awaiting. And this is it today! Greek went down last night, and Mr X and 4Days are going up to Clapham. Still, 3 means a group save on the train. Or it would if Pete didn’t already have a ticket, which I only find out about having lobbed up for three. Sakes. Oh well, if that’s as bad as today gets, I’ll take it. As we mooch about, we see Temi Babaloa walk through the barriers and head down to the platform. Then shortly after. Mr X appears the other side. Why are you here? “Got bored hanging around at Clapham” he shrugs.
4Days is front carriage of the Littlehampton service enjoying the Aussies struggling to South Africa in the cricket and we hop on to chill out and basically do nothing for an hour. The chatter is low key with Mr X mostly annoyed by Netflix’s “Can you beat Luke Littler” thing, where they apparently got a load of ‘amateur’ players to take him on in one leg of 501 each for half a million quid. His issue is that Littler falls to defeat to the very un-amateur Fallon Sherrock. Yes, that one. I know very little about darts, but even I know she’s one of best women’s players in the world. “Gary Lineker was presenting and even introduced her as a fucking hairdresser!”. All sounds a bit shady to me, but then again I’ve binned off Netflix for this sort of reason. It’s all crap. Mr X also declares he’s had a shit week generally, but doesn’t want to discuss it as “It’ll only end up in the fucking blog”. Quite hurtful that. Not everything goes in here, just the stuff I can fit in.
We’re off in Worthing just after 11 and set off for the Thieves Kitchen as it’s an early opener. It’s a wonderfully sunny day, so much so I’m soon cursing not having brought my sunnies along. Along the way, we pass an eatery that catches all of our eyes, ‘Potatoast’. Which quite frankly sounds like fucking paradise, although sadly we’re well into VDT and instead solemnly carry on to the pub. Once we get pints and settle in, we soon find some of the yoof are in and they’ve been down here since before 10. Fucking hell, they’ll be a mess before kick off! Soon after Johnnie and Dan show up and as we’re at the seaside they’ve got a stereotypical tale of Dan being robbed of his sarnie by a seagull the same size as a Smart Car. Naturally, he gets about as much sympathy as you’d expect from all present. We do a couple here and with the PL starting up on the big screen at deafening volume, we retreat to the calmer surrounds of the Selden Arms. Here we catch up with Journo Ben who used to live on GGL and covered quite a lot of that FA Cup run in 2017. We catch up with how his new life in the sticks is going in between taking the piss out of Mr X for wearing sunglasses inside after coming in from having a smoke. “They’re reactives!” he whines. No one’s listening.
Brits, Urpens, Topallaj, Kirk, Brookes, Knight, Osadebe, Taylor, Babaloa, Carter, Njoku SUBS: Ogbonna, Folarin, Francis, Amartey, Bell, Mussa, Haigh
We do a couple here until about half 2 and then make a move for the ground. A couple jump in a sherbet but most of us fancy the stroll to help get some blood flow moving and help with the beer processing. Of course, we get caught at the level crossing but still arrive with several minutes to kick off only to find we’ve got one fucking turnstile on the away end. Sweet. So of course, we get in a couple minutes after kick off and find a spot on the terrace down the side. At least the view ain’t bad. Here I find Dukey, making a rare foray to Saturday awayday action, but sadly restricted by a gammy back he’s picked up on holiday in Spain as he’d originally planned for a day on the gas with us. Also in is PC, who’s pootled down on his moped. Having gone with no recognised forwards against Aldershot, the boss has returned to a line up more like the one that failed to show at Harrogate. Still, here we’re at least a bit more competitive and for the first 20minutes, it’s a fairly cagey affair with no one creating much of note. Then Dan Urpens winds up a hug long throw, Babaloa makes a nuisance of himself at the near post and a defender can only flick the ball off his nut beyond his own keeper. 1-0 to the good guys and it’s our old mate Oggy setting us on our way. We’re not proud, we’ll take any old shit as long as it winds up in the oppo’s onion bag.
The goal sparks us into life and we really take the game to the hosts. A few minutes later, Carter pops one forward for Njoku to chase. He does well to come out on top over the defender just on the edge of the box, holds up well and rolls it along 18 for Temi to rattle into the top corner against his old mob. First FGR and now Worthing. Loves an old employer does Temi! The goal seems to knock the stuffing out of the hosts and the locals clearly feel the same as they’ve made not a peep all day. In fact they make Halifax feel like the fucking San Siro atmosphere wise. We now largely boss proceedings and just after the half hour, it’s check and possibly mate. Carter makes a clever little spin out of trouble on the touchline, sends a raking pass in behind for Njoku and the keeper rushes off his line to flatten him. Penalty thank you very much! Carter takes spotto duties and sits the keeper down before rolling it down the middle. 3-0 and three goals in 12 minutes, fucking hell. I mean, sure, we’ll take it, but where’s this come from eh?
We really should have another pen soon after when Brandon has another dart into the box and is quite clearly barged from behind, but with one pen already on the books and a couple of yellows for fuck all from a slightly homer ref, he’s having none of it and waves away the howls of 400+ baying U’s fans. So, just the three up at half time and we all have a bit of a gasp to get our breath back. Elsewhere, one of the yoof is informing Yellen he’s “found the Drum n’Bass rave until 3am” and enquires if he’ll be attending. “Fuck no!” he declares and disappears into the throng leaving his mate to declare “Fucking shitcunt ref!” in response. Quite. Of course, after all that excitement, the second half is a bit of a non-event generally. They have a lot of ball but do very little with it. Their best efforts being a shot from range that flashes just over and one effort that catches a deflection and takes it beyond Brits but comes back off the post. Other than that, Kirk, Topps, Brookes and especially Urpens largely have them bagged up. Sadly, our replacements in attack lack the capability of earlier, so a fourth is never quite on the cards and Spike Brits shocking kicking continues. Still, as I said earlier. A wins a win. Right, can we pack up and get drunk now?
We amble away and with a large-ish crowd on, aim for the Corner House we’d spotted earlier beyond the station. Of course, we get stuck at the fucking level crossing again, but slightly beered away fans lead a big cheer when the gates finally raise along with a chorus of “Der der der der, level crossing!”. Having waved Ben off for his pre-train pint at the station we crack on with the celebrations at our destination and publican 4Days takes great delight in informing some moany old git on how bars work after he accuses him of ‘Jumping the queue’. “You don’t queue at bars, you walk up, fill the space and get served”. Even the staff are amused by the exchange on public house etiquette and still serve the Welshman first. After a couple here, we go over the road to the New Amsterdam, which is a little more scrungey. Bit of us quite frankly and neck a couple more. Then we decide to head to the boozer by the station for one more before catching the train. Here, 4Days leads us on a fucking magical mystery tour of the back streets of Worthing, which Mr X and Indy want no part of. Naturally they rock up at the station way before we do and find the boozer is shut because of ‘unacceptable abuse from away fans earlier’ according to the sign in the window. Fuck knows what went on there, but quite why they couldn’t just close until 8pm and re-open escapes me.
Instead we decide to just fuck off home and as we hit the platform, Yellen, Nutsack and a couple of other lads hit an offy for some cans for the train back. I’ve had nowt to eat all day so far, very silly I should know much fucking better at my age and decide I’d quite like a breather. We then trundle back north and find on the socials that the Worthing manager has stated we’d ‘won their cup final’. Cunt. As we’re pulling in to Croydon, a previously weary 4Days & Mr X get a second wind and decide they really quite fancy a nightcap at the Spoons on George Street when I suggest it. Seems the celebrations of a rare resounding away win are to continue! Upon alighting, a rendition of “3-0 in our cup final!” rings out on the platform and up the slope as we head for more beverages. We get a couple more in here and are soon joined by Oliver, Cathy’s youngest, on his way back from watching Palace. “Bob & Cath on the CAMRA trail in the arse end of Sussex are they?” I enquire. “Nah, they were going home but I just told them you’re all in here, so they’re on their way!”. Christ, three points on the road and everyone’s on the piss!
Eventually though, it’s home time and waving off the final stragglers, I hop the tram to the bottom of the hill to have more bus choices at Reeves Corner and find a couple more wounded here. On the 407, we natter upstairs and as I go to alight at HQ, I find 4Days slumped on the lower deck looked well pleased with himself. “Where the fuck did you spring from?” I enquire. “3-0 in our cup final!” he sings. Of course, I nick his trademark bobble hat and lob it back at him through the closing doors when he tries to chase me to recover it. If nowt else it hopefully stops the driver from chucking him off for his boozy singing! Right, I need my bed, but not before I’ve had something, anything, to eat. Jesus I’m hungry.
Taking some inspiration from earlier, I knock up a couple of rounds of toast and down some squash. It’ll make fuck all difference, but at least my stomach no longer thinks my throat’s been cut.
Right, time to kick start the season I think lads. Nighty night.
Taz