Ah, back again I see. You never learn. Which means you’ll fit in around here just fine to be honest! Anyway, welcome back to our little corner to the t’interwebs and the last entry for this current campaign on these here pages. Yes, dear reader, for Gandermonium, the 25/26 season terminates here. All change please. There’ll be a bus replacement along soon to take you the rest of the way to wherever this absolutely rancid season ends up. And it’ll no doubt be full of busted seats, stinking of vomit. Thank you however for tagging along for what’s been a mostly depressing as fuck ride from start to finish really. Your attention is appreciated.
Yes yes, I know there are 2 home games remaining between now and the official end of the season as designated by our Bastard League overlords, but fuck that quite frankly. Next week we’ve Carlisle away, which was £150 on the train for a day trip and was gonna cost the same as a week on the Costa’s for a weekender. Firm no. I’ve wasted enough money on this nonsense already this season as it is and hiking to the arse end of England no longer holds any sort of appeal. And the other away game is Boreham Wood. Which is on the Eastleigh list and even thought it’s the last day of the season, nah. Stick a fork in me, I’m done. Somewhere in the eye region will do cheers.
So whether you like it or not, this Good Friday’s nip over to Hampshire and the visit to Aldershot is your final word on the season. Well, unless we make the SSC final, then you might see something out of Dukey there. But I ain’t making any promises. Right, I guess we should fill out some space here by recapping what’s happened since we were in Gateshead eh? Well, first up was Truro at home. Rock bottom, all but relegated, one away win all season, their last win anywhere being on Boxing Day. I think you can probably figure out how this panned out? Another utterly lifeless, spineless waste of everyone’s time as we stank out GGL for the millionth time of asking and were swept aside 3-0. As has become far too regular an occurrence this season, I departed well before the final whistle when the third went in, electing to go back to the Hood for a pint with Irish Pete instead. Least I could do was buy the poor sod a Guinness as it was his first game in a good while. And will probably be his last an’all.
Next up was a midweek awayer which saw a desperately important 2-0 win over an Eastleigh side that decided to be almost as calamitously shit as us at home with their keeper sent off inside 5 minutes and conceding the first straight from a corner. Still, it meant that we ended the night 9 points above 21st and almost but not quite safe. Functionally if not quite mathematically if you will. After that was league leaders Rochdale at the Lane, which to no one’s real surprise the team decided was a bit more worthy of their time and effort, even given it was at GGL. 1-0 up thanks to a Charlie Bell banger, 89 minutes played and we’ve barely given them a sniff. Ref bizarrely finds 5 added from somewhere from one of the least interrupted halves of football I’ve seen in years and then allows 8 to be actually played. Oh you better believe we shit the bed. Proper vindaloo and 20 pints of Guinness mattress burner job. Scores level on 90, winner on 97. Scenes, limbs, drama and more content for the National League socials again. Big sigh.
Still, as I head out the front door for the bus Friday morning, we technically only need 3 points from our last 5 games and probably not even that as Brackley and Braintree in particular look unlikely to win a single game, let alone the 3-4 they need to be in with a shout of overhauling us (and others). Still, as I’ve already stated on these pages, I trust this squad about as much as the factual nature of a Donald Trump tweet so yeah. Naturally, the 410 rocks up mid-walk, so I start my morning with a jog to make sure I’m not hanging about doing nowt. Urgh. Short while later, I’m off at Wandle Park for the tram to Womble-land and that too arrives as I walk down. Bollocks am I running twice in a morning. Unfortunately the next one is a trundler full of phone speaker cunts, forcing me to go to headphones to block out the noise. The trundling means I get in without enough time to make my connection and with even less inclination to run at this point, I instead make the sensible call to go get breakfast and some train tickets. Grub and briefs sorted, I step onto the London bound platform and hop a quickie to Clapham. There I’ll get a Jermaine Defoe’s Woking direct service to make up the time.
Full of bacon, I find the platform rammed at Junction as it seems all the wheely bag dragging Easter refugees of South London are heading to various destinations along the route to Yeovil, so it’s standing room only. Nice. Still, I find out from the Whatsapp group that Mr X, despite his protests otherwise, has hauled himself out of bed and is on my train too. “See you at Woking!” I message. “Yeah, can’t wait”. Fair. I find him on the platform at Woking and with a quick cuppa stop we’re waiting for the Alton service to make the last leg of the run. Meanwhile, Indy is already in Farnham for pints and complaining that the already pricey gaff we started in for the FA Cup game down here in Mr Agutter’s second game in charge has got even more expensive. Joyous. The run to Farnham is quiet, with Mr X upsetting me by revealing he’s realised today is the 4th anniversary of the Pizza Cup final at Wembley. Sutton United’s literal peak, which in typical fashion moments before we planted the flag, we slipped and fell arse over tit the whole way back down the mountain we’d just slogged up, sliding through every bit of dog shit along the way. Great. Thanks for cheering me up there mate, appreciate the thought. Fuuuuuuuck.
At Farnham, we walk down to town and as we do a quick unsuccessful cash stop, we’re greeted by Rax and Psycho Paul, so named by Rax as he’s decided that watching us is in some way less traumatic than fucking Spurs. So I guess we’ve got that going for us? I think that’s a positive at least, Round the corner we wander into the Tellers to find Indy nursing his expensive pint. And he’s not kidding as I buy up the next and it sets me back north of 33 quid for five beers. And for me & Rax, ours is ghastly, requiring a return to the bar to get them changed. Not cool lads, not cool. If you’re gonna demand 7 quid a pint, at least fucking pull it through before you open eh? Here we sup and discuss the shocking state of retail in the UK as well as post offices. I know, endless belly laughs and hilarity with us innit? With one done here and no one else wishing to re-mortgage, we decamp to the Borough Beer House where 4Days has just arrived himself and is parked with a pint. This gaff is much cheaper and is in a lovely old building. Here we get back onto the sometime subject of the sex party house across the road from the Welshman’s drum, mainly as Mr X has professed an appreciation of the newly renovated property immediately next door but confesses he’s not sure he could “live with those neighbours”. “Oh I dunno, maybe you’d get a locals discount?” wonders Rax.
Happy here we decide to focus on pints and maximise nerve dulling prior to the game and elect to get a cab to the ground. The fact we’re at the top of the big hill for the away end, which no one fancies walking up. This choice is made easier by Psycho having driven, meaning we can split the load. We think at this point we should mention he doesn’t drink. Which is how you end up with a nickname like ‘Psycho’ around here. At this point Steve decides that he’s actually not that bothered and sacks off the game, can’t say I blame him. He’s got a biggie with Southampton tomorrow after all. After a few more here, Indy heads off with Rax & Psycho, whilst 4Days rustles up a sherbet for the rest of us. It’s on site shortly after and a few minutes later we’re being tipped at the top of Redan Hill with the away entrance nearby. Of course, the stuff on the site about being able to pay on the gate is bollocks so I and the man of mystery have to mooch about outside pissing about online to get a QR code. Seriously, outside of VAR this is really the worst thing in football today. If fucking clubs are going to insist on this nonsense, then at least have one bloody portal for the league we can log into, pick a game and be done with it. Everyone having different providers is completely unnecessary fuckery. Make it stop and make it stop now.
Sims, Donkor, Topallaj, Eccleston, Pruti, Taylor, Bell, Simper, Njoku, Harris, Ogbonna SUBS: Urpens, Eze, Cashman, Rodari, Byron, Ruiz
Finally inside the ground, I look at the tea bar and decide 7 quid for a bacon roll is a bit much and instead wander onto the terrace in the corner to await the game. This, when it starts, really isn’t good enough again. The first 15 or so are very Morecambe & Truro-esque with us miles off it all over the park. From minute one, Harris gives the ball away and Topallaj has to haul a bloke down to cop a yellow with barely a minute gone. The hosts are ahead inside 5 minutes when a crap free-kick is put in, Donkor makes a horrific mess of clearing his lines and their lad knocks it on for a colleague to poke home in off the post. The nonsense continues and 15 in, Ecclestone makes a mess of a back pass and then hauls down the bloke in the box. Yes, us conceding a penalty. How unusual. The geezer converts and we’re staring down the barrel again. Up in the corner of the terrace, the little gaggle of black clad ultra-herberts who’ve rocked up today look a bit lost as the dogshit on the pitch means there’s almost nowt to posture at the home fans about.
The pen is a wake up thankfully. It should be as we’ve conceded so fucking many this season. And within 5 minutes, Simper has us back in the contest when we win some ball at last in midfield, it’s worked wide and put into the box where the defence of a side that’s not won in 8 games deals with it as you’d expect and the midfielder turns to sweep the chance home. Njoku has a good run in behind a bit later but elects to shoot rather than tee up the completely unmarked Ogbonna in the middle and the keeps saves a with his legs. The second half starts promisingly as another ball in the box is missed by a defender and Njoku hits his shot too close to the keeper and he sticks out a leg to make the stop. We make some changes and new man Byron comes on but despite being a big centre back, he goes to left full back. But he puts in a shift and with 15 to go, he gets away from his man and sweeps a low one across the box. Ogbonna is in the neighbourhood, but it’s out of reach however the trailing defender clumsily pulls him down with no danger and we have a penalty. Yes, you read that right, we have a penalty. In an actual game. We’re as shocked as you to be honest.
In the afters, the lad shown a yellow eventually walks when the ref realises it’s actually his second of the afternoon, before Simper steps up and puts us level. The ultras lob a yellow smoke grenade to mark the occasion. This is impressive not for the act itself, but how long it bloody burns for. Definitely got their money’s worth with that one! Right, let’s fucking crack on here lads. 2-2 and a man up. Get on it. Oh wait, never mind. Just try to fuck it up like you always do eh? Of course, a man down they make two great chances to regain the lead, first a low ball to the near post looks a certain tap in and the lad hits the post instead (no wins in 8 remember?) and then a corner causes all sorts of issues and has to be cleared off Sims line. Any hopes of going again are soon ended when Bell picks up a soft second yellow to even the teams up and the game kind of drifts from there. Although right at the death, Simper skips in wide and looks to be clearly tripped on the bye line, but the refs having none of it. Yeah, fuck off lads. What sort of shambolic outfit concedes two penalties in the same game anyway eh?? Unheard of. Oh.
So a point. We decide to head for the station and set off down the hill, as we do, we get a good view of a clutch of black clad herberts at a road junction a street away. There’s dayglo plod jackets too. Twattery is afoot! We make sure we check our corners on the way back to make sure we don’t find ourselves in some Grindr arranged face off. All is fine though until we get to the station to find 2 meat wagons and a load of rozzers dealing with the sort of crap we’d been trying to avoid. A couple of onlooking lasses seem utterly unimpressed by this rampant display of bottomless masculinity. One turns to her mate and exclaims “You should film that, it’s so fucking gay”. With the male loneliness epidemic getting a little worse, we hit the platform to find the ‘ultras’ have been shoved off down the platform with the plod to await the next London train. Yeah, fuck that. “Shall we go for a couple back in Farnham?” enquires Mr X. Yeah, that sounds lovely.
Back in Farnham we head for the familiar haunt of the William Cobbett which might be the busiest we’ve ever seen it. Here we reckon that today was pen number 15 in the league, which by all sources we’ve been able to find to date is almost certainly a National League record and possibly one for the top 5 divisions. Setting the bar! After a couple here as the locals start to get a little rowdy, we head for the station, bag some chips and trundle back towards the smoke. However, we decide that more grumpy pints are needed and we hop off at Surbiton for a couple more in the Flyer outside the station. But with time getting on, we call it a night and continue the journey. The lads depart at Wimbledon for the Thameslink back to the PRoWS, but I skip as the Tram’s stopped at half ten for engineering, so I stay on to Clapham before a train back to East Croydon, bus and a stumble in the door at HQ just after 11.
I’m definitely not gonna miss this one bit. Bring on the summer.
Taz