I think it’s fair to say that these days as far as football’s concerned, I’m definitely more ‘out’ than ‘in’. The general state of the game is mostly to blame and I’ve touched on a few of those points on here and on socials many times in the recent past, but this means that my consumption of the sport has basically dropped to almost zero with my only real toe dippage these days literally coming from following the fortunes of Sutton United FC, which as you may have gathered from the now all too infrequent entries on here, hasn’t exactly been a glowing endorsement of the game either.
How out am I? Well I saw precisely 20 minutes of the recent World Cup, simply due to my room mate on a works do putting on Argentina – Egypt when we were milling about getting changed for dinner. Typically, the romance & interest of Egypt’s lead was tempered by the cancer that is VAR ruling out that second goal and then them shitting the bed in wonderfully Sutton-esque fashion in the time it took me to go brush my teeth and slap on some Brut for the evening’s festivities. Also, I must confess I did watch about 2 minutes of the highlights of the South Africa v Mexico opener, but had to switch off as the team in yellow fucking about with the ball around the box gifting about 6 chances in that timespan properly triggered my PTSD from last season. Seen enough of that bollocks to last me a fucking lifetime mate, I’ll tell you than for nothing.
But the biggest sign I’m not really as up for this as I used to be came last week. When I asked the missus what we were doing this weekend only for her to reply “Doesn’t your football start this Saturday?”. Ah fuck my life. She’s right. It does. Woking away too, so be still my beating heart. Sigh. But then, time heals as they say and after a savage week at work having clocked almost 60hrs, a trip to Woking after a couple of hours on the piss in Clapham Junction actually sounds appealing after all. Although I would like to take the opportunity to place on record that I’d do those 60hrs at the coalface all over again 100 our of 100 rather than watch something like the Morecambe home game from last season just once. And I only could only face 25 minutes of that fucking shitshow.
So, the 2026/2027 season eh? I’ve seen one friendly, Wombles at home, where we looked a bit more solid than last season if not particularly interesting. But there again, it was a pre-season and as such utterly meaningless. Hilariously, we conceded 2 pens (one saved, one scored in the last minute) but they only really caused us any real problems when we were down to 10 due to injury and had a backline mostly made up of academy lads. Annoyingly, the one interesting PSF we did organise down in Totton (the one new ground tick guaranteed for the season) I had to swerve as I was doing a gig with Mrs Taz in Kings Cross that evening and one shit train back from the Southampton area would have caused ructions. Still, we had a man sent off and conceded a last minute bobbler to get a 2-2 draw, so I think I made the right decision there overall. Mr X’s less than impressive recap on Whatsapp afterwards just confirmed matters.
So after last season, Aggy has done another clear out and we’ve decided that 2nd rate 19-20 year olds from the NLS aren’t going to cut it and he’s gone after a squad that has a bit more ‘geezer’ and nous about them. To be frank, if they can defend even marginally better than the mob from last season, not give away a penalty (sometimes two!) almost every week and actually keep 11 men on the pitch on the regular, that alone should be enough to put us mid-table. Confident? No. Possibly hopeful of a slight improvement? Yeah, sure. Why not? It’s sunny out after all. In fact, I feel so upbeat, I think I’ll wear the pink goalkeepers top from last season! Right, off to Woking we go.
With such a relatively local game (at least in Bastard League terms), the mob are a little all over the shop and with Croydon a mass of roadworks, I decide to make the most of our oddly summery weather actually taking place during actual summer months and with the big orange glowy thing in the sky starting to properly put a shift in I have a wander to Wallington for a Greggs and the train to Clapham with some Ego Kill Talent flooding my lugholes. Bacon and sausage baguette sorted, there’s a short wait for the rattler and I’m soon on the way. Of course, being an away game there’s tales of woe for some of us, with Indiana Jones being delayed first by BTP chasing some kids that have jumped the barrier at Sutton and then the train breaking down at Hackbridge and needing to be ‘rebooted’ twice before it could continue. So they basically turned it off and back on again a couple times yeah? Anyhoo, not my problem, I’m battle cruiser bound.
Off at Clapham and trying to remember the last time I took this little walk to the Falcon (genuinely think it must be at least 5years at this point, probably more), I weave my way through all manner of dolly birds all done up to the nines in outfits I’d diplomatically call ‘most seasonal indeed’. Oh yeah, Ascot today innit? As I approach the pub, I see Tatey and Mr X finishing off a snout and heading inside themselves. Already parked up are Rax, 4Days and Lil’ Chris and we’ve soon joined them with a bevvy and do some catching up. These days we tend to scatter in Summer in our old age, mainly as we need all the recouperation time we can get between May and August after 9 months of slogging up and down this sceptred isle, so for some of us, it’s the first real get together since the season ended.
Of course, my fashion choice for the day draws some unseemly criticism from those with less style than I and this then descends into cheap tawdry body shaming as when I sit down the fucking thing rides up and hides the sponsor. No, I’ve not missed these cunts one bit in case you were wondering. Tatey then rolls out a banger of a fact that the Falcon allegedly has the longest continuous pub bar in the country (125 feet according to CAMRA). And with that, most of us agree the season has probably peaked and we should knock it on the head and reconvene in 12 months time. What’s that? Oh go on then. one more pint first. Tatey also amuses us with a passable impression of Magnum PI, not the actual one played by Tom Sellick of course, but our Poundshop version. And speaking of the devil, he soon wanders in with his Sister in tow, on a visit to the homeland from Middle Earth, a couple of mates and Junior Ecclestone’s dad. “You know you don’t have to keep coming now your lad’s moved on you know?” enquires Mr X, doing about as close to a welfare check as we can muster. Soon after Keepo wanders in, fresh from kicking his own season off last weekend with a day on the piss with Totts and Dr Bell at a Bexhill away game.
The good Dr is quite the lucky charm for the Pirates, now boasting a Played 12 Won 11 Drawn 1 record after their 2-1 win. Useless old twat needs to bring some of that magic to fucking GGL and sharpish. Last in is Indy, fresh from his train fuckery and he’s in no mood to mess around. Ordering up two pints and making 50% of them disappear in short order. As we natter, Mr X bemoans that he’s been lumbered with babysitting Tatey for the day, who it must be said isn’t helping his cause with his ‘Undiagnosed, but something ain’t right’ t-shirt. Although I think you could say the same about most of us to be fair. “It’ll be your turn in fucking Gateshead” warns the Man of Mystery, reminding me that the only way I’d avoided duty today was to give some vague commitment about the long trip north later this month. Bollocks, he remembered. Such trust is there between the two that when Mr X offered to get Tatey a coffee, his somewhat precise iced latte order caused suspicion as to whether he was winding him up or not. That and he didn’t know an iced latte actually contained ice. “What the fuck did you think it involved?”. From here we agree on a 1.20 departure for the fast train to Woking and a walk down to the ground for a quick pre-kick off snifter in the newly refurbished Jimmy White Snooker club by the away end. Oh will the glamour never stop?
Supped up, we sort tickets to deepest Surrey and squeeze onto the always dreadfully tiny Exeter service off platform 9, standing room only by the khazis as per and head South. Soon after departure, Mr X has shown his chivalrous side by hoofing 4Days out of his jump seat for a pregnant lady who was standing. “She’s pregnant and you’re fucking milking it” is the exact instruction given with the Man of Mystery referring to the Welsh wonder’s lengthy spell on crutches last season. See, we’re not total animals. 20 minutes later, we hop off at Woking where 4Days continues to ‘milk it’ and rustles up a sherbert to the ground, at which point Mr X decides to stay schtum and hops in with Tatey and Indy. Fuck it, we’ll walk. We meander down to the ground and cut through the park behind the leisure centre before ambling behind the KRE and heading into the snooker club. And my word what a glow up! Jimmy’s put a few quid into the gaff it would seem and best of all, it’s got aircon. Which is nice when it’s sweatier than Nigel Farage being asked “So, about this five million quid?” outside. There’s even some suspicious white powder in the gents which I’m sure is just left over grout dust from the refurb. We knock two back here and in typical fashion, stumble through the turnstiles just in time to see the teams emerge.
Brits, Nzuzi, Topallaj, Urpens, Nightingale, Bell, Osadebe, Taylor, Mussa, Folarin, Babaloa SUBS: Ogbonna, Donkor, Francis, Njoku, Reeves, Ruiz, Haigh
I’ll be honest, the first half ain’t much to write home about. Literally. Woking are better on and have more of the ball, whilst we fail to really get much going and give away possession in the middle too much. However, the hosts have about as much attacking threat as a baby pigeon, so young Mr Brits in out goal has very little to do at all. The early exchanges are niggly and the game broken up often, usually by us, so not much happens. Then after about 25 minutes, Academy lad Dan Urpens unleashes his actual, genuine, no bullshit, no really it’s actually long, long throw from the near touchline. Their keeper comes, gets nowhere near with his punch and Will Nightingale is there to force it in vai a genetalia/knee combo. 1-0 off a scruffy bundler from a long throw. LA BASTARDA IS BACK WITH A VENGANCE BABY!! Inject it into my fucking veins.
Rest of the half is relatively even, but they still have more of the ball. Former U Aiden O’brien has probably their best chance, heading a foot wide from a cross. Still, we’re a goal to the good and at the break I go looking for the pissers in the newloy configured away end. Of course, I’m delighted to find that the strange odour I’d noticed during the first half is due to the open air pissoirs right behind where we’d stood. Another Bastard League box ticked there with taking a slash whilst trying not to inhale too much ammonia fumes from the piss baking in these huge black plastic containers.
The second 45 is a bit better. We get going a touch more this half and are at least a little more involved with the ball. But even so, neither side really looks like they’re going to set the world alight today. Then with the hour mark looming, we win a free kick fairly central. Having just drilled one into the wall just a minute earlier, hopes ain’t high, but Omar Mussa steps up and whips the fucker over the wall top bins with the keeper rooted. Get in sunshine!! With the deficit doubled, the home side has to go for it and whilst they exert pressure, there’s not a lot to talk of. One low ball flashed across the 6 yard box is about the sum of it, meanwhile we look to have 3-4 promising breaks wasted by poor passes or touch at crucial moments. Then with 5 to go, the impressive Urpens carries it towards half way, feeds Sub Ogbonna who gives it a little flick around the corner, spins their big centre back and races in to whip it past the keeps from 18 yards. Fuck a duck, we’re 3-0 up!
We see out the last 5 plus the 10 added with no issue and this very welcome away win is warmly greeted by the 500+ in the away end. The celebrations might get some grumpy locals giving it the ‘well done in your cup final’ bollocks on socials, but fuck ’em. Pumped 3-0 at home opening day and you too 89 minutes to have a shot on target lads. Annoyingly, we get chucked out the opposite end of the ground and have to walk the whole way back around for pints back in the air conditioned snooker club. Here some locals are sanguine about the defeat, although most feel 3-0 flattered us a touch. And we can’t really argue if I’m honest. A couple of rounds or so later, we decide to grab the half 7 off Woking back to Clapham and I rustle up an Uber to get everyone sorted. Of course, with it being my rating (4.93!) at risk, these absolute pricks who are the sole reason I don’t have a perfect, try their best to ruin it further.
Thankfully the driver is a top lad and accepts my “Don’t listen to him, he’s only a 4.7” warning about Mr X with the gravity it deserves. “I’d be 50/50 on taking a job from you mate” he chimes. Of course I fucking tipped him!! Got to with patter like that. The train is on time and some of the Ascot detritus coming off is amusing. One lovely looking lass hops off to ask the guard to wait a moment before she darts back on and helps her munted other half slowly onto the platform. So twatted is he, he heads for the nearest seating option which is a brightly lit seat in a nearby photo booth. Good luck with that mess love! Right, Clapham? Clapham. We head into the Junction and get pints going whilst marvelling at yet more race-going fillies flitting in and out of the gaff. Here, Rax is doing his damnedest to get everyone over the road to Project Orange for a nightcap, but none of us are having it and around 10, we head for the train while he goes for his dingy metal bar fix. Of course, on the train back some lads spot local celeb Lil’ Chris and this earns Tatey a large can of Stella.
At the Badlands, I bid my farewells and hop off with 4Days and Chris and wave them off into their cab home before wandering back towards HQ remembering that my food intake today has been that Greggs baguette, a pack of bacon fries and a couple of chicken tenders that Keepo had ordered up in the Junction. Slop, I need greasy slop to soak up some opening day pints. Gogo’s? Gogo’s. Mighty meaty, burnt roof of mouth from lava like melted cheese. Swearing. You know the drill.
See you for Gateshead, possibly Hartlepool, kids.
Taz