When you watch the sort of stuff we do and have been as good at it as we have of late, you have to keep a stiff upper lip, remain stoic and good humoured with the hope that all this bollocks eventually turns before you lose your marbles. Naturally, we of course try to follow this mantra wherever possible, mainly by gibbering about all sorts of stuff that doesn’t (mostly) involve football, especially in situations where football has given everyone the right fucking hump. Light hearted cheery stuff. You get the picture.
So of course, back in the Hood enjoying a couple of pints after the Hartlepool win at GGL which saw us go three wins from three to start the season off in a slightly surprising fashion, we were looking for anything but football to talk about. Thankfully Keepo was on hand and he took the time to regale us of the tale about his old man’s recent passing where sadly having been poorly for a while, he had the opportunity to lay out his last requests so that all the details were taken care off before he put foot to bucket. This of course included the vessel in which he was to undertake his final journey. I’m of course talking about his wooden overcoat here.
Not being a flamboyant sort and as he was getting cremated, Old Man Keepo advised his loved ones that the cheapest old shitter that Trueloves had to offer would do the job just fine. Turns out that they do their range of coffins with local place names assigned to them and the cheapest one they had, at just over a monkey, was called ‘The Carshalton’. I shit you not. Of course, the ‘Sutton’ is one of the finest money can buy being the second most expensive of their ‘local coffins for local people’ range, with only the ‘Wallington’ coming in more expensive. So there you go, if you wanna include burning Carshalton as part of your departure from this mortal coil and are also on a budget, WA Trulove’s are waiting for your call. See, light hearted. Cheery. Told you.
Right, where was I? Ah yes, the Bastard League. Well as touched on above, we’ve had a slightly more enjoyable start to the season than expected racking up 3 wins from 3, starting of course at Woking and including one over a lot of people’s early season favourites Hartlepool at GGL. Now we’ve not played particularly well, but we look pretty solid and harder to beat than last season, so fuck it, we’re enjoying it while it lasts. That then brings us to our first early season schlep up North, which some wanker at La Bastarda HQ has decided needs to be Gateshead and not only that, but on a Friday night to boot. The bullshit excuse for this is that it gives teams more recovery time before the Bank Holiday games on the Monday, but we’re not buying it. This definitely has the whiff of Middle Eastern streaming twats milking 5th tier football about it.
Regardless, we get booked up and are set for getting one of the longest awaydays of the campaign scratched off early doors. I think a bit of my summer lethargy remains as I somehow manage to oversleep a touch Friday morning and the usual routine turns into a bit of a ‘shower and fuck off’ panic. However, the panic is lessened a touch by Mr X’s message revealing our 10.10 train to Leeds is already cancelled. I still book an Uber to East Croydon though to get maximum travel time for the train to London portion and luck out with a lad who is literally driving past my gaff as he accepts the job. Quick peck on the cheek for Mrs Taz and I’m on my way. Of course, having lost that 20 minutes or so, it becomes an issue at East Croydon where all the Thameslink trains are boned and running a good 15 minutes late. This escalates and after 20 odd minutes of going nowhere, a Victoria service finally rocks up vaguely on time and I pile on. Tube to St Pancs it is!
A quick jog across the concourse at Vic, I make a Vic line train just as the doors close. Right, time for a bit of an out of shape pant and a sweat I think. As it turns out, even walking normally from the Tube to the concourse at Kings Cross, I stroll in with 3 minutes to spare for the train that’s now no longer running. “Oh, you made it” rejoices Mr X, handing me my tickets for the trip. Also present are Magnum, Indy, 4Days, Robbo, Greek, Pistol Pete, Sleepy Joe and his mate, er, Joe who we instantly just start referring to as ‘the Joes’. Naturally, the others have opinions on my timekeeping as well, none of which I’ve not heard a thousand times before. A quick run to Pret gets me some breakfast and then we’re on the move for the 10.33 to Newcastle, as amusingly having gone for the cheaper option of breaking the trip in Leeds, we’re now being told to just get the direct service, which will apparently get us in an hour ahead of our original schedule. Maximising the VDT early lads, I like it! “They said carriage C is unreserved” assures Mr X and when we get there, it’s certainly true that there are unreserved seats, just not very many. So we end up slumping into whatever we’re stood by when the penny drops rather than piss about and soon after, the carriage is flooded by wheely bag lugging idiots. Timing.
The chaos around us includes an old dear telling the lad in the window seat in front of me that he’s in her seat. “I have B26!” she declares indignantly. “This is carriage C love”. Deflated she then has to fight her way back out of the carnage surrounding her to try & get to her actual seat. We leave on time, I stuff my face with my Pret whilst Indy nods off next to me and then I whip out the old laptop to do some bits & bobs for work on the way up. With no break at Leeds now too, I’ll be able to get a fair bit done. Result. With us spread all over the carriage, this cuts down distractions and keeping busy makes the journey tick along nice and quickly. And, even with a couple of extra stops added to cram further unfortunate souls onto an already rammed service, we pull into Newcastle under rather threatening looking grey clouds not far off schedule. A quick dart over the road to the Hilton Hampton and with check ins done (Joe having signed for his room as ‘Paul Tate’ with 4 entirely different signatures after taking over Tatey’s room booking when he had to drop out) we go next door to the Tap and get some beers in. As you do.
Here we hunker down for a couple, order up some pizzas for late lunch and generally talk shite. We also spot some familiar faces in AB, Bruce and Kiddo checking in across the road. They’d soon join us for refreshments also. I notice a nice 45th anniversary ‘away’ shirt on socials for Trujillanos FC, a Venezuelan PL side who play in our colours. I show this to Sleepy Joe as both he and his Colombian based brother have tried to get us some shirts from these lads in the past, sadly with little success. Jokingly I add a comment of “Want!” with a heart eyed emoji to the post and within 5 minutes, I’ve a DM from the manufacturer asking, in Spanish, how they can help. Fucks sake. Our next stop takes us miles, trudging barely 10 yards to the Head of Steam. Here, the bar is upstairs, but the khazis are by the entrance at street level, so are locked and need a code to enter. I don’t spot this until I go down for a wazz and have to trudge back upstairs to find out.
“Eight oh oh eight” the barman informs me. “Heh. Boob!” I chuckle, fully declaring my age without actually declaring it and head off for my piss. Upon returning, I let him know that he’d missed a trick not making it 8008135. “Yeah, but sadly it only allows six digits!”. “That rules out 80087355 too then” sighs Greek listening in. I feel his disappointment in my juvenile little heart. Here we shoot the shit generally and Greek doles out some player comps for tonight’s game. Some feel that they need to pick a player to say they’re related to in case they get challenged on the way in, Pete goes for Temi. “Oh yeah, no questions asked there mate”. We also reminisce about Sleepy Joe falling asleep in the Metal club in Blackpool, managing to remain chucking out the zeds when even a Napalm Death track was playing.
CEO Tatts wanders in to collect the remaining comps off Greek and Vegan Bev also joins us. 4Days dips at this point to go check into his digs and we agree to meet in ‘The Bridge’ shortly after. Of course, when we get to the Bridge Tavern a while later, there’s no sign of the Welshman anywhere. Turns out he’s in the Bridge Hotel up the hill and to make matters worse, Magnum’s just wandered in there too. Idiots! When he arrives, 4Days also mentions an overnighter in Nottingham where the MOBO’s had been held that evening and everyone at his hotel had been in attendance, with no one in the bar after believing the tall white scruffy lad in a bobble hat had absolutely nothing to do with Music of Black Origin whatsoever. “Should have said I’m a mate of Tinie Tempah or something to shut ’em up” I offer. Robbo, half listening, looks surprised. “You’re mates with Tinie Tempah??”. Fucks sake.
Brits, Urpens, Kirk, Nightingale, Topallaj, Osadebe, Taylor, Nzuzi, Carter, Babaloa, Njoku SUBS: Haigh, Bell, Folarin, Ogbonna, Francis, Ruiz, Bello
We down a couple more here but with 7pm having been and gone, we rustle up some sherbets from the rank outside and head back over the Tyne for the main reason we’re doing all this bollocks in the first place. The numbers are sparse on the concourse when we get in, but Dirty Barry is at least one of them, having popped over from his new manor in Darlo. Tonight we’re wearing our new lavender away kit and even as the players emerge, it’s pretty obvious that whoever signed off on that under floodlights against a side with a predominantly white shirt needs their eyes testing. Bet it’ll be shit on telly as well for everyone watching at home on DAZN an’all.
The game, like the others this season, isn’t a classic. It takes us a while to get going and Spike has to make an early stop, his first real actual save of the season, early doors. But we slowly adjust and get a foothold. Charlie Carter, making his first start, is usually at the heart of everything good we do. The best of the bunch being about half hour in when he clips a little ball in behind for Babaloa, but he fires into the side netting. He then forces a decent save out of the keeper himself from 18 yards. Half time and we’re fairly happy with the point so far. Second half is much the same, but just as we seem to be starting to come to life, Nzuzi is pulled down around halfway and as the ref goes to book the lad for what is essentially a rugby tackle, a team mate gets in Noah’s face, he sticks his head in and the bloke collapses to the floor. Of course, the fussy ref’s right there and can’t wait to get the red out. Fucking brilliant. Hour gone, man short.
Our boys dig in though and by and large, the man advantage doesn’t really show. They flash a shot over, that Brits has covered and then with 10 remaining, Urpens launches one of his long throws into the box. The hosts half clear but Ogbonna recycles, feeds Osadebe and from the corner of 18 he digs out a cracking little cross to the back stick where Temi sticks his big nut on it and in. 1-0 to the Southern shandy drinking softies. Right lads, lets get this fucking job done now!! The home side come on strong late, but with Jake Taylor everywhere and all the other lads putting bodies on the line, the best they can manage is a shot flashed across goal with about 5 to go. At the end, a corner is headed well wide and the ref calls time, oddly to loud boos from the home fans. Bit weird really given he’s done all he could to help them out all night long. With the lads applauded off, there’s only one question left to be answered. “Can we pack up and get drunk now?”. Outside, we rustle up Ubers and settle on going back to the Station for a pint in the Steam before making further plans.
Back in town, we get the party started and decide that should further refreshment be required, we’ll head up the road to ‘Cozy Joes’ as we know it from previous visits. That and as we’ve got two of our own, it seems fitting. Of course, we wander up there just before last orders in the Steam and within moments of entering. The Joes and Pete are having their picture taken which within minutes is on the screens all over the gaff, on a steady rotation for the rest of the night. Yeah, one of those nights. There’s plenty of cheesy music to keep us entertained and the boozing is steady. The place even has a ‘no spray no lay’ man in the gents, which is a rarity these days in our now mostly cashless society. A truly dying breed. Most of us stick it out until just after 1am and then age takes over and most of us decide to call it a night. A quick offy stop for fluids and it’s off to Bedfordshire for this tired but happy little Hector.
Next morning is a bit of a struggle, but with a vitamin C inside me I stumble down for breakfast spotting Magnum by the lifts and Mr X finishing up himself. I grab a plate and tuck into what is probably the worst breakfast I’ve had in a long long time. Shit bacon, minging sausages, crappy hash browns. Even the toast and orange juice is crap. After a few minutes, I give up and decide to head back upstairs for another hours kip before check-out at 11 instead. In some way I’m glad this was included in the price as if I’d paid extra I’d definitely be asking for a refund! I find the others milling about outside at 11 and we trudge over to the station. A Greggs cuppa and some fruit plus pastries from Tesco’s fill the hole where the Hilton Breakfast could not. Here Magnum has a moment, having to call Mr X back from the other side of the station as he’s given him all his train tickets, not just the one needed for the Man of Mystery to do the delay repay for the one up here. Of course, there’s oodles of sympathy over his mishap from everyone present.
As we wait to board the two carriage shitter to Sunderland for our cheaper train back to London, Indy tells us about his interesting encounter post-Cozy Joes last night where a lass asked him to hold her bag open for her. Thinking she just wanted to fish something out, Indy of course obliged only for the woman to instead yack up into the bag before politely thanking him and wandering off into the night with her bag of fresh chunder. Newcastle, there’s nowhere like it on earth. The trip to Sunderland is a doddle and after getting a brief glimpse at the Stadium of Light, we have 30 minutes to kill before our Grand Central shitter South. Mr X is the first to venture out into the wilds and returns from his smoke with less than rave reviews. “What a shithole!” he mumbles. Lovely! So, where can I get a cuppa then mate?
With a brew and some light lunch sorted, our train pulls in and we slump into our seats. Soon heading back towards civilisation staring out at the coastline as we trundle by. Robbo, Pete and I are joined on our table by a nice old dear on her way to Gainsborough to see her new great grand daughter and we have a nice old chinwag about travels and various other things. We make sure she gets off ok with her case at York and then settle in for the final leg back to London. Others are not so fortunate, as one lad opposite 4Days wakes with a start about 2 minutes out from Kings Cross and asks “Is this York we’re coming into?”. Uh, no. No it’s not mate. But good luck with the rest of your day. Outside, we wave off Robbo on the tube along with a load of football LADS chanting about ‘Sandros a cunt ole ole ole’. No idea. The two Joes peel off for a hair of the dog as “It’s a bank holiday weekend!” and the rest of us trudge to St Pancs. Pete hops back to deepest darkest Kent on the Javelin and the rest of us head for Thameslink.
Here Magnum and I have a couple minutes wait for East Croydon whilst the Sutton posse luck out with a late running service saving them a half hour wait for the next one back to the Republic. Jammy bastards. In what seems like no time at all, I’m back at HQ and looking forward to a quiet night in with a takeaway. Enter Mrs Taz, stage right. “I got us tickets to see the Ghost concert film as it’s the last day today!”. Fuck my life. Oh well, at least I get a slap up Nandos out of it to help feed my mild, lingering Newcastle hangover. And, fuck my old boots, we’ve only won four from four.
Could be worse!
Taz