Welcome back friends! How lovely to see you all again on these here pages for some more scintillating 5th tier kerfuffle, with a large side of beer. Now, as you may recall, the last time we all gathered for some La Bastarda story time, things were a little on the weird side as we’d managed to start the season with four straight wins. Yes, four wins. One after the other. In real games, a couple of which were even at home. No, really! The last time we won 4 on the bounce was back in the arse end of the last FL season when Mr Morison gave us a glimmer of hope that we could pull off a miracle, so you can imagine our surprise and delight at this latest instalment of what other teams call ‘food form’.
Well, after the stirling efforts at Gateshead, we of course fucked all that ‘goodwill ‘good form’ and optimism up the wall with three straight defeats, all to teams either without a win at that point or without a win away whilst shipping 7 goals in the process of not managing a single fucking thing in response. Ah football, you can always rely on it to fully douse one’s chips with the contents of it’s copious bladder. Sigh. First was the lifeless 2-0 loss to Wealdstone, who mainly got the result by quite simply being better at every last little simple thing than we were. Barrow was next, where Folarin five minutes in missed a sitter so sittery you’d probably need to have sat down after seeing it and then we set about having our arses handed to us a side without a win. And yes, of course the miss went minorly viral. Most of our fuck ups do these days.
We rounded off with what was effectively a re-run of the Wealdstone game against Scunthorpe and another 2-0 win. The manager of course focused on the important stuff and having said there was a “lot to like” about the performance (well, yes Chris, there was if you were from fucking Scunthorpe) he then seemed to lay some of the blame for the team he picked and coaches not winning because the people behind the goal didn’t shout loudly enough. Oh dear. In the interests of privacy, I’m not at liberty to tell you what our little Whatsapp coven had to say on the matter, but little of it was polite. So naturally, everyone was properly looking forward to the return of Matt Gray and his Eastleigh side the following Tuesday. Oh yes. Because nothing says “Snap a losing streak by having a hall of fame manager visit”.
Thankfully, the team actually got the job done and delivered a decent performance. Once Osadebe put us ahead after 17 minutes, we played some good stuff, largely bossed it and should have been more than the 2 up at half time after Njoku doubled our lead shortly after the first. So confident did this make some in our party that they even started talking about how funny it would be to win 8-0 given who the oppo’s gaffer is this evening. No, you fuck off, some of us stood there and watched every minute of that and we’ll make whatever twattish comments we like about it thank you very much! Besides, our therapist says it helps with the PTSD. Of course, we failed to see it off, they scored from practically their only decent effort on goal all night and we missed an injury time penalty, but overall, three points is three fucking points. And it was arguably our most lively showing in all departments so far this season.
So, next up was Halifax away. Which for some odd reason, the Bastard League has decided to give us in < checks notes > September, rather than the usual depths of winter date on which it is of course inevitably postponed thanks to a ‘once in a century’ spell of bad weather and gets re-arranged for a Tuesday. Doesn’t make up for Gateshead on a Friday or Harrogate as a 12:30ko mind, but it’s a start. I decided for a rare overnighter on this one, as I’d never done Halifax before (see above about postponements) and fancied a proper trundle round some of the many boozers in town and seeing a bit more of the place. Of course, I leapt into action and only remembered I’d not actually booked anywhere to doss on the Wednesday morning, so I hopped on a well known hotels website and bagged a single in the Wool Merchants a short hike from the station. It only cost 52 quid and then, with some site credit I’d built up, I got that down to 15 nicker. Bargain. What could possibly go wrong?
Of course, Halifax is up North and that naturally involves the tried and true ‘early as shit start’ on the Saturday morning. 6am out of bed, shit shower shave and I’m off for the bus to Croydon. Still, could be worse, the Friday mob were of course out late up there and taking in some karaoke. Fuck that. Give me a crack of dawn alarm call over some tuneless Northern monkey thinking he’s Liam Gallagher committing some audio-based atrocity in a pub any day of the week and several times on a Sunday. No contest that. Still, as I head out, I spot two magpies, so that’s at least the 3 points taken care of. Or a point. Fuck it, yeah I’d take a point. I hit the station in time for a Thameslink to St Pancs and with no delays, I find myself on the concourse a good 40minutes before our rattler. So, weaving my way through lots of divvy Yanks mooching about (no doubt off to Yawwwk or Eedinburg) and generally getting in the way, I smash a Greggs and wait for the rest of the reduced party.
Robbo soon appears and then we spot 4Days with Johnny & Sam too. I go for a cuppa and having negotiated yet more Americans in the way, board a pretty dead carriage H. Soon after, we depart and there’s no sign of the Welsh wonder. A quick message and it seems he’s hanging out with the other lads in the unreserved carriage as he thought ours would be rammed. “There’s like 12 people, including us” I reply. Oh well, more legroom! As we head north, Robbo and I have a mostly highbrow convo covering the cancer that is VAR, travel, Bournemouth in Europe amongst other things. The trip is faultless and as we arrive outside Leeds we’re running a good 10 minutes early! This means we can maybe make the earlier connection and gain almost 30 mins VDT, but sadly earlier signalling nonsense means we sit for ages and actually pull in almost a good 10 minutes late. Sweet. Halifax? Hailfax.
On the run to our destination, we find out about the scintillating chatter we missed out in Carriage C. Big Brother, which Sam spent a portion of the trip up watching on his phone, Sam’s dating life (I think I saved him from a failure by persuading him not to invite some lass on his app to a Sutton game as a first date) and Johnnie’s conundrum of “Would you rather eat nothing but pears for the rest of your life or go blind for 24 hours every time you ejaculate?”. Christ, mine and Robbo’s moans about VAR suddenly make us look like the Oxford debating team in comparison. Oh and Pears. No question. And I don’t even like Pears that much. What? I work in software, I can’t be fucking blind half the time can I? My eyesight is bad enough as it is! We arrive on time and waving off the lads to the pub, I set off for my digs down the hill by the Minster. A quick bag drop there (the bloke wanted me to wait 15 minutes to see if my room was ready. Burn VDT? Not likely sweetheart!) and I head back up the hill through the Piece Hall, which is packed out thanks to some event with the local fire brigade and I wander into Kobenhavn to find the idiots sat at the back.
Indy & Mr X are also in, both looking a little weary. Either they had too much to drink or heard too much karaoke, I’m not sure. Indy in particular seems a little tired as the pint he’d sent us a picture of as we were leaving Leeds literally hasn’t moved an inch. Mr X elects for a soft option to get the day started. His mildly hungover woes soon increase when it becomes obvious the shopping precinct housing the boozer is having a Bavarian oompah band on right outside. And as you well know, nothing does more for a hangover than brass instrument based music. My own first impression is finding one of the lads getting changed into his Lederhosen out in the open in the gents a short while later, so I’m not that enamoured either. Still they’re sound as their front man introduces the crew. Three are called ‘Hans’, the bald lad is ‘Herr Loss’ and he’s ‘Hertz van Rental’. “They’re like the German Ramones”. He also makes a lewd quip about the tuba player “viz his fourteen inch bell-end”. “Thought it was all metric in Europe?” wonders Mr X.
After two here and leaving ‘Hertz’ behind shouting “EINS ZWEI DREI!” at the bemused locals in the precinct, we head round the corner to the Meandering Bear for a couple more. Then it’s a stroll to the Three Pigeons, past a garage than has most of Europe’s remaining Nissan 300ZX’s and a mint Mk1 Micra out front. In the pigeons, we find Robbo, Greek and Ossie, plus other faces. Keepo, Fish and Smarty are in the lounge next door along with the infamous Dirty Barry on a day trip from Darlo. On the box the Millwall West Ham caper plays out whilst B-Team Beckett regales us of some lass he was gassing to in a previous pub and who he reckoned fancied him. “She told you to fuck off at least four times!” crows one of the other lads. “Yeah, but her geezer was dressed like a country and western singer, so of course she was interested”. Never ceases to amaze me what a different world some people live in, I can tell you.
Brits, Brookes, Nightingale, Kirk, Urpens, Knight, Osadebe, Taylor, Babaloa, Carter, Njoku SUBS: Topallaj, Ogbonna, Bell, Byron, Francis, Amartey, Haigh
With some of their cracking pork pies down my neck and one tucked in my sky rocket for half time, we head on out 15 before kick off to hike up the hill to the away end. The game is absorbing as 0-0’s go. Pretty end to end, both sides going at it and just lacking that little bit of magic to break the deadlock. We probably have the better of the half, but a comfortable save from a Carter shot and the keeper turning over a Babaloa effort after a free-kick were about the best we managed. At the other end, Spike had to make a smart stop from a header and Nightingale blocked a volley on front of goal with his chest. At the break, as I munch my pork and black pudding pie, I note that Southend are 6 up at Gateshead, so I take the opportunity to warn them what winning 9-0 up there does for your season. No, of course I’m not trying to protect our away win record. How very dare you suggest such a thing!
The second half is much like the first, just with less chances. We’re all expecting a competitive goalless stalemate by this stage, as neither side looks to quite have that little bit in them to nick it. Bell, on as sub gives us a bit more life and forces a solid save but as we go into the arse end of injury time, a soft free-kick gives the hosts a chance to put one more ball in. And of course, we don’t defend it, they win first contact and Nightingale can only nod into his own net whilst trying to clear the dropping ball. For fucks sake. Still, at least the goal wakes up the home fans who’ve not made a peep all day at this point. Typical Sutton though. Losing a 0-0. From the kick off, Taylor goes straight to Brits who launches it forward. We win a couple headers, ball drops to Bell and he pokes it wide. Babaloa can’t make anything of it but Taylor dinks it back post, Carter nods down and Ogbonna arrives to poke in the leveller. It’s taken 20 seconds from the restart and we’ve nicked a point!
Our lads barely even celebrate it, they just get back in, almost irritated they’ve had to make the effort to get back that point. And as Halifax restart, the final whistle goes. We certainly didn’t deserve to get beat there, but fucking hell lads. I’d have preferred the 0-0 in my advancing years! The old ticker ain’t as sound as it once was you know. The team gets a well deserved ovation for the never say die attitude and mildly entertained, we head out for some last gasp leveller pints. Seems Southend have listened too, as they clocked off at 6 and won 6-1 in the end. Fair play lads, didn’t wanna risk it, I get it. As we leave, there’s a bunch of local scrotes all hanging around, balaclava’d up. Seriously, it’s pretty toasty today lads, are you not fucking hot in those things? Naturally we all look at them and laugh on the way past, because we’re blokes and aren’t scared of little wankers looking to put some pretend Football Factory shit on tik tok and make out they’re hard.
Up by the Victoria, the theatre is heaving. It seems the matinee showing of ‘Spongebob Squrepants: The Musical’ is quite the attraction! I wonder if that’s where the balaclava boys have just come from?? Was there an early performance? Outside the boozer is a nice old Mustang that gets my petrolhead juices flowing before we head in for pints. Here we catch our breath and refresh ourselves before the Day trippers make a move for the station, so we wave off Johnny, Sam and 4Days and cop another round to toast now absent friends. Be rude not to. After this, I leave the remaining boozers to head over to the Upper George whilst I head down to my hotel for a quick check in, squirt of deodorant and out for food and more pints. This takes a little longer than I’d hoped as the layout for the rooms in this gaff are a little confusing to say the least. Getting room 22, I exit the lift and find myself stood next to number 23 with the numbers going up from there. Erm. I follow my nose and go through some doors and am now stood at number 30. THIS ISN’T HOW THIS SHOULD WORK!!! Another aimless wander through another set of doors and by the fire exit, I find 20, 21 and 22. The fuck lads? Were you pissed when you doled out the room allocations or what?
Back out, I make a return to Kobenhavn from earlier as their food looked decent and I grab a pint and a burger to help with the soakage. Decent price, very filling and does the job a treat. At the next table three lasses are swapping very dull office goss as I munch. “And then I sent Wendy and email to set her straight!”. Enthralling. Done, I go to locate the Upper George, which is harder than first thought as I’m looking for a street entry and it’s tucked down an alley. Sakes! I find Indy, Greek, Robbo and Mr X supping at a table outside and just starting to moan about the cold. So of course, I stand there in my t-shirt wondering what the fuss is about. By now, Indy is feeling the pace and wants soakage too, so the lads choose a Spoons and we wander on over there. It’s busy, but despite this, the lads food arrives basically 2 minutes after they’d ordered. Suspicious that. There’s quick service and then there’s too quick service! Still, they’re not fussy and scarf it down double time. Pints done here, along with a round of Tequila Rose thanks to Mr X and his bit fat mouth, we go over to McCaffertys, which initially sounds like it’s a karaoke joint and I flat out refuse to go in. However, Mr X persuades me it’s a couple of lads singing to backing tracks, which is completely different, obviously.
Here I get a round in of shorts as we’re all pretty pinted out and I decide that all doubles are needed. Not by anyone here present of course, but just because. None of the lads is impressed by my choice and I think for a couple after last night’s efforts, it’s a step too far. Oh man up you wankers. We do a couple here to the X Factor soundtrack before everyone confesses they’re beat and wish to retire. So we head out and not fancying the walk, Robbo hops in a cab to his hotel. The rest of us walk down into town and I decide that the music coming from the Upper George is my kind of thing (Metal!) and these losers all fold when I offer them a ‘nightcap’. Willpower? Never heard of it mate. Here we have one for the road and I finally allow them to retire and rest their weary heads. I then go for water and crisps at the offy down the road. Here, two lads are clearing out every bottle of coke and lemonade the place has. Turns out they’re from a nearby boozer and need mixers as their pump’s packed up! Their cause is not helped by Heather, a harmless drunk lass who just wants to know their names. One of the lads hasn’t time for this and answers “Fucking Alan”. Heather’s none the wiser it seems. “Bye fucking Alan! Sleep tight!” she trills as she wobbles out the door.
As I reach my hotel, I spot that it’s on Mulcture Hall Road. Wondering what the fuck a ‘Mulcture’ is, I head to my room where, crisps scarfed and water taken on, I crash out and am dead to the world until my alarm wakes me a number of hours later and I decide to go find breakfast. This, like locating my room, is easier said than done and after spending 10 minutes aimlessly searching the floor it’s meant to be on and not seeing a single living soul, I give up and go back to bed for an hour. There’s a Greggs on the way to the station, fuck it. The extra sleep is welcome and I do a quick shower and dart to meet the lads at the station for 10:30. Again, no staff to be seen so I just drop my room key at reception and hike to Greggs for bacon rolls and an orange juice. These get scoffed as I head through a much quieter Piece Hall than yesterday and I arrive at the choo choo stop to find Indy, Robbo and Mr X all lounging with tea, hungover. Morning!! After accusing Robbo of breaking the station lift “You were the last person I saw using it, so it’s your fault!” we get the train to Leeds and once there we snack up for the run to London. From this point, it’s all the usual blur of Ribena, doom scrolling and talking shit all the way to Kings Cross. Indy goes Victoria, Robbo the Northern line and I leave Mr X outside St Pancs to finish his smoke. See you Tuesday at Chalky Lane for some SSC action sunshine.
New ground tick! Why else would I be bothering?
Taz