We've been a bit tardy at Boro Walk Towers recently. One of us has been on a post Brexit trade scouting mission, the other has been having a break(down), having a shit cat. And of course one of us got locked in the ground for a night and had to recover from hyperthermia so had to catch up with the Kempston score from a hospital bed.
The result of which was a devastating writers and mental block and we couldn't remember a dicky bird of what happened in the Barton and Histon games. The less said about the Ashford game the better but it was a dead rubber that no one seemed that keen on playing in.
Beaconsfield got us so over excited about the possibility of burying all comers in the playoffs that we got so pissed we woke up in a square in Totland soaked in our own urine and with a possible STD. Proper itchy scrot.
Anyway, here we are. What we all knew was coming a mile off since Christmas, two final games to get us back where this team belongs after being robbed last season following a gargantuan effort to haul ourselves out of the relegation zone, only to be slapped in the face with the massive cock of relegation due to financial irregularities anyway.
Until the last knockings of the final game of the season, we still weren't positive who we'd get in the first game. If we were going to be given a choice, we'd have plumped for the Egg & Hamers as they had spent most of the season as perennial draw specialists but we had handed their arses back to them back in August. When it became apparent it would be the Sarnies we'd be having for breakfast, we were thanking our lucky stars it wasn't going to be a case of going Marlow-er than we already had done against the..... Marlowerers. We fancy ourselves against most teams but a 5 conceded none scored return from two defeats in the regular season didn't offer up huge encouragement.
A 1-1 draw away from home at the Egg, Ham and Chips Café on a freezing December night wasn't truly representative of our away form this calendar year (Royston aside) and we turned up at San Cheerio with more confidence than a Grand National winner being sent to stud with a massive swinging cock between it's hind legs.
We didn't start like we were to go on though, the Butties were determined to give it a good go and not be eaten out like an easy bridesmaid at the first sign of flirtation.
But with Curo and The Hoffen up top it was surely only a matter of time. And so it proved with two quick fire ball bag busters from the diminutive duo. Firstly, Curo lofted in a dink that was on a plate for Perry to gobble and he scissorkicked the munny funster right into the onion net.
That's....1,2,3.... bloody loads of goals for The Hoffen this term and he didn't even start the season. He's been learning from a solid gold flippin' legend in Curo this year and they've been keeping out 30 goal ball bag buster Pat "Mixu" Cox from the team. His time will come. The future is Pat and Perry. Going large.
Literally 120 seconds later, it was the other little maestro's turn. This time it was an assist from their centre back which makes it his tenth of the season. Probably. As Norris came barreling out of his goal their number five, or six, maybe four, decided it wasn't really fair that we'd not gone up automatically despite being about 17 points clear of 3rd and reached the ball before the ball bag guardian and knocked it straight into Curo's path. You wouldn't have given their tubby number 10 that kind of opportunity, let alone Jamie flippin' Cureton, and he didn't disappoint. 2-0 and we could see the arch of Wembley in our futures.
Well some of us could as they had tickets for Ed Sheeran on Monday.
With an unprecedented mid week attendance of 500 and something (What? The other one does the accuracy and stats) the queue at the bar was longer than.... the queue for the free burger and chips. Sorry. Ha ha. That's obviously not true. That's the only reason they'd turned up 😋.
Second half arrived and we were kicking at the PRE, which was fine as we were 2-0 up but it would have been better for our nerves if we'd been hitting the goal instead. But it was only a matter of time.
Things happened in that matter of time but I'm writing this the day after the Playoff Final (I won't spoil the ending) and we were celebrating/drowning our sorrows (delete as appropriate).
However, as soon as Reg took matters into his own hands, there was only one outcome. Showboating his way through the Eggers midfield he picked out Curo, who laid it square for The Hoffen who took one touch before leathering it through Norris's legs and in off his left bollock.
3-0 and we were home and hosed.
From then onwards it was all chicken gravy, an "Olay" here, an "Olay" there. Clintons surged into box from the left, as usual, spanked it into the six yarder, it was half cleared, then fully cleared but straight to Castrol who steadied himself before smashing it in off the right ball bag keeper-upper stick from oooooooh...45 yards. Probably.
4-0, and we may as well have just used the result from the beginning of the season. Although it wouldn't have been anywhere near as much fun.
News came in on the wires (Twitter) that Fart-on Rovers had only gone and bloody beaten Marlow. Huzzah and hurrah.
Instead of playing a team we'd been unable to score against let alone earn any points, we would meet the team we'd beaten by the same score Egham had just been despatched by at home, and only a few weeks ago taken to the cleaners 1-0 at their place.
So to May Day. Bank Holiday May Day Monday. At no point did anyone know what weather conditions we'd be playing in and if Michael Fish had told us it'd be sunny we wouldn't have believed him anyway. As it turned out, it was the typical English holiday weather, sunny spells mixed with rain showers, torrential downpours and general cold, grey overcast skies. God, I love this country.
The tension was palpable, not least as we weren't entirely sure the PRE could definitely withstand being full. 1,084 (see, I can do stats) lovely people turned up, probably for the free food as their benefits wouldn't be paid till Tuesday and the kids got in free, but let's gloss over that one and just be glad they fucking turned up at all.
To say it was nervy from the off would be an understatement. C from the Sunshine Band had been replaced with Kenny G, and Barton were knocking on our back door like the big guy in prison with only three fingers and a thumb on one hand and "love" and "hat" tattooed on his knuckles.
Fortunately, despite some recruitment since their 4-0 demolition in January, they still hadn't replaced their frankly useless No.9 who was as about as clinical as Gillian McKeith BEFORE she pretended to be a doctor, and stank of poo about as much as she did when she was and had her own TV program.
He scooped over the bar from about 7 yards from his only sighter at goal and generally just whined and moaned through out his 55 minutes on the pitch when their bench got the message and hooked him off.
Not that the rest of them weren't just as bad. It was delightful watching their captain show a great example to the stand full of kids, but then we suppose he hasn't had to worry about a crowd most of the season.
A particular highlight was in the closing moments when Tiny Dancer was sythed down and ended up leaving the pitch area on crutches, and he was having a good old bitch to The Salmon who appeared to find it quite amusing.
By this point it was all over as a contest.
Probably against the run of.... maybe not play, but possession, it stuck up top, Perry looked like he was about to do a carbon copy of his mazy solo run and goal against Beaconsfield last weekend but instead thread a sumptuous through ball for Curo to latch onto, out muscling their lanky git of a centre half, he buried into the netty thing between the white sticks that make the goal frame, almost removing their ball bag bouncer's right goolie.
The feared post half-time barrage of our goal never really materialised, and the only concern was whether their No.8 would make it to the end of the match with his voice intact.
It was obvious that we'd sit back and soak up the pressure and when you have Fogle in front of the back four and The Salmon and Mayfield in it, it was a forgone conclusion. Monumental displays from the three of them.
It was from one such Barton attack snuffed out so emphatically that promotion was all but secured. An old fashioned boot into the sky was headed down by their catpain and Castrol pounced first time to slide rule the ball into The Hoffen's path. The Boro Walk player of the year took it into his stride, approached their ball bag protector and slide the ball into the near post with his left peg. Que pandemonium and untold scenes.
There were other things that happened after that but we couldn't really give a flying fuck, and I'm pretty sure neither could you, dear reader.
The ref did his best to try and make it more interesting for himself, but it wasn't going to be about him this time and he can suck our collective balls. The best thing he did all game was blow his whistle after about 7 of the recommended 4 minutes injury time, and like Jon Anderson giving the signal for the Gladiators to begin beating the general public into submission on prime time Saturday evening TV, his gave notice for a pitch invasion and David Pleat dancing as far as the eye could see.
As the players began hugging everyone they could see in yellow and blue, The Salmon could be heard declaring as he embraced a pre pubescent child "Get me a fuckin' beer"!!! We'll let him off this time.
There was singing, dancing, Curo was held aloft by Mixu, and bemused faces from those who weren't completely sure what was going on and had only come to avoid doing any DIY and took the kids with them. There was even a conga. You had to be there. You probably were. Not sure why you'd be reading this otherwise. Although we have had some lovely comments by opposition teams and the their fans. Cheers for that.
Anyway. There we are. That's it for the season. Or is it?!?! No it isn't as we're going to do a season round up shortly.
You lucky bastards, you!!
There's only one thing left to say.
WE ARE GOING UP, SAY WE ARE GOING UP!!
YELLOWS! YELLOWS! YELLOWS! YELLOWS!