Friday, 17 November 2017
Well fuck me sideways with a rusty badger, it not so much pours at Farnborough, it rains so hard it makes your head bleed.
Maybe to some a 3-3 draw would be something of a talking point, but oh no, not at Cherrywood Road. We'd start a fucking riot if there were less than six goals in a game. It's like a 0-0 and the excitement only starts in injury time with the peril that we might concede but, shit the bed, we might actually win.
Perversely, the thing that gave us a right bonk on was a first half cleansheet and a goal lead, courtesy of Perry 'the Hoffen' Coles. Sumptuous through ball by Curo, bamboozled the Bumbury defence and Perry nipped in, round the ball bag protector and poked it between the sticks. Uno Nilo Boro.
We had the wonderful pleasure of having the nice peace and quiet of the PRE disturbed by the Pure-tit-an "firm". Besides politely clapping our goal, it was quiet, peaceful and serene. That was until Berk Cuntoon and his Bellends showed up with their beer and blue language. Generally good natured and just bloody good bantz, then Berk Cuntoon lost his shit for what appeared no reason at all. All of a sudden he was telling the old chaps up the back that we should be embarrassed that only 200 people were in a 1500 seater stand (he'd done his homework). The sweet irony of us being embarrassed wasn't lost on his mates let alone the rest of us. This guy could have started a fight with himself, on his own, in his bedroom, post wank.
After the goal they lost a bit of momentum and it took a couple of late corners for them to get going again, which consisted of Berk and his Ginger Minger mate walking onto the pitch behind the goal in an attempt to gee up their team.
Half time and they grumbled their way back to the bar for a couple of pints of piss and a hand shandy to relieve the built up tension.
We made do with a cup of tea and a KitKat. There were kids about.
As predictably as the sun rising in the morning and being used to line the cats shit box in the evening, we came out in the second half to "carry on what we were doing" in the first. The most fucking obvious, clichéd load of arse water that never fails not to fucking fail. Mainly as the opposition were going to show up and give it both barrels. They weren't challenging up the top for no reason and it was only a matter of time before their No. 5 prick did a Salmon impression and headed a corner into the onion bag. Une Une. Bum.
Very shortly after they took the lead. Their bald left winger who had been blowing out of his arse most of the first half showed why he was on the pitch with a cracking ball into the back stick where their number 10 was waiting already lying down to head the ball from two inches off the ground into the ball bag.
This did in fact wake us up and within 60 seconds of the restart, Clintons had leveled it back up, intercepting a poor clearance to charge into the box and squeeze the ball under the keeps via a deflection. Zwei Zwei!
2-2 soon became 2-3 though as the same Clive Walker lookalike bunged in another ball to the back post and there was the No. 10 again, slightly better marked and actually stood up but the result was the same. Damn and blast their goggly eyes.
Fortunately, as long as you have The Hoffen on the pitch you have a chance. And so it proved. Stuff happened, Perry got it, moved it to his left and bang, he hit a defender. But it came back to him and in a blink of an arse he'd bent it between their two lanky tits in CB and into the far post utterly confusing the ball bag protector. Þrír Þrír.
And so it remained. Almost as soon as the fourth official put up that computer board thing with red and green numbers on that said there were 3 minutes of injury time there was a horrendous squeak as all eleven players, staff and fans sphincters closed up. Every player visibly slowed down as the memories of Kettering, Royston and Slough reappeared. Plus they'd heard Banbury's home form was shit so let's go on a Tuesday night road trip.
This was where the fun began. With limited notice we couldn't get out of work early enough and to be honest it was a good job we didn't. First we heard about the shitanigans was that the kick off had been put back to 8.45 as half the team hadn't made it. Jack "Mischa" Barton was stuck on an hour late train and five others were stuck on the M1. We then postponed the game ourselves on Twitter before pulling that and it finally being postponed. Accusations, hearsay and rumours bounced around like an opposition corner in the Boro penalty box.
We will probably never really know what happened but the players never showed, we had 6 eligible players and Bobby Dormer who was cup tied at the ground (which caused confusion) and there was no other option but to call it off.
Today we've discovered that we've been charged with failing to fulfil a fixture but this is a formality due to the game not going ahead. We have to submit the excuses, I mean reasons for the game being called off and hope they believe it. It's never fucking dull with us.
You can bet your arse it'll be 0-0 and go to pens. If we get the chance. Just feels like there's something we're not being told, of course we're not.
Whatever happens it'll have to be decided by Monday. The next round is in a week where we might come up against neighbours Hartley Wintney so it'll have to be played this midweek. Or not. The longer it takes the more it feels like the latter.
Amongst all the excitement, we're playing Bishops Stortford this weekend, a trip that will feel like we're going on holiday as we travel to basically Stanstead Airport. As we learn Nick "Truncheon" Hutchings has arrived at Hartley, we sign his replacement, Luke "Specsavers" King joins from.....from.....somewhere.
We'll see you there. If we all make it. Let's leave an hour earlier.
Saturday, 4 November 2017
Kick off brought a mild level of warmth, to the less then sparse congregation of Boro masochist fans lapping up the luxury of the San Cherrio, as we looked to press on with some crisp passing and actually winning some second balls. A couple of early corners were won and squandered as Clintons started to get a feel for the visitors right back. Curo and Clintons then combined for the first real sighter as some lovely chuckle brothers interplay resulted in Clintons exposing their last defenders testicles and serving them up on a plate for Curo to gobble down. Unfortunately Curo couldn't halt his one man meals-on-wheels procession, only offering up a big fat dry cold cut which the ballbag man graciously cradled to his portly bosom. Boro's defensive unit, clearly with a remit to sit and keep things tighter then a duck's arse, were functional and concise. Reg back in at CB was making things tick and the "suck-my-balls" Everitt factor was showing early promise.
The visitors came to life and were on the corners trail themselves. The first one not defended properly, as standard, and the ball fell to one of their up toppers who hooked it over his shoulder and, thankfully, over the crossbarbar blacksheep. Moments later and they were at it again as one was driven low and one shanked it with all the conviction of a Trump tweet which fell into the path of Reg who also managed to airshot the leather sphere thing into the path of a waiting greeny who spanked it home past "Kula" Cafer. As you were. 0-1
Moments later and the hosts should have been 2 up as another piece of slack defending allowed a cross to be looped up into the squared circle and, with "the salmon" caught out the wrong side, their striker had a pretty much free header. He hadn't read the script, or maybe couldn't read the script, and fluffed his header wide of a relieved "Kula" Cafer. Another couple of minutes later though and the ball was in the net again for the visitors. There's an old saying round these parts. "Elbow someone in the fucking face, karma will catch up with you and roger you senseless". And so it proved to be as, following a blatantly obvious off the ball elbow to the face of "the Organ", their number 9 bell end of an Ibrahimovic wannabe meandered into the box and laid it off for their winger to carve one across Kula Cafer and into the empty net. Thankfully though their striker had the IQ of a bird bath and thought it best to touch it in from an offside position, thus giving the lineo no choice but to remove the flag from his arse and wave it in the air like he just didn't care. Bravo lads, bravo.
Big test time, could the lads suck it up and carry on playing? Would they lose their composure and start lumping it up to our midget goliaths?! The safe money was on the latter. We didn't have too long to wait for an answer though as completely out of nowhere our new ballbag man ploughed his kick out down the right into the path of the on-rushing "Hoffen" Coles who lobstered their floundering keeper, plaiceing it into the far side nets to crab the equalizer. Game on! 1-1
The relief around the ground was so palpable that you could literally take it in to the clubhouse and give it a right good rodgering over the pool table. The relief was only just starting to ratchet up though as just 5 minutes later Clintons surged on in his one man world record attempt to drop more shoulders then a faulty meat trolley at an abattoir. He found his way through the maze and squared at the bisexual line in the direction of Sir Cureton of East Anglia who deftly set himself up with a modified Cruyff turn, swivelling on a sixpence to then unleash his finish into the far corner. Absolutely fucking beautiful stuff from the 53 year old. 2-1
Winning at half time, at home, is somewhat of an unfamiliar experience so plenty of general merriment was had by all as we realised that we were going to give them a damn good seeing to in the second half. Their players were already starting to turn on each other so, as long as we kept 11 on the field, we'd get the trois points we expected. Signs of it gelling, as opposed to signs of playing like jelly. Nice.
Into the second period and Boro came out looking to kill this off like the retiring partner in a hollywood 80s cop movie. Shoot on sight seemed to be the next game in the order of play. "Richlist" Forbes, "Fister" Southam and "Clintons" all attempting lengthy slappers with varying degrees of success. Well, when I say varying degrees of success... I mean they all missed. But that's dramatic license for you. That said, "Fister's" effort did force the ballbag lad into a low save which, from the resulting corner bent in from "Clintons", "suck-my-balls" Everitt looped a header in from which 2 Hitchiner deeefendos did some weird penalty box synchro swimming performance to just about keep the ball from crossdressing the white line.
Time for our new ballbag man to put the shit up us by forgetting where his goal was but that was mere childs play as the moment of the match was about to unfold.... "Reg" intercepted a loose pass by the centre circle and laid it into Curo, setting off on his procession for a bit of chuckle brothers action. Curo happily obliged the chrome topped demigod and suddenly Reg found himself 25 yards out and with more acres of greenfield then one of his Somerset farmer neighbours. Hi picked his spot and unleashed a WMD, leaving the keeper needing 6 months of counselling. Shoot on site. 3-1
With the icing now setting nicely on top of the cake of a performance, we just needed the brandy soaked cherry to really get our bakeoff-lob-on. Rather amusingly that came from a Hitchinny-chin-chin corner which was floated in met by the fist of "Kula" and then the soaring left peg of "fister" into the feet of Curo. He laid it off to the on-rushing "Organ" Hammond who then channelled Curo down the right. His centre was taken off of "the Hoffen's" noggin' by the ballbag lad but only in to the path of the galavanting "fister" who settled with 1 touch, then leathered it home. Pretty much 20 seconds from them taking their corner to the ball being in their net. They'd be spunking over that on MOTD if it was Arsenal City or Manchester Rovers or whoever the fuck plays up there nowadays. 4-1
That just left time for
- Curo to get his lob-on and smash the big horizontal wood
- "Kula" Cafer to start bedding in with a couple of good stops
- Hitchin to carry on throwing around their handbags like Tyson Fury in drag.
- A (final?!) standing ovation for Curo as he was subbed for "clamper" Willock 10 from time
- 16yo EJ Anyan brought on for his debut. EJ and CJ.
"Suck-my-balls" Everitt took official MOTM, but the day's performance was more about the majority of players winning their battles and putting in their best performances of the season. Not only that, but we finally realised that passing, moving and pulling the defence wide is how you beat teams at this level. Not a lumping in sight, just an absolute plethora of positives.
We really fucking needed that with a certain trek to Hereford on the horizon.
We don't miss too many games, but the Hereford weekday trek was a step too far. That said... if we were going to sacrifice ourselves for the good of the club, then so be it.
And what a sacrifice it was!!!
A "where-were-you" moment for sure. The 9 (not 9, we've already "fake news'd" this) who did attend were very very lucky to have witnessed it and we were sick with jealousy.
So 2 wins and next up? The St.Neotians again. We've beaten them already.... we've turned a corner... nothing will ever go wrong again... WE'RE GONNA WIN THE LEAGUE.
Make hay while the sun shines and all that.
Saturday, 28 October 2017
The Southern League fixture computer spewed out a weird anomaly where we'd only just reached the second full month of the season and we were beginning to repeat the teams we'd played already. Half a league of teams to visit and be visited by and yet we meet the Nits from St Neots again, fresh from the ridiculous result at Hereford where football Gods looked down on us favorably and we came home from basically Wales with three unexpected but very welcome points.
The corner had been turned and two straight victories meant we went into the fixture with belief that this would be the first double in the bag.
The omens were not good from the off. Hurricane Bobbins was meant to disrupt the half time brew but it had been blowing a gale all day anyway so it what difference would it make. Part of the party pulled out last minute as his family had the plague so screeching in at five past three to discover my seat was occupied. It's a massive fucking stand there's plenty of room, leave my seat alone.
Wind chill up a notch, hand in gloves, I take my seat to see a rat faced, rat haired Neot-wit smack the bladder into the blue and yellow onion bag. Buggerations!
As has been the general curve of the form graph, the trend is for us to improve once we go a goal down and so it was. Where we let them have the ball before so we now took it off them and lay siege to the Moor Road End and Curo was brutally scythed down for a quick peno. Despatched with aplomb, one one.
That was really where the plus points ended to be honest. Maybe we thought after the mighty win and ridiculous clean sheet against a promotion favourite that we'd got it sorted, but we're still ill and the final cure is illusive.
We were Reg and Perry-less and Fister went off mid way into the first half, and despite Richlist being named on the bench, on came "Clamper" Willock, seemingly into a three up top with Curo and Mustard. This didn't really help. Maybe Spencer believed a formation change was needed now we'd equalised and were on top but it wasn't. Momentum shifted and before the break the lead was restored. One of a plethora of ridiculously soft free kicks was awarded when either the No.9 or 10 nancy boy felt a flick on his person and out stretched arms in appeal appeared naturally like a reflex.
Bollocks marking at the far post saw one of their pricks ghost in and clobber it just inside the post with a great degree of inaccuracy. One two, load of poo.
Half time pint gave solice and a few of the Neoters graciously exclaiming that San Cheerio was the best ground they'd been to this season, basically because of the huge fuck off PRE stand. Views of the M3 astonishing.
Mysteriously, Clamper didn't appear for part two. No explanation given subsequently but who knows. He could have gotten into his car and fucked off forever for all we'll ever be told. Probably another Spencer master stroke. On came Truncheon. CJ moved into the Reg position of play fucking anywhere.
Bugger all changed. Except the scoreline. The shitty Saints went 1-3 when one of the woofters inexplicably bamboozled Josh and Kula Cafer made the first of his two mistakes for the afternoon and seemed to be in a strange position for a finish that wasn't anywhere near the bottom corner but beat him all ends up.
Barbarism begins at home, and it's been an unhappy place bar two wins. Away sells sanctuary and we're better off with our backs against the wall.
We improved slightly but they also got worse. CJ chucked his hat into the ring for goal of the season by bending a beauty into the bottom corner from out on the left, cutting inside to his right peg. 2-3 whoopee. Half a chance.
No chance. We looked the more likely to score, Clintons began to sparkle and a few speculative sighters gave their ballbag protector more trouble than they should have and Curo probably should have converted a spillage but to no avail.
An up and under caught in Windy Willy and Kula was all over the shop as feather like No. 9 pointlessly chased it down. He felt something on his back and went down to his default position in the turf and ginger vicar in a tutu pointed to the spot. The bellend. 2-4 fucking bore.
Stop me if you think that you've heard this one before, but quite what the problem with defending at home is we can't put our finger on but it's getting on our tits. Attendance has been shared between the Boro Walkers recently and it's very fucking one sided for this particular one to see face bumming defeats. Of the past three home games I've seen we've shipped 16 goals. That's unacceptable. So naturally the next thing to do would be to lose two defenders. Brilliant.
Cheers Hightower and Truncheon. Thanks for buggering off when we're knee deep in shit.
The arsewipe that is the fixtures computer meant consecutive Tuesday night away games hundreds of miles away and sometimes it's just a step too far.
And so it proved. That M1/M25/M3 journey home after the injury time winner for the potato pellers after the last minute equaliser by Mustard would have been a right cunt.
Some F.A Trophy light relief followed and we beat Larkhall somewhere near or in the Bath. Lovely good soaping. Life, work, vomiting, felines and funds have meant the away trips have been few and far between recently but that'll change now November is upon us and some breathing space.
Another team we've heard of visit San Cheerio today. Kettering are currently 4th so it's going to be a Weymouth like test but we've had a week off so hopefully limbs have been rested, all suspensions completed and, post Trophy win, morale is up.
As always, COME ON YOU YELLOWS!!
Friday, 13 October 2017
Fast forward 11 months and it was destination Creasey Spoon cafe Park once again, but this time to take on literally the best team in the whole of Dunstable... well if you pardon the fact AFC had beaten them on pens in some tinpot cup the week before. Speaking of tinpot cups, we were still reeling from the shit storm of Wednesday night where we were taken out for dinner by the tango bunch from Hartley Wintney who, rather rudely, spiked our drinks and then finger blasted our bumholes round the back of Asda. 6-1. 6 bleedin' 1! Never mind though, our overlord couldn't hide his delight in the post match interview so I guess it was a good result for us right? Never mind the fact we'd all had to pay a tenner to get in... and don't get me started on the fosters.
But it's okay. It was non-league day! Yes, that national holiday of jolly where non-league football is wheeled out to the sky felating arse clowns of the '92 for them to patronise the living shit out of us because England are off in the deep recesses of the Baltics being shitter then Piers Morgan.
Alright, maybe I'm being a tad harsh on it (NLD, not Piers Morgan)... but you'll see why by the end of this report. It just fits in with the narrative better.
A fucking hectic Saturday had meant that, by the time we headed off in the Boro-Mobile mkII, a customary M25 meltdown had pushed our ETA out to 2.57. This lead to a bout of early onset squeaky bum time, normally reserved for anytime between 3 and 4.50. The customary "been there, won there, x played there" analysis of all the towns we were passing was abruptly interrupted when we came across the reason our journey was taking fucking forever. A Toyota had ploughed straight into the back of a static caravan on the back of a Jeep. If ever there was a metaphor for our recent form, maybe that was it. Still, we rolled into the creasey car park and parked up next to a speed boat as the players were coming out, nearly got hit in the face by a football and then got hit on by an old man talking about Ethan Allen. It was clearly going to be a surreal afternoon.
Pay what you want was the home sides non-league day gimmick. This was a good thing as I'd stupidly forgotten to take any money out. Obviously I'm not a complete fuckwit though, so handed over approximately £6.47, from which the ceremonial emptying of my pocket had thrown up. Free cup of chips too apparently. Scenes.
Team news. "Fister" Southam was back from his ban and Curo was back in the 11. No Clintons, as he was off quaffing weinerschnitzels in his over sized lederhosen on a stag do in Germany. No"Good" Evans either. "Chilli con" Cairney was still off with the army somewhere so "ankles" Upward continued to deputise. It didn't really matter though... we were playing Dunstable ffs. They've won as much as Wild e coyote this season. Walk in the park, right? Of course. This is Farnborough. Everything always runs smoothly.
A breeze stiffer then the inhabitants of a morgue greeted kick off. A Bill Nighy look-a-like walked up to me and made a joke about the pitch being a lot flatter then St.Albans. Still reeling from the car park incident I laughed along. He found it extremely funny. Maybe you had to be there... oh, I was there. I don't know. Anyway, the important thing was that Boro had started the first few minutes pretty sprightly. Well, anything was more sprightly then Wednesday so probably a relatively invalid piece of analysis, but there you go. The C-unit of Curo, "Mustard" Calcutt and "The Hoffen" Coles all looked hungry to make their mark on what should have been a 'gimme' of an afternoon for their bed post scoring chart thingys.
The afternoon tone was set as Boro's first chance came from a corner. "the Hoffen" bent one in like a porn star with a genitalia disfigurement and "Hightower" Saville mounted the human pyramid, nodding the ball into the ball bag stanchion. Just a matter of time, early doors, it'll be okay.
Not too long to wait before the next opportunity. No, I'm not talking about on the pitch. I'm talking about another old man accosting me. This time it was an old man meandering round deciding to tell me that he used to be in Doctor Who and was still doing comedy gigs when he could. He asked me to give him any topic for him to make a joke about. Obviously I resisted the temptation to say "Spencer Day" as all of those jokes have been done, so I opted for "a Morris Minor". I can't repeat the joke he told me. Let's just say the 70s called and they want you(tree) back. Jesus wept.
Boro continued to control the majority of the territory like a constipated lion with a paranoia complex (same as their mascot ironically). "The Hoffen" was doing his usual act of chasing round like a demented ferret on speed. "Richlist" Forbes even managed to string together a few pieces of interplay and bring the ball forward. Maybe this would be the day that everything came together.... ummmmm, Nah!!
We had a few various offerings where the ball bag was threatened, but it was safe to say that things weren't quite clicking again. It took a good 35 minutes for us to make the stickman work. Some neat build up play resulted in "mustard" finding himself on the shoulder of the defender, heading it back across the stickman who saved well down to his right. Ironically it turns out this was a brand new teenage keeper making his debut. Quite why we weren't peppering his goal with waves of potshots was beyond me, especially early on.
A couple of minutes before HT and Dunstable worked themselves into a position which should probably should have resulted in the opening goal. Boro's backline undone and a mighty fine block from, who else but, "Reg" saved us the embarrassment of going in behind. HT 0-0
It was not a half for the purist. Boro had huffed and puffed but not been able to undo a nervous Dunstable backline. Curo got caught offside too many times, "Mustard" was clearly being targeted as the supply route which needed cutting off and "fister" Southam.... well.... let's just say he'd performed his usual 10/10 performance... for shouting and talking out of his arse at everyone constantly. That said, we were getting into the final third, but we just needed the bit of luck to get the car running. Most probably 1 would lead to more. Just don't concede. Just don't, alright??
Into the second half and...Oh, Bill Nighy was back again... asking me about our trip to Boreham Wood next week. "I'M NOT FROM FUCKING ST. ALBANS YOU SENILE OLD GOAT". I have a yellow scarf on... look at the pitch... we play in yellow. Maybe I'm from Norwich or Brazil. Don't be such a regional racist. Anyway, he then decided he'd take it on himself to be the 18th person of the day to tell me that Dunstable were amateur and didn't get paid for playing. Fine, I get it... we're shit. I really don't need that validating, have you seen our results lately?!
Anyway, couple of minutes in and the nails in the coffin were starting to shine in the glare from Reg's head. "Mustard" limped off and was replaced by the out of form "truncheon" Hutchings. Left back for a striker probably not what the doctor ordered but Spencer evidently didn't have the confidence to throw on the youth lad this early on. The biggest issue was that our hold up player was gone. With our tendency to resort to lumping it, and no natural width with "clintons" being absent and Walker having long departed, I think we all started to feel the squeaks in our posteriors.
That said, "the Salmon" Huggins continued in his quest to miss as many chances as was humanly possible, from corners, in a game of football. Maybe I should have called for a representative from the Guinness book of records, as opposed to the pint of Guinness I'd generously treated myself to from their fine & friendly, yet annoyingly understaffed clubhouse. Good burger and chips though.
We still weren't working the keeper enough from open play. "Reg" had obviously figured this out as it was he who launched a couple of grenades from just outside the area. One agonisingly wide and one needing the young ball bagger at his best to tip it round his pole.
"Hightower" picked up a booking for a clumsy foul and then it was time for things to move to "unravelling shit-storm" level as a completely innocuous throw in was wafted long back in the direction of "ankles" who took a touch, lost control, ballsed it up, bent over and served it up on a plate for the onrushing forward, who suddenly found himself running into the area with nothing but fresh air standing in his way of the goal mouth. 20 mins to go, we were 1 down to Dunstable fucking Town. 0-1
I wouldn't say we particularly moved up any gears or anything at that point. As expected, Dunstable obviously began to sit deeper as they tried to work out how and why they were winning and what the hell you had to do to win a game of football. This invited us on but again we were looking bereft of poise and penetration from the midfield and lacking any width to get in behind. The main chances were all coming from set pieces, "the salmon" was up to goal effort 17,431 and firing blanks like an Oscar Pistorius case for the defence.
Curo spurned a couple of good chances and was replaced by the young lad Roberts for the last 10. Maybe it'd be one of those fairytale story type jobs which would result in him "doing a Rashford" and lifting us from the depths of this massive toilet we were wedged in. Well, he got booked for chatting back at the ref at least. Quite how the ref called that when he hadn't picked "fister" up on it all game is beyond me. Maybe he was just a fuckwit.
There was still time for "the hoffen" to craft a great chance after some sloppy defending, he half rounded the keeper and, pushed slightly wide, leathered his shot across the goal... unfortunately finding one of their heroic centre backs putting his head where others probably wouldn't.
With Boro throwing bodies forward like a madame tussauds clearout, it was inevitable that the Dunst would carve out another opportunity, on the break, to kill it off. "Ankles" able to tip it just over the bar. Back up the other end and "the Hoffen" earned a free kick just outside of the box. Another chance to grab something.... but we wasted it and that was it... and then the rain started. FT 0-1
It's becoming abundantly clear that some of this team is coasting.
It's becoming abundantly clear that there are large question marks over the tactics/formations we're adopting.
It's becoming abundantly clear that we're all getting rather fucked off.
Come on lads. You wear the shirt, take some pride in it and indeed for us fans who thrash our guts out to travel to places like Dunstable to watch you. This has been a shit week and with, at the time of writing, an in from Weymouth in the week... it's time to step up or shit out. This tide needs to be stemmed fast, especially with Hereford and Royston on the horizon.
Spencer. Sort it.
Wednesday, 11 October 2017
Jesus Fucking Christ, where to start.
For the germ of tonight's shit storm, you could go back to the 65 minutes after we went 4-0 up to Gosport, and then the first half against Dorchester a week ago. Saturday was cack, but it was a moment where we switched our brains off and we paid for it.
What didn't help was the League Cup fucking colossal piss take a week before. Set up for a Grandstand event, free pint of wazz water and more advertisement than any other home game this season and we get humiliated by a team a league below and that we'd beaten 5-0 in a preseason friendly. Nothing then suggested they were as capable of the football they played at times but we put six first team squad members in the starting lineup and filled the rest with kids which then ultimately cost them their F.A Youth Cup place. If they weren't knackered then they were mentally shot. The first teamers were clearly given strict instructions to not try too hard and avoid injury and they looked like it.
If that had been billed as the irrelevance it was treated as by the playing staff, £5 to get in and no pint with the youth team then if we'd lost 6-1 to a strong Hartley Wintney team then that's fine. Ten fucking nicker to watch that was a disgrace. What's worse is we had some new people showing up who found it hilarious and won't come again. It made us look like the joke club that the reputation forged post Westley has slapped us with.
That's that for the Tinpot Cups for us for the foreseeable.
On to tonight, and the optimism wasn't high. Weymouth are a strong side and closing in on the playoffs so this was going to be far from easy.
Ah the playoffs. The carrot dangled from the stick in front of our summer signings to entice them. For balance the loss of some integral players to their dream moves (Castrol and Tiny Dancer) and injuries and absences haven't helped achieve a settled side. However, a large dollop of reality was required preseason instead of the basking in the Indian summer of our promotion.
We actually started brightly, looked the better side and Reg nearly opened his account for the season with near post pulveriser stinging the palms of the ball bag protector.
All it took was a breakaway. The undoing in the last home league fixture was the rotting fly infested corpse in the ointment tonight. One nil became two nil despite the Lions share of possession. Finally some luck and The Salmon collects a ball in the box, flicks it up and lofts a volley into the top corner. GAME ON, SKUNK PUSSIES.
But what's this? A simple ball dissecting the back three and the right wing bastard pulls it back and a prick controls and smashes in.
Immediately it's 2-3 though as a corner goes to the back post and their ball bag bellend drops a bollock by chucking it into his own onion bag, then of course complained for a foul like a shit Spanish keeper. He wasn't convincing anyone and not a single one of his mates Wey-mouthed off so nothing doing. Even he gave up.
The rest of the game has somewhat been over shadowed, over clouded, over shite'd by the fact it finished 6-2. Yes they were about as sporting as John McEnroe after one too many E numbers, the histrionics were fucking laughable (yes you No.9 losing your fake eyelash you twonk and No.2 who would much have preferred it if it was a non contact sport when he had the ball) but we've buried the hour of horse shit deep into our psyches. 2-3 at half time made it look like we stood a chance. We didn't.
We aren't ones to slag off our own (players) but the heroes of last years defence are the back ups to Hank Marvin and the rest of the band, let alone even the shadows of the players from last season.
Josh and CJ have had injuries but they looked like strangers and with all due respect Saville has shown nothing as to why he was deemed so essential and showing Jack "Hucknall" Smith the door. We here at TheBoroWalk Towers still struggle to see why he wasn't given a chance in light of the shambolic defending we've seen recently.
The sudden propensity to ship goals with such penache does coincide with the breaking up of the Reggie and The Organ central defensive partnership and whilst we appreciate that was makeshift and neither are centre halves (although Reggie can play anywhere and does) the fact we are leakier than Edward Scissorhands' water bed suggests that something isn't working back there.
There are some out there who aren't so much phoning it in as getting their Mum's to call their bosses as they have a really sore throat.
You know who you are and we don't need to point them out (oh, maybe we just did). We will say that there are a small minority who are still busting a gut out there week in week out and that's Perry "The Hoffen" Coles, Keith "The Fucking Legend Reggie" Emmerson, Nic "Clintons" Ciardini and Jamie "Curo" Cureton. Often without success and it's the least we expect, but at the moment we are expecting the least.
Far more interesting than the game was Spencer's post match interview with Dom "I'm not really here" Lloyd. Basically, several will be going but the official reason will be that they can't train twice a week. Straight off the bat, Curo and Chilli have gone. Gawd bless 'im but Aiden Upward isn't up to the task just yet so despite being No.3 choice a few weeks ago he's now the ONLY fucking choice and the search is proving fruitless. Apart from the obvious answer. FUCKING BRING THE SLAYER BACK!!
We go again very quickly, Hitchin at home. Something needs to be done about the defence and clearly crowbarring his favourites into a three man defence is not the answer. Reg needs to start in there to organise it, play four and move The Salmon into midfield.
Our starting eleven would look something like this:
1. The Slayer
2. The Organ
6. The Salmon (in midfield)
9. The Hoffen
Show a bit of fucking heart, humility and pride, whatever the result.
WE GO A-FUCKING-GAIN.
COME ON YOU YELLOWS.
Friday, 6 October 2017
It had been an odd few days @TheBoroWalk towers. We'd bumped into Spencer in Tesco, delivered a criminally under appreciated 'Walker's #chooseorlose' tweet poll, forged a link up with Toronto High Park FC (look at a map) because their director of coaching is called Nick Farnborough, witnessed Dan "footy focus" Walker return to the circus and bag a brace AND taken delivery of some more official faaaarkin' @TheBoroWalk mugs. (All of that would make sense of you followed our exploits on twitter... if you don't, you're living your life at least 3.1415% sub capacity). I digress...
"Fresh" from the putting to bed of the newly acquired 'Rushmoor cunty stadium hoodoo', on Saturday, Boro's next visitors were those Bloody Assizes (read a history book) from the Dorchester. What did we know about them? Well they'd been dogshit most of the season, scored sod all goals and not won since the big bang. What could possibly go wrong?!?! Well unfortunately they had just installed a new manager. Steve Thompson, he of the Yeovil and Woking fame, was ready to try and halt their slide alongside longstanding Boro old boy Super Trev Senior. (Slight soft spot for that veteran journeyman as he scored in my first Boro away game v Brentford in the FA cup back in the mid 90s). No time for sentiment really... because it was fucking teaming it down like... well like at Gosport the other week really. Biblical.
Team news? The more logical minded Boro fan had already worked out that St.Ives would be Walker's last hurrah as his month contract had run it's course. So, coupled with Tamplin managing to tweet confirmation of his return without getting sidetracked trying to literally bum himself in his own self conceited smug mouth, that little cameo dream was over. Word up you bastards. Curo was back in, because he's Curo and a legend ffs. Clintons made the starting lineup despite some rumours doing the rounds about him coming off second best in a sumo wrestling match with a Fiat Cinquecento. "Hightower" Saville the other man sacrificed. Not a huge surprise as he's been more injury prone then Darren Anderton lately and "Reg" has been frankly undroppable. It also made the bench a bunch of Jack offs.... think about it.
There was just time for a bit of score predictor banter, with new celebrity Boro addict Joe England, before we were in our spots and ready for it all to kick off, like "Reg" outside of 'spoons on a night off.
Dorch' looked lively from the off... quick to the loose balls, like an eager plastic surgeon specialising in testicle realignment. Only a couple of mins in and as Boro flapped around dealing with an up'n'under, "Chilli-con" Cairney was forced into clawing one away on the stretch like a practising super human at a fantastic 4 recruitment evening. Unfortunately Boro fell back into typecast as, from the resulting corner, "the Organ" Hammond was playing flat as the prick he was marking gave him the foot peddle and nestled his header deep into our ball bag. Barely treble figures seconds gone. FML. 0-1
The Dorch started taking the piss, clearly feeling rather overconfident they decided to start taking efforts on their own goal to warm their keeper up. A Clintons cross superbly headed goal bound by their towering centreback needing their ball bag protector to tip it over with all the aplomb of a Guinness employee starting a domino rally world record attempt.
Curo ploughed on with his metaphorical fishing tournament as he snared one in the net after a neat switch from "truncheon" Hutchings. Unfortunately though he was flagged like a pole outside of the UN headquarters. Things were about to slip further down the shitscale though as, after winning a soft free kick on the half way line, one of the Dorch'ers rolled the ball in front of the ref and sprayed a cross fielder into the path of their striker who nobbled "truncheon" and crossed it back up stream over "the salmon", floundering in no mans land, to be met by the on rushing forehead of a white shirted man. "Chilli" would have been more frustrated then a poor, black, lesbian American at a Republican convention to not claw it out, having got to it, but there you go. 17 mins. 0-2
Boro finally started to rise from their slumber, clearly realising that this was never going to be the procession that it might have appeared on paper a week or 2 prior. The Hoffen worked himself into a 20 yarder which the keeper did well to get down to. "Richlist" Forbes had one of the worst shots from distance I've ever seen, spunking his half volley into row Z of the PRE. "The Salmon" had his customary action in the box. First steering a header just past the left hand stick and, then, getting on the end of a free kick, hooking it goal bound forcing their injury feigning ball bag protector into a tip over. One of those 'anywhere else and it's a goal' ones. His hat trick of box touches was completed as he connected with another corner, from which Curo proceeded to snatch his resulting shot well over the ball bag stick. Already felt like another one of those days, still... 2 down wasn't unassailable was it. Then, the massive half time bitch slapper arrived... a long ball floated over the top and with "the salmon" in deep water and "Reg" in the shallows , their striker strolled through and slotted it past "Chilli". Whistle straight after the restart. Shit the bed. 0-3 HT
In the bar at HT... The sheer dumbfounded euphoria on the faces of the Dorch' fans was something to behold. Fair play to them. They'd practically doubled their 'goals for' tally and were about to match our tally of wins at the San Cherrio this season. Probably quite the contrast to us standing there looking like we were chewing on wasps. Never mind, we had a wealth of attacking options on the bench right? it'd be fine. Failing that, we'd just fuck off back to the clubhouse if it got to 5. Pints downed and back into the stands for the sacrificial slaughtering it was then.
BUT WAIT... from the kick off, Boro lurch forward and "mustard" Calcutt is chopped down. Quick thinking from Curo, with the Dorch still asleep, and he's put "the Hoffen"Coles in..... Tasty!! 1-3
It was mostly all Boro now as the yellows booked into the Dorchester final third. With no attacking options on the bench, "Good" Evans came on for "The Organ" to try and keep the supply chain lubricated. A few half chances came and went before the inevitable counter attack arrived. With bodies thrown forward the Dorch forged a 3 on 1 break and their winger arched in, managing to screw the ball butt clenchingly close to their 4th. The Dorch fans thought it was game over, but instead just received a right royal trolling from Reg's mates and the right side of the PRE. Our advice, don't call Reg the 'C' word... especially not in front of the GG's!!
Up the other end and "Truncheon" was finally coming to life, combining with "Clintons" to send in a cross for Curo who turned and flicked the ball up clearly catching the defenders elbow. It was practically volleyball FFS. Ref said no. Shambles. 2 mins later and this time it's the Hoffen finding some space down the right and he curves another cross in, again finding a defenders lofted forearm flailing like a Theresa May policy. Again the ref waves it away, much like his chances of ever making it at a higher level. (oohhhhhhh!)
Chances carried on raining, like the weather, as The Hoffen forced the stickman into another finger-tipper-overer and "RichList" sprayed a few more over the bar for the sheer hell of it.
"Hightower" Saville was on for "Truncheon", just before the 90, so we figured the hail marys were about to commence. Instead though he let his feet do the talking as he chased down the Dorch defenders resulting in an old skool passback pickup. Who doesn't love an indirect free kick in the box type shenanigan as your team chases down a game. "Fister" Southam studs it, The Hoffen steps up and absolutely leathers it goal bound, "Mustard" gets his bonce on it, net bulges like a big bag of Boris Johnson gaffes. Sweet beautiful sanctity. 3-3
Shouldn't have been 3 down. We cannot keep shipping goals like this, especially to teams below us. DeFence is not just something Dom sits on in his interviews! That said, anytime you take something from 3 down should not be shirked at. We're not going to win the league, this season is more about the journey then the destination..... or some other semi-profound waffle, if that's what you're after. We just need to get out of the flintstones car we're in and maybe go for a test drive somewhere.
Some guy tweeted that the equalizer cost him £200 on his accy. What a time to be alive. Football eh? Who'd have it.