Friday, 13 October 2017

A big old seat at the DunceTable for us

So it was a big day for TheBoroWalk. Back in November we'd navigated our way up that bastard concrete corridor of motorway madness to Dunstable to enable us to deliver our first ever away match write up. We'd made up exactly 2.33% of the 86 crowd that night, witnessed a Reg wonder goal (which somehow didn't make the goal of the season shortlist!?!) and come away with a 3-1 win to keep us on the coattails of those plucky Roystonions.

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.

ONWARDS
























Wednesday, 11 October 2017

Wey-to-go-mouth! Fucking Horseshit!

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
3. Truncheon
4. Reg
5. CJ
6. The Salmon (in midfield)
7. Richlist
8. Good
9. The Hoffen
10. Mustard
11. Clintons

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

Okay now go... walk out the Dor-chester

Some things in life are assured. Death, taxes, Donald Trump being a dotard spunk trumpet, Spencer Day maintaining he has nothing to do with the running of the club and us Boro fans being put right through the dead centre of the proverbial fucking wringer at regular intervals.

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
Momentum mo'problems for the Dorch as Boro started to press. Exposing their opponents clearly fragile mentality for not having won many games of late. Another corner floated in and once again "the Salmon" went up with the keeper who managed to spill it, unfortunately "the salmon" picked that moment to submit his entry for miss of the decade, as he toe poked it ninja style over the bar from 1 yard out. Things were starting to get surreal at that point as the tannoy, in the PRE at least, started playing random background music for no apparent reason over and over for a few minutes.
Whether this was some predetermined strategy to unsettle the visitors or not we cannot say, but it seemed to be working. "Reg" was being allowed to bring the ball out, as the Dorch sat back harder then a quality control tester at La-Z-Boy. He had a couple of sighters, from distance, and was also combining well with "Clintons" who started looking hungry. One effort was palmed away by the stickman in what turned out to be a dress rehearsal for the next ball bag bulger. Reg, on yet another stroll into the final third, laid it off and Clintons coiled up like a springy thing in a newly opened spring factory in New Springland as he dumped his load into the far corner. Sweet. 2-3

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.

ONWARDS









Tuesday, 26 September 2017

St Ives Wives put to the..... Sword?

So we'd travelled north to the Shire (King's Langley), through Modor to Gosport, rung our sodden pants out into the volcano and  had a weekend off to save the tyre rubber, shoe leather and the bank manager giving us more shit for spending all our money in BP garages up and down the South East motorways and A roads. All we can taste is Ginsters, Fanta Lemon and Polos.

So to the first of two consecutive homes games, one after the other, four days after the other and no away games inbetween. On this run of games that were infinitely winnable we've scored seven and conceded just two, albeit we scored all seven before we conceded any and basically gave those away like an unpopular school kids virginity.

Devastating news before our Hampshire Cup tie at Fleet (which we don't really give a shit about until we get a semi) was that Dan "Football Focus" Walker was going to be recalled once his month loan was up. St Ives was to be his swan song (what the fuck is a swan song?!?) but fortunately they had brought their wives and Dan was ready with his big swinging dick to fuck them senseless. (Really got to stop with the weird sex metaphors)

Curo was on the bench as Walker was given his place in Spencer's favourite 4-3-3 alongside The Hoffen and Mustard. Glen "Fister" Southam has made the centre midfield his own and with Richlist's match fitness improving he started his first game of the season after coming on early for Bellamy at Gosport. As The Salmon was returning from suspension and Hightower was fit enough to return, Reg moved into midfield. The Organ returned to right back with Truncheon on the left.

Confidence was high, but the disappointing last hour against Gosport meant confidence wasn't as high as it could have been but having been so dominant and scoring four in the first half against Gosport meant confidence was high. In the first half hour.

Going forward we were dangerous. Defensively we were dangerous. Hightower was sloppy, The Salmon wasn't match fit. The Kits of St Ives had the best first chance as it was the first chance of the game and it was a very good attempt. Cross, header, ooooooh just wide, close, phew!

Up the other end, freekick, cross, volley from Walker, ballbag protectors tips, woodwork. Ooooosh!

But we didn't have long to wait for the lead. Cos we scored. Huzzah. Soccer happened, Reg, pass, puts Focus Walker in, tight angle? Is it bollocks. Bosh. Smashed past the ballbag security chap. Woo hoo. 1-0.

But fuck niggles, we contrived to balls it up in a Salisbury manner. Very little minutes of time had past when their big centre forward number 9 dude chased after an actually perfectly timed pass and not offside like the 18 Yarders believed and attempted to change the referees mind by shouting at him incessantly. He actually deserved it very shortly after but at that point him and the linesman chap were spot on. Anyway, as Chilli Con Cairney came galloping from his goal he seemed to forget what he was supposed to do next and ran past the ball. Their prick couldn't help but laugh as he casual slapped the ball in the onion bag, much like he would in the second half with his elbow connecting with The Salmon's face. But again, more of that later. 1-1. Shit on it! A little light relief came as Fister very vocally questioned what Chilli may have been playing at. He had no answer.

From this point onwards in the retelling of this tale, the referee will henceforth be known as "The Cunting Bellend" or TCB for short. And he was fucking short.

We think the goals may have displeased him up there in his ivory tower as he then went on a rampage of cautioning every minor misdemeanour with the kind of power trip normally associated with megalomaniac world leaders with shite hair.

First up on this menu of fuck awfulness was booking Fister for a slight tete-a-tete with one of their management, who in all fairness was a bit of a jeb but didn't make much of it and all it needed was a make up kiss and promise of a reach around after the game but TCB had a quiet word with the six foot plus bloke in the tracksuit and booked little feisty Fister.

He continued his one man show for the remainder of the first half by booking the majority of their offensive players for talking back and kicking the ball away. You'd have thought they might have learnt their lesson after the first few but in their defensive one was for a shot being taken moments after the whistle being blown for offside. The guy was on a mission to make it the Referee Show and when a cunt like that wants it to happen, it happens.

A bit before half time, Fister was shown his second yellow card. A late challenge which the St D'Ives lad made a reet meal of was launched upon by their pricks and the bellend prolonged the agony just long enough so he could have it seared into his wank bank for later.

We saw out the half with Good Evans coming on for Hightower who had been as wobbly as a Weeble all game. Reg moved back into the back four to continue his ongoing audition for player of the season.

The difficulty with regaling a story about a game from Saturday afternoon is that Saturday night happened and several bottles of wine to yourself later and you're utterly bollock faced and everything from that day becomes incomplete and hazy.

Anyway, the good news is TCB must have had a nice cup of camomile tea as he calmed the fuck down a bit in the second half but the Ive'rsons smelt blood and attempted to use their numerical advantage. Fortunately, they finished about as well as a sad twat in his pants at a strip club.

Several opportunities that were too long and turgid to go into it in much detail but were attempts that they tried to expertly curl and they just aren't that talented to pull off.

Although we weren't much better at the other end as we clawed our way back into the contest and were eventually helped out by their big prick up top who introduced his arm to The Salmon's nose and was given his marching orders not before giving the ref an earful which probably just excited TCB more. On subsequent viewing it appears it was a straight red not second yellow which was probably a bit harsh but the result was the same if not the length of suspension.

Ten a piece and we fucking went for it. Clintons had come on at half time and looked twice the player he had been since the opening game at St Neots (which incidentally is looking more and more like a cracking win) creating several chances and having a few himself. A dribbler, a toe poke and a drive blocked by the ballbag protectors goolies.

Curo hooked one from the bye line and almost under the bar but the bruised ballbag bloke tipped it over.

Maybe it wouldn't come. Maybe it would be the first draw of the season. Fuck that, we still had Football Focus. A great cross from The Organ missed everyone but Clintons brought the ball down on a five pence laid it back to Focus, drop of the shoulder, onto the right peg, smashed it into the near post, onion bag buster. 2-1!

YYYYYEEEEEEEESSSSSSSS!!

The worry then was that we'd shit a brick and let them back in it but they were knackered and a bit clueless by then.

And there it was. Another win. Third on the bounce. Momentum.

We didn't have long to wait for the next game at San Cheerio. Dorchester were making the trip up the country.

This is actually being finished after that match but I won't spoil it for you. Like the News before Match of the Day I won't tell you the score. You don't have to look away now though. No come back.... I HAVEN'T FINISHED!!

Now I have. Thanks for reading. We won 5-0! Only joking!

As always COME ON YOU YELLOWS!!



Tuesday, 19 September 2017

Gosport... records, hurricanes and consecutive away wins

Can you guess how long it's been since our last midweek away venture?? anyone?? I'll tell you.... 161 days. Is that interesting? I don't know, but there you go. With a promotion and an absolute shedload of 'Boro dedicated twitter nonsense under our blazers, since then, it was with a generous sprinkling of enthusiastic fervor that we headed out in the 'Boro mobile off down towards the seaside.
The 'google maps' factor had us cutting it finer then a last minute equalizer at the world professional tooth combing championships. Pressure? What fucking pressure. I think you all underestimate just how Andy Smart the M3 is now. We sent her a tweet and she lubed up and got ready to project us into her fast moistening outer slipstream. Let's be honest, we were just euphoric we weren't going anywhere near the M25. ALLELUJAH!
Oh, did we mention the weather yet? Jesus H Christ it was more relentless then Boris Johnson getting on the buffet at a bullshit convention. It was the most unsettled rain since Spencer took over.

The last 2 times we visited the Privett Hedge, a certain Sam "Fogle" Pearce captained "the (other) Boro" to narrow victories. Since then, however, Gosport have also been on the slide. Following their 2014 FA trophy final appearance, they've been dogged by financial problems and player turmoil (not sure what those things are). A look at the league table suggested they were still on the downward spiral. More defeats then Nigel Farage at elections. With our blistering(ish) goal frenzy at the Langley still fresh in the mind and our injury list reducing like a rich game jus, we all knew this could be a procession.

So by the time we pulled into the car park, and told the doggers to fuck off, we just about had time to bladder unload, into their unsettlingly small urinals, and get wood in the main stand. The painted partition lines truly were a thing of non-league fundamentalist beauty. In the blizzard rain, that stand kind of felt like the cast of scooby doo were about to run through and unmask the mayor as the villain who'd probably have gotten away with it if it wasn't for those meddling kids. That illusion was soon broken by their fantastically mobile DJ tannoy announcer. Ding Dang Do.

Team news? With Connor "Mustard" Calcutt (continuing his climb to full fitness), "the Hoffen" Coles (back from taking his mrs up the aisle) and Curo (chomping at the bit following his cameo on Saturday), the big news was that it was back to the holy trinity up top. The C-unit was being deployed. "Reg" and James "the Organ" Hammond continued their fledgling, yet impressive, partnership at the back. "Clintons" on the bench. With JR back from Turkey, Christmas had come early and we just needed the stuffing to commence.

Boro were into the wind in the 1st half, and we don't mean in the Ciardini post-curry fashion which you're all thinking. From the off, Boro had an energy to them. Some shape and structure in the middle and the passing was crisp and concise. That said, it was the hosts who had the first 'pop'. An effort from the edge of the box which "chilli con" Cairney did well to claw away. Fair play to the lad as these were shocking conditions for the defensive unit. From there though Boro clicked up a gear and, following a deft turn, "footy focus" Walker would out pace his marker and unleash a furious spunk unloader, beating the ball bag protector from a good 20 yards out. 1-0

With the sheer euphoria of that goal still fresh, we'd barely finished plucking the next round of splinters from our bum holes before we were on our feet again. There'd already been a couple of  right sided soirees more tasty then a 'Boro hollywood movie trailer by the time "Good" Evans set us off on a move which completely ripped the Gosport defence apart like "Reg" in a laser quest. The move resulted in Curo dropping a shoulder and dinking it over the stick man. Absolutely top notch bombing. (p.s. It wasn't Perry ffs)
12 minutes on the clock... 2-0?! What the hell is this. What? You want more? Well we didn't have long to wait. Boro continued to purr like a well greased mechanical cat and Curo, fresh from breaking his season's duck, could smell blood. His opener, top notch timeless front man shenanigans, would soon be completely eclipsed by what would follow. Another 4 minutes or so had passed and Boro, still pushing like a salt'n'pepa tribute act, pressed forward once again in their pursuit of the jugular. This time it was a move down the left which resulted in the ball being centred and dropping towards the edge of the box. Curo wound up his right peg and unleashed an absolute ripsnorter of a volley which nestled deep in the left hand corner, leaving the ball bag protector requiring counseling. 3-0
Much like the weather, Boro were showing absolutely no signs of letting up. "Footy Focus" was running their right back more ragged then our Brexit negotiating strategy and both "fister" Southam and his new mate "Winwood" Bellamy were owning the middle ground like a pissed up Lib Dem donor. Unfortunately a tiny little spanner was thrown into the works as the latter limped off after a strong tackle. Never mind though, we were 3 up and had "RichList" Forbes back on the bench. It was just after this that we realised we'd now gone a frankly obscene 9 minutes without scoring a goal. As we readied ourselves to start calling for the board to resign, a corner was floated in by the "fister" and who was there to apply a big dollop of yellow condimental?? That's right... "Mustard" was back in the goals with a textbook free header. Oh won't somebody think of the children. 4-0
By this point, with the momentum and clinicality that we were displaying, this probably should have been heading for double figures. Basingstoke had walloped them for 8 only a couple weeks prior let's not forget. As the players were resetting, after the 4th, there was a bellow from "Reg" along the lines of "keep at them, don't sit back, don't settle". That, coupled with one of us having a "we're not going to score anymore tonight" nostradamus type moment, would become the apex of the night.

I cannot stress how good we looked in that first 25 mins, albeit that was matched with how poor our hosts were. To be fair to them they really bucked up their ideas and got their house in order. They pulled one back just before the half hour, "Good" Evans getting caught out on the slip'n'slide, and they got another one 10 from the end, courtesy of us revisiting our shambolic marking at corners.

"The hoffen" had an uncharacteristic night whereby he'd probably have played all night and still not scored. "Footy focus" Walker started trying to take it around everyone, like that kid in the school playground whose parents drove a Mercedes and probably didn't love him enough, which really started to fucking grate. One highlight though, Chris "Johnny" Regis delivered his best performance in the Boro getup. That said, I'm only talking about the comedic fashion in which he wore his hood in the half time warm up, like he was hiding a gopher in there. He eventually came on but did his completely indifferent bambi display routine as per usual. FT 4-2

So there you have it. Raced out the blocks, scored a hatful, took our foot off the gas, lost our structure, stopped doing the basics, saw it out. A win, in those conditions, is a win though.

Turns out Curo has now notched goals in the top 8 leagues in England. Some debate ensued on Twitter and it appears the only other genuine claimant of this achievement is none other then Salisbury supremo Steve Claridge. This is made all the more ironic as he was sitting behind us as Curo bagged his brace. Small world. Quite what was going through Claridge's mind during the first 30 mins is anyone's guess. Something along the lines of "shit the bed, thank fuck for that" we're guessing.

So as we set off, dodging hurricane Hampshire, conversation in the car turned to squad evolution. We didn't really understand why "the Organ" was brought in as a right back, but switched to CB when we had Jay "Hucknall" Smith available, so guessed he'd be out the door sooner rather then later. Liam "Jagger" Stone has looked pony and been suspended, ill, on holiday and managing Swansea, so time to give Luke the 'chief ballbag protector' orb and move on. Also, enough is enough with Regis.

Back in the 'Boro, that brew never tasted better.... maybe @theBoroWalk brollys should be next.

2 away wins on the flippin' trot. Time to sort out that Cherrywood hoodoo now.
It's the Pants-shire cup next. Fleet away... that's exciting isn't it.

ONWARDS















Monday, 11 September 2017

We are King's of the Langley

YYYYYEEEEEEEESSSSSSSS WE FUCKING WON!!

Thanks for reading.

No, but really, give us a break. We traveled through a monsoon to get to Gaywood Park, discovered on the way there that our starting eleven was minus The Hoffen and Curo, we had ANOTHER new player (hate to say we told you so), we had no natural centre halves in the team and then, when we got there, it started spitting and we didn't pack a mack. Fuck our actual life.

So Spencer had lost the plot and dropped our front two, had another brand new central midfield partnership and left Hucknall on the bench playing The Organ as centre half with Reggie (who can basically play fucking anywhere) despite being Tiny Prancer's replacement AND putting on loan midfielder 'Good' Evans at right back.

On the other hand, we'd been pretty toothless in our previous two matches in various stages of the contests, mainly the first hour against Slough and the first and last half hours against Salisbury, so the decision to put Easter up top to hold it up for Mustard and Football Focus with Clintons, Southam and new boy Bellamy, who is on remand from Aldershit, holding firm in the middle, did actually make sense. At least he was changing it up and trying to halt the slide.

As it turned out, Perry was off getting hitched so not dropped but completely screwed (only joking love, if you're reading this, which you're obviously not).

So whilst the wife was in Dunelms in Watford buying blankets, i was shivering my tits off and slightly moist in a gay wood.

First half, we did the job that we were intending, stopping them from playing. Unfortunately, we were so interested in stifling the Langleyians that we didn't really provide any forward thrust ourselves. Easter was more often than not isolated as Mustard went deep and Football Focus was pinned to the wings.

Clearly not match fit, Bellamy and Southam laboured like an overdue pregnancy, they toiled and worked hard but there was no spark. Clintons roving brief again failed to ignite and that left Mustard and Focus frustrated.

It took a bit of jiggery-pokery and moving Nic to the left that dragged their midfield about creating more space and giving everyone a bit more joy, and Robert's your mother's sibling we are camped in Kings Langley half like a Festival field of tents.

Once again half time arrived at an inopportune moment and we sucked on those oranges like lemons.

Part Two started, as it always does.
We had our peckers up and we started banging on their door like an over excited Hermes delivery driver.

First up, Mustard had a flicked header expertly tipped over the bar, and after new boy Bellamy had won the ball, he fed Football Focus who cut inside and tried to tee up Clintons but despite it being cut out, it fell for Mustard again who could only roll it wide tamely.

Enter Curo. The pitch that is. I love the guy but not like that. Easter Bunyan made way after working like a trojan horse, as in he was wooden and had lots of men inside him.

Bingo, best chance of the match falls to Focus after good work by Clintons and Curo, he cuts inside for the millionth time but blazes higher than a bong wielding hippy.

But it was coming.

It felt inevitable, and it was going to involve Football Focus. Once again, he gets wide out right and by now you'd think their left back would know what was coming, but apparently not as Dan cut inside on to his left peg but rolled it as softly as a Kleenex with Aloe Vera balm into the ball bag protectors palms.

You don't normally see Reggie get wound up on the pitch but as he chased down a Langley Lolloper the ball ended up off the byeline and the ref pointed to the corner, resulting in Reg going batshit mental at the jeb end in black. The corner nearly ended in Langley taking the lead but it was cleared and something else but as we were down the other end and I was starting to need a piss so wasn't really concentrating and I was getting nervous that they'd score and shit.

BUT, on came Richlist for his first minutes of the season after the Molesey mother fucker knobbled him in the last friendly. The difference was immediate and class finally told.

Mustard was as strong as an ox on a fuck load of steroids and held off several of their defenders and slipped in "Fister" Southam who made no mistake with a delicate dink over the ball bag protector. No disrespect to Fister but we didn't know if he had that in him but he put on the velvet glove and gave us the lead for the first time since the opening day of the season. 0-1 Boro. Woo hoo.

Naturally, we then feel a turtle head poking out and get numbers behind the ball in the hope of pushing it back up and not leave a skid mark.

However, it seems it was a master stroke as we lulled them into a false sense of security and hit them on the break like a cunt mugging a granny.

Unfortunately, it got to the point where my post half time tea filled bladder could take no more of the nerves and i was making my way up the bank towards the shitters when we fucking scored. I thought it was Curo as the players seemed to be congratulating him but it transpired it was Football Focus. I'm sure it was an absolute belter but I've no idea and there's no video evidence. Doesn't matter 0-2 Boro. Job done.

Bladder empty, and another great move involving Focus, Richlist and then finally Mustard got his reward as Forbes cross for Curo was blocked but it came back to him and he laid it on a plate like a big fuck off steak and Mustard snaffled it up. 0-3 Boro. Bish Bash Bosh.

Homeward bound with three points in the bag. THANK FUCK.

Next up was Gosport Borough. With all due respect, they are currently the whipping boys of the league and Basingrad gave them an eight star rodgering a few weeks back so they were there for the taking.....

Friday, 8 September 2017

Not Sweet at Fucking All Cup: an unwanted five-fer.

With the end of days fast approaching, Farnborough are making sure we go out as miserably as possible.

Two braindead knuckleheads going face to face, but that's enough about Day and Claridge, if there's to be an apocalypse, the very least we want is to go out with a smile on our faces, and possibly our trousers around our ankles.

Normally when you talk about a five-fer it's either a nice surprise in your jeans pocket or five wickets have tumbled to a fast arm or sly flicks of the wrist.

Well in this case it's certainly a load of wank but it's not all our own doing. Bad luck, bad officialling and a bender into the far corner as someone else finishes us off. It's a whole hands worth of defeats leaving us feeling empty and deflated.

Oh for the optimism of that sunny day in Cambridgeshire as we skipped gaily away from the St Neots with three points tucked into the back pocket of our best shorts and belief that it's all going to be ok.

It might be, dear friends, it might be. But as the dark clouds roll in, summer is turning into the autumn of our discontent.

On Saturday just past, the great bastion of British sporting history, the Football Association Cup came to town. The streets had never been so excited. Not since Smyths Toy Shop opened has there been such a furore on a Saturday. Bank Holidays maybe, but not a Saturday. Would we get 500 coming through the turnstiles? Would we get a fucking win?!?

No and fucking NO!!!!

With more surprises than an extra special episode of Surprise, Surprise where Cilla rises from the dead like Jesus fucking Christ, ANOTHER NEW PLAYER is in the starting line up. Taofiq Olomowewe (or Pissflaps as we christened him) was at centre half alongside Hightower back from injury, thank Christ, with The Salmon suspended by his own petard (and the F.A), CJ injured, Reggie at a wedding and Hucknall out on loan, we were scrapping the big barrel of spares and releases.

Thanks to someone with half a bloody brain at HQ, The Organ's red card had been rescinded, withdrawn and returned up the ref's arse, so he was back to show us what he can't do at right back. Truncheon was on the left.

In midfield, Clintons was given the armband, and what appeared to be a wandering brief, and it was pretty brief. Johnny Regis was in the centre with "Good" Evans and Football Focus was given the much deserved, essential, blindingly obvious first start on the right.

Up top was Pinky and Perky.

Let's have it.

Unfortunately we seemed far more interested in receiving within the first twenty minutes, and Salisbury were more than willing to plough us senseless.

If was a bit like deja fucking vu as after giving us a damn good pummelling, they took in the lead, when their No.7 prick, who was pretty useful and had a delicate, gentle touch was given the kind of room normally reserved for wedding nights to stroke home from the left of the area, off the upright.

As with the Sloughing we were given on Bank Holiday Monday, it looked like the floodgates would open like Iris over Houston. And we did have a massive fucking problem.

However just like last week, it appeared that our opposition decided it was all too easy and removed their pedal from the metal. This time, on the stroke of half time, some head tennis across their back line let Football Focus in on goal and with what we believed to be his weaker foot and from a difficult angle he slammed it into the far post, and just inside the onion bag. Whilst we dislike the antics going on at Billericay, we'd like to get on our knees and thank Glen Tamplin for lending us Dan "Football Focus" Walker. He's been the one bright spark in this run of dark, dark, putrid arse water of results. Can we have him for longer please, Glen, PLEASE!!

Half time would have been a blessed relief on 42 minutes but now we'd have preferred not to have gone in for a brew.

BUT.....

For a tiny period in the beginning of second half, the God of Football shone down on our little club and the lead was not so much gift wrapped as it had been given the full Rowan Atkinson in Love Actually treatment. A hopeful Football Focus ball over the top to the Hoffen was too long, but Perry gave their centre half enough to worry about so he didn't notice the keeper legging it out of his area and he nodded it straight past him and towards the empty goal. The look on Perry's face suggested he considered letting it roll in, but his natural striker instincts meant he tapped it in basically on the goal line.

Somehow we were 2-1 up, and it was perfect timing for the inebriated, misogynistic bellend who had been sat in front of us in the first half making pathetic comments about Emily when she came on to treat Hightower who had taken a blow to head and needed glueing back together. As he strolled past with burger and pint in his chubby mits he was given a proper mouthful from some of our youngsters in the PRE. Fucking poetry.

That was where the high points of the day ended though.

Credit to Claridge's pricks they picked themselves up and came back at us. It was only a matter of time before the equaliser came and it happened in our box from a corner and the woodwork and Liam might have saved the first header and I could have watched the highlights by FCVideo but I didn't ok cos i didn't want to because shortly after the equaliser they scored the winner when their substitute prick cut inside and curled one off in to the corner of the ball bag. Fuckerty bollocks.

The metaphorical field we play on is strewn with cow pats from the devil's own satanic herd.

We can make excuses and some are fair but sometimes you just have to knuckle down and grind the results out and we aren't doing that at the moment. Injuries will ease slowly, Richlist was on the bench but possibly only to make up the numbers, but hopefully he'll feature against Kings Langley this weekend.

There's a run of fixtures coming up now against teams in, around and below us. Now is the time to pick up some vital points, starting with the trip to Hertfordshire on Saturday and then we go to Gosport on Tuesday, followed by a weekend off as the GIVE.A.FA-CUP plays out the 2nd Qualifying Round.

Both teams won through narrowly in the cup last week against inferior opposition, but then they may say the same about us when we're in the league above Salisbury but in truth there isn't much to separate us on a level playing field, but we haven't had one of them for ages, and I'm not talking about the carpet we play on at San Cheerio.

Mustard has admirably been trying to play when not fit and he came on very early on when Spencer decided he'd had enough of what he'd seen from Regis and Evans and yanked them off after less than half an hour gone. He'll hopefully be ready to go now and we'll need him at his best as that will make the difference.

Reg the Ledge should have shaken off the hangover from the Reception, The Salmon might be back we're not sure but we think Hucknall will return as the month is up and Ruzicka has gone back out on loan to Fleet.

But, let's be honest, who the fuck knows. We could have even more new players.

Something to look forward to anyway.

Won't even consider a prediction. Don't want to tempt fate.

We'll see you there.

As always, COME ON YOU YELLOWS.