It’s always the same isn’t it? You wait all summer for the trip to Arlesey on the opening day and then have to make two journeys there in one weekend.
Still, if you’re stupid enough to leave a hardly inconspicuous, 10ft St George’s flag on the platform, you’ve only got yourself to blame really.
Sadly, I would love to say that was the only fuck up of the day, but that would be far from the truth, as will become clear…
The first fuck up came before the Dorch lot had even left town. In a rare move of forward thinking and initiative, Steve had pre-booked the tickets on the Friday night. All well and good, but he had somehow forgot to ensure that the tickets were booked for the Saturday, not that same day. One argument with a jobsworth train guard and forty quid each later and the boys were en route to Waterloo – scene of fuck up number two.
In taking advantage of South West Train’s special offer, Steve had booked the tickets in two separate legs. Dorch to Waterloo and Kings Cross to Arlesey. Now, the more eagle eyed reader will notice that there should be a leg in between – namely, Waterloo to Kings Cross – you would be correct. But evidently, things aren’t that simple, and so it was left for the six of them to each run through the barriers at Waterloo tube, with, I imagine, the grace and subtly only Jean Charles de Menezes could admire!
We met them at the Euston Flyer for breakfast where conversation naturally turned to the price of pints in London, the dread of derby day in a few weeks and the drinking rules for the forthcoming season. It was here that we learnt that Glees wouldn’t be play as there had been a fuck up with his registration after he pulled out moving to Poole at the 11th hour during the summer.
Having ran for the train, half of us settled into first class to sink a couple more cans, whilst the other half bottled it and slummed it in cattle class. The trip to Arlesey is only half an hour long, but with Steve and Phil on the same trip, time tends to stands still. See, these two argue more frequently and more spectacularly than Nigella and Saatchi did in their heyday. And with each other completely missing each other’s point with magnificent aggression, the journey took an age. Fortunately, with only half the lads at the tables, we had plenty of beers, so whilst Steve and Phil went at it hammer and tongs, the rest of us slumped into our extra-wide chairs to drink until the noise disappeared.
Arriving at Arlesey, we popped into the first pub, where the plan was to order two taxi’s to the ground. And it was here that the realisation that we are now in the Southern League really hit home.
It was, according to the landlord going to be impossible to get a taxi as no taxi firm would drive out to the tiny village for a five minute journey. Out best bet lay in the two-an-hour village bus. Half an hour until the next one so plenty of time to sink a quick round in the sunny beer garden.
Fuck up number three (or four?) came on the bus to the ground, when it struck us that the vast majority of us had not taken out cash in London, fully expecting there to be a cash point in Arlesey. It’s going to take a while getting used to this Southern League lark aint it!
Once a couple of lads has shouted everyone else, we arrived at the ground just as the game kicked off, where we headed round to the terrace behind the goal, to watch a half in which we dominated possession, but missed chance after chance after chance.
At half time, everyone knew what would happen second half. There was certain inevitability about it. Something we had witnessed countless times last season. Having should have been out of sight at the break, Arlesey had one chance second half and took it – AWH fumbling a cross that landed at the feet of their striker to tap in. New season, same story.
With a worrying sense of panic and agitation, passes were forces, shots were snatched and three winnable points were dropped.
Now if there’s one thing we learnt last season, that was how to drown our sorrows. And that we did. Stevie got the first post-match round in – a £30 round of Jagerbombs and from there it, naturally, descended. [Ed – the full story to this according to Fred is: “Who else would have bought a round of jagarbombs just because he said the word ‘Plymouth’ and everyone else went ‘ooooh you said it’?”] As the players came out in flip-flops and shorts, because the club aren’t doing tracksuits this season, refreshing honest and frank conversations were had until the effect of the jagers began to take hold.
With Ben making his Same Old Few debut and our players on the coach home, the challenge of a Zulu Warrior drink off was accepted by Arlesey’s towering centre back. We had tried to get Rufus Brevett to partake, but in the end we settled for him officiating the duel between a 6ft4+ brick shit house and,… er, Ben.
Ben duly lost of course and with a head soaked in the left-over beer, we somehow managed to persuade the bar maid to give us a lift back into town (presumably as we didn’t feel fit to take public transport but felt it fine to jump into the back of an old lady’s car?!)
Assembled back at the Oak and with an hour or so until the train, we sunk a few more. Just a nice, quick, quiet few? No. Not a chance! With the space of the hour, Steve had spilt a pint down himself, Tom was on the table belting out ‘Africa’ by Toto for some reason, Phil had gotten his remarkably over-sized bollock out, which in turn led to me getting throttled by the bloke next to us after I, admittedly, massively over-stepped the mark of what’s acceptable to say to another man’s girlfriend when drunk.
The thirty second walk back to the station for the Oak, seemingly took 10 minutes, as we wrapped Steve in the St George’s flag and threw him into every bush in sight. The line was finally drawn and attentions turned to the station when we were told to do one having tried to chuck Steve into the back of a van, whilst a couple were unloading their items having just moved house. Seems fair enough in hindsight but at the time I thought he was a boring old bastard!
On the train home, we happened to sit opposite a cute young couple who were heading into London on a date. Leave them alone to enjoy the evening? Hell no. By the end of the trip, they had been up on the seats singing a lovely duet with far more ease [and grace] than Keith, Steve was [once again] bundled up into the luggage rack in something that is now becoming a ritual and none of us had realised that we had left the flag on the platform.
Back in London, we all went our own way, as the Dorch lot once again ran through the barriers only to lose Phil and Tom who jumped on the wrong tube and only made the last train back to Dorset with “20 seconds” to spare. Once on the train, Phil and Steve proceeded to have one of their famous ‘rows’ (they really need to be seen to be believed) which apparently consisted of them shouting “HOW MANY FANS CLAPPED YOU OFF?!” (He meant players, not fans) and “I DON’T TRUST SIMKIN” at each other whilst the lady next to them bellowed at them to “SHUT UP!”
It’s never dull with Dorchester. (It is – We have Burnham away tomorrow night. Christ.)
CM.
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