Well, this is an honour.
Until a Tuesday night in Hungerford last season, it had been many years since I showed my face at a Dorch game. The buzz was back after many years in exile in the leafy green belt of Berkshire. Killick was in, a new generation of reprobates behind the goal are emptying the keepers’ water bottles and an acceptance into the TSOF WhatsApp group. Sadly, since then my record is 6 games, 1 win, 3 draws and 5 red cards.
To be honest, I’m pretty sure I was still hungover from the previous week’s trip to Totton. There was absolutely no build up in the week towards the game and Vossy and I accepted we would finally be victims of more flags than fans. Sadly, we can’t be massive every week. Being a single man in his 30’s, sometimes you miss those cute morning texts from the other half. Saturday mornings text was from Fred saying he wants to go but £48 for a 55-minute train journey was a fucking rip off and I should convince him. I said don’t bother but alas, we had another soldier. Thatcher’s Britain.
We agreed to meet in Swindon town centre as the ground appeared to be in the arse end of nowhere. A short train from Newbury to Reading, Kingfisher in hand and a change over to land in Wiltshire. I’m no stranger to Swindon and it seems to get bleaker every time I visit. The Slough lot did a good job incorporating these Swindon slugs. Fred met and hugged, we took our pick of 2 pubs opposite the station and took the least rough looking. We chatted all things in the beer garden. Sheffield, getting women up the duff and will Tommy Killick make an appearance on a cherry picker, due to another stadium ban. All of this in the shadow of a 6-carton cigarette negotiation happening behind us.
We jumped in a cab and asked to go to Supermarine. He asked if it was the rugby ground as that’s the only thing he knows around there. You just knew this was the hallmarks of being an absolute drab news.
Some positivity my end whilst on route though. Vossy text me to advise he was on the guest list but wasn’t informed in time so I was welcome to use his name on the door. I wasn’t the only one to have told a little white lie at the gate. Vossy told me on his way to the turnstiles he was with Mitch and his lad Aiden, and upon hearing the under 12’s get in for free, Mitch declared Aiden was 11 for the day saving them the cost of sweets, crisps, and an adult beverage. We’ll see how old Aiden is come Saturday at Bracknell, it might change yet again.
ID fraud committed; we were in the Webbswood. I’m old fashioned when it comes to non-league grounds and thought it was tidy. No plastic grass or metal container but enough wood to cause Keith Lard to have a breakdown. Laugh or burn, take your pick.
We met the board members, fans and stewed team selections over various pints. Sadly, it was confirmed that Killick would not be making an appearance and would be not piercing a hole in the dome at one end of the ground. To my surprise a good 30 odd Dorch fans made the trip including one whose arse cheeks have been shared in the WhatsApp group more than any porn star. Back in our day we could barely fill a minibus an hour down the road so even on a weekend off for the majority, it was good numbers. Even Peter Lovenkrand’s son made an appearance.
To be honest, there’s not a massive amount I can report from the game. Frankly, the first half was shit. Wes Fogden provided his usual hustle and bustle and Daws’s pink boots clashed horrendously with our yellow strip and Dabbs spent 10 mins going on a rampage about Craig Davis and 28 day loan applications. Swindon’s best defender in the first half was the ref who got in the way 3 times resulting in a drop ball and on the 4th, let it through his legs and gave a thumbs up to us behind the goal. Grow up mate. For about 5 minutes the incredibly enthusiastic stadium announcer left his mic on and what sounded like a call to prayer was playing in the background. We could have given Allah Olaf’s role for 6 hours and we still wouldn’t have scored.
0-0 at half time and although pretty “meh” behind the goal, we weren’t losing and know our Polish king is capable of second half hattricks. As goes the tradition though, two minutes into the second half we were 1 down after a bombardment of our left flank that would have left Jeremy Corbyn in tears.
The rest of the half was as predictable as the first. Wes running his heart out, JD absolutely bombing forwards everytime he got the ball and an opposite defence setting up camp. The keeper made a couple of good saves but we had no answer. The icing on the bitterest of cakes was Corby tripping over his own foot trying to make a pass, handballing it on his tumble and getting booked. If you don’t laugh you cry.
Full time and the post mortem began both in the bar and on WhatsApp. Frankly, it was crap pretty much everywhere. 1 goal in 4 games says a lot yet somehow, we finished still in the play offs. How times have changed eh. We finished our pints in the bar after, gave the minibus the usual 2 finger salute home and jumped in a uber back to the station.
Reflecting on the way home how much of a difference Killick makes to this side – our record without him on the touchline is pretty startling. When you are missing your manager, centre back & captain and your leading goal scorer from last season, you’re going to win fuck all. Back home to Newbury for a curry, bottle of sauvignon and absolute fireworks in the WhatsApp that evening.
It would be nice to witness a convincing win at least some point this season but I would also like to moonwalk son, life’s a shit house. DF.
Leave a Reply