The only other time I’ve written the blog was 10 years and 1 million miles away from where we are now as a club. A 3-0 loss away at Redditch on a Monday night in front of a bumper crowd of 204 might have been the bleakest moment of my life, just pipping my mum dying two months before. Supporting Dorch never really got any better than that and I fully believed that wizard’s curse on the club was a real problem. Until a man called Tommy Killick came and lifted it.
Merthyr at home had the potential to be a great day on and off the pitch. They have been flying this season, sitting at the top of the table, scoring 45 goals with Ricardo Rees seemingly scoring a hattrick every game. We’re in and around the play offs and had already beaten Totton and Gloucester, two of the other high-flying sides. Both teams were more than capable of winning this one. Merthyr are a club I’ve liked since a trip there in 2016, where we were drinking with their fans before and after the game. Strengthening a friendship that had started years before when their fans turned up at our game away at Farnborough after theirs was postponed. A proper club with a proper fanbase.
Armed with football stickers and a fresh box of Rennies, like someone who doesn’t know whether he’s 12 or 55, I jumped on the train for the 10-minute journey north to the county town. Slightly hungover, an army of toddlers screaming in the carriage wasn’t ideal but it did remind me of the rumours that had been circulating of 40 Poole fans planning to turn up at our game. They don’t seem to like us or Merthyr very much. I was still sporting bruises on my arms from sparring at my local MMA gym and I’m not into rolling around with anyone outside of a gym setting. Especially this lot. Everyone knows there’s nothing more terrifying than 8 stone 14 year olds in Aquascutum scarves. Hang on. Southern league football and rolling around with teenagers? There’s a joke in there somewhere but I’m better than that…
I arrived at Dorch to meet everyone and the group had already seemed to have split between Vivo, Tom Browns and Copper Street. The plan was to meet at Hardys (it’ll always be the George – Hardys is utter woke nonsense) but it was closed so plans quickly changed to The Blue Raddle, via a Greggs Festive Bake that was hotter than the sun. I finally met up with George, Ellie, Steve, Henry and his mate Kyle from Rhondda. With the Landlord revealing his grandad was also from Rhondda and the 150 Merthyr fans coming down, it felt like half the town was Welsh. A couple of pints there and witnessing Steve’s world come crashing down after realising Henry started school in the same year Steve was finishing, we headed to the Junction for another pit stop with SV and his mob before walking to the ground.
Approaching the Avenue, there was already good noise from both ends. We made our way through the busy bar where the General was given his season ticket back. He didn’t even know he’d lost it during the 20 second walk from the turnstiles to the bar. Pints secured, we headed outside. Merthyr’s talk of 100-150 fans was true and they were making some good noise with some great flags up in the Bypass End. Anyway, enough of this love in, fuck them for the next 90 minutes.
Merthyr were moving the ball around really well and funnily enough, looking like a team who were top of the league. They found the goal in the 19th minute and took the lead. It’s not long ago that I’d have been fearing the worst at this point but this is a far different Dorch side to the ones I’m watched over the years. 20 minutes later, George was wearing his pint after celebrating the equaliser from fellow Yeovil lad, Matt Buse. 1-1 at half time, I’ll take that.
A “2-1 down” message on the WhatsApp group came as a surprise to me and Steve, who, still in the bar, didn’t realise the second half had kicked off. The first person we saw outside confirmed the message wasn’t a piss take and we were in fact already 2-1 down. This didn’t stop the Bypass End making a racket in the second half, with a lot of help from Drummer Josh. Drums are a controversial subject in English football but anything that helps make a bit of noise is fine by me. Actually, ignore that, I’ve just remembered the England Band exist. I’d rather listen to Dabbs talk about toilets and classrooms for 90 minutes. I’m not sure Buik would though, more on that later.
The atmosphere was electric behind the goal and we were rewarded when another really well worked goal was finished by Buse for his second. Both sides had a good go at finding a winner but I think everyone in the ground was satisfied when the ref blew the final whistle. 2-2. I’d love to give you more of a detailed write up of the game but it’s probably not reliable from someone who thought Merthyr’s Rees had been subbed off, only to be corrected on WhatsApp by Floydy who was 80 odd miles away. Head over to the DTFC website for Vossy’s review. The atmosphere in the ground and the quality on the pitch was a great advert for the league and non league football in general and although we didn’t win, it’s days like these that make up for the depressing football we’ve had to endure over the years.
The bar after was once again rammed, Magpies and Martyrs drinking together and everyone agreeing that the result was more than fair. A good catch up with the Welsh lads and other Dorch faces was followed by The Junction and my final stop of the evening. SV’s mate Jonesy had joined us for the day and his first DTFC home match, which he had loved, and is already looking into which other games he’ll be able to get to. 25 years in the prison service had given him some fascinating stories on the Strangeway Riots and villains like Charles Bronson and Ian Huntley. Nothing on Steve Claridge though. To quote Buik the next day “Vossys mate was talking about Bronson and other nasty bastards and Dabbs was interrupting about how many pints were sold at the club. I couldn’t take it so fucked off to the chippy”.
Not long after, I had to catch my train back home so headed for Dorch South. Checking the time on the walk, I realised I had misjudged it and had to burst into a sprint, which with a belly full of Thatchers, probably wasn’t much of a sprint at all and the train left without me. I managed to jump in a taxi with a couple who were also heading to Weymouth and I was safely home, behind enemy lines.
I’m not sure there’s much chance of me joining the list of literary greats from Dorchester like Hardy, Barnes and Voss but you might hear from me in another 10 years or so. Cheers.
Dorchy am byth. JW.
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