There is a meme going around social media at present “I met my younger self for a coffee today” where people egregiously list all of their achievements under the guise that they are handing out mental health advice. It’s as stomach churning as it sounds.
Nevertheless, it made me realise that had my younger self met me this weekend, he’d have been fucking disgusted at who I’ve become. “A game you’ve been looking forward to for years and not only are you not on the piss, but you’re listening to a Alain de Botton podcast on the way up? Who the fuck even are you?” is how I suppose this entirely imaginary conversation would go.
In my defence, this is exactly how I pictured a mid late thirties life crisis would look. You need to be married to get divorced and I’ve got fuck all use for a Porsche in Amsterdam, so hiring a Nissan T-Cross to drive for 8 hours to watch Chertsey vs Dorchester will have to do.
Some important context I feel need to be added at this juncture: I was born and raised in Chertsey up until the age of ten, when we moved down to Dorset. It has never been confirmed by my parents, but my suspicion that calling them “cunts” one night after Cubs probably had a sizeable influence in their sudden desire to escape the London suburbs for a new life in the country. (I had overheard the word from some older boys, assumed it was spelt ‘cunse’ and bravely used the word without context on the drive home. The firm backhand across the face from my Dad provided me with all the context needed.)
Despite that last memory of the place, Chertsey was a nice place to grow up as a kid and ever since their rise up through the leagues I’ve been looking forward to returning to Alwyn’s Lane and having a bit of a pub crawl through the town centre. Sadly, that’ll have be next time.
The recent passing of my Father and Uncle meant that I drove up from Dorset and began the day with a visit to the Eastworth Road cemetery to sprinkle their ashes over their mum’s grave. Problem one: Whilst Uncle Chris was handily distributed into a number of handy sprinkle sized urns, Dad was packed into one, warhead sized one…. making it impossible to sneak him into the cemetery (apparently you need permission to sprinkle ashes in cemeteries and I don’t have patience for that nonsense). Fortunately, I found a suitable alternative in the kitchen. It’s what he would have wanted.
Problem Two: I could not find Grandma’s grave. Anywhere. I spent two hours searching every single tombstone in the cemetery for “Beatrice Lovett” but to no avail. Hungry, frustrated and acutely aware that Tom’s train was arriving in ten minutes, I found a grave with four members of a Lovett family on it, told myself that she had wanted to be buried alongside her family and said to myself “Fuck it, this better be the right family” and got a move on to the station. (I send my apologies to the other Lovett family and to Uncle Chris if I am mistaken. To Dad I say, tough luck…. that backhand hurt!)
Meeting TG off the train, we wondered up the High Street to which Tom was pleasantly surprised by the town. “To be honest Cam, I always assumed you grew up on a council estate. But Chertsey is actually quite nice.” This was quite the juxtaposition from the Whatapp group, where Evo has constantly declared me the most Tory person in the group and demanded photo evidence of the most Tory things in Chertsey to prove his hypothesis. This is quite ironic given he had turned up to Hanwell dressed in tweed leading to one of Tom’s mates asking if he had come directly from the Farmers Protest in Whitehall. As it happens, the Olde Swan quickly satisfied his politics of envy cravings.
As it turned out, I wasn’t the only one who had had a shocker of a morning. Floydy missed the giant puddle of spilt white paint on the high street, walked straight through it, splattering his Columbo coat. His trainers were as white as his face that time Vickers called him in to his office for posting on the W*ymouth forum when he was our stand in first choice keeper. Not to be outdone, JP refused to wait a whole fifteen minutes for a connecting train at Twickenham and hailed a black cab. That fifteen minutes of impatience would cost him £72. To compound things, his attempts at negotiating a lower fee were quickly dismissed. Who knew racist cockneys weren’t overly accommodating chaps?
Alwyn’s Lane was exactly how I remembered it – a proper old-school non-league ground, with a lovely little main stand and terraces all around. We were reliable informed by Buik that it was very similar to the old Avenue, complete with slope! In the first half we were playing down said slope – and after four disappointing results that threatened to derail our play-off hopes, we came straight out of the blocks and were all over the hosts. Still walking around behind the goal, we really should have taken the lead within four minutes, but Roberts found himself with too much time, over thought it and dragged his shot somehow wide.
Shaq, Olaf and Wes all went close as the pressure mounted and you sensed a goal coming. So of course, Floyds, having not seen us win in 408 days (since Didcot last season) decided now would be a good time to get a round in. And just as Tom and I laughed at how funny it’d be if we scored now and he missed it, it came true…
After a corner the ball was recycled out to Roberts who whipped in a delicious cross towards the back post, where Shaq followed in, reached out and got the faintest of toes to it to redirect it in to the corner of the net. Everyone looked to the lino, but with his flag staying down we had permission to celebrate. Apparently Shaq didnt have the permission from the ref and he picked up a yellow card for having the tenacity to run behind the goal to celebrate with the fans.
It certainly looked a close call and that was confirmed when an old lad from the side of the pitch walked round moments after and asked if Shaq got a touch as he was off. “Well you win some and you lose some…he was well onside last week at Hanwell, so they even out” I stated. “I couldn’t give a fuck what happened at Hanwell” he replied, as it dawned on me he was Chertsey, not Dorch. Nice Chap.
Nevertheless, the booking of Shaq was ridiculous and the Ref and Lino further endeared themselves to the Dorch fans when they gave a free kick when the Chertsey #3 tripped over his own feet in the most blatant of dives and then refused to award a penalty when Olaf’s cross struck #5’s outstretched hand. Wes meanwhile was booked for being kicked in the head. He ref was having a very poor game.
The players vented their frustrations to the officials at half time, as did Floyds. When the Lino came over to check the nets before the second half kick off, he bellowed:
“Do better this half Lino, that a was a blatant handball… Fucking disgusting decision!”
“Wasn’t me mate, I was up this half”
“Oh, well.. have a good half anyway”
We were joined behind the goal in the second half by Olly Haste, who appeared dressed like he had come straight from Dorchester Middle School.
With the slope in their favour, Chertsey posed a bit more of a threat second half, but we never looked really uncomfortable. Wes covered every blade of grass, and what he didn’t cover Jordan wrapped up nicely as he seemed to be back to his best after a couple unlike-him performances. Shaq and Olaf’s energy were putting the Chertsey defence under constant pressure and Ieaun had Mazzone comfortably in his pocket. We had a few promising counter attacks, where the bobbly pitch or final pass let us down and prevented us finishing it off with a second.
As the game neared the end, Chertsey started to just pump the ball into the box and began to put us under a bit of pressure without every really worrying us,… largely due to Harry Lee collecting absolutely everything. Sensing an important moment in the game, we attempted to ratchet up the noise for the final moments and in the absence of Drummer, Floydy slapped the concrete perimeter wall hoping to get a noise out of it – but only ended up injuring his wrist… to the surprise of no-one.
The final whistle came with something of a small sense of relief. Chertsey were an organised side who put us under some pressure towards the end and we’ve definitely played worse teams this season. The adage that there are no easy games in this league was only confirmed by Havant only managing to draw at another relegation threatened side, Frome. With that we opened up a valuable three point gap over them.
Celebrating as you’d expect from an important win, the Yoof shook the goal stanchion in front of them, irking the groundsman who threatened to kick them out.. seemingly unaware that fans tend to leave of their own accord following the full time whistle. When he was goaded a little bit more about the result, he retorted “I couldn’t give a fuck about the result mate, I’m just the groundsman!” Such lack of unity and pride within the club might be why they’re struggling down the bottom of the league…
Back in the bar to celebrate three valuable points, TK seemingly took advantage of his touch line ban to be in the bar a few moments after the whistle, but not quick enough to beat the queue. Never mind, as he sauntered straight to the front… “Tommy, there’s a queue here mate” I pointed out.
The self-congratulations for speaking up when no-one else dared was quickly replaced by the dawning horror that I’ve got to message him on Thursday for his notes for the programme, and he could easily reply “Do you know what Cam, you can ghost write them from now on!” My supercilious swagger was replaced by a daunting horror, and as soon as I got to the front of the queueI hastily asked “Tommy, can I get you a pint?” What a fucking melt!
A couple more cheap Asahi’s for the others later and it was time to head home. JP, now in for a penny in for seventy-two pound, persuaded Tommy to go boozing in Walton en route back to London, whilst Floyds wanted to get back to Newbury pronto as he had a dog sitter he wanted to try and root. (An achievement in itself after than many pints) All this left me to drive back to drive back down the M3 to Dorset, and with no Alain de Botton on this leg, I was accompanied by back-to-back episodes of Mike & Vittorio’s Guide to Parenting , where they covered everything from the confusion of ordering a Thai/Thigh massage when you have a thick Irish accent, how the Farming Journal is not in fact a rural version of Anne Frank’s Diary and are there Glory Holes in the Great Wall of China?
Perhaps the constant belly laughing distracted me but as I approached St Leonards disaster almost struck. The car ahead of me slammed on its breaks as some shadowy figures in black appeared in the dual carriageway. Fortunately, I reacted in time too and as I shouted “what the fuck” to myself, I spotted the team coach in the lay-by and realised it wasn’t kids playing chicken across the A31, but our team crossing to the Shell carriage on the other side. (I can only assume their coaches’ toilets were closed like ours were the other week). We’ve been joking in the WhatsApp group of late that after Covid saved us from relegation, karma would have it’s way with WW3 halting our promotion bid. I don’t think anyone had our season ending prematurely by half the team being mowed down by the Programme Editor on their bingo card.
Fortunately, the season lives on and with Havant dropping points, we now sit three points ahead of them ahead of the visit of bottom placed Marlow on Saturday, before three huge games against fellow play-off contenders Totton, Walton & Gloucester.
Marlow is, coincidentally both Non-League Day and our Ex-Players Day, with a number of Magpies Legends heading down to the Avenue and will no doubt be regaling a few stories from Yesteryear. It promises to be a great occasion, so do get down to the Avenue for what should be an enjoyable Saturday. Finger’s crossed there’s a managers column in the programme, too. If not, you can have words with Tommy. You’ll find him at the front of the queue for the bar. CM.