“To lose patience is to lose the battle,” once said the great Gandhi. If his team were in the play-offs but hadn’t won in 406 days, I reckon even he would have knocked the protests on the head. Alas, a dogged 1-0 win at Chertsey two weekends ago and we were back in business. Of course, I missed our goal as I was at the bar chatting to a Chertsey fan, saying how we’re shit against lower-table opposition. He took one look over his shoulder and said, “You’re 1 up.”
On video evidence, my three-pint-holding waddle down the touchline was still quicker than it appears Brett Pitman can move.
Onto Totton. I had already been here once this season for the 1-0 loss in the FA Trophy in October, and we were very unlucky that day. It’s a pretty easy one for me to get to, and knowing another army of “carrot-crunching retards” were on their way from deepest, darkest Dorset, I knew it was going to be a good one. Standard trip to Reading, then a change onto an oversold cross-country service down to Southampton to meet some exiles.
Just before pulling into Southampton, I managed to get through the packed aisles for a quick toilet break. As the curved door slowly opened, I was greeted by a blind woman sat having a shit, hand over her growler, and the guide dog bogging me out. Of course, being British, I apologised to her whilst frantically tapping the close door button. I turned round to see four lads absolutely pissing themselves with a very simple, “Think someone’s in there, mate.” Fair play.
I made it to Yates Southampton (to my surprise, Yates was even still a thing) to meet the Yeovil, Ferndown, London, and Dorchester squad. What I appeared to walk in on was a Fred Perry convention, all drinking Fosters. We discussed all the important matters for the day—paedophiles, Ikea furniture, and Pitman’s ridiculous hat trick the weekend before. Ubers done, we made it to Totton to meet the rest of the clan. As seems to be the norm now, both bars were full of Dorch in excellent spirits.
As is now a weekly event, I had a pint with Ant, trying to explain to him that Newbury is, in fact, not in London. We came to the conclusion that a roughly 50-minute train to Paddington is “basically London anyway.” I’m sure this hypothesis will develop in the coming weeks.
Game due to start, and we were expecting a bumper crowd. A club that’s famous for exaggerating their attendances more than I exaggerate my Tinder matches, and with what appeared to be roughly 150–200 Dorchies, it was going to be a lively one. The youth were warming up their voices nicely with a rendition of “Tony’s gonna get ya” to the 13-year-old mascots.
The game couldn’t have started much worse as a penalty was awarded to Totton that the Station Masters FC would’ve been proud of on a Sunday morning. Route one from the keeper, split the defenders, and a touch from Spetch, and Seymour was down in the box. Pen blasted in, 1 down.
As has been the benchmark of this club this season, we did the opposite of dropping off and started playing some slick football. A fine move that must have included 20–25 passes led to a cut-back to Fogden, who smashed it in. 1-1, stag’s voice crying, keeper covered in beer. That was about it for the first half as it turned into a pretty scrappy game.
Half-time and the bar was getting lively with Dorch having a sing-song. Of course, I missed all of it as I was waiting for my burger, chatting to Hastey (still suspended), who had just done a stint on Solent Radio commentary. Turns out he really enjoyed it. I told him to get it out of his head as we need him back at Gloucester.
The second half proceeded as the first half finished. The game became scrappy, and it turns out even with all the money in the world, Totton play some shit football and resort to Vickers-esque channel lumps. The second time I’ve seen Charlie Austin this season and he was even worse than the first time. I can only assume this was due to my constant screaming at him defending corners that his horse is fucking shit and I lost the house, wife, and kids to it (editor’s note: I didn’t).
We played much better football, and Ngalo and Wes controlled the game in the second half. Finally, my long-awaited viewing of Brett Pitman in a Dorch shirt was sadly very uneventful. Turns out if you aren’t playing bottom of the league, the service can be few and far between. The game finished 1-1, which in the end was a fair result. Sadly, Havant scored three in the last five minutes to beat Marlow, so they’re now a point behind us. It’s going to be a nervy finish to the season.
We piled back into the clubhouse, all having a good old sing-song. Turns out that after the game, the second clubhouse is the “hospitality” bar but was full of us reprobates. This was even more piss-boiling to the Totton member of staff who was trying to put something on the jukebox and was getting royally pissed off (he definitely seemed like a Neil Diamond – Sweet Caroline selector). To his surprise, asking Dorch fans to shut up is very hopeful. Of course, people doubled down and started smacking anything in sight, which included a shutter, table, and pool table triangle.
Enough was enough; a bellow from behind the bar saying no more service and to get back on our fucking bus, like a group of Bolton stag doers trying to get into the Phoenix Club. Luckily for me, this cleared the ten-person queue, and I snuck in for my last pint. Ubers booked back to Southampton, and for one final surprise, Vossy pulled out a fetching Totton quarter zip that was grabbed en route out of the club by his other half thinking it belonged to one of us. That is now added to the Basingstoke shorts and Poole flag in the stolen treasure trove.
Another successful day where the football was the worst bit. As you may have realised by the blogs I do, I don’t tend to concentrate on the football much, and by the second half, my memory is gone. Onto Gloucester next and nothing but a win will do. A 3-0 win, to be precise.
Thank you for reading. Thoughts go out to the blind woman who probably won’t read this anyway. DF
