On Tuesday September 30th in 2014 we lost 6-1 away at Cirencester Town in front of a whopping crowd of 75. This was our first season at this level following a relegation from the Conference South with a whimper, and you’d be forgiven for thinking this was as bad as it could get. Wrong. 6-0 at home to Farnborough, 4-0 away at Cinderford, 6-5 at St Neots having been 5-4 up, 5-0 at Plymouth Parkway, 4-0 at Redditch, a three-game run on the road of 3-0 at Biggleswade, 4-0 at Chippenham and 5-0 at Leamington Spa under Laird, the list goes on and is quite frankly very distressing, really culminating in a disastrous 4-2 home defeat by Hungerford in January of last year that left us in the relegation places and staring down the barrel of another relegation scrap.
But they say the darkest hour of the night comes just before the dawn, and if dawn was Will Fletcher’s chip from a neighbouring borough at Harrow last season to kickstart that season as the first sign of light, the sun has been shining ever since and fuck me was the sun shining on us as we gave Hungerford their receipt and a bit more as we secured a place in the playoffs in quite ridiculous fashion on Saturday. For those who have had the misfortune of reading this blog over the past few seasons, there hasn’t been much to shout about, but with somewhere in the region of 250 odd Dorch there on Saturday, the dross we’ve seen over the years faded into irrelevance. We’ve got a team who are fucking good and who don’t know when they’re beaten and Totton won’t relish the idea of playing us on Wednesday in a playoff semi-final that didn’t seem likely at five to five on Saturday.
We knew what the equation was well before Saturday, match Havant’s result and we’d take fifth place and the final playoff spot. And for me personally, nerves didn’t really set in until Saturday at about three o’clock. Anticipation had built all weekend given the previous three games, and it isn’t hard to see why. After the sickener that was Gloucester’s 97th minute equaliser that saw us drop out of the playoff spots, we followed it up with three results that matched the monumental days out we had. A 1-0 win over Walton with TSOF going ‘corporate’ for the day with match sponsorship was followed by an all-timer of an away day at Frome with Brett Pitman’s trickshot off a prone opponent’s head giving us a late 3-2 win on Good Friday. If Friday was Good, Bank Holiday Monday was better as we overcame both Poole and Andy Rossiter’s ego to claim our second 3-2 win in a matter of days, cattlepolts and all. Saturday had the potential to top the lot, or go down in infamy as we’d either secure a playoff spot for the first time in years, or shit the bed.
When Saturday came and the two battle buses departed the Avenue at 1045, nerves had set in amongst many. Pete Hassell was working out how many cigarettes he’d need for the 90 minutes, El Gen’s bad back was already twitching, Columbo was looking at how GWR’s trains were holding up, and Dave House’s grandson had made a start on the creme eggs before we’d hit the Puddletown Bypass. The fact we had two full coaches is madness given we’ve recently gone whole seasons without the need for one at any time, let alone two for the same game, but Tommy Killick’s Magpies are worth seeing and it really is fantastic seeing so many people at both home and away games. People you might see at the occasional Boxing Day game are now regular fixtures, and given there were 2,100 Dorch fans there against Poole, hopefully we’ll see a good chunk of them back next season, regardless of what league we’re in.
With no service stop and plenty of conversation, the very scenic journey to Hungerford flew by, especially for my other half who wisely decided to have a nap rather than listen to Pete and I talk about late day dramas with both Bournemouth and Pompey – I’ll tell her about Deon Burton at Huddersfield another time – and at 1245 we arrived at Bulpit lane. Hungerford is a very nice area, but parking for the first team coach and two supporters’ coaches is something they didn’t have, so we were dropped off nearby and went to find the Borough Arms where Yeovil’s answer to the Kray’s and the other half of the Wagpies were. I’m unsure if the steward directed them to the nearest pub or they used the luminous Peppa Pig bag as a guiding light, but soon the Borough Arms had an influx of at least 60 thirsty Dorch fans.
And it wasn’t just the Yeovil crew who had arrived early to the pub. Upon walking though the doors one minibus load of Dorch was already in, as well as Budds and co who had decided this was really a big day out and had got the 0750 train out of Dorch West and had a full card school in progress with more £1 coins than you’ll see this side of Cal Coleman at a fruit machine. The beer garden was a full Magpie takeover with black and white shirts everywhere, and the authentic away end experience was added to by both singing and Bargey making an absolute pigs ear of trying to hang a flag and almost bringing down some fairy lights in the process.
There was the makings of a decent DPL side in the bar, and you could have got both a hell of a skittles side and a very good Hardye’s 5a-side Sunday night side from by the pool table as the great and the good of Dorchester quenched their thirst. The first of the exiles contingent arrived as Eames and Goddard joined the fray, and nerves were building, not just because Dev Derrien tried to get on top of a roof again when he’s hardly stable on solid ground. As pints were finished and Budds went all in to lose 3kg of shrapnel, we headed off towards the ground with optimism based not only on our form, but previous history at the ground.
A 2-0 win against a previously unbeaten home side here had really kickstarted our surge when Jem came in as an own goal and a Nathan Walker strike fired us to victory, and we overturned a 2-0 halftime deficit here the next season as a Lewis Morgan goal with an assist from the advertising boards saw us run out 3-2 winners. We claimed a 1-1 draw at the same venue last season, and in the reverse fixture at home this season we claimed an unlikely win as despite being both a man down and 2-1 down at halftime, an Olaf inspired second half turned that deficit into a 4-2 win. We didn’t necessarily need to win on Saturday, but it would ease everyone’s nerves if we did so and wrapped it up early.
As the team news filtered in and we found out that the dual Harrys of Lee and Hutch were in for Crisp and Roberts, the nervous energy was growing at the same rate at the queues for food and beer, the Bulpit Bundle of beer, burger and a ticket going down well with all involved. It was apparent we’d travelled in Frome-esq numbers and Daddy daycare issues were no issue for Gordy and Wardy as they both decided an afternoon of marshalling the kids at Hungerford was preferable to an afternoon at the park. And let’s be honest, dealing with a potentially troublesome lad who might strop and shit everywhere is something Wardy has been training all his life for given he has Spud as a brother. Despite the delightful colourful backpacks the kids had, nothing quite matched my Peppa Pig flag receptacle.
For many of us, this is the first experience of anything that wasn’t a relegation battle on the last day, so I wasn’t as nervous as I might have been. Many who had been watching Dorch for a lot longer than I couldn’t really liken it to anything else other than a depressing day at Bognor Regis some nearly 20 years ago, and even then it wasn’t in our hands. But the novelty was soon to wear off and anxiety was to set in.
Soon the players were out and it was up the steep gradient to the top end as we went uphill first half. The top end of the considerable slope is where the largest stand is at the ground, and noise was soon being made as the temporary bar was frequented by several before amassing behind the goal. Numbers were good, noise was better – Josh had gone full ultra in his drumming style as he turned his back on the action to fully concentrate on banging the drum.
The on pitch action wasn’t exactly riveting as neither side really got to grips with the game and the early highlight was the excellent audition for pantomime villain that Hungerford’s Jordan Rose gave. The first 20 minutes weren’t anything to write home about, but it was us who had the first big chance as Shaq burst though one-on-one, only to see his strike thunder back off the underside of the bar and to safety. It is incredibly easy for me to say – several days after the event whilst sat on my sofa – that Shaq should have scored, and the bobbly surface didn’t help, but he had to do better there. As it was, the ball flew to safety and 15 minutes later we’d be counting the cost of that miss as we fell behind.
Being totally honest, I had no idea how it ended up in the back of the net at the time, and having watched it back I am equally clueless. But one thing I did know was the score, and it seemed a lot of the Hungerford players did too as both our fans and players were given shitloads about any playoff party being ruined. Hungerford’s Max Ram, a name I refuse to believe is actually real, seemed to delight in playing potential spoiler but that is always a dangerous game when there is nearly an hour left on the clock. One bunch who tired a bit of baiting of the away fans was what I’m told was the Hungerford under 23 side who had positioned themselves next to the end that we were attacking. Their goading of the Dorch fans had gone down like a fart in church and after partaking in a beer shower, they were ushered on by the home stewards to stand somewhere else. Clad in fetching matching polos with jumpers tied around their waists, they looked like the Inbetweeners just without the jokes, and as they stood on the corner near Columbo and I, I’m pleased to say there were 13 GCSE’s and four A-Levels between the ten or so of us there, and they were all mine.
A* in GCSE history aside, there was little to discuss as we rolled ourselves down the hill for the second half knowing that we had a big task to overturn the 1-0 deficit, a task that was made all the more important knowing that Havant were 2-0 up against Wimborne. Something had to change and the first thing that did was our side as Dawsy was introduced for Matt Buse at half-time, Hutch making way for Pards soon after. Attacking down the hill was proving more suited to us and with Hungerford’s debutant keeper getting a yellow straight after halftime for timewasting, it looked like it would be a matter of time before a chance came. With nearly 20 minutes of the half played that chance did come and it was in very familiar circumstances as Wes Fogden was fouled in the box and Olaf was given the chance to score from the spot. Goal 28 of an incredible season for Olaf felt almost inevitable and he didn’t let us down, 1-1 and get that fucking ball back to the centre circle.
Wayne came on for Shaq moments later and if nerves weren’t already shredded by now, the final part of the game ensured no one left with any fingernails left. There were blocked shots, crosses headed away, the familiar sight of Jordan Rose appearing and ruining everything, and promising attacks coming to nothing as we pressed with no reward. Hungerford introduced Luke Cairney’s close friend, Rafa Ramos, up front and he missed a good chance firing wide as his bills went #unpaid, and Harry Lee made a save that would turn out to be one of huge significance as he went full Emi Martinez to deny someone that wasn’t Kolo Muani, but they played the part of him to perfection for this comparison.
Into the final ten and as we pushed forward it wasn’t just the fans who were getting twitchy as Hungerford’s Max Ram gave away a freekick for the age old trick of falling over and handling the ball to make it look like you’ve been fouled. He received a second yellow for his troubles and after seeing the resultant red, he absolutely lost his wig in quite spectacular fashion, having to be restrained by his teammates as he tried to go towards no-one in particular and was eventually ushered towards the tunnel after a quite spectacular temper tantrum for no real reason. Although if my name was Max Ram, I too would likely be pissed off. Max Ram, or Ultimate Sheep if you use a thesaurus, or Greater Ewe. Either way, they were down to ten men and despite much chirping that they were pissing on our playoff parade, we just needed one more chance.
A freekick was saved, attacks broke down, shots blocked, Havant had won 2-0, and as we got towards the final minute of so of the seven added, it felt like we’d blown it. But, as cliched as it sounds, this side do not give up, and a late corner was swung in by Corby with Spetchy rising obscenely high at the back post to head it home. Panda-fucking-monium. Beer and bodies went flying everywhere, most of the bench were on the pitch, some fans were either by accident or design, and in the final league game of the season, Phil was delighted to see the players celebrate on the side the camera was on and captured it all.
I can’t really liken the feeling and the celebration to anything else I’ve been involved in, with a very respectful nod to David Norris silencing St Mary’s a few years back as Pompey nicked a 2-2 draw in injury time, but fuck me do I wish I could bottle that type of feeling. There was some form of flashpoint which saw the Hungerford bench rush the pitch, including the Inbetweeners who had to jump the advertising hordings to do so which helped fucking no-one, and it all was most unsavoury for a few moments before the ref eventually restored some sort of order. Quite what the contentious issue was I don’t know, and nor do I give a fuck, and there were more reds dished out by the ref in the aftermath as I’m pretty sure Hungerford finished with nine men and us with a Tommy-less bench as I assume he was carded for being the only member of our bench not to get on the pitch. But eventually we did restart and thankfully, it wasn’t very long before the final whistle blew. We’d only gone and fucking done it.
Further celebrations behind the goal and on the pitch ensued as the players gave it some, and as a bonus there was some white smoke from behind our goal which I believe means Spetchy has been elected the new Pope. News of our winner didn’t got down well in Hampshire as for some reason Poole fans seemed to care about our score as their pitch invasion as they secured safety (cute) was dampened for some by news of our winner. Get yourself some proper local rivals like Sholing, Jersey, or St Malo and fuck off. Havant seemed to take the news of Spetchy’s five-head doing some damage badly, and much like some of Hungerford’s players, they reaped what they’d sown for 90 minutes as some of our ex-Magpies enquired as to what the Dorch score was. Sam Jackson and Will Fletcher, we salute you.
The jubilant mood continued for a while behind the goal and on the pitch as joy, relief and for some, utter shock at what they’d seen combined for an amazing period of celebration. Even Hungerford’s answer to Bricktop wading in to have a go couldn’t damped the mood as the unlikely combo of Livvy and I escorted him to safety, and we are now the reigning Diamond Geezer’s tag team champions. I will say I thought the Hungerford stewards and staff were very good dealing with a decent sized crowd with good humour, especially trying to get rid of Columbo from the bar afterwards, even though he wasn’t on the bus with us. As the players emerged from the changing rooms to more songs, applause, selfie requests and Christ knows what else, it was a hell of a time to be a Dorch fan.
People on holidays had been checking in from all parts of the world, Dorchester Cricket Club’s pre-season friendly was interrupted to break the news, plans made for Wednesday well in advance of any potential playoff semi were hastily being re-arranged, and it dawned on some of us we needed to work out where the buses were so we could actually get back home. It had been a hell of a day and despite wanting to head out for a bit more back in Dorch to celebrate, I was absolutely knackered, so it was the railway lamb from the Sundorban with Beverly Hills Cop 4 rather than a big night out as I headed home, bus and match tickets for Wednesday already booked.
Free flowing football it was not, but we won. Spetchy will get all the plaudits for his goal, and rightly so, Harry Lee’s save minutes earlier was monumentally important in keeping us in the game as if we went 2-1 down, we were done. Spetchy’s jump at the time seemed implausible, but if he did or didn’t get a boost from Jordan Rose is neither here nor there. One of Buik’s work colleagues said it looked like Spetch was on horseback in one of the photos that Phil took. Well, after a decade on the horse at Brewery Square, Nathan can now stand down as Spetchy takes his place in the saddle.
Wednesday will be another no-doubt angst filled game, but we’re capable of beating Totton or indeed anyone in those layoff spots, and no one will fancy playing us either. We’ve not lost to any of the top four this season and certainly won’t fear anyone. Getting to this stage had been a monumental effort, getting over the line was something else. It was not a pretty game by any means but it didn’t have to be. We did what was needed and being honest, the way we did it was the most enjoyable way we could have achieved it, even if it felt awful for large parts of the 90. Moments and scenes like that don’t happen to many clubs and certainly not often, and after some of the utterly soul destroying shite we’ve seen in some of the past few years, we thought moments like that would never come. Form those like Evo, Rob Hodder, Pete Hassell and many others who have been watching for a lot longer than many of us, it must have felt like witnessing a miracle. Credit to Tommy, Glenn, the backroom staff and the players, it has been a genuine pleasure to watch this season, and it ain’t over yet. See you Wednesday, up the fucking Magpies. SV.
