In years gone by, when we were expecting a large following on the road, the team would normally bottle it, and we’d end up getting tanked 4-0 and just drowning our sorrows. However, this is 2025 and Dorch are on the up! Anyway, here goes the ramblings from Frome away.
The hype for this game started a few months back, with the original date of Easter Saturday swapped for Good Friday, in the words of Buik, every man, women, kid and dog are going to Frome. And with my youngest brother turning 30 in the coming days, a four day birthday bank holiday bonanza was in order. This was a fixture I was very much looking forward to. Myself and Spud know Frome well – during our darting days we played many times at the football club, and met some great people.
With Gordy gracing my sofa for the night, he descended on Fordington early doors, arriving just before 07.30. I must state that he took the sensible option of driving rather than walking. 20 minutes later we set off to collect Robin via Winterbourne Abbas before I dumped them off at Spoons where Robbie Ward was found to be demanding a large breakfast at 08.25 on the dot. A hearty meal consumed and it was time to head to Dorch West for what turned out to be as close to a football special as you’ll likely get. On our way there the heavens opened and our weatherman Ash Jury had forecasted correctly and won again. The usual question of ‘is it shorts weather?’ had been answered.
The station was filling up nicely, and some poor sods who fancied a nice quiet day out in Bath were in for a shock if they expected a peaceful train journey with around 150 Dorch fans getting on board the early train. With another 60+ on the later train. News filtered through that Spud had missed his original connecting train from Hinton Admiral by 30 seconds as he watched the doors close and depart without him. He then had to get the later train which didn’t arrive into Dorchester South until 09.29. This would give him 15 minutes to get across to the West line. However Spud went into better be safe than sorry mode, and ordered a taxi from the South to the West station. As he got dropped off he said he would have given the driver a tenner, as its a shit job, but as the driver was ignorant, he waited patiently for his change, “fuck ’em, ignorant pig”.
The train pulled in, and it was quite busy, with folks off for some pleasant days out in Bath and Bristol, and they had to endure another 150 of us creatures cramming on. Standing room only for some. Me and the wife managed to find a seat and power through some drinks, whilst Spud, Lunk and Peckham’s finest stood up for the entire journey. Before reaching Yeovil it was evident on the nostrils that some mush had emptied one of the worst shits in living memory in our carriage toilet, and every time someone went for a piss, a green mist entered our carriage as soon as the door opened. Further news filtered through that the jet setting Magpie Cam had landed on time and was armed with a four pack for the journey over from Newbury with Columbo.
As the train pulled up into Frome it was nice to breathe in some non toxic air. Our gang had pre ordered a taxi, which turned out to be Frome’s version of Johnny Mac’s flying taxis, for those who remember risking their lives after a night out in the county town for a cheap cab ride home. Big Macs accepted as a form of payment. Before I entered the Frome equivalent cab I attempted to neck the remainder of my drink, it didn’t sit well, and a quick tactical spew in the corner was in order before the cab driver offered me a complimentary wet wipe.
As we turned right out of the station and headed towards the Vine Tree pub it was evident that whoever was in charge of directions (we can only assume it was Lunk) for those on foot took 150 Dorchies the wrong way as they turned left out of the station and headed to some town centre bars that were not expecting an army to rock up. They could have done with El Gén’s sat-nav.
Arriving at the Vine Tree, we sat with Welchy and Henry. The wife and Henry talked all things Yeovil and which schools they attended blah blah blah. The Vine Tree was a lovely establishment, and friends from past darting trips to Frome recommended the pub, shout out to Simon Harding for this. The staff even made a huge box full of filled rolls for us to purchase at a small fee, nice touch. It felt like the calm before the storm as we had our first drink, before the pub was absolutely rammed with Dorch fans in fine voice.
Aiden was even allowed out from behind the sofa he had occupied for a while as the no kids policy was relented on when they realised Aiden was 23 this week. The sheer numbers that had travelled was unheard of, and in the real dark days, we would have probably not taken this many to Weymouth 8 miles down the road. After a games of darts with Prior, Pete giving us a blast from the past of everywhere we go, and copious amounts of ale being drunk, we headed up towards the ground.
I’ve said earlier that me and Spud have fond memories of Frome Football club from our darting days, on these occasions you could normally find the locals doing a betting book and you could have a flutter on any player to win, or even back yourself, safe to say, like my 3-0 backing each week, it was money down the drain. We even once found Scottish Ray getting noshed off in broad daylight behind a van in the car park. Good effort Raymond.
Frome’s ground is lovely, covered terraces and seats around most of the ground, and a massive clubhouse to go with it. Frome would have made a nice taking off of our fans, and were good hosts, Winchester, take note!
As the game kicked off it was evident that there was around 300 Dorchies who had travelled, and were in fine voice, and we were kicking up the hill towards the clubhouse in the first half. In terms of the side we’d put out we had made three changes with the most noticeable being Noah Crisp starting in goal after Harry Lee had picked up an injury in training with Exeter in the week. Dawsy and Corby returned to the side with Wes and Pards starting on the bench. We could have been 2-0 early on but Frome showed why they were down there as they bungled two good chances after winning back possession from us deep in our own half. But we found our way soon after and with the half hour mark approaching, we took the lead.
It was a familiar sight as Olaf very cooly converted a penalty that had been won by Dawsy, who had drawn a foul from a defender who looked like he’d slipped following a Corby free-kick. If we’d hoped that Frome would roll over, we were very wrong and they levelled the scores some ten minutes later from a free-kick of their own, curled in from some 20 odd yards. Just as it looked like we’d go in level at 1-1, we were given a golden opportunity to take the lead as once again we were awarded a penalty. Some indecision between defender and goalkeeper gave Shaq all the opportunity he needed to nick in between the two and draw a foul from the blindsided defender. Olaf needed no second invite as he switched sides to slam home his 26th of the season. 2-1 up at halftime and kicking down the hill, we fancied ourselves to see it out quite comfortably. We were wrong.
Both sides had chances at the beginning of the second half, but ultimately I had so much to drink I couldn’t tell you much more other than Dawsy should have scored, and that Crisp made a very good save from some bloke who was wearing short sleeves and gloves, which should be a bookable offence in itself. With 20 odd to play, Frome got the equaliser they probably deserved as a corner was nodded in from close range, and with a draw being fuck all use to either side it was going to be a nervy, but very open finale.
As the game was coming to a close, and having seen Frome miss a hell of a chance, it looked as if we had blown it. But, then up stepped Brett Pitman. Having nicked the ball off a defender who took too long to clear, Brett moved towards goal, chopped back inside which totally sold the same defender, who then slipped. Brett’s shot smashed off the top of the defenders head from all of six inches off the ground, with the deflection wrong footing that goalkeeper, and the ball flying into the back of the net.
Cue absolute scenes in the away end which will live long in the memory. We managed to see out the final few minutes for another victory which Frome will feel hard done by as they definitely deserved something from the game. The away end was full of joy and relief. The scenes at the end were something of beauty, everyone stayed for an extra 20 or so minutes just singing, not because we were held back. But because we love this fucking club. People were on the handrails, cuddling corner flags and cuddling each other, it was like a fucking love island scene. Although I’m not sure if Love Island included a pissed up Wurzel doing their best impression of Christ the Redeemer on the roof of the stand.
In the mist of Brett Pitman scoring the winner, the General, aloft of the top railing, commanding the troops, fell flat on his back to the concrete floor during the wild celebrations. Although the alcohol soaked up the pain, I do hope he’s OK.
As we headed out of the ground, a quick pint in the Vine Tree, and then it was take 2 of Frome’s flying taxis to take us back to the station. We boarded the train, with no fucking clue if others had made it or not, some opted for the later train. But we carried on the celebrations for the hour or so journey back to the shire. Barely able to remember my name, the wife and Robbie’s better half got picked up by the father-in law, who must have seen the state of me and thought wow! The rest of us headed to the Junny for a few more, before me and Gordy went back to mine for curry! As we left, Guyer along with the chairman were sipping champagne, whilst a video later revealed Dev Derrien attempting to down some champagne whilst on the bar itself. The staff didn’t look too impressed, but safe to say, Dev had a head for heights after the afternoon he’d had. BW