So Dorch are back, lads.
That spirit, that fight, that arrogance. Same old Magpies, taking the piss. Andy Harris, Danny O‘Hagan, Matt Lonnon, Mark Jermyn. Oh Mark Jermyn.
It‘s far too early to be saying this of course, but for a moment on Saturday it genuinely felt like finally we have our club back.
Of course, it could have just been the copious amounts of ‘complimentary’ pints but it was a bloody good feeling whatever it was.
For those of us who couldn’t make Truro, this was the start of a new era. A new dawn, but the same old shit of Fred texting the rest of us to say he was running late and might not make the train. Pretty good going given he had an hour to get there and only lives 15 minutes up the road from Paddington. Still, it wouldn’t be an away day without us running late – and as we sprinted down platform nine, Vossy with McDonald’s burger in hand, me with Caffe Nero [scolding] all over mine, new dawn or not, fuck all had changed from our point of view.
As we arrived into Reading, we popped into the café to pick up a couple of cans for the twenty minute second leg (!!) and onto the connecting train where we were joined by Jake and Steve from Dorch and Phil, who had jumped on at Southampton following a night out, looking like he was fresh from the walk of shame – dressed as he was without a jacket. (Of course, he wasn’t on a walk of shame we should add– Hi Lucy!) Good job it wasn‘t 3 oC outside and he later had to wrap himself up in the German flag to keep warm.
Jumping off at Hungerford station we were greeted by the welcoming sight of The Railway Tavern. Lovely.
Even if it did lack a barman for the first 15 minutes of our occupation, one thing it didn’t lack was an Eames, who, not reading the group Whatsapp message properly, mis-read the London lots arrival into Reading at 11am as Hungerford, and promptly arrived into the village an hour ahead of everyone. Pleb.
As we sat and sunk the pints we hastily agreed a date for our trip to Hamburg in May, cleared up exactly what did go down in the bar on Boxing Day (fuck off, we are not grasses) and all agreed we‘d accept a point from the day. Little did we know….
Moving on to the next pub, we managed to get split up and get lost (some feat given its a village of only 5,000 people!) before stumbling in to the Plume of Feathers to be joined by Dev and his old man, who had come down from Worcester. Oh, and Fred Dibnah, of course.
Heading up to the ground, swift pint and a daddy of all pisses and we stumbled out to the freezing cold where Dorch were shooting down the [sizable] hill first half into a goalmouth that could only resemble The Somme in winter. (Or the Avenue, after about the sixth game of the season.)
As we did at Truro, we lined up in a 3-5-2 with Walks pushed up top once again and Jem playing in the libero position at the back. (‘Libero‘ for those who are unfamiliar with the word, is an Italian football term meaning
‘old man with no legs’.)
From the word go it was all us. The back three dealt with everything will calmness and measure not usually seen from a Dorchester side. In the middle Glees finally looked the Glees we all loved and underrated, whilst Morgan next to him was absolutely everywhere. Up top, Nathan was the spitting image of Danny O‘Hagan, bullying defenders and being an absolute handful whilst resembling anything other than a centre forward. Watto next to him was the perfect foil, playing off the last man, stretching the defence. Smithy meanwhile, was playing in a free role just behind the two strikers, in what the Italian‘s call a ”trequartisti” role (trequartisti of course being the Italian for ‘already laboured joke‘).
After just five minutes of intense pressure, the home side, who had only conceded three at home all season, scored for us. Dillon‘s long throw was nodded on by their centre back and their left back Steve emphatically flicked into the net, top bins. Turns out though, that his name isn’t Steve at all – its Diak. Fuck knows where we got Steve from, but it rendered the constantly harassing of ”Steeeeeeeve” pretty fucking useless.
The half continued in much the same vein: constant Dorch pressure. Watto missed a couple of good chances, and as we begun to think aloud “fuck, we could really do with a second here if we‘re going up the hill second half” up popped Nathan at the back post to stab home and grab the all important second on the stroke of half time. Cue mayhem. And plenty of half time refreshments.
For the hill it was, it didn’t present as much of a problem as we feared. And whilst Hungerford had more of the ball, it was us that looked the more threatening. Watson, Walks and Tarbuck all guilty of squandering chances, but take nothing away, we went to a team who hadn’t lost all season, had only conceded three at home all season and utterly dominated them. If it was five-nil they couldn’t have complained.
As the full time whistle went, the players quite deservedly got a rousing round of applause, whilst the hosts were treated to Evo and I taking a [slightly OTT] selfie outside of their changing room window. The guilt soon evaporated when we found out that our lads’ hot water was turned off by a bitter Hungerford and they had to have showers, cue us sticking it straight up on twitter and generally being very ungracious in victory – including the long-ago promise that we‘ll drink champagne when we finally win away again.
As we continued to drink and celebrate, the Hungerford bar staff closed up for the night, leaving us in there by ourselves. We may or may not have had a ‘few‘ more on them.
Heading back into the station we popped into Tescos to get a few for the train and in our drunken haste, walked in – still pints in hand – leading to the inevitable outcome of us not getting served. But fear not, whilst we pretended to be outraged and demand to speak to the manager, with a sly nod and wink Eames and Steve slipped round the side and bought more than enough for the journey home.
Cue: ”This is absolutely outrageous?! Why? On what grounds?”…. [nod]…. “Nevermind, its not a big deal. Have a lovely evening, thank you for you help.”
Back in Reading, we popped into The Three Guineas (totally unnecessary by this point) where we had a sing-song with visiting Sheffield Wednesday fans and bumped into a couple of Maidenhead fans. (I forget which group. They have more factions than a Weymouth message board.) before heading home, to wake up Sunday morning, still fully clothed but without anything resembling a voice. This maybe a new era on the pitch but fuck all has changed off it. One day, I‘ll have to grow up.
Bouncer: “Lads, calm down. I don‘t want it kicking off in here!“
Steve: ”Why the fuck are we going to kick off? They‘re Sheffield Wednesday, we‘re Dorchester Town. Of course we‘re not going to kick off.”
Same old Magpies. Taking the piss. CM.