Charles Dickens once wrote “If anyone were to ask me what in my opinion was the dullest and most stupid spot on the face of the Earth, I should decidedly say Chelmsford.“ From that, we can logically deduce that ‘Dicko’ (as he was known to his mates) was in fact a Magpie. Sick as he was of always going there on a bloody Monday night, in the middle of fucking winter to watch us lose yet again.
And this year was to be no different, as we put up the meekest defence against a pasting since Nigella Lawson.
Despite the Monday evening kick-off, tradition was suitably adhered to, as I ran late by a good 20 minutes and Tom arrived at the local ‘Spoons long before anyone had even contemplated setting off. Word about our antics has spread of late, so much so that we were joined by Scott, a Geordie colleague of Vossy’s. News also reached us on our departure from Liverpool Street that we would be joined by ‘Shanks’ who was in the area on business and had sacked off a posh dinner in the city for a spot of burger and chips… and perhaps ale. Definitely ale.
Shanks was holed up in Chelmsford well ahead of us and despite the pub being literally next door to the station, Shanks’ instructions over the phone to Vossy meant that he became harder to find than a Malaysian airliner, as we spent a good ten minutes wandering around the bus station looking him.
Once in the ground, we had a swift pint of the local ale before the turgidity of the first half began to dampen spirits. Fortunately we had two very amusing things to keep us entertained. Chelmsford’s keeper, who insisted on the much-needed instruction to his players to “Head it!!” with every long, hopeful Dorchester punt up field, and the second, which had us literally crying with laughter, was Tom’s [true] story of his ignorant American friend, from when they were studying together in Sheffield.
“So he didn’t really like football at all, but he came home one day wearing this Liverpool scarf. ‘Where did you get the scarf mate?’ I asked. ‘Outside Hillsborough. There was just loads of them lying about outside for some reason.’”
Unfortunately, neither team were particularly interested in playing football and so we headed in early to beat the [very orderly] queue for the bar.
The second half was a bit more eventful, as the Magpies made a bright start before the inevitable collapse. The antics of the home ‘keeper, Carl Pentney, meanwhile gave us plenty of amusement. First he took to shouting “hedges” whenever the ball came towards his 18-yard line (cue a number of shrubbery-orientated heckles from us). And this was shortly followed by attempting to set up a three-man wall for a drop ball – only to be told by his own captain to ‘shut the fuck up’.
The best moment was saved until last though, as he misjudged Charlie Lossaso’s 40-yard daisy cutter and let it beat him at his near post. He didn’t hold his hands up as AWH would later to on re-creating the scene down the other end, oh no, he went ape-shit at their number 8 (practically defining the phrase "apoleptic”) despite the fact that he had been on the half way like at the time of the strike.
When Shanks’ shout of “Keeper, you’ve only had one thing to do all night and you’ve even managed to fuck that up” went up, even his own captain and centre backs were laughing.
The heckles, laughs and general ambivalence to the scoreline continued as their number six eventually bit with the brilliant and witty retort ,“Yeah, well we’ve scored more than you.” Yes, and we’ve shagged your mum, mate.
Still, at least it was decipherable, which is more than can be said from whatever came out of the mouth of their number three, when questioned on how he could be the smallest player on the pitch when we were fielding an actual schoolboy. (At least said school boy could make it, Dan Munday was apparently unavailable as he wasn’t allowed to leave school early has he has GCSE’s coming up!)
With the game over, we had a couple more in the clubhouse before the taxi turned up. It was outside waiting for said taxi, that we came across the team coach, with the luggage locks wide open and the tactics board and two crates of ‘refreshments’ open to the world. Hours of fun. (Or a good five minutes as it transpired.)
Back in the town centre, we popped in to the bar for a couple of pints – refusing to drink Guinness or celebrate St Paddy’s Day as, well, as we’re not Irish – before manically jumping on the train home, leaving Shanks on the platform with a stolen novelty Irish hat. Ah.
CM
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