It’s been about a month since I last posted on here so I thought I should probably get round to attending to this website at some point before it falls into the abyss (again). The last month has been packed full of action and matches but it’s been way too busy to even think about rustling up around 2,000 words that no-one could possibly care about.
But that is exactly what I’m doing on this overcast Sunday afternoon before I head out to watch yet even more football with a pint in my hand as the football Gods have blessed us with a Sunday full of five derbies and a cup final for our entertainment. No I’m not listing them all, bugger off. There's quite a lot to discuss.
The last time I put something up on here was back at my local last month when Chasetown secured a hard-fought victory over the garage owners from Liverpool. Since then, Chase have continued on a good streak and pushing for the playoffs, where it is currently projected to be a playoff semi with the neighbours over the way at Keys Park. So, great. We’ll be looking forward to that one.
This weekend, however, it was back down to see the mighty Farnborough as we took on Welling in a game that was almost certainly dead rubber but probably worth a watch anyway. I wouldn’t go as far as saying we’d pissed away points at Sluff and Dorking but we certainly should’ve won the games. And then, a game too far against Hornchurch and then another game too far against Boring Wood saw playoffs slip out of our grasp and have to settle for top ten instead. Hoorah.
The fixture schedule had surprisingly handed me a free weekend after the Sky TV lot put Walsall’s game on the box away at Bromley, so 400+ poor souls had to travel down to East London on Thursday night instead. That meant I was able to grab my first viewing of Boro since Boxing Day where we played out an unforgettably forgettable 0-0 against Hampton & Richmond. Should’ve been 1-0 if the linesman was actually paying attention. And probably 2-0 if the ref was too. Oh well. We only went onto lose the next five, so no big deal. Even further back before that, I did another blog in November as Marc White ripped us a new one at San Cherrio. Probably best to forget that one too.
I was trying to make some positive points, but in all honesty the last time we played Welling United we lost 4-1 as well, so all round a pretty dismal showing to start the blog. And I was flying solo for the journey down, so had to make my own entertainment. Off to a flyer. I had decided to do the journey overnight rather than in one day (hold on before you all show me a picture of Sean Dyche stood next to a green wall). This was the same reason as the last Boro blog, in that I would be seeing family for the weekend, so it made sense for me to crash out in a spare bed rather than tire myself out, prioritising football over anything else. If that’s what you think I’d normally do, well you’re probably correct in all honesty. I decided that Friday-Saturday would be the better option to travel, and that I would have more time to soak in all the different sports on the Sunday. Formula One was back in the morning, the tennis in the evening and the football throughout the day. As you all know by now, my life revolves around sport.
I’d made sure to leave enough time so that I didn’t get in at an unholy hour, so left Derby just after lunch. Once I’d picked up my ticket from the desk, I was through the barriers where some woman was having a row with an EMR officer and being asked to “respect the rules.” I’m guessing she didn’t, as she then immediately stormed out. The platform was full of people, which meant that East Midlands Railway would, of course, make sure to put an extensive amount of carriages on for a train that was going from Nottingham to Cardiff, accommodating thousands of people plus catering facilities. Well, they didn’t do that as that would be the sensible option. Instead, they announced it would be two carriages arriving, meaning that people that were stretched along the platform were herded like cattle and moulded around the catering trolley. The poor worker almost had a breakdown as we rolled into New Street.
In hindsight, perhaps travelling at a time where people are coming back from work as well as going to the final day of the Cheltenham Gold Cup might not have been the wisest move. Doesn’t help when they pack us like sardines though. To make things worse, the blokes standing next to me were also doing the same leg as me, heading towards Reading, but they said that there were only four carriages the last time they were on that journey. At least the shareholders are happy with their bonuses and rise in train fares. Bastards.
Anyway..... the doors finally opened at New Street after what felt like an age, and after a bloke sprayed himself for an uncomfortably long period of time, the deodorant-filled cabin was suddenly transformed into brand new oxygen, which was very much welcome. I headed up and onto the concourse at New Street where there were several people stood staring at the departure boards with that confused look that everyone has when they are trying to locate their train. I checked the 15:03 to Bournemouth was running, and well, it sort of... wasn’t. Apparently a broken down freight train had got in the way and had buggered everything up in the middle of the country for the rest of the day. Some companies aren’t getting their goods this weekend, sorry lads. Imagine if it was a train company, that would be an ironic twist.
The 16:03 was also cancelled, so I had no choice other than to wait to get the next available train, this time to Euston. I would have been better going to Bromley! Thankfully, they said my ticket would be honoured, but not that anyone ever checks anyway. That also meant my reserved seat on the longest part of the journey would be wasted, so it was standing room only in the corridor until I managed to stumble across an available seat, which was welcome news. From there, it was rather uneventful, so I just watched the train stations fly by before being interrupted by a bloke who arrived and started blaring TikTok out through his phone at a volume that would’ve made anyone outside of this country say “Oi, turn it down you bastard, you’re ruining my journey.” Unfortunately, I suffer from being British so that means I’m unable to say such a thing and think that glaring at him when he’s not even looking will do the job instead. Unfortunately, it doesn’t. Although it would make a great superpower.
Me and my new TikTok-watching mate thundered into Euston and I dashed round and down to the Underground, narrowly avoiding the stampede that everyone is aware of if you’ve ever been to Euston. The nearest Tube was a staggering two minutes away! I say staggering. To anyone outside of London, that is what we call, “normal”. A short hop across to Waterloo was in order on what seemed to be the world’s most uncomfortable seat before I engaged in some cardio to sprint up what I very quickly realised was a lot of escalators to get to the main station. Out of breath, and hungry, I realised I had more time than I thought and managed to find a few shops, and then you begin to realise that you’re in London, and prices are extortionate. I left the £2.50 chocolate bar firmly in its place and, still catching my breath, I staggered over to the platform and finally made the train to Farnborough.
Once I got into the station, I met up with my personal chauffeur for the weekend (Grandad) who had offered me a lift back to his gaff for the night. We caught up on all the latest Boro news, including Captain Robbo signing a new contract for next season, which was great to see such an experienced player commit his future (and his long throws!) to the club.
After I’d got some food down me, I turned in for the night a few hours later, and woke up as fresh as a daisy around 9:00. A welcome lie-in for a Saturday. After passing the time by doing a great deal of bugger all, I fired up the telly and whacked on the Subway Cup final that was being held at Pride Park. Chelsea Women v Man City Women, which turned out to be a decent watch on a pitch that was not decent at all.
How about the match that I went to? Ah yes, that match. As in, the match that you clicked on this to read about. The blog that deliberately spends more time talking about the day itself rather than the match. Yes, that one. We headed out for the match just before 2pm on what was a sunny, but cold day for it. And we were all hoping that the dismal Tuesday night crowds of around 400 had been planted firmly behind us as we searched for a win against a relegation candidate. Bearing in mind, Aveley and Enfield both beat us while they were in the relegation zone so this one was definitely not a given.
I did the usual ritual of having a go on the 50/50 and Golden Goal, and then the added event of Player of the Season vote caught my eye, so I submitted my ballot and went round to the newly developed Sylvie’s Kitchen. Loaded fries at the football? Go on then. As we arrived, the whole world seemed to be ordering and there was a shouting match between and old couple as they forgot what they ordered and were trying to figure out whether it was correct what they had been given. It all happens at Farnborough. I opted for the Pulled Pork Fries, which set me back a few bob (£6!) but made up for it almost immediately. The usual group that we sit with suggested that they “just trod in something similar in the car park.” It wasn’t that bad, lads!
Blog regular Robbo had decided to head to the Chasetown game as they took on Stafford Rangers. He told me over the wires that he had paid £5.10 for a glass of coke, which made me immediately feel better about my £6 payment. I think we know who the mug is. Sorry Robbo, you know it’s true. Back at Farnborough, we’d manage to somehow get onto the topic of ghost hunting (no idea how) before Republica was blasted over the tannoy and we realised we should probably get into our seats.
Right, finally, the game. It’s only taken 16 paragraphs. Nothing really happened until the sixth minute, and the first chance of the game fell to them. Captain Robbo somehow let their player just drive past him into the box, and lace his effort into the back of the net.
Great stuff, lads. Wake up. Meanwhile, somehow, Lexus Beeden was being played at right back, despite being a centre back and Richard Chin was being played as a right centre mid despite being a right wing back. Nice one. We can’t question our Lord of Football, though. After half an hour, we were unable to get the ball on the floor, just hurling it forward at any opportunity and were unable to string two passes together. Jonny Stuttle fired one into orbit after miskicking it before they nearly made it two in similar fashion to their first. No desire at all, and they didn’t offer much either. If that was a team higher up the league, we would’ve been three or four down by the half hour mark.
Then, out of nothing, we worked an opportunity. I say worked. Captain Robbo pretty much threw the ball onto the goal line, and Matty MacArthur was there to pick up the scraps and poke it home. 1-1. Somehow. We’re baffled as to how we haven’t taken the lead shortly after as, if it had gone in, might well have been the best own goal you’re ever going to see. Their 19 received the ball from our corner, spun round and scorpion kicked it, only for it to go just wide of the post. It fortunately spared his blushes.
At half time, I try to go into the sunny part of the ground and get warm, but that’s proving quite difficult. They do the 50/50 draw and it turns out I’m 12 out, which is frustrating. If my Grandad has never won it in over 30 years of doing it, I’m pretty sure I’m not going to have a chance of winning.... Oh well. When play resumed, it was pretty bemusing to see some of the subs warming up in the 50th minute. If you know anything about Farnborough you’ll know that substitutions are certainly not Spencer’s forte. I was proved right five minutes later as they went to sit down on the bench again, and he didn’t make a sub for another 25 minutes.
It was around that time that we managed to squeeze in a winner. Pavey struck from distance, but his effort was saved and spilled, before Matty followed up and then Jonny Stuttle squeezed it in from a tight angle to make it 2-1. Great stuff, although we did make hard work of it! Welling threatened to equalise with a free kick late on, but that threat was pretty feeble as it went along the ground and well wide of the post.
Another relatively forgettable game, but at least there were goals this time. I headed back to the train station, catching up on all of the latest scores. In the South, Boreham Wood somehow folded against Weymouth, losing 2-1. Ebbsfleet got their second win of the season in the National League, but it looks they resigned to relegation a long time ago, and in the Premier League Southampton lost again and Man City dropped points again. It was all going on.
On the train now, I was standing from Basingstoke to Birmingham New Street, which was great fun until I nearly stacked it twice, so I gave up and went to find a seat. This allowed me to play a game of “Who’s that group of football fans sat in front of me on the train?” I might need to think of a catchier title. It turns out it was Wolves fans on the way back from Southampton, of which their conversation included recollections of a match against Scarborough in the 80s and a preference to be called a “fat ginger tosser” instead of a Brummie. Valid point. And I’m a Brummie. Anyone outside of the West Midlands, please do your research. There’s a difference between Birmingham and the Black Country. Cheers.
At New Street, someone was sat in my seat, so once again, being British, I decided not to engage in conversation and tell them to sod off. Instead, I found a spare seat and hoped that no one would tell me to sod off instead. Thankfully, they didn’t and I got back to Derby in one piece. After fiddling around with Uber, it was taking an age to find me a driver, so just hopped in a nearby yellow cab instead. I got back, made a sani and collapsed into bed in front of the telly.
Well, at least it’s a slightly shorter journey next week.
Tom.
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