The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry, but seldom do they include waking up in a Premier Inn in fucking Fleet of all places.
Fortunately for this weekend, no plans had been laid. Given the weather at present, none of us had even considered the possibility of the match being on, let alone giving plans a moment’s thought.
Cue a 9am frantic ring round of the boys. “Bollocks, it’s actually fucking on!”
With Fred and Tom already on a ludicrously early train up to Walsall, it was left to me and Vossy to carry the can and head to Farnborough… leaving it as late as we possibly could, knowing that a bit of rain and the game would be off. That and knowing how depressing Farnborough is at the best of times.
Farnborough and financial trouble are football’s Ant and Dec: their fates intertwined to the point that it is almost impossible to conceive of one without the other. This year is no exception with [the ever honest and never dodgy] Spencer Day pleading a budget only seconded by us. They can still afford to bring in former Stevenage, Dagenham and Barnet striker, Jon Nurse, though. – perhaps Spencer Day wasn’t being 100% honest. But with that knowledge in hand, we naively believed we might actually do the impossible and win a match. Of course, it wasn’t to be as some proper schoolboy defending once again cost us, whilst ironically, a schoolboy was the brightest thing to come out of the game. We’ve a player in Dan Munday.
With the pitch acting as a perfect advert for 3G turf, the ringing endorsements came in the form of a group of Merthyr fans who had taken in the game having seen their match at nearby Fleet postponed. Being fans owned and owning a 3G pitch, I was in my fucking element.
Our esteemed guests for the day had already booked hotels in Fleet, with a heavy through-the-night session planned. As the drinks flowed, we agreed to join them, not actually believing we really would!
(“Football should be played on grass” Yeah, would be nice wouldn’t it!)
Post match, we carried on drinking in the Cherrywood bar, watching England succumb to an early surrender that even Dorch would be proud of. Fortunately for me, our Welsh friends had no interest in rugby, so I was spared the usual levels of abuse that often accompany our Leek-loving friends of an oval ball disposition.
As the pints continued to flow, the conversation turned to our mutual dislike of Poole Town fans and the conundrum of how you can be so arrogant when you have so little. A swift train journey to Fleet and the drinks continued, firstly in the local, before heading to Propaganda (the generic name for a nightclub in a small town, of course.) A ‘few more’ rapidly descended into ‘more than a few’, as out came the Jagerbombs, shots and JD chasers.
With the last train back to London rapidly approaching and Vossy having an early shift of Sunday tampon stacking the next day, we split: Vos back to Holloway via a 2-hour night bus journey, me back to the local Premier Inn, via more shots, the acclaimed Jaxx Nightclub (not a brothel as the ever-so helpful bouncer kindly pointed out) and acts not deemed suitable for a family friendly blog – for that is what this site certainly is.
Good job next weekend is a quiet one…. Just the small matter of a pre-defeat session in Lewes. Bring on the Southern League and the obscure and unreachable away trips, giving us a well deserved break. Can’t be doing this each week.
We’ll manage Merthyr alright though. CM.
(Ahh, Steven Gerrard, Frank Lampard and Wayne Rooney. Those famous Farnborough legends)
The Same Old Few 