Well fuck me sideways with a rusty badger, it not so much pours at Farnborough, it rains so hard it makes your head bleed.
Maybe to some a 3-3 draw would be something of a talking point, but oh no, not at Cherrywood Road. We'd start a fucking riot if there were less than six goals in a game. It's like a 0-0 and the excitement only starts in injury time with the peril that we might concede but, shit the bed, we might actually win.
Perversely, the thing that gave us a right bonk on was a first half cleansheet and a goal lead, courtesy of Perry 'the Hoffen' Coles. Sumptuous through ball by Curo, bamboozled the Bumbury defence and Perry nipped in, round the ball bag protector and poked it between the sticks. Uno Nilo Boro.
We had the wonderful pleasure of having the nice peace and quiet of the PRE disturbed by the Pure-tit-an "firm". Besides politely clapping our goal, it was quiet, peaceful and serene. That was until Berk Cuntoon and his Bellends showed up with their beer and blue language. Generally good natured and just bloody good bantz, then Berk Cuntoon lost his shit for what appeared no reason at all. All of a sudden he was telling the old chaps up the back that we should be embarrassed that only 200 people were in a 1500 seater stand (he'd done his homework). The sweet irony of us being embarrassed wasn't lost on his mates let alone the rest of us. This guy could have started a fight with himself, on his own, in his bedroom, post wank.
After the goal they lost a bit of momentum and it took a couple of late corners for them to get going again, which consisted of Berk and his Ginger Minger mate walking onto the pitch behind the goal in an attempt to gee up their team.
Half time and they grumbled their way back to the bar for a couple of pints of piss and a hand shandy to relieve the built up tension.
We made do with a cup of tea and a KitKat. There were kids about.
As predictably as the sun rising in the morning and being used to line the cats shit box in the evening, we came out in the second half to "carry on what we were doing" in the first. The most fucking obvious, clichéd load of arse water that never fails not to fucking fail. Mainly as the opposition were going to show up and give it both barrels. They weren't challenging up the top for no reason and it was only a matter of time before their No. 5 prick did a Salmon impression and headed a corner into the onion bag. Une Une. Bum.
Very shortly after they took the lead. Their bald left winger who had been blowing out of his arse most of the first half showed why he was on the pitch with a cracking ball into the back stick where their number 10 was waiting already lying down to head the ball from two inches off the ground into the ball bag.
This did in fact wake us up and within 60 seconds of the restart, Clintons had leveled it back up, intercepting a poor clearance to charge into the box and squeeze the ball under the keeps via a deflection. Zwei Zwei!
2-2 soon became 2-3 though as the same Clive Walker lookalike bunged in another ball to the back post and there was the No. 10 again, slightly better marked and actually stood up but the result was the same. Damn and blast their goggly eyes.
Fortunately, as long as you have The Hoffen on the pitch you have a chance. And so it proved. Stuff happened, Perry got it, moved it to his left and bang, he hit a defender. But it came back to him and in a blink of an arse he'd bent it between their two lanky tits in CB and into the far post utterly confusing the ball bag protector. Þrír Þrír.
And so it remained. Almost as soon as the fourth official put up that computer board thing with red and green numbers on that said there were 3 minutes of injury time there was a horrendous squeak as all eleven players, staff and fans sphincters closed up. Every player visibly slowed down as the memories of Kettering, Royston and Slough reappeared. Plus they'd heard Banbury's home form was shit so let's go on a Tuesday night road trip.
This was where the fun began. With limited notice we couldn't get out of work early enough and to be honest it was a good job we didn't. First we heard about the shitanigans was that the kick off had been put back to 8.45 as half the team hadn't made it. Jack "Mischa" Barton was stuck on an hour late train and five others were stuck on the M1. We then postponed the game ourselves on Twitter before pulling that and it finally being postponed. Accusations, hearsay and rumours bounced around like an opposition corner in the Boro penalty box.
We will probably never really know what happened but the players never showed, we had 6 eligible players and Bobby Dormer who was cup tied at the ground (which caused confusion) and there was no other option but to call it off.
Today we've discovered that we've been charged with failing to fulfil a fixture but this is a formality due to the game not going ahead. We have to submit the excuses, I mean reasons for the game being called off and hope they believe it. It's never fucking dull with us.
You can bet your arse it'll be 0-0 and go to pens. If we get the chance. Just feels like there's something we're not being told, of course we're not.
Whatever happens it'll have to be decided by Monday. The next round is in a week where we might come up against neighbours Hartley Wintney so it'll have to be played this midweek. Or not. The longer it takes the more it feels like the latter.
Amongst all the excitement, we're playing Bishops Stortford this weekend, a trip that will feel like we're going on holiday as we travel to basically Stanstead Airport. As we learn Nick "Truncheon" Hutchings has arrived at Hartley, we sign his replacement, Luke "Specsavers" King joins from.....from.....somewhere.
We'll see you there. If we all make it. Let's leave an hour earlier.
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