Let’s sPENSer Day in the FACkin’ sunshine

 Roll up, roll up!! We're back, WE'RE BACK!! After spending swathes of lockdown afternoons trying to perfect the brewing ratios of our soon to be rolled out “Spencer interview bingo bitter”, to say we were thrilled at the prospect (road end) of standing in a stupidly oversized stadium shouting at cunty full backs would be the understatement of the pandemic. Be still my beating heart, proper competitive football was back on the agenda. Proper stuff.  Football isn’t a TV show kids.

Seeing as at least 183 of you ventured into (at least the first few paragraphs of) our P.R.E season rollout “shitdump”, it seemed only right that we throw up the red carpet on frankly the most joyous  12^th September in popular culture history since Barry White vacated mumma White’s fallopian tubes of love, back in 1944, setting in motion the chain of events leading to the end of the second world war.

What’s that you say? Why are you talking about Barry White and the second world war?! Well, why the feck not to be honest. I mean it’s not like we’d roll up to the San Cherrio for this momentous FA Cup battle and find our heroic centre half and captain playing up front or anything….

Oh, I didn't mention the opponents did I? It was Lymington Town. Two divisions lower, booked their visit courtesy of a frankly ludicrous late winner against Brockenhurst. Unbelievable. Spencer had done his best to sell them as the Man City of the Wessex League ever since the draw. We all knew his apprehension was more rooted in the fact he was having to play fast and loose with smashing a squad together. Spencer's old goto of grabbing players from the preseason trickle down was somewhat being fingered in the arsehole by the fact nobody was able to turn the fecking taps on further up the pyramid. Injuries, illness, suspensions, alien abductions. You know how this works by now.

After some furious, frantic google abuse on who the hell the new lads were and if they were indeed ones we'd seen in the friendlies, we settled into place with Spencer’s frenetic early excuse fests still ringing firmly in our lugholes from his spate of preseason based confabulations with the boy Lloyd. What’s that? He’s done another one pre match? He’s talking about how sunny it is? Sealey-Harris is back?? He can’t play because Spencer’s printer/sign/scan/e-mail game is less Linford Christie and more Tony Christie??? Well I’ll be fucked. I can’t keep up. That said, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again… agents at this level are an absolute sodding liberty. They can all get to fuck quite frankly. Fair dos to Spencer for sorting it out and not just telling him to get in the bin. Anywho, I digress! Teams were, indeed, in....

So it was psf ever present Jimmy "JJ" Jewers in midfield with Louis Dunne-Dunne manning the centre of the park in front of the centre back triumvirate of Tom "Le git" Leggett, Seth "the mic" Owens &, newly positioned TheBoroWalk favourite Bryan "the messiah" Akongo. JAWs and Louie "McCain micro chips" Paget would raid down the wingback channels and John "tiny dancer" Oyenuga and new lad Jordan Coady "McCoadface" would sortie in behind CJ fucking Fearn up top. Why the fuck not. From GK to target man in 3 easy steps. Hero. He couldn't really do any worse than topknot could he.

From the off, the visitors clearly had been given their instructions to get amongst it and make sure that the hosts knew they were in a game. Tackles were not offered in half measures and their manager clearly hadn't been on the happy pills the night before, flanked in totality by their number 6 whom I can only assume had shoved a cactus up his rectum at some point in the warm up. We spend most of the first half thinking up suitable nicknames for their weird velcro headed toddler in goal. After finally settling on how funny it would be to do a bunch of Leo Sayer lyrics in the write up, we realised that we didn't know any Leo Sayer songs. More than I can say, that really was a waste of time.... much like the majority of the half. A couple of half chances, a decent jinking run and shot from McCoadface cutting inside and a left foot daisy cutter from captain utility, were as good as it got. I think it's fair to say most of us were more than happy to hear that sacred halftime whistle beckoning us to the where the beer was faithfully waiting for us. HT 0-0

As we reappeared into the second half, we were surprised to see that the lively McCoadface had been given the chop, in favour of Ed "Jibber" Jabberi, but pleased to see Fitz back in the action, on in place of the JAWs who'd picked up a couple of knocks in the first half. The "Jibber" Jabberi was known to us through his frankly obscene panenka pen in the practice shootout against the 'stoke in midweek. He's very similar in style to the boy Cullen, just less likely to take a fucking holiday. 

It was the visitors who kicked into second gear first, Beachy having to get out and get large to block off their striker with his big old size 11's. Minutes later he was called into action again when a soft free kick was given, the ref continuing his personal spiral towards maximus ineptitudeus bellendus, and belted with sufficient gusto calling our fearless protector into one of his big old flying tip off jobbies. That was about as good as it got for the new forest lot though. As the game developed, it became that age old battle of "well this is clearly going to go to pens" versus "well this is clearly going to go to pens" and there was only ever going to be one winner. To be fair though, Fitz was proving to be the spark to make things happen as Boro pushed on. He was the first to force Leo Sayer into actually making a second half save in anger as he cut into the box and arrowed his effort low, the permed wonderkid doing exceptionally well to get down and smother the shot with his outstretched manchild right arm. Paget pinged a few efforts in and around and there were a couple of almighty penalty box pinball episodes as 'Boro threw everything they could find at the PRE, tiny dancer coming closest as his effort deflected more agonisingly wide than Keith Emmerson's hairline. The final piece of the big fat frustration pie came as Spencer was forced to throw on the boy Hooks as Seth limped off in stoppage time. He sauntered out to the left wing and a minute later, low and behold a final Boro stampede bobbled across right into his path and his shot was just smothered by Leo the stopper once again. With that, the collective "FFS" groan rang out from the PRE as that big old full time whistle brought us to pens. FT 0-0

Cometh the hour, cometh the man. Having already kept out a number of pens across the 2 dress rehearsal shootouts with Woking and the 'Stokers, I think we all dared to dream that perhaps Beachy would have enough to get us over that line and into the big fat felt bag for the 1QR. Flashbacks to feeling 800 miles from the shootout we lost at the Dripping Pan a couple of years prior niggling away in the back of our minds. Their first player steps up and Beachy hurls himself low to his right and BOSH, we were immediately in business. CJ, Dunny, Paget & Fitz all despatched their efforts, leaving their final taker with the chance of pushing us towards sudden death or not. No worries though, he was shit and smashed it over the bar inducing biblical scenes of celebrations in the PRE and the surrounding areas. FT 0-0 (4-3 pens)

Monday's draw would deliver us a pilgrimage to the Chalfont of St. Peter, whom were league adversaries with us when we won promotion back in '16/17. They're now seeking refuge in the Isthmian league south east. Could have been much worse! Spencer won't have a better chance than this to equal his greatest FA cup run.

So what did we learn? Well, good god we need a cutting edge. With 'Arris returning to the ranks, clearly welcomed by his teammates going by the love in post shoot out, and Fitz well on the mend from his injury, we should be much better equipped to deal with life post Reggie. At the back, we look well set. Hopefully Bradders will be back from his covid scare pretty sharpish and with CJ, Seth and the flippin' impressive messiah (now converted to an all singing all dancing centre back behemoth), Spencer has options there. The week would unravel, as expected, with players magically appearing on the southern league's official webpage thing. Fabio Sole, Wilberforce Ocran, Kamon Sherell Assidjo & Ollie Sims all added to the ranks to try and create an arsenal of velocity to take the southern league by storm and set the wheels in motion for that push for promotion the club were talking about at the start of the year.

A push for promotion? That might be more ridiculous than starting a tinpot football blog by talking about Barry White and his part in ending the second world war. You see the trouble with me is, much the same as everyone else, we don't have any idea how this season's going to play out. No time to breathe though, the Supermarines are coming to town again to kick off league proceedings. They'll provide a real acid test as to how Spencer's fledglings will hatch into the season.

 Weird old week. 2 defeats, 1 draw, 3 penalty shootout wins. If this is the new normal, it can get in the fucking sea. It's good to be back though.

Up the fucking 'Boro. 💛💙

BORO WALK back in the room

IIIIIIIIIIIIT'S.....US...HURRAY!!!

Like a badly pixilated eagle type thing-from-the-flames, we're back baby.

One of us thought the password for this was "Spencerisacunt" but the other thought it was "Princeisabigbaldbaby" but neither was right. What to do? Just forget all about the blog, that's what.

If we're honest, trying to find the silver lining to shit coloured cloud and polish a white fluffy turd with no shiny edges was getting tiresome and more than pointless. We weren't even entertaining ourselves anymore.

But, hey, what the fuck. It's 2020. The most fucked up year since, well, 2016, when we voted Leave and loads of cool famous people kicked the bucket. 

The concept of actual live Soccerball after basically 6 months had such a moistening effect that we had to dip our quill back in that pot.

It's not like the entertainment had stopped before we kicked a ball in mild annoyance again. Soothsayer extraordinare, our lord and master thought we wouldn't be playing football again until his kingdom had frozen over, but shock upon shock twas as if the Gods of football wanted to smite him and almost immediately put plans into action to let the good times return.

Because you see, we aren't elite. No shit. What appears to have happened is that the powers that be of the third tier and below of Non-League football didn't read the memo that appears to have been cobbled together by a blind, dyslexic child, direct from the government, that said non-elite sports could start again with spectators.

Plans started to be put into place for friendlies and Spencer thought now would be the time to get a team together again from those that hadn't already left to clubs that weren't allowed to start again, like Hemel Hempstead.

In the calender went Woking, but then we could only have a maximum of 300 at that game as it was the first game back, as was decreed by the Covid Police, at Sans Cheerio (Or the WE'VEGOTHIV Stadium) so they scrambled a Wednesday night fixture before against Leatherhead so we could have the 300 crowd decend then, before Woking brought the hoards to make up the 600 we were permitted, all ready for the FA Cup Preliminary Round when the bulk of our supporters could pack out the PRE and surrounding stands to the full 7000 capacity and sing the boys to victory and the 1st Qualifying Round. Images of Upton Park, Griffin Park and Highbury danced in our eyes as they glazed over and went all dewy. 

So, what with the inevitable delay to the season, our dark lord had not given the squad a moments thought and as we slowly creeped back, the squad began to jump ship. Reggie Young made the step up we expected, Rene Howe moved to Bedford and Goal of the Season nominee Bernie Tanner searched for first team chances casually at Walton.

Also, several other members of the squad disappeared without a trace with no whisper of their name, making us think we'd imagined them, and, let's be honest, with so many players crossing before us over the past two or three years, they have started to merge into each other, like some awful hybrid crap football monster.

To Leatherhead, or rather Leatherhead to us. We were promised trialists and by golly we got them. Trialists for what, in some cases, as it wasn't footballers? A few returning faces from loan spells also graced the green again and resembled a stoned gazzelle who had been shot in the arse.

If you're here for a full blow by blow of the football itself, come back for the next installment where we will pick apart the FA Cup shitanigans, but for now you're getting rough overview, ok? Tough!

It was shit.

Actually that's not fair, that comes in the third and final PSF against the mighty Basingrad a week later.

This 0-0 snore fest served as a limb loosener, a group that despite having played a handful of friendlies elsewhere behind closed doors, looked like strangers. We learnt just before that John 'Tiny Dancer' Oyenuga was departing for East Anglia Uni so we were down to just CJ from the promotion glory year, albeit injured.

What remained was Beach in goal (thank Christ), Brian 'The Messiah' Akongo, Seth 'The Mic' Owens, Jordan 'The Tits' Alawode-Williams, Louie 'Louie' Paget,

David 'Coltrane' Fitzpatrick, Tom 'Le Git' Leggett, Louis 'Well and Truly' Dunne, Connor 'One Pump' Cullen and AJ Sealy-Harris. More on him later.

Besides some comedy finishing that Baddiel and Skinner would have been hard pushed to replicate, it was what it was. For an opening home game after half a year absence, it could have been worse.

And so it proved. 

But not on the pitch. All of a sudden on Thursday AJ tweets he's upping sticks and fucking off. To who knows where either. Rumours fly around that he's got an agent, he's going to Gillingham, he doesn't like our football style (we have one?!?) or he is quitting football altogether. This proves to be a shock to everyone if for no other reason than timing. He'd signed registration forms the night before and it wasn't that bad. We drew for Christ's sake.

Our fuhrer hadn't given up hope but he wasn't down for the next match.

Woking only sent an U23's team on Saturday with Matt Jarvis on the bench apparently but never making the light of Day. It appears he was never here as his Instagram posts of his kids attests. So many lies.

I don't think we got to the 600 we were hoping for.

The best bit about the entire day was after what we were told was just a swansong for John 'Tiny Dancer' Oyenuga, subsequently transpired to be that he may be back for good as his Uni place could be more local. 

They were fitter, stronger, more productive in the first half than us, a couple of irritating little flies buzzing around the pitch that needed swotting and it only took a tiny bit of a nudge for one of them to crash down in the area and the penalty was dispatched. A generally competent defensive display was only blotted by one mistake that unfortunately was costly and it was two just before the break.

Second half was much improved with the introduction of several new trialists that we'd used the right agency for this time and they were in fact ballers. Messrs 16, 18 and 19 proved useful, from defensive midfield, striker and right wing respectively. The former scoring a slightly deflected free kick to halve the arrears. 

We were hopeful they'd appear against Basingrad.

Despite losing 2-1 it went to penalties where it appeared no one but Liam could be arsed and after ten penalties it finished 2-1 to Boro. Beechy playing demi-god with THREE saves and one striking the bar and going over. We scored two pens, can't remember who.

And then the other night, our chums from down the M3 travelled up in what was hoped to be a morale booster before the cup trials and tribulations. 

Only two trialists started, although one we are lead to believe is James Jewer in midfield who has appeared for at least the past four games. The other was the striker at 9, who started against Woking at 10. 

More good news (it just keeps coming) was that Bradley Pearce was back on loan for a period of time from Sutton United which was jolly nice of them. Dunne was back from non- Covid related illness. 

First half we were far the better side without the end product. A needs must top three of trialist striker flanked by Tiny Dancer and The Tits looked odd to begin with but they proved tricky for the Stockies to handle. Only a very out of character gaff by Liam allowed an innocuous dribbler to bobble past him as he knelt to gather. It's one you would obviously expect him to save and he would 99 times out of 100 but this time a combo of taking his eye off the ball and grass longer than my back garden did for him. Tiny Dancer restored parity straight away and it looked as though we'd push on. 

But then perversely, after around 40 minutes Tony 'Topknot' Halsey replaced The Tits. Nothing untoward occured in his brief first half cameo but there were no further changes at the break, except in formation. And it fucked it.

We received news at half time that AJ was turning out for Gosport but sebsequent teamsheets and sub lists proved otherwise.

Bizarrely we seemed so open to the counter and so it proved our undoing. Twice a slightly over nippy break allowed Amazingrad to score, the first a nice finish but the second a defensive calamity with keeper and centre backs switching off and not communicating. A myriad of subs proceeded that ended any continuity.

Trialist striker that was 18 against Woking but today 15 came on but toiled to no avail. Midfielder that was 16 but now 12 steadied the ship but there was no spark. 19 from Woking was injured. And to be frank, Topknot was abysmal. Attempting to sugar coat it has proven near impossible. He cannot be in any long term plans. Sorry Tony.

Further shite news was The Tits, who had returned to the fray, was scythed down by a dirty cunt when clearing from the edge of our area. Utterly pointless challenge that he hobbled slowly away from after several minutes of treatment. Unecessary in a friendly and unfortunately the eye was not revenged upon. 

Further penalties at the end proved that should we be able to get to 90 minutes all square against these world beaters from two leagues below on Saturday we might get through on spot kicks. On the second half tonight I doubt that very much. But then, that was always part of the plan, as with any season, to not participate in any cup competitions that could spin some cash and then complain about budget some more.

There's a laundry list of absentees and those we might not have clearance of one variety or another for Lymington but if these friendlies have taught as anything, we could not begin to guess what system we'll play or who might start beyond Beechy, Leggett, Owens and probably The Messiah and Dunne. Oh and of course Pearce. Hopefully Tiny Dancer is still with us. Connor 'One Pump' won't be.

A birdy told us that AJ ain't wanted by Gosport and might turn up on Saturday, tail between legs. But who fucking knows anymore.

It's never dull round our way, but the birds are minging (the dirty pigeons, they love a bit of it). You never know, we might be in the bag for the next round come Monday. 

As always, COME ON BORO!!!

A right kick up the KetteRinger

Having suffered the sheer bewilderment of our first 'no midweek game midweek' in a couple of months, November had dawned on us with more ferocious velocity than Glen "fister" Southam trying to order a happy meal from the dodgy order point at a McDonald's drive-thru. It gave the side some well needed r'n'r from the previous week's procession in the trophy at Larkhall. When I say "the side", I obviously mean "the fans" as we were all in general shock that we'd won an away cup tie. No clean sheet, obviously, but Rome wasn't built in a day you ungrateful bastardos. 

That reluctant glance at the fixture list, hoping that the day would bring Dunstable or Gosport at home, was frankly ruined by the realisation that it was former Conference adversaries Kettering who were descending in our general direction. A glance up the league ladder saw them perched up in the bronze medal position. Clearly their lofty ambitions were at a more advanced stage of execution than ours. Going on recent form though, they'd have to go some to outscore us... or rather they'd have to go some to out-concede us.

TEAM NEWS and there was no sign of "fister" Southam or the Hammond "organ" or indeed "Richlist" Forbes for that matter too, as per usual it seemed we were down to the bare bones again. "Mischa" Barton was in for a deserved start in the centre and the odds were on "Good" Evans to plug that pesky right back spot. More interesting was the bench. Bobby "Davro" Dormer had signed on from the CowThorpe park feeder club lot and Lamidi "George" was yet another new face. Literally could find nothing on him on t'internet... let's hope he could bamboozle some defences with equal effectiveness. 

Into the action and.... 0-1

Boro's back 4 were stretched across the park and their winger dropped one right on the noggin' of their big'ol' unit of a number 9 who had a running jump on Reg. Could "Kula" Cafer have done better in his ballbag area?? Hands up I thought he could of. But I'm not a GK coach. Maybe Keith "net'in'yahoo" Benjamin could lay some analysis on us for that one.

'Boro had a brief foray into the Ket'rin' half as Perry "the Hoffen" Coles slip streamed into peak 'feret on speed' mode and created the space for "Good" Evans to surge to the bisexual line and square for "Mustard" Calcutt to snatch at his shot like "clintons" in 'spoons at happy hour.

The visitors were soon back at it though and, following a routine belt up-field, Josh "the Salmon" Huggins proceeded to caress the ball, into the path of the on-rushing striker, with his nipples. Thankfully the increased blood flow to his areolas allowed him to reach breakneck speed and clear the aforementioned striker's effort off the line, after his rounding of the marooned "kula" Cafer.

Our transient guests did not have long to wait for yet more ballbag action though as a corner, yes you guessed it, was arched in to the Boro box. "Mustard" flicked one on, "Kula" Cafer spiked his punch with a big ol' slice of mouldy orange peel, Curo couldn't clear it and the ball bag did bulg'eth. 0-2

The red invaders were building more of head of steam than a man with a kettle for a head, as our backline rocked on it's haunches. Stretching us across the park and then steering the balls through the gaps like a bunch of tea-bagging man whores. They could have been a couple further ahead by the time we crafted together our first real moment of quality. "Clintons" "Cap'n Ceej" and "the Salmon" all working together like a very oily machine giving "Mustard" the opportunity to turn the defender and unleash a shot with more venom then an 80's cartoon bad guy. Optimism lasted about 42 seconds though as their left back suddenly turned into Bobby Charlton with a man bun, jinking through our back line and leathering his shot into "Kula" Cafer's nearside stick. 0-3  HT

Kettering probably the best side we've seen in 45 this season. We were shit.

Into the second section and, with Bobby "Davro" Dormer on and little to lose, we started actually stringing some passes together and finding a bit of space. Kettering, knowing the game had gone, were sitting back and inviting us on like a big old slapper at the dogging. "The Hoffen" and "Mustard" both had half chances, stinging the ballbag protectors palms like a couple of dotard wasps. "Clintons", now operating on the right, arched his way in and dumped his load from 25 yards out, just exceeding the crossbra. 

The Special K's began to find their feet though and, with us pushing forward, found a few gaps to move in on. A moment of high comedy ensued in which "Kula" Cafer simultaneously blocked and nearly scored a belting OG with his face which thankfully was cleared miraculously by "Ceej" mentality.

Boro pressed again and finally got some well earned reward when, after a couple of corners, one finally found it's way on to a big yellow head and "Mustard" had got us on the board. 1-3

With the visitors' defences breached for the first time in around 15 years, they suddenly were starting to flap like a bunch of startled penguin smugglers. "The Hoffen" could have reduced the deficit further, right before Curo contrived to miss a header from 3 yards out, striking the bar. He gestured to the ref out of moderate desperation, might have had a point.... but then.....

Absolute worldie from that lad "Mischa" Barton again. Just drink it in 2-3

It's fair to say that not since that roadkill special of masterchef has something so flat ever been turned into something so tasty.

Up the other end and the ref began to move into his "I'm a massive bellend" phase as some cumulative shirt lifting from "suck my balls" Everitt and their attacker, while waiting for an incoming cross, resulted in the man in black pointing to the spot. Their striker stepped up and absolutely thrashed it against the crossbar!! GAAAAAME ONNNNNNN

Momomomomentum as Boro earned yet another corner.... floated in... who else do you want on those beautiful second balls in the box but that little flippin' legend. J'aime le Cureton!! 3-3

Chaos ensued as both sides went in the hunt for the killer blow. The officials had inexplicably found 6 minutes of time added on, generally from their own incompetence and, obviously with this being Boro, it would be in the final of those 6 added minutes that a ball over the top found Boro completely exposed down the right and the lucky bastards kept their cool and slotted home.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.

Shit 1st half. Set up was all wrong and we couldn't handle them. Superb spirit and fight in the 2nd, against a side who ended the day top of the pile. Good solid debut from "Davro" Dormer too.

If we could just stop conceding goals we'd be a fucking tour de force.

We're gonna need a bigger boat for that "If"

ONWARDS

Banned-bury from the Trophy??

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.

Smack my bHitch' up

Christ almighty it had been a shitstorm of a couple of weeks. The Biggleswade buggering, the Hartley Wintney hammering, the Dunstable debacle and the Weymouth wodgering had most of us in very fragile spirits ahead of another Sat'day pilgrimage to the San Cherrio. Aside from the string of shit results, our overlord had also dropped the bombshell that we'd most likely be losing Sir James of Cureton, because he couldn't train twice a week or some such wiff waff. Somewhat ironic seeing as he's eligible for a free bus pass.

Something had to give though and we were also hearing fucking deafening whispers that a couple of new bodies would be making their way into the fray. That was enough to keep the faint embers of optimism burning like Clintons' bum hole after a big night down the Ancient Raj.

Hitchin Town were the visitors. They'd suffered a pretty lukewarm start to the season, so it could have been worse. Saying that, our home form had been absolute toilet, so it was pretty obvious the plucky green minnows would fancy it.

Team news and there were a triumvirate of new names to get acquainted with. First up, our new ballbag protector would be Matt "Kula" Cafer. We were pretty sure we'd seen the name before. Gosport or Dorchester or some such like.... he'd even played Europa League qualifiers in Gibraltar. Fancy. Next up was Adam "suck-my-balls" Everitt, a defender/midfielder, whom was obviously the next to have a go at stopping the proverbial rot in the rotting hull that is our recent defensive record.

Calum "clamper" Willock, a striker, completed the trio from the bench. The latter pair, at 35yo, were clearly not long termers, but with Grandpa Cureton still in the starting lineup, they were veritable whippersnappers so fuck it. Some solid non-league journeymen was probably what we needed to help stem the tidalwave of excrement. So Everitt was in for "mustard" Calcutt. Off we go.

Kick off brought a mild level of warmth, to the less then sparse congregation of Boro masochist fans lapping up the luxury of the San Cherrio, as we looked to press on with some crisp passing and  actually winning some second balls. A couple of early corners were won and squandered as Clintons started to get a feel for the visitors right back. Curo and Clintons then combined for the first real sighter as some lovely chuckle brothers interplay resulted in Clintons exposing their last defenders testicles and serving them up on a plate for Curo to gobble down. Unfortunately Curo couldn't halt his one man meals-on-wheels procession, only offering up a big fat dry cold cut which the ballbag man graciously cradled to his portly bosom. Boro's defensive unit, clearly with a remit to sit and keep things tighter then a duck's arse, were functional and concise. Reg back in at CB was making things tick and the "suck-my-balls" Everitt factor was showing early promise.

The visitors came to life and were on the corners trail themselves. The first one not defended properly, as standard, and the ball fell to one of their up toppers who hooked it over his shoulder and, thankfully, over the crossbarbar blacksheep. Moments later and they were at it again as one was driven low and one shanked it with all the conviction of a Trump tweet which fell into the path of Reg who also managed to airshot the leather sphere thing into the path of a waiting greeny who spanked it home past "Kula" Cafer. As you were. 0-1

Moments later and the hosts should have been 2 up as another piece of slack defending allowed a cross to be looped up into the squared circle and, with "the salmon" caught out the wrong side, their striker had a pretty much free header. He hadn't read the script, or maybe couldn't read the script, and fluffed his header wide of a relieved "Kula" Cafer. Another couple of minutes later though and the ball was in the net again for the visitors. There's an old saying round these parts. "Elbow someone in the fucking face, karma will catch up with you and roger you senseless". And so it proved to be as, following a blatantly obvious off the ball elbow to the face of "the Organ", their number 9 bell end of an Ibrahimovic wannabe meandered into the box and laid it off for their winger to carve one across Kula Cafer and into the empty net. Thankfully though their striker had the IQ of a bird bath and thought it best to touch it in from an offside position, thus giving the lineo no choice but to remove the flag from his arse and wave it in the air like he just didn't care. Bravo lads, bravo.

Big test time, could the lads suck it up and carry on playing? Would they lose their composure and start lumping it up to our midget goliaths?! The safe money was on the latter. We didn't have too long to wait for an answer though as completely out of nowhere our new ballbag man ploughed his kick out down the right into the path of the on-rushing "Hoffen" Coles who lobstered their floundering keeper, plaiceing it into the far side nets to crab the equalizer. Game on! 1-1

The relief around the ground was so palpable that you could literally take it in to the clubhouse and give it a right good rodgering over the pool table. The relief was only just starting to ratchet up though as just 5 minutes later Clintons surged on in his one man world record attempt to drop more shoulders then a faulty meat trolley at an abattoir. He found his way through the maze and squared at the bisexual line in the direction of Sir Cureton of East Anglia who deftly set himself up with a modified Cruyff turn, swivelling on a sixpence to then unleash his finish into the far corner. Absolutely fucking beautiful stuff from the 53 year old. 2-1 

Saw out the remainder of the half fairly comfortably and, before you knew it, much like the trailing stench of stale ale and traction engine lubrication oil left by the Hitchin faithful, it was gone. HT 2-1

Winning at half time, at home, is somewhat of an unfamiliar experience so plenty of general merriment was had by all as we realised that we were going to give them a damn good seeing to in the second half. Their players were already starting to turn on each other so, as long as we kept 11 on the field, we'd get the trois points we expected. Signs of it gelling, as opposed to signs of playing like jelly. Nice.

Into the second period and Boro came out looking to kill this off like the retiring partner in a hollywood 80s cop movie. Shoot on sight seemed to be the next game in the order of play. "Richlist" Forbes, "Fister" Southam and "Clintons" all attempting lengthy slappers with varying degrees of success. Well, when I say varying degrees of success... I mean they all missed. But that's dramatic license for you. That said, "Fister's" effort did force the ballbag lad into a low save which, from the resulting corner bent in from "Clintons", "suck-my-balls" Everitt looped a header in from which 2 Hitchiner deeefendos did some weird penalty box synchro swimming performance to just about keep the ball from crossdressing the white line.

Time for our new ballbag man to put the shit up us by forgetting where his goal was but that was mere childs play as the moment of the match was about to unfold.... "Reg" intercepted a loose pass by the centre circle and laid it into Curo, setting off on his procession for a bit of chuckle brothers action. Curo happily obliged the chrome topped demigod and suddenly Reg found himself 25 yards out and with more acres of greenfield then one of his Somerset farmer neighbours. Hi picked his spot and unleashed a WMD, leaving the keeper needing 6 months of counselling. Shoot on site. 3-1

With the icing now setting nicely on top of the cake of a performance, we just needed the brandy soaked cherry to really get our bakeoff-lob-on. Rather amusingly that came from a Hitchinny-chin-chin corner which was floated in met by the fist of "Kula" and then the soaring left peg of "fister" into the feet of Curo. He laid it off to the on-rushing "Organ" Hammond who then channelled Curo down the right. His centre was taken off of "the Hoffen's" noggin' by the ballbag lad but only in to the path of the galavanting "fister" who settled with 1 touch, then leathered it home. Pretty much 20 seconds from them taking their corner to the ball being in their net. They'd be spunking over that on MOTD if it was Arsenal City or Manchester Rovers or whoever the fuck plays up there nowadays. 4-1

That just left time for

• Curo to get his lob-on and smash the big horizontal wood 
• "Kula" Cafer to start bedding in with a couple of good stops 
• Hitchin to carry on throwing around their handbags like Tyson Fury in drag.
• A (final?!) standing ovation for Curo as he was subbed for "clamper" Willock 10 from time
• 16yo EJ Anyan brought on for his debut. EJ and CJ.

"Suck-my-balls" Everitt took official MOTM, but the day's performance was more about the majority of players winning their battles and putting in their best performances of the season. Not only that, but we finally realised that passing, moving and pulling the defence wide is how you beat teams at this level. Not a lumping in sight, just an absolute plethora of positives.

We really fucking needed that with a certain trek to Hereford on the horizon.
We don't miss too many games, but the Hereford weekday trek was a step too far. That said... if we were going to sacrifice ourselves for the good of the club, then so be it.

And what a sacrifice it was!!!

A "where-were-you" moment for sure. The 9 (not 9, we've already "fake news'd" this) who did attend were very very lucky to have witnessed it and we were sick with jealousy.

So 2 wins and next up? The St.Neotians again. We've beaten them already.... we've turned a corner... nothing will ever go wrong again... WE'RE GONNA WIN THE LEAGUE.

Make hay while the sun shines and all that.

ONWARDS

St Ne-not-so-good AGAIN!!

The Southern League fixture computer spewed out a weird anomaly where we'd only just reached the second full month of the season and we were beginning to repeat the teams we'd played already. Half a league of teams to visit and be visited by and yet we meet the Nits from St Neots again, fresh from the ridiculous result at Hereford where football Gods looked down on us favorably and we came home from basically Wales with three unexpected but very welcome points.

The corner had been turned and two straight victories meant we went into the fixture with belief that this would be the first double in the bag.

The omens were not good from the off. Hurricane Bobbins was meant to disrupt the half time brew but it had been blowing a gale all day anyway so it what difference would it make. Part of the party pulled out last minute as his family had the plague so screeching in at five past three to discover my seat was occupied. It's a massive fucking stand there's plenty of room, leave my seat alone.

Wind chill up a notch, hand in gloves, I take my seat to see a rat faced, rat haired Neot-wit smack the bladder into the blue and yellow onion bag. Buggerations!

As has been the general curve of the form graph, the trend is for us to improve once we go a goal down and so it was. Where we let them have the ball before so we now took it off them and lay siege to the Moor Road End and Curo was brutally scythed down for a quick peno. Despatched with aplomb, one one.

That was really where the plus points ended to be honest. Maybe we thought after the mighty win and ridiculous clean sheet against a promotion favourite that we'd got it sorted, but we're still ill and the final cure is illusive.

We were Reg and Perry-less and Fister went off mid way into the first half, and despite Richlist being named on the bench, on came "Clamper" Willock, seemingly into a three up top with Curo and Mustard. This didn't really help. Maybe Spencer believed a formation change was needed now we'd equalised and were on top but it wasn't. Momentum shifted and before the break the lead was restored. One of a plethora of ridiculously soft free kicks was awarded when either the No.9 or 10 nancy boy felt a flick on his person and out stretched arms in appeal appeared naturally like a reflex.

Bollocks marking at the far post saw one of their pricks ghost in and clobber it just inside the post with a great degree of inaccuracy. One two, load of poo.

Half time pint gave solice and a few of the Neoters graciously exclaiming that San Cheerio was the best ground they'd been to this season, basically because of the huge fuck off PRE stand. Views of the M3 astonishing.

Mysteriously, Clamper didn't appear for part two. No explanation given subsequently but who knows. He could have gotten into his car and fucked off forever for all we'll ever be told. Probably another Spencer master stroke. On came Truncheon. CJ moved into the Reg position of play fucking anywhere.

Bugger all changed. Except the scoreline. The shitty Saints went 1-3 when one of the woofters inexplicably bamboozled Josh and Kula Cafer made the first of his two mistakes for the afternoon and seemed to be in a strange position for a finish that wasn't anywhere near the bottom corner but beat him all ends up.

Barbarism begins at home, and it's been an unhappy place bar two wins. Away sells sanctuary and we're better off with our backs against the wall.

We improved slightly but they also got worse. CJ chucked his hat into the ring for goal of the season by bending a beauty into the bottom corner from out on the left, cutting inside to his right peg. 2-3 whoopee. Half a chance.

No chance. We looked the more likely to score, Clintons began to sparkle and a few speculative sighters gave their ballbag protector more trouble than they should have and Curo probably should have converted a spillage but to no avail.

An up and under caught in Windy Willy and Kula was all over the shop as feather like No. 9 pointlessly chased it down. He felt something on his back and went down to his default position in the turf and ginger vicar in a tutu pointed to the spot. The bellend. 2-4 fucking bore.

Stop me if you think that you've heard this one before, but quite what the problem with defending at home is we can't put our finger on but it's getting on our tits. Attendance has been shared between the Boro Walkers recently and it's very fucking one sided for this particular one to see face bumming defeats. Of the past three home games I've seen we've shipped 16 goals. That's unacceptable. So naturally the next thing to do would be to lose two defenders. Brilliant.

Cheers Hightower and Truncheon. Thanks for buggering off when we're knee deep in shit.

The arsewipe that is the fixtures computer meant consecutive Tuesday night away games hundreds of miles away and sometimes it's just a step too far.

And so it proved. That M1/M25/M3 journey home after the injury time winner for the potato pellers after the last minute equaliser by Mustard would have been a right cunt.

Some F.A Trophy light relief followed and we beat Larkhall somewhere near or in the Bath. Lovely good soaping. Life, work, vomiting, felines and funds have meant the away trips have been few and far between recently but that'll change now November is upon us and some breathing space.

Another team we've heard of visit San Cheerio today. Kettering are currently 4th so it's going to be a Weymouth like test but we've had a week off so hopefully limbs have been rested, all suspensions  completed and, post Trophy win, morale is up.

As always, COME ON YOU YELLOWS!!

A big old seat at the DunceTable for us

So it was a big day for TheBoroWalk. Back in November we'd navigated our way up that bastard concrete corridor of motorway madness to Dunstable to enable us to deliver our first ever away match write up. We'd made up exactly 2.33% of the 86 crowd that night, witnessed a Reg wonder goal (which somehow didn't make the goal of the season shortlist!?!) and come away with a 3-1 win to keep us on the coattails of those plucky Roystonions.

Fast forward 11 months and it was destination Creasey Spoon cafe Park once again, but this time to take on literally the best team in the whole of Dunstable... well if you pardon the fact AFC had beaten them on pens in some tinpot cup the week before. Speaking of tinpot cups, we were still reeling from the shit storm of Wednesday night where we were taken out for dinner by the tango bunch from Hartley Wintney who, rather rudely, spiked our drinks and then finger blasted our bumholes round the back of Asda. 6-1. 6 bleedin' 1! Never mind though, our overlord couldn't hide his delight in the post match interview so I guess it was a good result for us right? Never mind the fact we'd all had to pay a tenner to get in... and don't get me started on the fosters.

But it's okay. It was non-league day! Yes, that national holiday of jolly where non-league football is wheeled out to the sky felating arse clowns of the '92 for them to patronise the living shit out of us because England are off in the deep recesses of the Baltics being shitter then Piers Morgan.
Alright, maybe I'm being a tad harsh on it (NLD, not Piers Morgan)... but you'll see why by the end of this report. It just fits in with the narrative better.

A fucking hectic Saturday had meant that, by the time we headed off in the Boro-Mobile mkII, a customary M25 meltdown had pushed our ETA out to 2.57. This lead to a bout of early onset squeaky bum time, normally reserved for anytime between 3 and 4.50. The customary "been there, won there, x played there" analysis of all the towns we were passing was abruptly interrupted when we came across the reason our journey was taking fucking forever. A Toyota had ploughed straight into the back of a static caravan on the back of a Jeep. If ever there was a metaphor for our recent form, maybe that was it. Still, we rolled into the creasey car park and parked up next to a speed boat as the players were coming out, nearly got hit in the face by a football and then got hit on by an old man talking about Ethan Allen. It was clearly going to be a surreal afternoon.

Pay what you want was the home sides non-league day gimmick. This was a good thing as I'd stupidly forgotten to take any money out. Obviously I'm not a complete fuckwit though, so handed over approximately £6.47, from which the ceremonial emptying of my pocket had thrown up. Free cup of chips too apparently. Scenes.

Team news. "Fister" Southam was back from his ban and Curo was back in the 11. No Clintons, as he was off quaffing weinerschnitzels in his over sized lederhosen on a stag do in Germany. No"Good" Evans either. "Chilli con" Cairney was still off with the army somewhere so "ankles" Upward continued to deputise. It didn't really matter though... we were playing Dunstable ffs. They've won as much as Wild e coyote this season. Walk in the park, right? Of course. This is Farnborough. Everything always runs smoothly.

A breeze stiffer then the inhabitants of a morgue greeted kick off. A Bill Nighy look-a-like walked up to me and made a joke about the pitch being a lot flatter then St.Albans. Still reeling from the car park incident I laughed along. He found it extremely funny. Maybe you had to be there... oh, I was there. I don't know. Anyway, the important thing was that Boro had started the first few minutes pretty sprightly. Well, anything was more sprightly then Wednesday so probably a relatively invalid piece of analysis, but there you go. The C-unit of Curo, "Mustard" Calcutt and "The Hoffen" Coles all looked hungry to make their mark on what should have been a 'gimme' of an afternoon for their bed post scoring chart thingys.

The afternoon tone was set as Boro's first chance came from a corner. "the Hoffen" bent one in like a porn star with a genitalia disfigurement and "Hightower" Saville mounted the human pyramid, nodding the ball into the ball bag stanchion. Just a matter of time, early doors, it'll be okay.

Not too long to wait before the next opportunity. No, I'm not talking about on the pitch. I'm talking about another old man accosting me. This time it was an old man meandering round deciding to tell me that he used to be in Doctor Who and was still doing comedy gigs when he could. He asked me to give him any topic for him to make a joke about. Obviously I resisted the temptation to say "Spencer Day" as all of those jokes have been done, so I opted for "a Morris Minor". I can't repeat the joke he told me. Let's just say the 70s called and they want you(tree) back. Jesus wept.

Boro continued to control the majority of the territory like a constipated lion with a paranoia complex (same as their mascot ironically). "The Hoffen" was doing his usual act of chasing round like a demented ferret on speed. "Richlist" Forbes even managed to string together a few pieces of interplay and bring the ball forward. Maybe this would be the day that everything came together.... ummmmm, Nah!!
We had a few various offerings where the ball bag was threatened, but it was safe to say that things weren't quite clicking again. It took a good 35 minutes for us to make the stickman work. Some neat build up play resulted in "mustard" finding himself on the shoulder of the defender, heading it back across the stickman who saved well down to his right. Ironically it turns out this was a brand new teenage keeper making his debut. Quite why we weren't peppering his goal with waves of potshots was beyond me, especially early on.

A couple of minutes before HT and Dunstable worked themselves into a position which should probably should have resulted in the opening goal. Boro's backline undone and a mighty fine block from, who else but, "Reg" saved us the embarrassment of going in behind. HT 0-0

It was not a half for the purist. Boro had huffed and puffed but not been able to undo a nervous Dunstable backline. Curo got caught offside too many times, "Mustard" was clearly being targeted as the supply route which needed cutting off and "fister" Southam.... well.... let's just say he'd performed his usual 10/10 performance... for shouting and talking out of his arse at everyone constantly. That said, we were getting into the final third, but we just needed the bit of luck to get the car running. Most probably 1 would lead to more. Just don't concede. Just don't, alright??

Into the second half  and...Oh, Bill Nighy was back again... asking me about our trip to Boreham Wood next week. "I'M NOT FROM FUCKING ST. ALBANS YOU SENILE OLD GOAT". I have a yellow scarf on... look at the pitch... we play in yellow. Maybe I'm from Norwich or Brazil. Don't be such a regional racist. Anyway, he then decided he'd take it on himself to be the 18th person of the day to tell me that Dunstable were amateur and didn't get paid for playing. Fine, I get it... we're shit. I really don't need that validating, have you seen our results lately?!

Anyway, couple of minutes in and the nails in the coffin were starting to shine in the glare from Reg's head. "Mustard" limped off and was replaced by the out of form "truncheon" Hutchings. Left back for a striker probably not what the doctor ordered but Spencer evidently didn't have the confidence to throw on the youth lad this early on. The biggest issue was that our hold up player was gone. With our tendency to resort to lumping it, and no natural width with "clintons" being absent and Walker having long departed, I think we all started to feel the squeaks in our posteriors.

That said, "the Salmon" Huggins continued in his quest to miss as many chances as was humanly possible, from corners, in a game of football. Maybe I should have called for a representative from the Guinness book of records, as opposed to the pint of Guinness I'd generously treated myself to from their fine & friendly, yet annoyingly understaffed clubhouse. Good burger and chips though.

We still weren't working the keeper enough from open play. "Reg" had obviously figured this out as it was he who launched a couple of grenades from just outside the area. One agonisingly wide and one needing the young ball bagger at his best to tip it round his pole.

"Hightower" picked up a booking for a clumsy foul and then it was time for things to move to "unravelling shit-storm" level as a completely innocuous throw in was wafted long back in the direction of "ankles" who took a touch, lost control, ballsed it up, bent over and served it up on a plate for the onrushing forward, who suddenly found himself running into the area with nothing but fresh air standing in his way of the goal mouth. 20 mins to go, we were 1 down to Dunstable fucking Town. 0-1

I wouldn't say we particularly moved up any gears or anything at that point. As expected, Dunstable obviously began to sit deeper as they tried to work out how and why they were winning and what the hell you had to do to win a game of football. This invited us on but again we were looking bereft of poise and penetration from the midfield and lacking any width to get in behind. The main chances were all coming from set pieces, "the salmon" was up to goal effort 17,431 and firing blanks like an Oscar Pistorius case for the defence.

Curo spurned a couple of good chances and was replaced by the young lad Roberts for the last 10. Maybe it'd be one of those fairytale story type jobs which would result in him "doing a Rashford" and lifting us from the depths of this massive toilet we were wedged in. Well, he got booked for chatting back at the ref at least. Quite how the ref called that when he hadn't picked "fister" up on it all game is beyond me. Maybe he was just a fuckwit.

There was still time for "the hoffen" to craft a great chance after some sloppy defending, he half rounded the keeper and, pushed slightly wide, leathered his shot across the goal... unfortunately finding one of their heroic centre backs putting his head where others probably wouldn't.

With Boro throwing bodies forward like a madame tussauds clearout, it was inevitable that the Dunst would carve out another opportunity, on the break, to kill it off. "Ankles" able to tip it just over the bar. Back up the other end and "the Hoffen" earned a free kick just outside of the box. Another chance to grab something.... but we wasted it and that was it... and then the rain started. FT 0-1

It's becoming abundantly clear that some of this team is coasting.
It's becoming abundantly clear that there are large question marks over the tactics/formations we're adopting.
It's becoming abundantly clear that we're all getting rather fucked off.

Come on lads. You wear the shirt, take some pride in it and indeed for us fans who thrash our guts out to travel to places like Dunstable to watch you. This has been a shit week and with, at the time of writing, an in from Weymouth in the week... it's time to step up or shit out. This tide needs to be stemmed fast, especially with Hereford and Royston on the horizon.

Spencer. Sort it.

ONWARDS