As first away game journeys go, Warrington was a godsend. Admittedly I was expecting a trip to Kings Lynn, Peterborough, Bishop Stortford or some other god forsaken southern shitehole, so a 3 and a bit hour trip to town famous for egg chasing that most of us have never been to was truly a gift, that could have only been blessed upon us by our own lord and saviour.
This also meant sorting a bus would be much easier, or at least that’s what I thought at the time. I figured I’d reach out to Maynards again and see if they’d be interested but they just ignored us. Hoyed a few queries about to some firms, with 1 set of twats wanting north of £1,500. Thankfully we managed to sort something for a good price with a Blyth firm, and the fun bus/mobile bar was in business.
Despite knowing I had to be up and about for half 6 and had a million things to de for the morning, I convinced myself to make the usual Friday night jaunt to Terrace with the mindset of ‘Wey the Premier League is back on’ as well as ‘A few Stripes’ won’t hurt. Needless to say they did, and following some lukewarm Jägers my motor functions began to pack in.
Thankfully though the resulting hangover was only a moderate one, and I managed to be on time for ‘Politically Incorrect’ Davey’s lift in the morning. After an ASDA beer run and a diversion to pick up the resident stripper (Ellen) it was onto Spoons for the usual substandard full English. Solid 4/10 this time sadly, as the bacon was neigh still alive and the lazy fucks didn’t bother to toast anyone’s bread. With that sort of put away and all the beer packed up, it was time for the off.
Surprisingly everyone actually managed to turn up on time for the bus at Blyth, and we were ready to go and collect the refugees from Cramlington and Seaton Delightful but before we could even leave Blyth, Sellar managed to have his first ‘Derek’ moment by the time we hit Plessey News, which for him is almost an achievement.
For anyone unaware of what a Derek moment is, Derek is the name of the vein that bursts out of Sellar’s heed when he starts to argue and rage about some nonsensical shite, with such bollocks as ‘AM TELLING YOU NOW WAYNE ROONEY WAS A FUCKING MIDFIELDER’. Gingers man.
Soulsby had also set himself away with the predictor once again, and although it took him nearly an hour to get everyone’s predictions down, it was nice to see him back despite being late with his permission slip from the new Mrs.
Both Sellar and Pie reckoned they weren’t drinking but, Sellar rocked up with 8 cans of warm Kronenbourg (fucking wrongin) and it didn’t take long for Pie to get into the swing of things. With Kirk’s boombox’s in place we pretty much flew down the A1/M62.
The driver was on top for as well and we managed to make it all the way down to the Cheshire Cheese by about half 12. No sooner had we arrived, we were joined by the Cannock lads and the traditional game of chase the ace was once again underway.
Some Thai(?) chicken and chips were hoyed out on the bar for the lads and everyone seemed to enjoy those, especially Hasto who sat atop his throne eating, drinking and shouting commands like a Medieval King.
After a few pints of Madri and a delightful visit from the local coppers, we had a wonder on down to the ground. Mind I didn’t exactly realise that most of the walk would be uphill, so by the time we got to the ground most of us were fooked and in desperate need of another pint.
Myself and Jaky dipped into the ‘Sport and Social club’ which looked alright, but it was full of home fans and the beer was fucking twatful with only Carlsberg, San Miguel (that was flat as fuck) and Kronenbourg on tap. We dipped out from there pretty quickly to find the bar in the ground that was so dark and dingy I half expected to find a Chilean Miner in need of rescuing. With some half decent pints of Porretti we headed behind the goal for the start of the first half, which would end up being the equivalent of double dropping some E’s and going for a wonder in the Forrest.
Once again, Spartans seemed to take control of the game early on and looked more than comfortable creating chances. After going close with Dev’s free kick into the box, the opener would come from Redcar Jesus doing some tremendous battling to get some room for the cross on the left flank, with the ball eventually falling to Mr VO5 himself who smashed it home to put Spartans 1-0 up.
Jordan Hickey and Dev’s were running the show once again, creating chances for themselves and the other lads as the half went on but when Bod’s got his marching orders for the foul on last man (I think) it looked like the momentum was about to switch. Shaw would replace Jesus, which was needed to reassure the defence, but I couldn’t help feeling bad for him given how well he’d done.
Before Warrington could snatch away Spartans momentum it was 2-0, as Blyth worked it down the right flank with JJ O’Donnell finding JJ Hooper in the middle of the penalty area who calmly slotted it home, sending the away end into a frenzy once again.
Before the absolute trip of a first half was done with though the home side won a penalty from a questionable handball decision that appeared to be given against Jon Shaw. Alas, the penalty was smashed against the corner of the crossbar to pretty much end the first half. HOLY FUCK.
After grabbing some more beers and regrouping behind the other end of the ground, we were ‘introduced’ to some of the home supporters who decided to hang back. A truly delightful bunch of 14/15 year old wannabe football fooligans, repping the best knock off Stone Island gear they could get their hands. Truly wonderful people.
As the second half got underway, despite only having 10 men Spartans were STILL creating chances. The home side may have controlled the opening moments of the half, forcing Alex Mitchell into some good saves but as the half went on, they appeared to run out of ideas and began to struggle to break down Spartans back 4. That frustration culminated in Dixon kicking out at Rhys Evans, which brought both sides down to 10 men.
Throughout the second half Spartans had 3 or 4 brilliant chances to get more goals, with Lewis Knight once again being a major threat when he came on. O’Donnell was a major threat down the right flank and will be living rent free in that full back’s head for some time.
As the full-time whistle blew, a mixture of relief and joy was let out from Spartans faithful behind the goal. Once again, the lads had been absolutely phenomenal. Not only the was the quality incredible, but the sheer graft the lads put in was fucking brilliant. Very proud to support that group of lads at the moment, as I’m sure everyone will be. Long may this momentum continue.
Of course, the bus home would be a massive party! Morton had the early 2010’s classic’s on the go which had us old(ish) wankers happier than a pensioner who’d gotten his first lob on in years. Along with several renditions of Sam Fender and Catfish, we managed to cruise home back to Blyth for about 8:30pm(ish) where most of the lads invaded the Spartans Clubhouse for Adam Young’s 21st Birthday.
Despite being absolutely fooking dead on my feet I managed to suffer through a few Gin’s, while some of the lads went to Charlie’s disco at The Masons before the usual Quay/Déjà vu sesh which always ends up in regret in some way shape or form.
Waking up this morning with a hangover that literally only a nuclear bomb could clear away, I feel ne regret whatsoever. That was until I went downstairs and realised I’d stripped off, left a beer downstairs and a pizza to be cremated in the oven for at least 7 hours. Anyway, onto Scarbados.
Alexa, play Will We Talk?