Did He Really Mean It?

I would apologise for the lateness of this blog entry, but frankly you can all go whistle. I’m knackered. After arriving back at my house at 2.30am after the mother of all journeys home from sunnybutfuckingfreezing Deal on Tuesday night/Wednesday morning, I then had to get out of bed at 6am and fly to Glasgow and back ‘on business’ yesterday.

Getting out of bed this morning was, to put it bluntly, a struggle. Why is travelling (essentially: sitting down and doing nothing save from finding pretty girls to look at and having a drink or two. Or three) so bloody tiring?

Anyway. So, Tuesday night. The first replay of the FA Cup run. The first away trip of the FA Cup run. My first journey to the seaside since the infamous trip to Bournemouth a couple of years ago which ended with me wandering the freezing November streets clad only in a buttonless shirt and suit trousers, trying to locate my hotel and my dignity and wondering if I still had a career after groping one of our most important clients during a heated rendition of ‘Love Shack’ at a posh invitation-only ball.

I knew before we’d even set off for Deal that the journey home would be risky, and rely on all manner of connections not going wrong. But I hadn’t reckoned on the train TOWARDS Deal being a high-risk environment as well, involving as it did embarking at London Bridge to join Brooner and Eddie, then hopping off somewhere in the middle of Kent to run down the platform and jump on the train nearer the front. We were constantly informed that for some reason, this train would be ‘dividing in two’ en route at Ashford International (nb: Ashford having an ‘International’ suffix? The most incongruous amalgamation of words since ‘Liverpool - City Of Culture’?) and thus we had to ensure that we were in ‘the correct portion’. After some very confusing arguments amongst the three intrepid explorers that had made the journey, we decided to just get as far to the front as we could. A task that, on a packed commuter train, was more difficult than it seemed.

Our decision to crack open a couple of Strongbows, chow down on Brooner’s packed lunch (chicken and bacon mayo in a plastic tub?! I love the 21st century) and make slightly near-the-knuckle jokes about the news headlines saw us extracting more than one dirty look from our fellow passengers. It seems that high spirits and a meaningless journey to the coast are not welcomed by the London commuter set…

Arriving in Deal at 7pm, we were met with two things. One: a biting wind that instantly made the skin on my knuckles go purple, and Two: no-one else. No-one. Deal was a ghost town. The hordes of travelling Dulwich Hamlet fans must have got lost on route. We wandered down to the seafront, where we…well, stood around on the pebbles for a few minutes watching Brooner photograph everything in sight. There’s only so much enjoyment you can get from the world’s largest collection of stones and the biting North Sea Wind. We quickly decided to make our way to the ground.

Best things about Deal Town FC’s ground: the gated changing room set-up. The lovely, homely little clubhouse/bar (which reminded me a lot of the bar at Gresley Rovers, my own local team). The people all seemed welcoming - even the chap with the word ‘Millwall’ emblazoned on his left forearm in letters you could see from neighbouring towns seemed nice - and everything seemed to be going well.

Until we were informed of a late kick-off. According to various rumours flying around the ground (and, according to the Dulwich superfan with the camera ‘all over the internet tomorrow!!’) Chuck Martini, the improbably named Dulwich ‘keeper, took exception to being dropped for this important FA Cup First Qualifying Round Replay by launching a savage attack on the Dulwich manager. An ex-boxer. The delay in kick-off was apparently due to both men having to give statements to the police. One can only assume that it probably took them a while to mop Chuck Martini’s blood from the floor, as well…

The late kick off gave me chance to get some more Strongbow in to act as a protective buffer against the encroaching near-freezing temperatures. When coupled with Eddie’s ‘Fox’s Party Rings’, I’m sure you’ll agree that a better football snack has rarely been consumed.

Again, I’ll save you the details of the match itself, save the important bits: After 90 minutes it was one-all, after a great first 45 minutes from Dulwich’s much-maligned Number 11, some concerted pressure from Dulwich, a cracking save from the Dulwich stand-in ‘keeper (I’ll gloss over his horrific kicking game, his vulnerable positioning and the fact that he looks about 12 years old…) and a tidy little cameo from ComeOnPhil, Dulwich’s super-sub.

So, it went to extra time. However, because we were stuck in Deal, with only one route of escape - the risky double-change 22.18 to London Victoria via Ramsgate and Faversham - we had no way of being able to stay and watch it. I suppose in its way this was a good thing - I’d already lost three fingers to frost bite and the cold had made my nuts recede in to my body to such an extent that an autopsy on my person would have had real trouble ascertaining my gender.

So we made our way to the station, and our tricky home leg. We all managed to get some much-needed shut eye in on the final deserted train leg back to Victoria, covered in the many thousands of discarded newspapers that littered the carriages. And luckily, my double-nightbus journey from there back to my East Dulwich abode went swimmingly. My nightmare fears of only one hours sleep following another sleeping-all-the-way-to-Penge-on-the-bus incident proved groundless, and I got home at around 2.30am. The best bit of the journey home was Brooner’s text to me, at around 2am. Turns out Dulwich won 3-1 in extra time. You know, I think I let out a little yelp of happiness, despite my tired state and the fact that the Camberwell Ganster Front had just invaded the bus.

There was a feeling of utter disappointment on leaving before the ‘final’ whistle. I didn’t think I’d end up caring this much, you know. But I’m bloody glad I do. Roll on Dulwich Hamlet v Chalfont St Peter in FAC2QR, as it’s known on the Videprinter.