Thankfully I’d been sensible and had a relatively tame bank holiday weekend compared to last Easter (either that or I was fucking skint, I’ll let you judge that one for yourselves) so I was fresh as out on the Monday morning for a change.
After the usual shitshow of a breakfast from The Wallaw, me and Parker rounded up the few who hadn’t paid, chinned them and headed off to Seaton Delightful to pick up the specials and began the journey down to Mancunianland.
A brief pitstop in the glorious sunshine at Wetherby services followed and most enjoyed a can in the sun. The only bit of bother came about when Blyth’s own Humpty fucking Dumpty nearly tried to jump over a wall but, thankfully it became apparent to him quite quickly that he didn’t poses the acrobatic skills to navigate such a feat.
We made it into Mancland in decent time and had planned to go to one of the local pubs near the ground, The Charlestown. I had messaged them on Facebook a week prior to let them know we we’re coming but obviously the fuckers never read it and this poor lad who was about 16 nearly shat himself when near 80 blokes walked in choking for a pint. Half of the lads fucked off to a bar god knows where, some managed to get a shitey pint of Carlsberg (the only lager on tap ffs) but most of us just cracked open bottles and cans and enjoyed the sun and the luxury beer garden/car park thing. The landlady came down to start serving eventually in her nighty. Don’t worry if you missed her, she was a bit of a dog.
By the time most of the lads made it to the ground everyone was in good voice and pretty pissed. I can’t remember if I got Pieface to do a Pie review. In fact, I don’t even remember him eating at all which is a strange occurrence to say the least. They had Peroni on tap (I think?) so I was content as out. A quick photo opp with Chrissy-Lee’s long-lost Manc twin and we spread out onto the terraces.
From the moment the game started my heart was in my arse. Spartans started well but FC United played with a really high defensive line which Nippa and co seemed to be getting in behind creating chance after chance. Sadly, though the fuckers could only manage the one goal in the first half when really, we could and maybe should have been 5 or 6 goals up.
FC started off a bit better in the 2nd half but their high defensive line caused them problems again as Blyth still managed to create chance after chance. Then, it fucking happened. FC drew level with only minutes to go with a deflected shot going past Jameson. The away end went dead, and everyone’s head dropped in utter disbelief.
How we’d created so many bastard chances and not put that game away by then is still a mystery but of course, with only moments to go a cross comes in and Adam Wrightson slid into to put Blyth 2-1 up. Que pandemonium the like which hadn’t been seen since Jarrett’s goal at Hartlepool!
The whistle blew not long after and wild scenes erupted once again. Everyone was absolutely fucking buzzing. Thankfully other results had gone our way on the day, so the atmosphere on the busses home was brilliant. One big pissed up sing song the whole way home to round off one of the best awaydays in recent memory. By the time we made it back to Blyth everyone was in a hell of a state, notably Porky who went onto lose his wallet about 3 times within the space of 5 minutes. Remarkable stuff.
A handful of us headed to The Waterloo for a few pints and the odd vodka as The Masons (RIP) is now long gone. 2 or 3 hours of drunkenly chatting utter shite to one another ensued before I headed off home. I don’t actually remember getting home that night but, at least I wasn’t so drunk I did my usual trick of ordering a takeaway and then falling asleep before it got delivered. So, every cloud and all that.