Diamond Geezers, Episode 15: Chugger’s Reprieve
Sad news to start. Despite all the chocolates, red roses, little teddy bears holding hearts, perfumes and used underwear I’ve sent him over the last six months, yet another CM wonderkid has opted for a bunch of nobodies over the mighty Diamonds. Just you wait, Kennedy. One day, you will be mine.
However, there’s no time to cry over a mouldy Swede. We’re off to the South coast for our Vans Trophy Second Round fixture against Bournemouth, the first of five consecutive away games in all competitions. My PA is dispatched to sort out Chugger’s MOT.
12th in Division 2, Sean O’Driscoll’s Cherries are a curious bunch. Captained by 24-year-old Eddie Howe, they have several stand-out lower league names like Wade Elliott, Warren Feeney and Brian Tinnion, but no real superstars. Indeed, “Steady” Eddie is by far their best player. They’ve conceded almost two goals per game in the league on average and I feel like our firepower will be too much for them.
It’s all change for us, with the entire outfield ten switched from our last game against Hartlepool. It’s our strongest side, in my opinion — Mad Dog McKinlay’s stats are deteriorating and feel like Kah is becoming a better option for the overpowered DMC position. I’m not too arsed about the Vans Trophy, to be honest, but it’s always nice to win matches — and besides, I’m still unbeaten as Diamonds manager. Let’s not lose our record here.
We make an unexpectedly blistering start against our illustrious opponents. Bigger teams always start on the front foot against us, and it has been their downfall all year. Bubb and Møller test Gareth Stewart right from the first whistle, but it’s two of our other heroes who combine for the opener. Les Ferdinand, having played a one-two with Brandon, slides the ball along the edge of the box for the onrushing Karlie Pflipsen to batter home a fierce shot from 20 yards. And it doesn’t take long for Sir Les to open his account for the day, meeting a Kah cross and powering a header past Stewart for two. The commentary is all white as we come forward in waves, and eventually the pressure tells again — Mustafa swinging a ball in from the right and the Great Dane meeting it to leave the score 3–0 at the break.
Since everyone looks completely unscathed, I send them out for the second half, and it’s pretty much the same story. Karlie is always either anonymous in our matches, or he pops up and scores two goals, and so it was no surprise when he extended our lead on the hour, “wandering forward unmarked” and finishing a neat team move. Unfortunately, Bournemouth had to vomit on my trousers, and a few minutes later they get a consolation goal from Warren Feeney after some excellent wide play from young full back Stephen Purches (shortlisted for later) — but it only takes ten minutes for Sir Les to pick up his brace and restore our four-goal lead. To be honest, I’m pretty disappointed with Bournemouth here. They attacked us, went three goals down, then sat back, so we destroyed them. Our winning run continues apace.
The Vans Trophy Southern Quarter Final draw takes place, and you’ll never believe it — we’re away. This time we’re off to see a Bobby Zamora-powered Brighton and Hove Albion. I notice Richard Gough sharpening his studs with his teeth.
Before that though, we must trundle to Halifax. We trounced Town 3–0 in the home game earlier in the season, and I have no concerns about them. I leave the team as they are — I’ll rest them next game, with one eye on our upcoming trip to Old Trafford — and assume they’ll win comfortably.
With four minutes gone, Pflipsen has already got his two goals for the day. His first comes from kick off; Brandon taking the ball down the right and crossing for the German to sweep home at the near post. Then, Kah finds Bubb in the area, and he sets the ball back for Karlie to whomp home his second, and to be honest with you, that’s pretty much game over. Pflipsen has his customary brace, we spend the remaining 86 minutes hitting shots at Andy Oakes, which he saves; Halifax venture forward occasionally to make sure Pinheiro is actually in goal for us, and he is — and that’s pretty much that. An incredibly comfortable game made so early by Nene Park’s favourite Mönchengladbacher.
Swansea can only draw at home to Carlisle, and our lead at the top extends to 13 points with a game in hand. The league basically won, I resolve to play weakened teams in Division 3 from now on in order to save my superstars for our cup excursions. I want that quadruple!
And with that said, we are off to the crown jewel of Devon, Torquay. I notice Freddie Risp eyeing some Pontins brochures as we leave the bus, and I consider my starting team. Torquay are flat bottom of the league and we have, theoretically, less to fear in this game than we have had in any match this season. We’ve got Brentford and then Manchester United next, so with that in mind, I rotate my entire team — even big Bernard Lama can stand in goal and recite poetry to the pigeons.
It’s a harder game than it should be, and Torquay genuinely worry me. Our completely changed team (apart from Mustafa — whoops) look pretty disjoined and, though we’re still making chances, we can’t get enough of them on target — and even when we do, Brentford legend Kevin Dearden is equal to everything in the Torquay goal. We huff and puff, and after 85 minutes it’s still 0–0. I’m waiting for Torquay to go up the other end and nick a ridiculous winner as we win a free kick high up the pitch, Carlisle swings it in, and wouldn’t you know it, Richard Gough sails through the air like a tortoise fired from a cannon and thumps home the winner with just four minutes left. Our winning run continues, just about — but just about is good enough. Good thing I played Mustafa in the end. My tactical genius knows no bounds.
Chugger hits the road again, this time en-route to London for our second trip of the season to the ethereal Griffin Park. The last time we faced the greatest team the world has ever seen, and in defiance of the song, we absolutely wiped the floor with them, so again, I don’t feel particularly concerned going in here. We’ve got United next, and I want everyone fit and available for that, but we can’t just play a reserve team against the Bees, so I mix it up a bit. I protect Sir Les, Pflipsen, Brandon, Mustafa and Underwood and rotate the team. Brentford play a nice standard 4–4–2 and don’t have star defender Ijah Anderson. Hopefully our mix of boyish enthusiasm and gritty determination will see us through.
It’s a very tense, nervy affair. Lloyd Owusu and Paul Evans are combining well for Brentford and looking dangerous, but they keep shooting off target. At the other end, Møller has got the centre halves in a double headlock and Ronaldo is profiting from the space — but every time, Gottskalksson is equal to him. Then, Brentford start looking sideways towards the tea and biscuits just before half time, and while they’re distracted, our young pretender finally pounces. Møller puts a ball into the box, Ronaldo rises like a porpoise to power a header at Gottskalksson — he saves, but Cristiano is there to tuck the rebound away, and we lead 1–0. I ruffle his greasy hair as the players come off for half time and spend the break with my hands in a tin of Swarfega.
The second half is far more comfortable. The first half an hour is all us; only Gottskalksson stops Ronaldo scoring from first a left-footed and then a right footed volley, while also parrying a trio of free kicks from Paul Underwood. Eventually our pressure tells, and big Møller thumps home a Carlisle cross to make the game safe. There’s time right at the end for Brandon, on as a sub, to collect a Pinheiro free kick and slot the ball home for 3–0, and watching our goalkeeper get an assist rounds off my day very nicely. Sorry, Brentford. I love you. But you’re just no match for these Geezers.
Back on the bus, we hear that the Fifth Round of the FA Cup is drawn, and it’s a home draw! It’s a home draw against Boston United or Southampton!! Chugger is crying petrolly tears from his headlights! We probably need to get that checked, that seems like a serious problem. But a home draw! Oo-de-lally!
Justin Georcelin continues to reject Northampton’s contract offers. I attempt to swoop, but once again, he shuts the door in my face. He won’t leave for a rival club. I get it. You’re going to wait until you’re on a free transfer. Smart move, Justin. I’ll be waiting.
Chugger rolls to a stop, his engine clicks off, and slowly hisses to silence. The doors creak open. I step off, and a familiar red nose walks towards me, large glass of red wine in hand. It’s Sir Alex Ferguson. I think he’s trying to get me drunk.
I accept.
