Mongrel Love
As the ball heaved its way backward and forward like a tennis match played by the infirm and angered there was a stark moment of clarity, captured forever in the May sunshine. The Drone Army, The Geek Army, the muttering OAPs and the men in brogues all had the same thought at exactly the same time:
"This is fucking gash."
Away trips to Barnet are to be avoided at the best of times. Even if qualification for the FIFA World Cup depended on a win at Underhill you'd think twice about going, so why so many Wycombe fans trailed to Hertfordshire on Saturday remains a mystery. Perhaps it was the promise of the three middle aged men who gestured and gave it the full Gerard Lavin when Barnet equalised, seemingly mistaken that they were at a football match with atmosphere and importance. Perhaps not.
The game was similar to eating breakfast on Christmas morning when you were a kid. Something normally faintly enjoyable that you couldn't wait to end. Hurry up, hurry up, let's get it done and move out.
As the late Barnet winner laughed its way into the net there was a collective shrug of the shoulders amongst the Wanderers support and the players were already trudging back to the dressing room before the referee (the true enemy yeah?) had finished fellating his pea-whistle. 10 games without a win, our season ended when it was snowing and snowmen melt very quickly in the gulf stream.
The only positive was not having to head back west for a £65 carvery, that would have been like a shovel in the anus, a slap around the chops.
"This is fucking gash."
Away trips to Barnet are to be avoided at the best of times. Even if qualification for the FIFA World Cup depended on a win at Underhill you'd think twice about going, so why so many Wycombe fans trailed to Hertfordshire on Saturday remains a mystery. Perhaps it was the promise of the three middle aged men who gestured and gave it the full Gerard Lavin when Barnet equalised, seemingly mistaken that they were at a football match with atmosphere and importance. Perhaps not.
The game was similar to eating breakfast on Christmas morning when you were a kid. Something normally faintly enjoyable that you couldn't wait to end. Hurry up, hurry up, let's get it done and move out.
As the late Barnet winner laughed its way into the net there was a collective shrug of the shoulders amongst the Wanderers support and the players were already trudging back to the dressing room before the referee (the true enemy yeah?) had finished fellating his pea-whistle. 10 games without a win, our season ended when it was snowing and snowmen melt very quickly in the gulf stream.
The only positive was not having to head back west for a £65 carvery, that would have been like a shovel in the anus, a slap around the chops.
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