This has not been a good season for the Mighty Shots. A new management team and, essentially, a whole new playing team, were in danger of being thrown away as not working very well. In fact, Ade thought the manager should have been sacked after about his third game. Mind you, Ade voted for Brexit so that shows how much sense he has.
Tonight we were hosting Dover, a bit of a bogey side though how that is a thing I have no idea. After all, teams change constantly so clearly are not going to play the same. But, still, football supporters can be a rather superstitious lot so you have to observe the rituals and agree with them or find yourself on the outside of so many exclusive circles.
Before we joined the thronging masses, we had a rather impromptu tour of Aldershot pubs, looking for somewhere to eat. The only place that seems to serve food on a Tuesday these days is the Wetherspoons and, given the racist attitude of the owner, I refuse to eat or drink there. Nicktor, I said, could do what he liked.
What Nicktor liked was to go to the bar in the ground and have beer then eat a bacon bap followed by what is laughingly described as a burger. (It’s like when a restaurant calls a bowl of lettuce a salad. It might technically be correct but morally it lies through its teeth.)
Anyway, we sat in the bar nursing some pints of TEA and chatting to the frankly manic Heather. Heather is a lifelong Shots supporter. She buys three seats in the South Stand so she won’t have anyone sitting next to her. She goes to every game and talks like a stalker. She also haunts Comicon things and poses with ‘stars’ wearing her Aldershot supporter stuff. She’s a bit mad but strangely entertaining. I’m not sure if she’s harmless.
Eventually it was time for the off and we joined the old Slabbers for a game that sprang into action from the beginning and didn’t really stop. I was amazed at how well they played. I haven’t seen our team play with such commitment and skill for ages. The game was incredibly entertaining. Even Charlie enjoyed it.
At halftime we wandered over to the north side so Nicktor could ask Miserable Roy if he was happy yet. He wasn’t. While we led 2-0 he sighed that we could easily still lose. We heard what promised to be a funny story from a chap from Cheshire but it failed to deliver on its promise so we wandered back to the Slab for the second half.
Two more goals and another 45 minutes of unrelenting pressure saw us win the game convincingly. I think if an alien had watched the game tonight she would have thought we were the best team on the planet. Last week she would have thought, quite rightly in my opinion, that we were shit.
Afterwards Nicktor suggested that we head round to the clubhouse and watch the presentation of the Man of the Match Award. This is something I’ve never done before. It was, oddly, fun with the MoTM, Shamir Mullings (an excellent choice I thought) suitably pleased and gracious. Mind you, typical for a footballer, he wasn’t particularly articulate. But as I always say, who needs words when your football skills can do the talking for you?
After the presentation and general back patting, we headed back downstairs for a chat with the driver of the Dover team players coach. Nicktor wanted to chat to him because the coach had Sheffield United stamped on the back bigger than life and at odds with the tiny cardboard sign in the front window proclaiming it to be Dover’s.
I didn’t really understand the reason why Dover uses Sheffield’s bus but it seemed to satisfy Nicktor so with a shake of the driver’s hand, we went home.
A very satisfying night of football.