Hednesford Town 0 Boston United 1

Unibond Premier Division, Saturday 11th April 2009

It takes a certain kind of person to follow Boston United on away trips. Seriously who, of sound mind, would sacrifice their Saturday and hard-borrowed money to hurtle uncontrollably across the country in a claustrophobic Honda Logo with a dodgy front right wheel for four hours to yet another shithole destination you’ve never heard of for the purposes of supporting a side who can neither defend nor attack? Well, me actually and, on this occasion, the aforementioned unappealing stereotype mercifully wasn’t conformed to. If Fabio Capello had been with us, shoehorned in an Italian tailored suit-spoiling back seat space amongst the discarded McDonalds wrappers, he would have categorised Saturday as one of those ‘good moments,’ such were the life-affirming qualities. For Boston, it was their perfect moment.

Soccer AM had barely started when myself, Andy, JB, Greg, drum, half-pimped flag (the blue felt-tip pen lasted for 'Pride' and 'Passion' but couldn't muster enough life for 'Belief' so it remained blank), ASDA confectionery, iPod collection and scarf crammed into the said conveyance for the 108 mile trek to Hednesford, which was roughly in the general Birmingham area and then north-a-bit. Possessing the spatial awareness of a pepped-up hawk, I was given the navigational duties, which went thus: “Head for East Midlands Airport and we’ll work it out from there.” Still, it was more accurate than the last away jaunt, to North Ferriby, which involved aiming for the Humber Bridge and then turning left, because ‘you can’t miss it, it’s a bloody 200 foot tall suspension bridge!’ I’ve made a mental note not to get employed programming satnavs.

With the digestion of the mandatory service station Burger King eased by an impromptu kick-around on what was effectively a motorway embankment, we trundled along into to scenic Hednesford, reaching the ground in good time. Andy pursued an ‘aggressive’ driving technique throughout, choosing to adopt the racing line at full pelt on practically every corner from the most narrow, mud-splattered Lincolnshire byway to the M42. The near-misses accumulated, but disaster struck only upon entering the Shropshire town when our window-mounted BUFC car flag, attached by an overworked suction pad, flew off into a busy dual-carriageway after our driver unwisely decided to salute some randomers creosoting his garden fence. I was order to retrieve the AWOL vehicle accessory, which wasn’t exactly the safest thing I’ve ever done.

The Cross Keys stadium was surprisingly handsome, a stark contrast to the majority of piles in the Unibond league. However, you know Boston’s obesity epidemic has got out of hand when quantities of the 70-strong travelling support refused to climb the half-a-dozen steps to the bar. A certain trio of intrepid Pilgrim musketeers had decided to brave British Rail for their travel arrangements and such was the hassle and inevitable expense, they had obviously concluded that the only answer was to get thoroughly bladdered. Consequently, their repertoire of spur-of-the-moment chants was marvellously entertaining, if mildly cringe-worthy.

‘Cos we’re ‘ard, United’s support decided they would cosy up with the home support and infiltrated the shared terrace with the stealth and subtlety of a juggernaut slamming through a wind chime manufacturer. The resident Brum Scum, not used to seeing a crowd, weren’t happy and groaned amongst themselves in their grim Midlands drool, particularly when JB revved up the drum to spoil the Saturday afternoon village peace. Comprehensively out-shouted and with their donkey strikeforce being woefully shite, three Brum Scum resorted to hurling ill-conceived insults: ‘where’s all yer immigrant factory werkers, eh?’ drooled Brum Scum #1. ‘Yeah, yer dirty northern bastards!’ yelled Brum Scum #2, whose three GCSEs evidently didn’t include geography. Brum Scum #3, a follicley-challenged fellow with bad water retention, just glowed rouge. Thankfully, they all pissed off at the interval, probably on an aspirin hunt such was the away noise.

On the pitch, nothing had really happened and nor would anything happen until two minutes from time. Suddenly, Ricky Miller, whose New Year’s resolution was to single-handedly guarantee Boston’s survival, gathered the ball and advanced into a chasm of space within the penalty area. Just to increase the suspense, he stumbled over the ball, allowing two defenders to block before twisting and slamming the ball home. Magic. The bedlam that ensued can’t be described: I recall being at the very top of the stand and then, two seconds later, being within a hoarding high jump of the pitch and the mêlée of jubilant players. Just as I was lining up my step-over, thus completing an ambition to break the sacred line between stand and pitch, an angry-looking steward appeared and spoilt the fun.

The party started immediately as the Boston mass bounced up and down in unison, bellowing out anthems about survival at the top of their voices: ‘Na-na-na-na-na-na-na-nana-na, Boston’s staying up, Boston’s staying up!’ The three points pushed the promised land of survival into very clear focus with only four matches left to play.

Once we had figured out that cars actually run more smoothly with the boot closed, we departed Hednesford in scarf-swinging, chant-booming party mode – an unhealthy amount of Vengaboys and S Club being unashamedly played in the four hour return journey. For no obvious reason, we returned to the dogshit-covered patch of motorway grass for another game of keepie-uppie; our eventual record was 135 touches before common sense prevailed, patience expired and the ball was blazed into the adjacent forest, which goes to prove that you can play football in leather brogues.

The day had all the components of the perfect away day: fantastic company, randomness by the bucketful, hilarity, amber and black camaraderie, and, that precious commodity of three points. Ace.

Playlist:
Vengaboys – Boom Boom Boom Boom
S Club 7 – Reach
BBC Orchestra – The Great Escape theme