Your best/worst away day tale?

Richard Cranium

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Shamelessly stole from HBK in the League One forum. We seem to have a few characters in this section so we might get a few funny stories.
 

BigDaveCUFC

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put this in that thread.

Worst is easily Yeovil back in 2003 (I think or was it 2004)

Played them in August, their first ever FL home game, I was going to most games at the time so was on the 2 coaches we sent down that day.

Traffic was horrendous, usual August M5 crash f*ck-up meant miles of queues and non-moving traffic, we had all of a 5 minute toilet stop having set off at 6am having heard of big problems. Our coach turned off at Bristol and went down lots of back roads to Yeovil, we arrived at 3.15, we were on outskirt of Yeovil nearing kick-off and asked for a delay to in easier words be told to b*gger off (after you have made a 9 hour trek its disgusting they don't give a f*ck and delay it - yeovil said it was ref....who knows)

we were already 1-0 down by time we got into ground, the other coach which went down the M5 didn't get in until 15 odd minutes after us. Game was dire.....absolutely dire, we lost 3-0 it should easily have been 30-0 and I only seen 75 minutes of the match. Food had sold out before we arrived so having not really stopped I'd had nothing to eat all day, ground took about 45 minutes to get out of afterwards.

then on way home find yet more problems at Bristol....this time typically north and we had to divert over bridge into Wales and go up via Newport back north adding yet more problems before if I remember when FINALLY sensing home finding out the M6 was closed at Lancaster and having to divert off the motorway and through Lancaster to get back on further up to finish off the monstrous journey......9 hours 15 to get there, probably 9-10 hours to get back, a 3-0 defeat, miss part of game, nothing to eat and well..............you do not forget it really.
 

That Fat Centre Half

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Easily Brigton at their old Withdean Stadium. Absolutely pissed it down the entire time and was absolutely freezing, just miserable. I'd taken my dad along for the game and he became seriously ill and I ended up having to take him to hospital at half time, missing our second half equaliser.

It's still the only game I have left before the final whistle.

Oh and Dad was fine!
 

Richard Cranium

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My earliest memory of a really shit away day was Grimsby away on NYD was a pretty bad one. No buses running and at the time I was only 16 and thought about being a lad for the day so we walked from my house to Field Mill in the freezing cold to catch the bus and have a few bottles of Budweisers on route. It's about 6.5miles to the ground I think. Losing 2-1 at half time, Ended up losing 7-2 and Peter fucking Bore scored 3 from right back.

I left early to get on the coach, Ended up walking all the way to my seat at the back without realising this bus had tables on it only to get chucked off the bus by our assistant for being sat on the players bus! Wankers.
 

Grecian O'Grecian

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A couple years back was the first time I went by train to Bristol Rovers. Me and a group of 3 others had consumed a fair bit of alcohol and without knowing how to get to the ground we jumped in one of the taxis outside the train station and told him to take us to Bristol Rovers' ground. The journey seemed to take ages and I saw sign posts for the Memorial Ground pointing in the opposite direction to where we were being driven so I asked the taxi driver if he was certain he was taking us to Rovers' ground to which he replied that he knew what he was doing. He was Indian and didn't speak very good English but we just let it be. 10 minutes later and still no sign of the ground or any football supporters we asked again and he assured it was just over the mountains ahead of us (yes, mountains). Another few minutes later and still no evidence of football around us, one of the others in the taxi asked if he was taking us to the the right ground in Bristol, the one which is/was shared with the Rugby ground. The taxi driver then halted the car, put his head in his hands and muttered "oh no oh no oh no". So yeah, he had taken us towards the wrong pissing ground. We made it to the game just as it was about to kick off and the fucker charged us full fare for taking us on a tour around Bristol. About £20 more than it should have been but as we didn't want to miss the game, we had no time to argue about it.

After going 1-0 up, we threw it away and lost it in the final minute with John-Joe O'Toole scoring with the last kick of the game.

We decided after the game we would get the bus back to the train station.
 

Richard Cranium

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Speaking of train stories, Not one of my own but 2 lads I know ended up getting the train to Darlington instead of Notts after York away this season. They decided to do a night out up there instead.
 

djs

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Easily Brigton at their old Withdean Stadium. Absolutely pissed it down the entire time and was absolutely freezing, just miserable. I'd taken my dad along for the game and he became seriously ill and I ended up having to take him to hospital at half time, missing our second half equaliser.

It's still the only game I have left before the final whistle.

Oh and Dad was fine!


I was at that one as well. Horrendous day.

The only other time that I have been that wet was at Gillingham (although not as cold). Ironically, when we went through the turnstiles we were given a letter signed by Scally apologising for the lack of facilities! And we lost 1 - 0 despite a friend of mine refereeing the game!
 

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Wimbledon away on a Tuesday night in about 2011ish. I had worked in Stratford that day and parked up in Snaresbrook if I remember correctly, thinking it'd be a doddle to scoot round the M25 and see the game. As it was there was accident after accident all the way there and I arrived 20 mins late after practically dumping my car somewhere I dared leave it.

Anyway, got to the ground where it was pissing down with rain and walked up to the turnstile only to be told I had to buy a ticket from the ticket office on the other side of the ground, pegged it round and back then got in. As soon as I got in the ground we conceded, I got soaked as there was no room under cover, we went on to lose 3-0 after barely having a kick and it took me 4 hours to get home due to more M25 hell.

I was rather pleased to see us win there last season, probably one of the best away days I've experienced and definitely made up for it!
 

Alanstag

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My earliest memory of a really shit away day was Grimsby away on NYD was a pretty bad one. No buses running and at the time I was only 16 and thought about being a lad for the day so we walked from my house to Field Mill in the freezing cold to catch the bus and have a few bottles of Budweisers on route. It's about 6.5miles to the ground I think. Losing 2-1 at half time, Ended up losing 7-2 and Peter fucking Bore scored 3 from right back.

I left early to get on the coach, Ended up walking all the way to my seat at the back without realising this bus had tables on it only to get chucked off the bus by our assistant for being sat on the players bus! Wankers.
Not that game, still brings shudders down my spine to think about it now. I was a bit younger than you at the time and I'd broke my wrist walking home from school in the ice so had a sling on freezing my bollocks off, watching us get demolished. Did get a chippy after about the sixth goal though, walked in with my dad and Hymas et al were in there too and you could have heard a pin drop.

Other than that the only other one which sticks out is I think an FA Trophy game away at Droylsden where we just got there in time with it pissing it down and we were shite. Thinking about it more I don't have a clue why we even went to that game, but we didn't even put a bad team out I remember Greeny scored a header and still got beat by fucking Droylsden.
 

BeesKnees

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Recent times I'm going for away at Salisbury. Dreadful game where the oppositions aim was to wind up Davids and hack our players down at every opportunity, they pushed him over off the ball, put sly kicks in after making tackles and he didn't react. Finally one player used a forearm smash across his neck as he ran past to clothesline him and leave him on the floor.
Davids got sent off for protesting about the challenge and their player was only booked. It was one of the most cynical and worst games I can remember that descended into a complete farce with us down to 9 men and them down to 10. Davids decided that was enough after the game, can't really blame him but it was a sad way for him to go out as a player for us..
Best recent away has to be Oxford, left the game buzzing thanks to three goals in 5 min and last ditch defending for the entire second half.
 

Cheese & Biscuits

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I can't think of any really bad away days but one of the most memorable is the play off semi v Morecambe.

It's one of the few times I got a supporters coach to a game. On the way up the coach was pulled over and checked for various things. There was an issue with a tyre or something. We were held up for close to an hour. Shortly after we stopped at the services on the M6 Toll and bumped in to John Major.

Because of the delay, we made it to the ground with about 10 minutes to spare. The game was a bit strange because we went in to it with a 6-0 advantage from the first leg and it was the last game at Christie Park so it was a bit of a party atmosphere. Us and Morecambe have also played each other a lot throughout the leagues so there's a bit of mutual respect there. Anyway, we lost 2-1 but I'm not sure many were bothered really as the tie was won. I think we were quite pleased Morecambe got to sign off with a win, especially after the mauling a few days before.

About 10 minutes before the final whistle, a fog came in over the ground and given a bit longer it could have been called off!

Me and my mate's dad had spent the whole day eating crap (sweets, crisps etc) and on the coach journey home, we both had the two Bob bits. When we stopped at the services, it was almost too late!!

Anyway, not the most exciting of stories but a memorable day for one reason or another.
 

Moomin

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Some dreadful trips when I used to travel away with my brother in the 90s.

1. Scarborough 96/97 season I think. Got to the ground around 1pm and decided to drive into town for some food. Promptly broke down and my brother had to join the AA at their shop before we could get the car fixed. Ended up getting in at half time and the game ended 0-0.

2. Lincoln the same season iirc. Got to within 20 miles of Lincoln and the car in front braked sharply causing my Bro to rear end him, writing the car off so we got towed home by the AA without seeing the game. This was extra annoying as would won 1-0 and away wins back then were rare.

3. Darlington possibly the same season again (but before Lincoln as it's the same car!). My brother's boot broke just outside Taunton so we had to travel all the way to Darlington (in February) with the boot flapping open as it was only being secured by a shoe lace from his cricket boots.

4. Cambridge 97/98. This was a friday night and not the car's fault. We set off in good time only to hit horrendous traffic and missed 75 mins of the game. We got in for the last bit at 1-1 just in time to see us concede and lose 2-1.

I don't go away as much these days for some reason
 

Meadow

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Some dreadful trips when I used to travel away with my brother in the 90s.

1. Scarborough 96/97 season I think. Got to the ground around 1pm and decided to drive into town for some food. Promptly broke down and my brother had to join the AA at their shop before we could get the car fixed. Ended up getting in at half time and the game ended 0-0.

2. Lincoln the same season iirc. Got to within 20 miles of Lincoln and the car in front braked sharply causing my Bro to rear end him, writing the car off so we got towed home by the AA without seeing the game. This was extra annoying as would won 1-0 and away wins back then were rare.

3. Darlington possibly the same season again (but before Lincoln as it's the same car!). My brother's boot broke just outside Taunton so we had to travel all the way to Darlington (in February) with the boot flapping open as it was only being secured by a shoe lace from his cricket boots.

4. Cambridge 97/98. This was a friday night and not the car's fault. We set off in good time only to hit horrendous traffic and missed 75 mins of the game. We got in for the last bit at 1-1 just in time to see us concede and lose 2-1.

I don't go away as much these days for some reason

Sounds like my car history.

Anyhoo... Satanage away just after Christmas 2010. I was owed a coach trip after a previous cancelled match so I thought I'd use it to get to Stevenage. Big mistake - driving wouldn't have cost that much, neither would the train.

Bear in mind, Kingston isn't that far from the A3 and therefore pretty close to the M25. However, this involves going anti-clockwise past Dartford and Thurrock. Two mahoosive shopping complexes in the middle of the post-Christmas sales. We got stuck in a major traffic jam, of course. Then there were traffic jams the other side. I still to this day can't work out why we didn't go through central London as there was no congestion charge. Oh, and there wasn't a loo on board because the club wants to maximise the income/provide as many coach spaces as they can/no coach available with a bog on board (delete as applicable).

Where was I? Oh yes. We finally rocked up at Broadhall Way at half time and the bastards charged us full price to get in. Got a point off them though, which was good.
 

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Best: It wasn't a sunny morning as one might have expected at the beginning of May, but it was still too bright for the dull ache of my brandy-induced hangover. There was a cool westerly breeze and it blew gently through the un-brushed fronds of my lank, greasy hair. Flashes of lucidity about the night before etched themselves fleetingly in my mind's eye before dissipating like the evaporating tendrils of autumn mist. Had I really been seated around a seasoned oak table playing poker with some acquaintances, or had that just been another wistful daydream whilst I mindlessly played online Call Of Duty and cried myself to sleep about being a virgin like all those other lonely, empty nights...? I couldn't be sure. I would have to ask my best friend Eric later that afternoon. He once doned the sex with a lady who was almost awake, so I looked up to him… or at least as high as one so lowly as me could look before the boots of my myriad betters block out the light and force me back into the gutter where I belong

The ashen faces of my fellow minibus travellers told an identical story. Last night's convivial festivities were forgotten in a collective haze of anxiety and angst; seemingly unending years of shattered dreams, expired hopes and Tommy fucking Taylor weighing heavily on our minds. An air of gloomy inevitability hung over the passengers as we wound our way along the M40's sinuous curves and rolling Buckinghamshire countryside. Conversations were muted and stilted; celebratory tins of Fosters imbibed silently before their intended purpose as if matters were already resolved and they were fated to not be needed for any other purpose than to dull the impending heartache.

We were the first of our tribe to arrive, the first to enter the den of our foe and - very rapidly - the first to the bar. The stand's undercroft was unremarkable; all breeze block beauty and bare concourse ordinariness. It felt an ill-suited stage for the last hours of our growing torment, considering the enormity of the occasion and the depths of our combined nervousness. Nevertheless, it was soon swelling with a seething sea of 4,000 red-and-white clad citizens of our nation's capital; many standing silent and sallow-eyed, accepting of the inevitability of our upcoming failure. Still more raised their voices defiantly, telling lies to the very air. We were not the greatest team the world had ever seen. East London did not belong to us, and us alone. We did not want to be scuba divers, even if the part about hating Scunthorpe is true. We may all have been Orient until we died, but in those interminable, eternal-seeming moments it was if we had done so already and passed into a dystopian netherworld where only fucking Tetley's Smoothflow was left in the barrels. One lone demagogue espoused the certainty of our victory to all who would listen, but most of his would-be acolytes turned away, smiling sadly and lamenting his evident loss of sanity.

As I emerged, blinking owlishly behind my plastic NHS spectacles, into the cauldron-like pre-match atmosphere, I found myself catching my breath with wonder. From my vantage point high in the stand I took in the breathtaking panorama laid out in front of me; a sea of red and gold and green that would have been fitting for Vespasian's Amphitheatrum Flavium at the height of the Roman empire (that is, until I looked to my right and saw the fucking great hole where the fourth stand should be). Indeed, it was to be something of a gladiatorial contest, with our heroic London Overlords playing the role of the mighty Empire, and the local itinerant peasants providing the charmingly oikish hoi polloi upstarts. Both sides were in desperate need of a triumvirate of points to secure their differing objectives: Oxford knowing that a win would guarantee them safety, and Orient needing the victory to secure their hated rival's demotion to the sarlacc's pit of the Conference. (Though both sides had everything to play for, it was noticeable that both ends didn't, as there is only one end at that ground because they are missing a stand. I don't think I mentioned that. But I digress.)

We grabbed a goal apiece in an open first half. 1FF poster Eric Sabin scored the opener, much to the palpable relief of the provincial swivel-eyed loons who pranced a merry jig to the refrains of The Hillbilly Jug Band and began to imagine a world where trips to Macclesfield would still be a possibility. Alas, their celebrations were swiftly curtailed by Craig Easton's wonder-strike from three yards, which Billy Turley spilled over the line even more clumsily than Eric would spill the contents of his rampant tumescence over his sister's unconscious body later that evening.

On and on these desperate foes fought, pausing only to watch agape as a morbidly obese thundercunt of a home fan waddled across the pitch, offering out the 8,000 away fans in a solo, slow-motion act of defiance after Gary Alexander had stroked the away side ahead. He must have felt like something of a silly Stanley mere minutes later when the game was again brought to an entirely unsatisfactory parity. With a draw of no tangible use to either side, both managers employed a revolutionary 2-3-5 formation in an attempt to take the spoils. Jabo Ibehre (now famously plying his trade as the most prolific striker in Scotchland) weaved his way into the area but shot weakly into the grateful arms of a stranded Turley.

168.4 miles away in beautiful Cleethorpes, black balloons were released into the sky like a flock of funereal sperm, signifying Grimsby's torment that they had achieved elevation ahead of the sainted, but hapless, O's. Their fans spilled onto the pitch with anguished lamentations, demanding that their team forfeit the game, until they realised that the ref had only blown for a corner and that the day was about to be saved by Ryan Gilligan scoring a 94th minute equaliser and making sure that Russell Slade kept his 100% record of never having been promoted as a manager intact.

The shroud of hushed, resigned silence hanging over home and away supporter alike at the three-sided monument to Oxford’s most celebrated son, Firoz Kassam, was shattered as the news of Northampton’s goal trickled through to the away fans. I couldn’t believe it. Sure, so the goal was only pertinent at the top of the table, but I had travelled many hungover miles to see Oxford get relegated and that goal seemed to spark a delirium in me and all the rest of the 16,000 around me who had made the pilgrimage for that same reason alone.

“GET BACK AND FUCKING DEFEND!” came the cry from Martin Ling and his 32,000 now-ecstatic followers, desperate to stop the home side from scoring and allow an escape from their fate. But it was to no avail. Nothing seemed able to compel Matt Lockwood with his girly perm to stop his frenzied foray down the left wing, where he proceeded to cross towards the three unmarked forwards. The inevitable happened. Lee Steele scored a third and had sealed our promotion after 11 turgid years in the basement. But there was to be no celebration. This was not what we were here for.

Slowly, inexorably, all 64,000 away fans unzipped their flies and proceeded on to the pitch. As one whole, entirely single-minded entity we silently marched forward with military precision, stopping only to each pull up a single blade of grass with which to tauntingly tickle Jim Smith’s ear. As we surveyed the sea of grim, yet beguilingly dim-witted faces of our hosts, we each picked out the youngest child we could spot and proceeded to laugh. It was a scornful cackle; a snort of derision carefully calibrated to literally rip the moisture from their juvenile lacrimal glands.

It was fitting that, shortly afterwards whilst we lined up in an orderly fashion to piss on Eric’s nan, the leaden skies began to gently weep tears of their own. It was a sobering reminder that, despite our success, it had been a somewhat Pyrrhic victory because the cost to us would be that we would not be able to visit this unfinished, windswept, bumpkin-filled hellhole for many years to come. We left; the grey skies failing to mirror the blue feeling we felt in our hearts.


As time has passed, I do look back at the experience more fondly. The tears of those children are a constant source of comfort to me in those days I fervently wish I had moved out of my parents’ house before I hit 40. The anguished wails of our vanquished enemies are the soundtrack to my fanciful daydreams about getting the third star on my badge at work. The way everyone’s urine pooled so beautifully in the cavernous wrinkles of Eric’s nan’s geriatric skin helps me greatly when I’m in desperate need of wank bank inspiration because dad has Eastenders on rather than Babestation. And, perhaps most importantly, my new World Of Warcraft userhandle, ‘Poxford8er’, was voted 83rd Most Badass by WOW players in 2009. Sadly, the trophy Mick McCarthy gave me for that accolade still resides unseen in mother’s scullery. The horror, the horror…


Worst: Losing 4-1 at the Withdean was a bit shit.
 
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E10rifle

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If I don't win raconteur of the year for this one, you all need to hang your heads in shame. Just like Eric after he comes whilst thinking about penetrating his Aunty Mabel.
 

BRFC_Gas

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A couple years back was the first time I went by train to Bristol Rovers. Me and a group of 3 others had consumed a fair bit of alcohol and without knowing how to get to the ground we jumped in one of the taxis outside the train station and told him to take us to Bristol Rovers' ground. The journey seemed to take ages and I saw sign posts for the Memorial Ground pointing in the opposite direction to where we were being driven so I asked the taxi driver if he was certain he was taking us to Rovers' ground to which he replied that he knew what he was doing. He was Indian and didn't speak very good English but we just let it be. 10 minutes later and still no sign of the ground or any football supporters we asked again and he assured it was just over the mountains ahead of us (yes, mountains). Another few minutes later and still no evidence of football around us, one of the others in the taxi asked if he was taking us to the the right ground in Bristol, the one which is/was shared with the Rugby ground. The taxi driver then halted the car, put his head in his hands and muttered "oh no oh no oh no". So yeah, he had taken us towards the wrong pissing ground. We made it to the game just as it was about to kick off and the fucker charged us full fare for taking us on a tour around Bristol. About £20 more than it should have been but as we didn't want to miss the game, we had no time to argue about it.

After going 1-0 up, we threw it away and lost it in the final minute with John-Joe O'Toole scoring with the last kick of the game.

We decided after the game we would get the bus back to the train station.

Out of interest which ground was this guy taking you to??
 

Richard Cranium

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To be fair if you've not consumed an unhealthy amount of alcohol, for example your weekly amount of units before you've even set off to an away game then it's not going to be a story worth telling.
 

Vanni

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But it's not a good idea to go overboard with your drinking if alcohol makes you feel all dozy, like I do when I've had more than I should've had. Nowadays I watch my pre-match drinking as it's a waste of a matchday ticket when the only thing on my mind is to get home quickly so I can have a nap. Mind you, the quality of some L2 and Connie games doesn't help at all.
 

Trapdoor

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most memorable:

hartlepool away.
be me, late twenties caucasian male, long thick blonde haired hippy with penchant for drugs and socialist politics. quiet night out in bristol on the friday results in me getting rekt and hitting the sack about 1am only to wake up again 3 hours later in order to catch the train. uneventful train journey. saw off a 24 pack of lager. arrive at the game at 3pm on the nose. tip-facking-top. won the game. don't remember much.
leaving the game i get accosted by the now deceased transvestite loon "lawrence" outside the ground. despite me trying to agree with his synopsis of the game he gets very angry and starts giving me some verbals. I'm stone cold chilling, finding the entire thing mildly amusing. along come the BNP. nice tats m8. the fatty BNP hoolies start giving Lawro some grief and invite me to the pub with them.
the BNP proceed to buy me as many white wine spritzers as i can drink. win?? not sure.
i finally escape and go to meet friend in newcastle. end up fondling a girls boobs and sleeping outside on the streets somewhere in newcastle before my friends came to rescue me.

several years later i randomly met aformentioned girl at a house party and got laid. lasting memories.
 

BRFC_Gas

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Bristol City, I would imagine...
Ah right, you must have been coming from Parkway station then because Temple Meads is not far from Ashton Gate.

God knows what those mountains were though!! Its Bristol not Cumbria lol
 

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Me being mugged by a couple of scousers on the way to Morecambe the other season wasn't great!
 

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I know Bury aren't in L2 (yet) but since this thread hasn't been made on the L1 forum yet I'll post my best and worst away game experiences.

BEST: Notts County away in April 2012. This day had everything. I'd been feeling great a few days prior to the game as I'd just passed a few of my GCSE exams, so the mood was high. Set off to Nottingham around 10am on the train and we must have arrived in Nottingham around 12ish. The weather was nice, sunny. A visit to Hooters was nice, although the women were great to look at, the bar was packed so we didn't stay long and decided to drink in a pub which seemed like it was on a canal but may have been the Trent.

Whilst in the pub we all spot that Bury are something like 5/1 to win the game. At the time, Bury were fighting relegation and County were well within reach of the play off places. We all decide to stick a fiver on Bury to win (something we never do, tempting fate and all that).

After a few hours drinking we arrive at the impressive looking Meadow Lane, very oversized, but still impressive. The first half wasn't very memorable but about 40 minutes in David Worrall lashes one in, beating the goalkeeper to the near post, to put us 1-0 up at the break.

Second half starts, and in typical Bury fashion we concede an own goal within seconds of the restart, 39 seconds from the restart according to match reports. Great... But wait.. What's this? It's instant hero Mike Grella smashing it past the county keeper just 90 seconds after that to restore our 1 goal advantage and give us a 2-1 lead. A crazy 3 minutes!

Cue the Notts County kitchen sink. They were clearly a much better side than us, and the fact we were winning was a clear injustice. County brought on a winger called Sam, who iirc had scored a Hattrick the week before. Sam proceeded to terrorise our defence (what happened to him??) with our lead now hanging on by a thread we attack on the counter and Grella lobs the keeper for 3-1. Jammy? Who cares.

The County waves after waves of attacks continue to flow at the Bury defence, and they manage to reduce the defecit in the 78th minute through Edwards. Two minutes after that our young wing back Andrei Jones receives a second yellow to put us down to 10. At this point I think myself and the other 450 odd Shakers were resigned to us throwing it away.

Notts County get a corner in the last second of the game, we are talking very deep into injury time, the nerves are unbearable.. We head it clear to Schumacher on the edge of the box, he then flicks it onto Mark Carrington, who races through on the counter to finish the game off.


So, 4-2 FT and the heavens opened. But the good things in this day had only just started. Not only had Bury secured their L1 status for the 12/13 season, we all (around 12 of us) won £20+ quid on that bet we had before the game. We got back to the pub to find Bolton AND Rochdale had been relegated, and I also found £20 in a puddle on the way back to the train station. Dale had been playing and got relegated at Chesterfield, so they all got on the train back, cue great laughs at their expense. That day was so good you could barely write a better one. Obviously the promotion at Tranmere last year was great too but Notts County away always sticks out.
 
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EricSabin

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Dagenham away in the penultimate end of the season is my best ever away day. Rarely does the actual game live up to the build but boy this one did. Our group got the 8:25 into London along with loads of other Cobblers fans, gradually getting pissed on the train, and I had a lovely croissant which was to be the only thing I ate all day.

Got into London and went straight for the Hamilton Hall, place rammed full of Cobblers fans and spirits were high, knowing this was a must win for us. Made our way to the ground, by this time being absolutely battered and very boisterous. At half time we were 3 nil up, with two absolutely stunning goals and the away end was full of delirious away fans making a hell of a racket. The second half came and went and we celebrated a vital victory. It's at this point I started to feel queasy, and ended up bent over the advertising hoardings at the bottom of the away end projectile vomiting on to the pitch. I was then led across the pitch and into the home ends where the St Johns Ambulance volunteers made a fuss, which was possibly the most embarrassing thing that's ever happened to me. Anyway, that's one that always sticks in the memory.
 

Railway Blue

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most memorable:

hartlepool away.
be me, late twenties caucasian male, long thick blonde haired hippy with penchant for drugs and socialist politics. quiet night out in bristol on the friday results in me getting rekt and hitting the sack about 1am only to wake up again 3 hours later in order to catch the train. uneventful train journey. saw off a 24 pack of lager. arrive at the game at 3pm on the nose. tip-facking-top. won the game. don't remember much.
leaving the game i get accosted by the now deceased transvestite loon "lawrence" outside the ground. despite me trying to agree with his synopsis of the game he gets very angry and starts giving me some verbals. I'm stone cold chilling, finding the entire thing mildly amusing. along come the BNP. nice tats m8. the fatty BNP hoolies start giving Lawro some grief and invite me to the pub with them.
the BNP proceed to buy me as many white wine spritzers as i can drink. win?? not sure.
i finally escape and go to meet friend in newcastle. end up fondling a girls boobs and sleeping outside on the streets somewhere in newcastle before my friends came to rescue me.

several years later i randomly met aformentioned girl at a house party and got laid. lasting memories.

Did you ever find your way to AA?
 

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