Steve Hill – Only Palin Could Have Made it Up

EIGHT ONE! EIGHT BLOODY ONE! You couldn't make it up. Except of course you could. Indeed somebody did, namely Michael Palin, in the standout episode of his and Terry Jones' post-Python comedy series Ripping Yarns.
The excellent Golden Gordon stars Palin as the titular Gordon Ottershaw, hopelessly devoted to the hapless Barnstoneworth United.
The episode in question memorably begins with Gordon/ Palin returning home from an 8-1 drubbing and systematically smashing up his front room, ending with his wife dutifully handing him a clock that he mournfully launches through the nearest window. (Spotter's Badge for knowing that the scene on the cover of the Half Man Half Biscuit album, McIntyre Treadmore And Davitt, the title referring to three of Barnstoneworth's greatest ever players).
A big favourite in our house, Golden Gordon was on heavy rotation earlier this year, with my son insisting on watching it on a near daily basis, perhaps seeing something of Ottershaw's desperate existence mirrored in my own experience of following The Mighty .
Of course, Palin's version of a long-suffering fan was hugely exaggerated. Nobody really loses 8-1. Or at least they didn't until a couple of Saturdays ago when Chester astonishingly returned home from on the wrong end of that very same scoreline, a horrendous example of life imitating art.
Mercifully, I wasn't at the game, sullying my card by attending a wedding in France, from where I remotely followed the unfolding horror. Once the true enormity became evident, I had to take myself off for a lie down, and spent the rest of the evening wallowing in a fug of despair. A fellow guest even asked what sport the score referred to. If I'd had a clock I'd have thrown it through a window.
Apart from ruining my night – and our goal difference – the crushing defeat also rapidly rendered redundant my previous column, in which I expressed mild optimism at the joint managerial appointment of Bernard Morley and Anthony Johnson.
Debacles
My faith hadn't seemed particularly misplaced following a hard-fought opening goalless draw at home to Spennymoor. After the game, Bern and Jonno kindly signed my son's programme, and the latter admitted that they might have been rubbish, but had at least tried their best.
Indeed, this effort was converted into goals two days later with a comprehensive 3-0 win at to briefly propel the Blues to the top of the North.
Talk prior to Blyth was of a team bonding exercise on the long coach trip to the North East. Details have not been released of exactly what that entailed, although if it didn't involve 144 cans of strong European lager and four dozen meat feasts then it may as well have.
Eleven fans dragged out of the pub could scarcely have put on a more desultory display. But as the editor of this paper, Alex Narey, was quick to point out, freak results can happen at this stage of the season and are not necessarily indicative of a long-term demise. The games come thick and fast, and at least we had a chance to make amends at home to Kidderminster on the Tuesday…
At Chester, it never rains but it pours. A torrential downfall at the weekend leaked into the Deva Stadium, causing tens of thousands of pounds worth of damage, knocking out the control room, the CCTV, and much of the electrics.
With no chance of a safety certificate, Kiddy was called off, as were the two subsequent home games, now finally rescheduled for mid-September.
After berating the debacles of last year when postponed our game on the eve of the season, followed by ‘Watergate' at with hours to spare, it is now a case of the tinpot calling the kettle black, presumably leading to a certain amount of schadenfreude among forum dwelling loners. You really couldn't make it up.
The latest episode in over a century of calamity, perhaps the place needs an exorcist, not a plumber.
So where do we go from here? In the short term, to the Bucks Head yesterday to stick it up the Telford: “Come on Blues, these are garbage!”
Lost 3-1. Three. Bloody. One!

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