DROP ZONE by Dai Pest from Issue 30

After an up and down performance against high flying Margate, a place only known to myself due to Del Boys and Rodney's antics, the Mighty Martyrs were to travel over the border to face fellow strugglers Dorchester Town FC.
With a heavy weekend's sesh dawning upon us and the fact that mini-Wolf had a football game for Merthyr Schools on the same day, the DMFM tribe was uncertain about travelling to watch the relegation battle.
But at this moment in time the Martyrs need all the support they can get, and a late phone call on Monday evening from Captain Kirk informing us that his sons game was off meant that DMFM battle bus would be setting
This did complicate matters a little with Wingnut having to re book time off he had previously cancelled the day before and Typey being unable to join us, leaving us with one free space in the car to fill. With the aid of technology our prayers were answered when the original Burger Master himself replied to an e mail to all fans asking if the wanted to witness the nebulousness style of soccer produced by MTFC.
Wolvsey, Burger Man and myself set off from the Bro Dawel depot at around 15.20 heading for our next port of call, Macro's burger bar (which incidentally is as close to Macros as Dowlais is to cleanliness) to pick up Nut. The journey there ran rather smoothly, with the Burger Man reminiscing on his first ever Merthyr game against Bridgwater and Nut reminiscing on Friday night's piss up.
The only alarming thing was, at one point I thought my rear window was cracked, not realising that it was the string trailing from Wolvsey paper cup (mobile phone). The damn thing is so old (like its owner I suppose) that it kept cutting out every few seconds meaning that the conversations were quite confusing, which pissed off the rest of the rabble.
Off the motorway and through many country lanes (English have such a cheek calling the Welsh nation `sheepshaggers') we were within half an hour from Dorchester with ample time till kick off (2'/2 hrs). The DMFM party decided it was time to relief themselves, and also stock up on the food supply.
It was at this point that the Ginger giant came up with is usual statement of "I've got no money lads" fucking surprise, surprise you might be saying to yourselves. He did however have a £15 cheque on him, with which I had to swap him with cash and also his credit card with which he paid for the pasties, in exchange for us purchasing lager for him at the clubhouse.
After an awful chicken and mushroom pastie that contained one lump of chicken, five mushroom but a shite load of this awful grey gooey mess, and a piss in the worlds smallest toilet we continued what was left of our journey.
Upon arrival of Dorchester the navigation was taken out of Wolvsey's control and placed solely in the hands of Wingywoo who had been to The Avenue Stadium last season. Several wrong turns later Nut realised that he was taking us to Weymouth, so it was time to stop the car and ask the locals. When we all able to see the stadium in front of us, a voice from the back of the car (Nuts) shouted rather loudly "There it is, I told you all along it was up this road" Lying bastard.
With the time coming up to 18.00 hrs, we parked the car and paid a little visit into Tesco. The reason for this was two fold, first to look at all the smart totty that works there and secondly to purchase 24 dumpys for the return journey back to the Pearl of the Valleys.
Is it me or are some people thick as shit. Take for example the guy stocking the alcoholic beverage shelves. There we were wondering around Tesco's in Dorchester, fashioning the Mighty Martyrs shirts and talking to each other in thick Welsh accents when we were asked if we had come up to watch the game. "No, we replied we've just come for 24 bottles of Tesco French Lager `Biere d'Al.sace" and we pissed off The ginger giant's credit card came in handy once again to purchase these, I'm not to sure what excuse he's going to come up with when Sian sees the statement, but it had better be good. We stashed the bottles in the boot of the DMFM battle bus, picked up the flag and made our way to the opposite end of the ground to clubhouse, which resembled the lobby of some Spanish hotel.
We were greeted by some stupid bitch that almost had a smack in the chops for asking us if we were from Newport. Not only did she insult us with that remark; she then persisted in selling us some raffle tickets. Little was she to know that she had picked on the poorest four of Merthyr supporters there that evening. The money situation looked a little like this: Wingnut £9, Burger Man £7, Wolvsey NOTHING and myself £15. Admission price for the evening's entertainment was to be £5.50 each which meant one of us had to subsidise Captain Kirk. Between Nut and myself we were able to buy a round of the worlds shitiest lager, although still expensive in this holiday resort, which then left us with just enough money to pay the toll on the Severn Bridge which we had forgotten about.
Fellow Merthyr fans that seemed rather more cheerful than we were, (probably had a lot more loot than our good selves did) soon joined us, along with some of the Merthyr squad, namely Mr Prolific, Mike Regan, The Legend and Darren Ryan.
Still drinking the same warm piss from a bottle that had lasted us an hour, we indulged in a game known as `Name 10 women on Eastenders you'd shag, as they appear on the screen'. We had fifteen minutes to complete our task, which was hindered a little as Dot Cotton had a five-minute scene to act out, but we did manage to get to 7 before the game kicked off
The first half was rather even with only Harris, Birkby and Carter showing any signs of composure on the ball. Carter especially, becoming the Suzerain on the field and possessing mass amounts of positron whenever he could.
The second half was to be a different story though, with the Martyrs exerting most of the pressure. There was the odd scare or two, but for a change we seemed to deal with it quite well. Our biggest problem at the moment is lack of confidence, which showed when Birkby had a clear shot at goal but decided to cross it back in to the far post where, like all match we had no one.
Just like the previous game against Margate, the ref was an absolute shambles. Chenenworth, blatantly fouled within the penalty area and nothing was given. Carter was absolute class, tireless running and took responsibility for everything, looked eager to get the ball, and came closest to scoring with a lob just over the bar five minutes from the time.
With the end of the game dawning upon us news was filtering through from M Tydfil that Caernarfon had beaten the Jacks in the FAW Premier Cup which sort of puts our performance in Wrexham to shame. The final whistle blows and the Martyrs had earned themselves a deserved point, but it could so easily have been more.
With no money to have a post match pint, the DMFM contingency made straight for the car where we were greeted by our dumpys and news of other results that affected us that evening.
Realising that the bottles were not screw off tops, the Burger Man came to the rescue for the second time that day, using his teeth, which he had strengthened on fries and burgers as a bottle opener. This was met with great applause from the drinkers that night. The trip home to South Wales was rather subdued, as the three passengers became more and more tired as more and more alcohol was being consumed. However, listening to Radio Wales we realised we knew the answer to the quiz question.
Wolvsey quickly dialled the station, but his cup and string fucked up on us again leaving some bitch to sneak in before us. Wingnut was none to pleased with this and persisted in phoning the number. He eventually got through and got us a mention soon after which led to a mass celebration in the car. It wasn't long though before the dumpys had kicked in and I was left to enter the greatest place on earth, being the only one conscious.
Dai Pest

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