Report: Worksop Town 1, Boston United 1

Worksop Town 1
Boston United 1

Where: Watnall Road, Hucknall
When: Tuesday 29 October 2008
How many: 230

impsTALK thought it had seen the last of Watnall Road, a ground of innumerable annoyances: its deceptive location tempting fans into using the tram only to get lost in a maze of identi-kit roundabouts, the catering truck offering chunks of powder in a brown sludge solution instead of hot chocolate, and so on.

But, alas not. Boston were demoted, Hucknall Town salvaged – and even that wasn’t enough to prevent a return trip. Worksop, unlucky Worksop, were booted out from their ground and forced into temporary shelter down the road. Wonderful.

So, back up the M1 it was. Severe traffic problems elsewhere meant that kick-off was delayed by fifteen, which merely gave us longer to freeze our nuts off – and Kieran Leabon longer to crock himself. It wasn’t the kind of night where such gloomy news was needed.

Nature, it is said, abhors a vaccum. So too do football fans. Arriving at the ground to learn that kick-off had been delayed due to traffic problems (and that Leabon had suffered some kind of leg twang in the warm-up) meant that there was suddenly fifteen minutes with nothing to do except steer terrace talk onto the somewhat contentious topic of United’s rapidly receding promotion hopes.

Principally because we’re inveterate pessimists, impsTALK.co.uk has long since given up on any hope of promotion, despite being frequently reminded that Boston have such a ludicrously vast number of games in hand that that even a modest unbeaten run would send them crashing towards the arse end of the Scumbag Betting Scam Website Conference North.

And it is true, of course – but are Boston United really capable of the kind of prolonged spell of consistency not seen since, well, THE MAN OF WHOM WE MUST NOT SPEAK was here? Really? The optimists, because they are optimists, say yes.

If there is indeed hope, then a midweek trip to a team rooted to the bottom of the table would, you would have thought, have been precisely the time to start collecting the points. Unfortunately, left those left bamboozled by United’s brilliant effort against Cambridge on Saturday are likely to have been left even more perplexed following this excruciatingly lacklustre display against Worksop – a display so devoid of craft and cunning as to make Rory Delap look like Lionel Messi, or Simon Armstrong.

Frankly, Worksop were about as cultured as a Men and Motors +1 Jade Goody all-night marathon – yet Boston, for all their undoubted ability, were no better. They just didn’t seem bothered.

The writing was on the cards even before kick-off, when venerable Boston fan Scott ‘Webcam’ Walden snuck up behind Martyn Margarson and bellowed: “COMEONMARGIELETSHAVEACLEANSHEETYEAH!?”. The clearly startled Margarson swivelled around with a sheepish look of pre-emptive apology, almost as if he knew such a demand was unlikely to be met.

And he was absolutely right, for barely ten minutes into the match he had contrived to dive and somehow miss Kevin Sanasy’s crap, angled shot from a distance roughly equivalent to that between the Sun and Pluto, sending the home crowd into what might have been termed a ‘frenzy’ had there been more than six of them.

Our view of critical moment was obscured by a player: the ball was spooned, disappeared and then unexpectedly reappeared beyond Margarson – in the net. “I want to say it bent and dipped and swerved,” a Boston fan sighed later. “But no. He just fucking missed it, didn’t he?”

What utter shit this game was. Hoof. Hoof. Hoof. Hoof. Hoof. Hoof-smack!

Then, from nowhere, Boston equalised. It was a goal delivered from altitude. Ollie Ryan controlled a very long, high ball, shrugged off the eight defenders who were attempting to heave him into the car park and tucked the ball neatly inside the far post.

Half time came and went, the caterers served up another cup of powder disguised at hot chocolate, and the game – God help us all – re-commenced.

Nothing happened. Boston were terrible. Woeful. I spent the remaining 45 minutes chatting with Colin Burton, my attention drawn to the pitch only when someone yelled: “Shot!”.

“Arhhhh, it hit a bobble,” the fan mumbled as the ball sailed off high and wide and disappeared off into the darkness. A cursory look at the playing surface revealed a lop-sided expanse of bobbles. Back to the conversation, undisturbed, until the very last minute when Jon Rowan hit the bar. And that was that.

At least parking was only a quid.