Chestaaaargh!

September 24, 2005

 

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My visit to the Saunders Honda Stadium (got it right this week, Ed) didn’t quite go according to the best laid plans I outlined in my previous Column. At least I didn’t end up having to drive I suppose.
My father decided against working Saturday and graciously offered to drive with myself, fellow Pirate contributor Mr Hoyle and another companion who bares an uncanny resemblance to Ozzy Osbourne (with a beard) in tow.

We made good time even if the Evening Post directions did take us on a little detour. The ground is situated at the end of a trading estate that appears to open up into waste land with plenty of room for ground development, should Chester ever require it. Due to lack of nearby watering holes we made for the supporters club bar and for the princely sum of £1 we were allowed in. A very nicely furnished club which obviously serves Chester very adequately, spoiled only by the lack of a fruit machine for people (like myself) to fritter money away in. It did however serve a very nice and refreshing pint of Guinness, my chosen tipple for the day. [image2]
After making our way into the ground, we realised quickly it was going to be a long day. It was a very poor, lethargic display for 90 minutes which words fail to describe accurately. The only positive for me was Scott Shearer who despite conceding four goals, none of which he had a chance with, had his most confident and assured game despite the lack of protection in front of him. It looks like he’s starting to settle in and find his feet.
After that easily forgettable spectacle of a game and that sort of defeat, it’s certainly not nice to be stuck in traffic for half an hour with only one road in and out of the ground. On the journey back it was slightly comforting to listen to 6-0-6 and laugh at the audaciousness of other clubs fans to advocate the sackings of managers such as David Moyes and Iain Dowie, who have done wonders at their respective clubs in very recent times. I wasn’t totally surprised to be honest given the fickleness of many football fans in the new world of instant success football. At least I had a night out in town upon my return to Bristol to look forward to, where I could drown my sorrows, and drown them I did.

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This column has first appeared in the match day programme ‘The Pirate’, and appears by kind permission of  editor Keith Brookman.

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