Dear Jonny!
I haven’t seen this thread before so good to see it’s been reinstated
And so a question;
Do you have any experiences you can share from the O’s time in the National League or whatever it was called when you were down there...
Any recommendations on ‘must visit’ away grounds or maybe where to drink etc
Hopefully this question will become irrelevant, but need to be prepared all the same. (Rapidly becoming a glass half empty shrimper)
Thanks
FF
Hi FF!
I’m glad I’m answering this question on a sunny morning in a cheerful mood otherwise this might make depressing reading!
I’ll skirt the trips to our fallen League brothers - everyone knows that Torquay and Notts County are two of the best away days in the country, and not to wear colours when visiting the Neanderthals up at Wrexham, right? - and instead concentrate on some of the more, er, ‘charming’ grounds you may visit.
Can thoroughly recommend Maidenhead. Lovely ground, setting, pubs and the opportunity to sing unpleasant songs about Theresa May. As for the best of the rest, well there’s Woking and... errr. Well, we’re penetrating deeper and deeper into the heart of darkness aren’t we? Um. Where was I...?
Ah yes, the National League. Important to accept that you’re going to take a proper ‘welcome to non-league’ shellacking somewhere you’ve never played in your entire history. 4-1 at Eastleigh. 5-0 at Kings Lynn. 6-1 at Bromley... You’re going to have a dream about being a large fish in a small pond, waltzing to the title. Unfortunately, we live as we dream - alone. While the dream disappears, the life continues painfully. When you look at the table in November and yourselves 10 places below Solihull Moors, it’ll feel like the club you’ve followed for decades has died. You’ll stop caring as much, but know that you’re not alone...
...I have wrestled with the National League. It is the most unexciting contest you can imagine. It takes place in an impalpable greyness, with nothing underfoot, with nothing around, without spectators, without clamour, without glory, without the great desire of victory, without the great fear of defeat, in a sickly atmostphere of tepid scepticism, without much belief in your own right, and still less in that of your adversary.
When we got murdered at Fylde, I remember the change that came over my friend’s features. I had never seen it before, and hope never to see again. He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision—he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath: “‘The horror! The horror!”
I think I need a lie down.
Love,
Uncle Jonny