Horrible day that.
It all started brightly with me and my mate getting a lift to Brighton Station in Glenn Murray's Father In Law's cab, which we took as a sign of great things to come. By 11am we were crammed in to a cross between a train and a bus from Darlo to Middlesboro watching sad eyed Geordies barbequing in their council house backyards. It was 11 degrees and foggy. We spotted [MENTION=6886]Bozza[/MENTION] in town and were roundly and homophobically abused by a woman the size of an elephant with measles, only with a worse complexion.
The less said about the game the better. 2,300 people making non-stop noise in the away end but, for once, Boro singing non stop all over the ground.
Just enough time for a walk back to the station through little groups of nutters who either hadn't had tickets or were banned before getting back to Darlo to find out the trains were Donald Ducked. At least this meant we got a chat with Tony Bloom at Kings X - he was even more livid than me.
But all of this just made the next year even sweeter and now look at them. The ugly back to fronts.
The angriest I’ve ever been at a ref’s decision. It wasn’t the worst decision I’ve seen - it was the magnitude, and the utter cuntery of the man presiding.
It was the changing his mind from yellow to red, because of Ramirez's protestations and tiny shin pads. And Ramirez kicked Stephens' studs FFS!
I'm still angry.