Sat 8th August - Gillingham

It has taken its time but the all new football season is with us.  One final chance for the Saddlers to begin the new millennium in the First Division is the prize on offer. Right now I’d settle for avoiding relegation and another cup run.

We set off on the 370 round trip with The Smiths setting the tone of our aspirations for the next nine months. There is great, often unnoticed humour in Morrisey’s work but, for today at least, Girlfriend in a Coma is a worthy comparison with our hopes and concerns for what awaits. Pessimism absolutely abounds. In bucket loads.

We arrive at Priestfield at around 2 o’clock and head to the nearest boozer for a pint or two of liquid painkiller. An hour in the beer garden makes interesting listening as some clever dick local, obviously unaware that we are there, chooses to take the piss out of today’s visitors. The crap he spouts is unbelievably ignorant and arrogant – the normal Southern bollocks - hence we chose to enjoy the beer and ignore the arse.

The boys start off brightly and boss the game for the opening twenty minutes. There is no place for Peron and Ray has three strikers on the bench - enough to give Chris Nicholl a coronary I imagine. Thirty three minutes into the new season and the Reds draw first blood. A fairly routine long ball over the top skims off Gills debutante Darren Carr’s head, over our old friend Vince Bartram and into the home net. 1 - 0 to the Saddlers and the sizeable travelling fans go barmy. How long’s left? Eight months, three weeks and 57 minutes but who’s counting? Me.

We look really well organised, difficult to break down and they are always key ingredients to any good second division side. Play like this for 46 games and mid-table isn’t unachievable.

The Gills wanted to pass the ball around and this gave our back four lots time to organise themselves and we looked comfortable.  Hodgy disappeared from the game – I’ve heard that before (more than once) and the Saddlers held out for a great, opening day win. Three points from an away start can’t be bad.  Man of the Match was probably between Porter (yes really) and Kiester but in truth there were really fourteen of them.

Now after listening to all that crap for much of the hour before kick-off, how I’d have loved to bump into the aforementioned beer garden nob on his miserable walk home. 1-0, fuck off.