Ahhhh. What a lovely end that was to what has been, overall, a lovely season. I was a bit surprised to see Hudson in the starting line-up against Accrington, after his horrible-looking injury at Newport. I didn’t think it was worth risking it if there was any danger of him still being concussed, but he was understandably desperate to try to get the clean sheet record, the medical team must have cleared him, and Mellon was happy to give him the chance. Disappointed that Fondop

Sigh. Last weekend certainly wasn’t dull, was it? Well done to everyone who went to Newport in hard hats (or branded yellow caps paid for by the club if you’re one of the Ringfence Blues on the booze bus). Much to my annoyance, Andy settled a week-long argument on the train down and proved that he suggested going to the last away day of the season as Bunkabin Man on Twitter two days before I did. I couldn’t fault the Welsh hospitality. I asked for a large rosé in the Pen and

Fuck’s sake. That was a bit shite, wasn’t it? I was in bed feeling under the weather and debating whether or not to go to the game at 2pm last Saturday. I did eventually drag myself to the Rocky, but I didn’t go the pub, and apparently I missed out on Salford’s fans singing ‘Oldham’s a shithole’ on the Clayton. Ewan MacColl famously wrote a song about Salford being the Paris of the fucking North, of course. The guest of honour was Hartley, the Dr Kershaw’s mascot, as there wa

Sigh. Sorry. This is all my fault. When writing last week’s blog, I had a horrible feeling that saying “the manager of the month curse isn’t real” would come back to bite me on the arse. Sadly, that proved to be the case. Shrewsbury itself is lovely. We went to the Market Hall before the game and had a couple of drinks and a very good cheeseboard at PetitGlou Wine Bar. We do away days in style. I hoped that the owl mural on the wall would prove to be a good omen. We also had