The only way you’ll ever look forward to Gillingham away is if you’ve taken the questionable decision to move yourself to Kent. Instead of being just an overpriced trip to a stadium that lost its love for life three-quarters of the way through construction, it is now a sumptuously rare blessing of commuting brevity: a two-hour round trip seems like the blink of an eye these days.
And it isn’t just me. The Cov worms bore their way out of the woodwork as soon as the promotion heroes find themselves playing within a 50-mile radius. Buying my ticket at the station, what do I hear but another millennial ordering “One day return to Gillingham.” What person, reclining in heavenly Margate, goes to Gillingham at all! Let alone for the day.
Sure enough; he was a Cov fan.
Opting to delay entering the soz frying pan for as long as possible, I met my non-Kent-based accomplice off the train at Rochester, convinced that the Dickensian spirit in the air – I had no idea Dickens smelt like chips – would have resulted in some half decent boozers