Tiptoeing around my flat, I do my best not to wake the baby, who is sound asleep, as most people should be at this time on a Sunday, but once again our continued search for football enlightenment is pissing all over the one sacricant I have left in my life, the one rule, naah mantra I have stuck by all these years through thick and thin, good times and bad, deaths, births and drug addiction of not doing anything on a Sunday for the umpteenth time this season. It's now not really even worth mentioning it anymore, it’s been that long since I actually fucking stood by it.One could not ask for much more when stepping out their front door than birdsong and blue sky. My neighbour coming the opposite direction, looks like they have had a good night, but the birdsong may well be having an adverse affect on their delicate head, so I do my best to not let the door slam, in precaution of not wanting to trigger some sort of post bender breakdown.
“Bit early for these shenanigans” says Tom grumpily, as he drapes his coat over his knees and gets himself comfy. Long term readers will know Tom is far from a morning person and he will not hold back in telling me on many an occasion for the next few hours at least, that he is not best pleased he’s had to get up as early as he has. Waving a Tesco bag at me, but not using his words, it's not until he reveals it’s contents, a selection of CD’s, finally fulfilling his promise of supplying the music for our journeys, do I understand its significance, but on inspection it's quite literally a mixed bag.
I can't complain about System Of A Down's 2001 seminal album Toxicity, which on a side note Tom used to insist on calling Toxi-City, but the rest are a bit of a strange mix. “Two gambles that backfired” he admits, when my response to The Best of REM and The Best of The Red Hot Chilli Peppers, is not exactly favourable. I can though take some solace in the presence of a bit of Dr Dre, as I have quite the soft spot for the former NWA member, and all in all, it's nice not to have to rely on my unpredictable radio.
Describing it with all the turmoil and anguish of someone who has just lost a close relative or found out they have a terrible incurable illness, the way Tom recounts the saga around the delivery of his previous nights takeaway, is the definition of a first world problem.
Stopping for a much needed toilet break and a coffee refill, I’m treated to my second dose of birdsong in the loo of a BP garage. “Closest thing to cocaine” is Tom’s frank description of an espresso, so I think I’ll just stick to a latte if that's the case. Dropping crumbs all over my newly valeted car, I think he takes some kind of sick pleasure from seeing just how much it winds me up, the detritus from his ham and cheese toastie falling from his mouth, across his beardy chin and all over my upholstery.
God only knows how we got on to the topic, but between CD’s, Tom’s three word review of 50 Shades Of Grey, leaves me somewhat gobsmacked, “feathers and slapping”.
The snaking peloton of Sunday morning cyclists, I will refrain from sharing Tom’s opinion on the lycra clad short wearing ones, as they are far too harrowing, somewhat hamper our approach to today's game, but when we finally get there, on first impressions, I think we are both wondering why did we bother.
What I can only describe as a scene of absolute carnage, an apocalyptic wasteland of chewed up earth and tree stumps for as far as the eye can see, fills our view. The Sat Navs pink line tells me we are heading in the right direction, but I’m not sure. It looks more like where an atomic bomb has just been tested, than where a football ground could possibly be.
Arriving all in one piece, the ultimate goal has been achieved, physically that is. Psychologically I'm not sure.
“It’s a windy one” says Tom, struggling with his coat as it seamlessly turns from an old ladies blanket on the seafront into an actual jacket. Within seconds of stepping out the car we hear our first shout for the home team, “come on you Trickies” the first of many that we will hear by the end of the day and although Northwich Victoria FC (VIC) are only lodgers, the amount of green and white we’ve already seen in the few minutes we’ve been here, it very much feels like home.
Inside what I would call a proper football ground, Wincham Park is so much more than just a railing around a pitch, it’s awash with concrete terracing, an impressive all seater main stand and large open ended sheds behind each goal, it's the kind of ground you can't quite believe is the home of a non league club and not a league two team. A stiff wind cuts from left to right, just about leaving the FA Vase placard out on the pitch in preparation of kick off unmolested, for now at least, and a white haired man in green wellies, doing the last finishing touches to the lines, looks like he is off in this own little world.
Retreating to the bar, Tom says its for a drink, I think it's so his hair isn't ruined, the obligatory parquet dance floor every half decent clubhouse should have is empty, but the stage overlooking it is not. A long table with a highly engraved silver cup with white and green ribbons on each handle at its centre, is flanked by a selection of VIC shirts from their recent past. The kind of display to send a football kit nerd like myself all weak at the knees and laid out in front of them are a selection of scarves, one from a 2006 FA Cup 3rd Round visit to the Stadium Of Light.
Sitting on the edge of the low stage, with his pint by his side, a man in a green and white hat and green and white shirt, waves his large green and white check flag above his head. Recently purchased form the table heaving under the weight of VIC related merch as well as the programme I just nabbed myself a copy of. He sways his flag to the tune of a little bit of Muswell Hill in the North West, Victoria by The Kinks.
Outside the away teams coach has arrived, piling off after the long drive from Surrey, the supporters of Chertsey Town F.C. (CT) much like the home fans are in good voice, “blue army, blue army” and thirsty, quickly descending upon the bar. “Going to be rocking in here” says Tom, having to raise his voice over the noise of the fans. Before we depart and somewhat hampered by the raising decibel levels, I secure myself two tiny manila envelopes, both of borrower proportions, containing a golden goal ticket in each.
What looks like a quarry off in the distance would perhaps explain the two pickaxes on the badge of the home team who VIC ground share with, and it's a shame that their music with claims to be “the best non league museum in the world” is closed, which is a shame as I’ve heard it's well worth a visit.
In the short time we’d been inside, I’m sure even more flags have gone up, hanging either from the wall that runs along one side of the ground or over the red railings that surround the pitch. They flutter in the bracing breeze, which is tempered somewhat by the emergence of the sun from behind some clouds. The weather today about as good as one could ask for, it's in vast contrast to last weeks, when the game was postponed due to a waterlogged pitch. The seven day delay in the tie, means both sides know it will be Cray Valley Paper Mills they will be coming up against, should they make it to the final.The noise levels ratchet up another level when the VIC players appear for their warm up, “come on boys” shouts a lone voice from the opposite end of the ground, however their stay on the pitch is short lived, and in accordance with the sign at the mouth of the tunnel requesting them not to train on it, they are soon out of sight, disappearing through a small gate.
Steadily filling up, more and more of the red seats in the main stand find themselves occupied. I look on enviously at the women pulling a flask of what turns out to be soup from a tote bag over her shoulder. Tom and I have been saying for years we should bring our own food, if only to save Tom’s narrowing arteries. One man on the pitch battles Mother Nature in vein, trying to balance the match ball on the plinth behind the placard, eventually giving up, after coming to terms with the fact he was always going to come off second best.
Joining us outside, the man from the stage is seemingly doing laps of the pitch, his flag unfurled, he is not required to make any effort, simply holding it upwards, the wind does it all for him and it looks
great. The high spirits continues to build, while a man with a fork attentively prods at the pitch.
The PA crackles into life and the main stand is only getting fuller. The flag bearer from the bar, has now been joined by three more, standing in formation behind one goal. Unable to resist the draw of the small hut called Queenie’s, Tom returns from his investigation grinning, “it's a chip shop”.
Both teams enjoy a brief spell on the pitch, despite the sign but are soon chivvied, “Chertsey Town in” shouts their coach from the sidelines. As the players walk off a fan leaning over the barrier high fives a few of the departing players and for the first time the home teams drum strikes up, only adding to the din, but not to be outdone, the CT fans offer up their own song in reply, “blue army, blue army”.
When its VIC’s time to leave, they are greeted by a person who has the air of an injured team member about them, unable to play today. He dishes out more than just highfives, but the odd embrace for those who have now completed their drills and are off for a last few rousing words from the manager and instructions on setpieces.
The VIC drum is a thudding constant, but so is the singing of the CT fans, “we love you Chertsey we do”, whom there is by no means a lot of, they are outnumbered more than three to one, but they are making a cracking effort so far. The noise from each set of the fans only adds to the ever growing atmosphere, combined with a heavy measure of tension and excitement, it’s making for a electric build up. The Jam’s A Town Called Malice only riles up the crowd even further, it’s energetic beat getting many toes tapping. One VIC fan on the terrace, with his back to the pitch, his flag in one hand, conducts the crowd in their latest chant.
With the game even yet to kick off, there is a chance of some people peaking a bit too soon.
Two teams, a whole gaggle of mascots, each in a green and white VIC jersey, plus the officials and a few coaches too for good measure, all just managed to materialise from the squat square tunnel at the middle of the main stand, like some kind of Saturday night primetime elusion, to a welcome that will go down as one of the most highly charged we’ve ever witnessed.
From the VIC fans behind the goal to my left a shimmering display of silver foil strips flutter down towards the pitch, having been hoisted up into the air, at the first sight of the team. “We love you Northwich we do” they sing as the players approach the podium, the ball somehow staying in place, a nifty Blu Tack job perhaps. The CT fans are singing about Wembley, a bit premature perhaps, but going by their bouncing, scarf twirling shenanigans, they are no shrinking violets, I very much doubt they give a shit about what anyone thinks.
When the referee signals a change of ends, the two sets of fans start a hasty migration, doing their best to be in place for the kick off, which is brought to an untimely end by a red cage, with a small door on each side. A bit of a relic from days of pens and spiked topped railings. As the hoards come to a stop, with only a slow trickle of people able to pass from one side to another, those waiting their turn sing and chant towards their opposite numbers, slapping their hands on the bulging fence. A scene more commonly seen in the Copa Libertadores not the FA Vase.
With the game underway the bottleneck means there is somewhat of a conspicuous void behind each goal. The early claim by VIC for a “handball” in the CT box, might have had a bit more weight had the fans been there to give it their backing, but considering the lack of movement from the packed Perspex home dugout, no one could have thought there was much in it, and the games continues.
When the VIC fans do finally arrive, their songs are plentiful, “you are my Northwich, my only Northwich” loud and impassioned, taking the noise levels through the roof. The drummer is among the crowd, and leads them in a hummed rendition of the Dam Busters theme. One late VIC arrival, passes us towards the terrace still dressed head to toe in motorbike leathers. That's commitment.
“Ohhhh” sigh the home crowd, ten minutes on the clock and their all purple keeper has made a bit of a hash of a punch, it was woeful, and is lucky not to be punished for it, but a teammate is on hand to clear it. With the crowd as animated as it is, the section behind the goal a swirling pulsating mass, it's hard to concentrate on the match. The flags are in full motion, the songs keep coming, “oh when the Vic go marching in”, the drummer, who Tom has labelled as “good”, is so much more than that, he’s exceptional. When VIC surge forwards on the attack just before the quarter hour mark, whipping in a fierce cross, the terrace rises to their tip toes in anticipation, falling back down when the ball is hacked clear by a CT player, head to toe in dazzling yellow.
As we learnt at the other Semi-Final first leg, they are nervy affairs. With no clear cut chances for either side, its a case of no one yet wanting to take a risk, everyone is keeping their cards very close to their chest. The atmosphere though is not suffering from such nerves. When VIC are in on goal, the crowd once again rise, “go on” shouts one man, one on one, with just the keeper to beat, the final shot is tame and never threatened.
Sliding into the CT keeper, lunging for the loose ball, the VIC player has a foul given against him, much to the displeasure of the home fans, who think CT’s stopper is making a bit of a meal of it, flat on his back like a neon orange beetle, he squirms, but I don't think it’s any great long lasting discomfort, after what in all fairness looked like a minor clash.
A child with bubbles adds a lightened feel to proceedings, when VIC are awarded their own free kick, it buoys the supporters. A loan booming voice is the epicentre of most of the songs, “green army, green army”. The flags towards the front of the crowd sway from side to side, nearly poking the eyes out of the nearby stewards each time they do. The set peace comes to nothing and edging towards a half an hour gone, there is plenty of effort, but very little action.
“Fucking hell” says one man on the exhale, puffing out his cheeks, another calls on a higher power that can’t be found on our mortal realm, “Jesus wept”. VIC were very nearly the ‘authors of their own pain’ as Blofeld would say, a swipe at the ball by one defender at a CT corner, almost sends the ball into his own net, only for Barney the keeper, to be in the right place at the right time to catch it.VIC shoot just wide, and the mishap at the back has been all but forgotten, “who are we, green army” they sing as if almost hypnotisied. Led by the same gruff voice as has been the case since the start. The drummer tries to use all of his musicality not for good, but evil, beating out a rhythm trying to put off the CT keeper when a player makes a short pass back to him, and he is forced to make a hurried clearance.
In an almost carbon copy of the game at the Badgers Sports Ground, it's been a “cagey” as Tom puts it, first thirty minutes. The fans at both ends excellent, admittedly I can't really hear much of what the CT ones are singing, over the songs of the VIC ones, but they are certainly animated, it's just like someone has turned down their volume a bit.
It's either a blatant display of petulance or some time wasting is already afoot, but when the CT player refuses like a spoilt toddler to give up the ball for a VIC throw in, his behaviour raises a few laughs. When he is given little more than a shove from a VIC player, a bit of a ‘come on get a grip’, his response is let's say theatrical, which is greeted with even more amusement and his complaint of “I just got pushed” falls on deaf ears. The referee probably couldn't hear him over all the sniggering.
The CT keeper continues to stand fast in the face of the drummers attempt at intimidation, he does his best with a flurry to put him off, but he fails. “Norwich edging it, but it’s minimal” is Tom’s first half synopsis, which he lays on me before pointing out today we are watching “another team in green” we have had quite the spate of them as of late, which has nothing to do with my love of a green kit, contrary to what he thinks, before making his first food related comment of the afternoon, his service station toastie clearly having set him up well, “time for food”.
It won’t go down as a classic by any means, they certainly won't be talking about it for years to come,
but its a goal all the same, a goal to CT. If the first attempt from the bobbled cross from the right had gone in, instead of hitting the frame of the goal, having looped delicately over the VIC keeper, that would be a goal worth recounting. However Johnny on the spot, CT’s number 8 is on hand to poke home the rebound, the ball barely in the net and he’s running off behind the goal, past a slightly sad and drooping VIC flag that didn't make the journey with their supporters, along the line of CT fans pushed up against the railing going apoplectic.
Punching the air the supporters quickly break into song, “we are Chertsey Town”, however the home crowd is quick to respond, “come on Northwich” and the the PA makes me jump out of my considerable skin, when he confirms the scorer and the “golden goal time forty minutes, golden goal time forty minutes”.
Again the CT fans sing of Wembley and for the first time I think today, I can say the ground is quiet, except for those from Surrey who are pogoing, “boing, boing, boing” they sing as they leap up and down, and it's their turn to belt out a few songs “we’re the Town, the mighty, mighty Town”. On the stroke of half time, CT almost double their lead, but the shot is lashed over. The distinctive voice among the VIC crowd offers up one of his shouts, “you greens” but gets nothing back in reply.
It’s a much calmer change of ends as the team's head inside. The CT fans are still going, “Chertsey Town, Chertsey Town” but the VIC supporters have had the wind knocked out of them a bit. Fork man is back out and I notice at one extremity of the main stand, a familiar face hiding under the hood of a large black coat, someone I’m not thrilled to admit I know who she is, a cast member of the televised train wreck that is Geordie Shore.“Food is always better up north” states Tom. We’ll make a Northerner of you yet, I tell him, “If you put gravy with everything you will” he replies emphatically. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, I’m convinced that despite all his belly aching about the time in the car or the early starts, Tom’s sole motivation to agree to these road trips is not to spend time with me or in the hope of finding football Valhalla but so he can eat something with piping hot, brown viscous sauce over something wrapped in pastry.
Waxing lyrical about his “beef slice” which he tells me is and I quote is “fucking banging”, I could safely say Tom is in his good place, eating well and relatively warm. When I point out Charlotte Crosby is here, the member of the get drunk and piss yourself MTV show is here, what he is eating pales into insignificance, Tom is somewhat of a fan of hers.
Perhaps it’s down to a beef slice or some chips from Queenies, but the VIC fans have rediscovered their voice at the start of the second half, now at the opposite end of Wincham Park to us, the terrace looks fit to burst, “oh when the greens go marching in”. Still energised by their late goal, the CT fans are hammering at the hoardings, “Chertsey, Chertsey”.
VIC have come out invigorated by the words of their manager, “ohhhh” go the crowd as some early pressure, sees them put a shot just over the bar, “come on the greens”. CT win a free kick on the edge of the home box. The VIC supporters latest chant “who are we, green army” is momentarily interrupted as they let out another sizable “ohhhhh” this one out of nerves and not enthusiasm, as the ball takes a nick off top of the wall, which could have sent it anywhere, only for it to fall into the hands of a grateful Barney.
I’m sure it's only because I know she is here, and it has nothing to do with the fact Tom can't keep his eyes off her, but the screams of Miss Crosby is all I can hear now. Neither of us can really understand why she is here, perhaps she has a passion for non league football, maybe a friend of hers is playing or her dopey looking boyfriend dragged her along or she dragged him, we'll never know, but she has somehow managed to acquire a direct line into my brain with her high pitched screams.
It's got very cold all of a sudden, but this is doing little to deter the CT fans, “everywhere we go….”. VIC are resulting to long range pot shots, their fans ohhhing once more as they let fly with an effort from outside the box. In full blown party mode, the CT supporters are oblivious to whats happening on the pitch, instead they are informing anyone who is listening, that they’re “gonna bounce in a minute” and after some dramatic pausing, they do just that, “Chertsey, Chertsey boing, boing”.
The song no set of fans wants to hear, especially one who pride themselves on making a good atmosphere, as I imagine the VIC ones do, “we forgot that you were here”, must be a bitter pill to swallow. The drummer among the VIC supporters tries to pick them up, but they have fallen a little flat again, it's now those from our neck of the woods who are making all the racket.
For some the first fifteen minutes have failed to hold their attention, two young kids behind us have started an impromptu kick about. Turning on the referee can sometimes be a sign of a fans frustrations, “you don't know what you're doing” they chant, when the man in charge in their eyes fails to award them a free kick, after a blatant foul and the wind has started to play its part in the match too, “ohh caught that” laughs Tom, after a CT goal kick is wafted right out of play.Approaching an hour of the game gone and it's a toss up between the drummer or the kids dragbacks for what is the most entertaining. The match is really not much of a spectacle, both teams still apprehensive. VIC send in a decent enough cross, but it's easily caught by the CT keeper and not long after and in on goal, “go on” encourages one person, it’s only a last ditch tackle from a CT player that stops what looked like a certain equalizer. “What a fucking tackle that was” says Tom, who for a fraction of a second was more excited than he had been about either his beef slice or the presence of the reality TV star, but it's fleeting.
With things on the pitch on the up for the home side, the drum is slowly but surely getting the supporters back into their stride. Having set themselves such a high benchmark so early on, they are only now getting back to their best “Northwich” they all roar after a solid beat from the man on the percussion. More Dambusters follows them hitting the crossbar via a deflected cross.
The wind is no longer affecting the game, just my hands and is giving a solid assist to the flags which still look resplendent. Tom baulks at my obsession with banners and flags, but I think they give so much personality to a football ground, be them a homemade jobby or something a bit more upmarket. All of course green and white, the one that reads "N.V.F.C The Club That Wouldn't Die" is my personal favourite, a reference to troubled past. For the record though messages on bedsheets calling for managers to be sacked or for owners to sell up, are not acceptable.
“Haven't you got your gloves?” asks Tom, the gloves he bought me, which I’m not sure I know where they are, so I tell him I left them at home.
I’ll be honest I didn't think it was going to be much of a contest when it came to the two sets of fans, and what they would be bringing to the figurative party, but I have to take my hat off to the CT mob, whose boisterous demeanour means they are more than holding their own. Spelling out the name of the team, one letter at a time, the loudest of them starts them off and the rest respond. Once they're finished, they end it like any respectable group of supporters would, with more pogoing.
It is the CT fans turn to “ohhh” as a shot of theirs goes just wide of the target. Getting close to the final fifteen, I can't remember many attempts by them this second half, is it a case of sitting back, happy with what they've got?
Personally I think it should get at least one outing at every football match in the country, regardless of where in the pyramid or face a points deduction or being forced to play games behind closed doors, but the hummed rendition of the Entrance of the Gladiators, really should be aired more often. The wind popping up with a cameo midway through a VIC pass, inspires one CT fan to break into song.
In the battle of the colour chants, it's probably about level pegging, “who are we, green army” and “come on you yellows”. As good as their support has been so far, the CT fans might want to do themselves a favour and look at a map, the relevance of the song “I'd rather be a Scouser than a Manc” is a little misguided, and their latest chant, again highlights the CT own brand of cockiness, “you're only here for the Chertsey” and following curling shot, after a smart turn, it's all getting a bit Will Grigg's, “your defence is terrified”Being the full length of a football pitch away, the laws of physics mean I see the VIC fans erupt into celebration, a split second before I hear them, it's all flailing arms and gesticulations, before their sonic boom reaches our ears. “He lashed it in” gasps Tom, from quite an acute angle the scorer whose name is being confirmed by a far happier sounding stadium announcer, it's like night and day, he’s hammered it up and over the keeper into the roof of the net. “I don't know how he got it in the goal” ponders Tom, but he did, and it’s much deserved.
The CT fans boo the jubilant PA, but there really is no point. They try to recover with a few lines of “Chertsey Town, Chertsey Town” but it's half arsed and it's now their turn to be dejected. “Northwich” the home fans cry at the end of the drummers beat, the CT supporters attempt a swift counter “we forgot that you were here”, but they know in their heart of hearts, they can’t be heard. The home fans have gone stratospheric, “green army, green army”, scarves are going at a dangerous rate inches above people's heads, someone could lose an eye.
Having failed completely to remember to check my golden goal tickets after CT scored, I fumble at the breast pocket of my shirt, extract the two tiny envelopes, tear them open, to of course discover, I didn't win.
Home tails are up now, into the final ten minutes, the home fans are now as loud as they have been all day, they almost suck in a bullet header from a corner, but it sails just wide. The CT supporters have fallen silent, reduced now to just slinging the odd insult towards the pitch, the VIC drum now never dormant
A close attempt from one CT player isn’t enough to pick the fans up. Tom “needs a wee” but won’t go, he doesn't want to miss anything, and I’m trying to press gang him into asking the cackling Geordie for a picture, but he isn't having any of it. The rate in which people have stopped for a selfie with her, is almost as continuous as the drum.
The VIC technical area all rise to their feet, including the man on a separate chair stolen from a school assembly, because the bench just isn't big enough for the whole home entourage. They wait in lieu as the winger crosses into the box, but he puts to much on it, and one CT fans tells the VIC staff to “sit back down”. Tom capitulates and scurries off to the loo and misses a CT ball into the box, but their front man looks leggy and can't reach it.
A late shout for a VIC penalty is waived away and a hush descends over the crowd when CT are awarded a corner. Crossed in, it breaks to the edge of the box, where one player skies it over, relief.
“Fucking hell” anguishes one steward, when it's announced he and every other VIC fan will have to endure “three minutes of added time”. Some home supporters have either seen enough, can’t take the anymore of the emotional roller coaster or are the type to leave games early, on account of not wanting to get stuck in traffic, rolls eyes, are rightly shamed for doing so by the CT fans, “we can see you sneaking out”.
Both teams approach their respective fans come the final whistle, VIC don't quite make it as far as CT, who walk the line of the travelling faithful to shake their hands and thank them for their support. The VIC supporters, with scarves stretched out about their heads continue to sing, "we're the club, we're the club, we're the club that wouldn't die.
On a stage befitting such an occasion, its only a shame the match didn't live up to it. Discussing it in the car Tom and I hold polar opposite opinions. I'm all about a gun hoe approach to the first leg, bag yourself five making the second leg a mere formality, he is of a more cautious mindset. Playing the long game, making sure you are still in it when the second leg comes around.
I cant quite impress on you how impressed we were by Wincham Park, add in the fans, the beef slice and the celebrity spotting, plus meeting a young man who at the age of three has already been to twenty three grounds, who is Dad explained as long as he's "eating he's happy" or he can get a bit "antsy" sounds like someone I know, it felt like a proper match day a real event, which makes four hours in the car with a farting, crumb dropper, feel like a walk in the park
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