How Many More Blue? - Grays Athletic FC Vs Bowers & Pitsea FC, Bostik League North, Parkside (26/09/18)

The sky is a delightful shade of pale blue and there's not a cloud to be seen, but I’m really in no state of mind to appreciate it. I’ve spent well over half my time awake today behind the wheel of my car. I drove me and my family back from Manchester this morning, after a few days with the fiancee’s rents, taking in the rolling Derbyshire dales and an afternoon tea to die for, however that all feels like a distant memory now. Our drive back was held up by roadworks and we spent the last thirty miles trying to drown out my daughter with classic FM because she had had enough and was losing her shit.

There is a significantly sized Tom shaped hole in the passenger seat to my left. Only adding to my condition is the rush hour traffic I encounter at every turn. My attempt to avoid a local choke point, just leads me straight into another one. I hurriedly call Tom, between creeping forward another few feet to tell him I’m going to be late, and he might be better off making his own way to tonight's ground himself. He doesn't disguise his displeasure very well, I think he has become quite accustomed to being chauffeured about.

Despite Tom only living twenty four minutes away according to the message he sent me, I manage somehow to get to Parkside, home of Aveley FC and temporary abode of Grays Athletic FC (GA), who we are here to see tonight before him. I’m surprised not to see him already parked up and waiting for me. I’d also forgotten since the last time we were here, New Years Eve 2017, quite how brutal the black and yellow striped speedbumps are in the car park. The kind of which regardless of how slow you are going, they almost send you airborne and one is scared they may end up snapping your car in half.

I’m not the only early bird, GA’s opponents Bowers & Pitsea FC (BP) kit man is waiting patiently on the steps of the uber modern Parkside, its blue facade the same colour as the sky, surrounded by kit bags, finishing off what looks like a packed lunch from a bright pink lunch box.

Considering Toms first car was a turquoise Fiat Panda, he was the first of our friend group to get his licence, the front seat of which I was very familiar with, being driven around, slouched and stoned, never really go anywhere just mooching about. His new one, a brand spanking Mini Cooper Countryman, is quite the upgrade.

Dark blue and much larger than my little silver tin can, his arrival in the carpark is like a scene from a Top Gear montage, clearing the speedbumps like they weren't even there, he sidles up next to me, the chrome fixtures gleaming. He winds down his window, I say winds his are electric, mine aren’t, and says “hello” in a very suave James Bond kind of way, what a twat.

A little bit of new FIFA chat later, Tom telling me how impossible it is to score and defend, we’re standing alongside Parkside's dull green 3G pitch, remembering quickly quite how IKEA like the whole place is and just how little there really is to look at. GA’s previous home, which also saw them bunking up with Aveley, they've been homeless since 2010, was right out of the old school. There was a very high chance of turning your ankle on a loose bit of concrete, but it had heaps of character and a stunning main stand.

Parkside is pristeen, it still feels brand new, even though its been open for over a year now, and as Tom dubbed it last time we came, it's “the future”. 3G and 4G pitches that can been used not only by the club, but the local community too and all that comes along with that, but it's just a bit sterile.

The devilishly smart looking Wayne Franklin, BP’s goalkeeping coach, still in his civies, having just arrived in a very ritzy white motor, gives a confined nod when I ask him how he thinks they will get on tonight. He’s soon off, back up the concertinaed tunnel, to get changed into his black joggers and long coat, that we’re much more accustomed to seeing him in.

BP’s players, all in matching tracksuits, have occupied a section of the main stands blue seats, their manager Rob Small sits side on with his head in a notebook, I assume putting the finishing touches on his starting eleven. The GA players, in highlighter pen yellow tops, arrive in dribs and drabs, up the short set of steps outside the ground and straight into the home changing room.

There is little sign of life in the glass fronted bar, that occupies the whole bottom floor of the main stand. The same can be said for the food hatch. “I hope there's food” prays Tom, when he notices its doors are firmly shut. In fact there are few signs of life anywhere really, other than the players padding about and around the two grey trestle tables set up around the turnstiles.

Tom may not have his food yet, which he thinks is increasingly “doubtful” because with GA being lodgers, as one GA committee member Glynn has informed him, they are not responsible for it, so he can’t help with his enquiry if it will be open tonight. I on the other hand, have no such concerns re. a little bit of action of my own, a considerable section of one of the grey tables is occupied with a plethora of raffle prizes.

A cuddly toy, bottles of wine, that if I won I'd never drink, a bumper box of biscuits and with Christmas almost here, what could turn out to be a very handy box of Celebrations. “A pound a strip” says the woman sitting behind the mountain of swag. I hand her two pound coins, and in return get two strips of orange raffle tickets.

Adjacent to my potential winnings, is a small selection of club merchandise, keyrings, scarves, magnets, that sort of thing. Tom a keen pin collector can't remember if he has already got a GA one though, and doesn't want a “duplicate”.

There is a quite sudden flurry of activity around the tables, when a succession of people start to click through the turnstiles, most if not all head straight for the raffle, those digestives must be a big draw, before moving on to Glynn, is his GA jacket who is on programme duty, which he’s  fanned out, his small money box, eager for coins.
He, like everyone else we’ve spoken to so far, Sim the kit man, and Peter the club photographer, who without fail every time we see him, asks us are we “still searching”, confirms as Sim put it, it's going to be “difficult” for them tonight. Peter puts it down to the simple fact they “can't score goals”, Glynn the fact that a few injuries means they are “stretched” and Sim that they are just “so inconsistent”, add all that together, and then put them up against a BP side that as Glynn put it “are very ambitious”, it really could be a tough night for the home side.

What until now had been a very peaceful evening, is shattered by the bizarre mix of nearby locals on dirt bikes, a passing chinook helicopter and the slightly nervous sounding voice of the man on the PA, “hello ladies and gentlemen” he says, but we only hear about every other word, because his mic is on the blink, and he currently sounds like the radio edit of a very sweary song.

The attempt to announce the date of an upcoming cup fixture, is undermined by the fact that when he says the date the mic drops again, and no one knows when it will be, “that’s helpful” says an acerbic GA fan. Tom always championing the underdog, thinks it's very unfair that people are making fun of the man and his “speech impediment’’.

Fully extended now, the vinyl tunnel links the cobalt blue stand to the pitch. There is a subdued ripple of applause as the players arrive, the attempt to do one last rundown of the teams is hampered again by the dodgy mic.

“Come on Bowers” shouts an old chap in a flat cap, making his way slowly towards the goal the visitors are attacking, moments after kick off. From behind me and out of the gloom a hand appears and then the face of someone whose own football travels we’ve followed closely, Dave aka or @davethephoto. One half of The Haribo Tour, called such because he rewards his young son with a sweet every time a goal is scored in the match they attend, comes over and says hello. As nice as it is to finally meet him though, I can't pretend that his lack of fizzy cola bottles or pear drops to offer us,
is a bit of a piss take.

The flat cap wearing BP fan eventually joins the small posse of familiar BP faces behind the goal. They watch on as one of their players, is treated for what looks like a considerable bang to the head. The physio is quickly by his side, shining a light in his eyes. The downed player is soon up, but is walking tentatively towards the touchline, “looks a bit confused” says Dr Tom, and I have to concur, he doesn't look with it at all.

“Ref, ref, ref, ref, ref” barks the BP physio, which has the touch of Alan Partridge about him, eventually getting the man in blacks attention, he half shoves the still groggy looking player back on to the pitch.

“Not again” says Tom when play is held up by another heavy fall, this time it’s a GA player. He is up much quicker than the BP player was, who despite the best efforts of the physio, is being substituted off.

A full quarter of the half has elapsed before either team has their first meaningful effort, I say meaningful, it's a shot by a BP player, but its well off target. His technique is good, controlling the ball on his chest, he hits the half volley well enough, but its, way, way over. “Come on Bowers” shouts a fan with an air of, we can do better than that.

The ever present sound of the unmistakable Rob Small, who can be seen pacing his technical area, is non stop with his advice and instructions. When BP’s keeper flaps at a GA corner, Rob talks them through dealing with, move by move, until the danger has passed.

“How you work that one out ref?” asks a not best pleased GA fan when the call for a foul, doesn't go his team's way. The same supporter informs the man in charge that the local “Specsavers is still open”. The referee like me and Tom, may have had one eye on the full moon slowing rising over the small seated stand opposite us, almost glowing red, Tom goes all Sky at Night, describing it as “captivating”.

If it's not the referee the GA fans are grumbling about, its their own team. I wouldn't go so far as saying they are disgruntled, but there is a slight feel their patience is a little frayed. “Keep it simple” appeals one, when his team seem intent on over complicating things. For the first twenty five minutes, they have shown very little threat going forward, confirming all the things we’d been told pre kick off.

GA’s keeper is by far the loudest player on the pitch, he’s a proper screamer, and so far he has been the busier. He’s forced to franticly back pedal at one point, trying as best as he can to get to the back post to intercept the ball, that’s just been chipped across his box. The intended BP player waiting for it, attempts a high hooked shot, that goes wide and BP are creating significantly more chances than the home team.

In GA’s number 9 we have our second hulking centre forward in a week, but he’s not as hulking according to Tom as Hayward Heath’s Unit. GA’s number 9 is too “skinny” says Tom and what he lacks in stature, he also lacks in the ability to hold the ball up and bring teammates into the game.

“Ooohhhhh” gasp the home crowd, when what might have been their first attack of the half, after almost half an hour, goes begging. “Should of fucking buried it” says a man behind us, in a thick Scottish accent, “and he knows it” he adds about the player who just missed a tap in, the ball having flown across the six yard box from the right wing, “look at him shaking his head”.

GA are very hardworking, they are defending well, but panic at times. “Relax” shouts one of their players, when they give up possession once more. They are coping with what is always a pretty rampant BP forward line, for now, but this is soon to change.
The applause is not for the BP player who has just hit the most delicious of volleys, our second chest trap and strike of the evening. This unlike the first is well on target and is destined for the top right hand corner, only for the strong hands and athletic spring of GA’s all yellow stopper, who forces it wide.

Less than a minute later and GA finally succumb to BP. Cutting in off the right wing and into the box, the scorer let loose a low shot from past the full stretch keeper down to left. Under the impression that the blue seats around us were predominantly filled with home fans, this is soon debunked by the sheer amount of clapping and shouts of “Bowers, Bowers, Bowers”, coming from then and in particular a very vocal young fan on the front row.

“Come on blues keep going” shouts one GA supporter.

The moon now even higher and looking even more resplendent, we are not the only ones trying to get the perfect moon rising non league football picture. Cameras and phones alike are snapping and clicking away around us.

Rob Small who is never seemingly content, is still dishing out words of wisdom to his players and he perhaps has every right to remind his team not to rest on their laurels, because not long after going ahead, they nearly give up their lead. Falling foul of the same ball from the right, that travels right across their box, but again no GA player can get a touch, “ohhhhh” gasp the stand again.

Having just gone so close to drawing level, GA perhaps sum up their current form, by then almost gifting BP a second, when a defender attempts a John Terry style, stooping pitch level header, that goes very wrong, giving the ball straight to a BP forward, who just can't quite make the most of the opportunity.

BP can sense GA are wobbling, and are rampant in their search of another goal. Into the final five of
the half and it's only a vital last ditch touch from the GA keeper that prevents the ball meeting the forehead of the BP player lining up to head in. The resulting corner sees them go close again, the keeper once more required to get fingertips to the goal bound effort, tipping it over.

Following the second corner, GA show a brief example of what they are capable off, winning back possession on the edge of their own box, and breaking instantly. The majority of BP are still in the GA box, as the all blue counter attack makes its way down to the other end of the pitch. only for the final ball to be poor, just about summing up their half in one simple over hit pass.

The final five minutes of normal time get a little heated or “feisty” as Tom puts it. When one BP player does well to wriggle free of the attention of a couple of markers, he's unceremoniously stopped with a bit of a hack. BP are then themselves guilty of a very late challenge in midfield, “have a word ref” demands one home fan. He does, and it's a booking, no great surprise. The vocal BP fan child, who is yet to reach peak loudness, exclaims it was a “perfect challenge”, in his own high pitched way.

“Minimum of four minutes extra time” announces the PA, who manages I think to complete his first sentence of the night. Tom has returned double quick with dinner. Having been ever so concerned about when to go, because there are “a lot of people here”, and he’s right, there is, so he mustered all his Arsenal’ness and sacrificed missing some of the game, to ensure he didn't have to stand in a queue for five minutes.

It’s GA who finish the half ever so slightly on top. They hit the target with an effort from outside the box, but its a bit tame and never looked like troubling anyone and then go close with a towering header, the jump of the player responsible something really to behold, he looked to be about eight feet off the ground.

The tunnel is dragged into position at quite a pace, seconds after the half time whistle. “Come on Bowers”, “lets go Bowers” shouts the young fan, who has been joined by a friend, who both stand at the mouth of the tunnel, hands outstretched, looking for a high five from the passing BP players, who duly obliged.

I guess a Tango is like a Coke, just orange. My drink request to Tom a bit lost in translation perhaps, however it’s cold and tastes good, and goes down a treat. Tom is happy with the “lots of chips” he got, but is not impressed with the “raw onions” and is worried he now “stinks” and the burger is more “bread” than meat.

It’s at this juncture between me finding out that I of course have not won anything on the raffle and @davethephoto asking me how many times a season do I say to myself “waste of money”, it's a lot, that Tom informs me of an interesting equation he has formulated over the last three years:

“When someone offers you a double burger, you know you’re in trouble” he tells me, it means its a “thin patty” so the vendor offers “two” to “make up for it”.

The early GA pressure after the restart, breeds hope among the home fans, perhaps the BP win is not the forgone conclusion most thought it might be. The group of GA supporters who have congregated to our left, one with a video camera at the end of a very long telescopic stand, are quick to bring to the attention of the officials, what they think is the flagrant time wasting, being committed by the BP’s keeper.

Tom puts GA’s flying start down to what must have been a “good team talk’. After ten minutes they go close following a surging run into the box. They go close again not long after with a shot from an acute angle, that's just over.

WIth the game finally hotting up, for some reason conversation turns away from it, and onto the fact that I’m wearing shorts again, still holding onto the last vestiges of summer. Tom suggests I should get some of those “fashionable” ones with zip on, zip off legs. He reminds me of a pair he used to wear when we went clubbing in our youth, because of how “hot” he used to get. If I’m honest, I’m still struggling with the suggestion that they are “fashionable”.

“Come on ref, get hold of him” exclaims one GA fan, who is growing tired of the BP keepers time wasting, Tom is sure “he’s going to get booked”. I’m all up for a little bit of the dark arts, they are part and parcel of the game, but he’s not being very subtle about it.

A flying Bruce Lee kung fu volley might have been the best goal we’d have seen all season, sadly for us the GA player responsible for the acrobatics, and everyone in attendance, his attempt is over.

“Come on you blues” shouts one of the animated bunch to our left. Just when things were going well for them, their transformed forward line takes a bit of a knock when a player pulls up after a quite excellent piece of aerial control. The downed player reaches for his hamstring, “oh he’s fucked, he’s pulled something” sighs a GA supporter, as the physio, who as Tom puts it “travels light”, runs to his aid, with seemingly no medical kit, unless it's all stuffed in her pockets.

On the twenty minute mark BP show how dangerous they can be, having been solidly under the cosh, they burst into life with a sweeping counterattack. The ball is hammered across the box, only to be cut out, just before it can be prodded into the back of the net.

“Come on Grays” pleads one home fan, “talk to each other” requests another, when three players all go for the same ball at a corner. Rob Small still prowling, reminds his players to “enjoy defending”.

Without fail every BP goal kick is accompanied with a comment, about how long it is taking for it to be taken. When the keeper goes down, adopting a new tactic think the home fans, “he didn't fucking touch him” points out one, the locals start to get a little “restless” as @davethephoto puts it. “Get up you tart” shouts one to the keeper curled up in a foetal position, “add the time on ref” commands another. When the keeper does get up, there is no booking as had been requested and one supporter anoints him “Lazarus”.

“Bowers are on the ropes” says Tom, unfortunately for GA, who have been on top since the whistle, they just can’t punish them, and persisting with the boxing analogies, BP prove like any good fighter that however much they may be close to taiking a knee, don't underestimate them, they still might just catch you out, and they almost do just that, right against the run of play, only for a last ditch GA tackle in the box stopping a certain goal.

Almost inevitably, when a team are on top, but don't make it count, at some point in the game, the tide will start to shift. “Come on Grays, they're on top now” mourns one supporter. The GA dominance has come to an abrupt end and in the space of about five minutes BP craft three good chances and with this the young visiting fan has found his voice again, “come on Bowers”.

“We had a good spell” laments one fan, almost nostalgic for all those nearlys and almosts that happened only about ten minutes ago, “we always have a little spell” adds another, fed up.

With less than ten minutes to go the prayers of the suffering GA fans are answered. “Whip it” says one standing behind me, as the winger assesses his options. He does just that, drifting in a high looping cross in to the BP box. “Handball” mutters Tom, he like the BP players who have surrounded the referee, some talking to his assistant about GA’s equaliser, are sure he's finished with his hand or at least his arm, all while the player whose bundled it in celebrates and the bunch to our left are on their feet.

The mic is still playing up, crackling as the scorers name is read out, “who?” asks one supporter. “Come on boys, let's get the winner” shouts a buoyed home fan. It would seem if anyone is going to get a second for them, it will be GA’s Carlos who got first, who at times looks like he is going to try and win the game single handedly. His quick feet, allow him to let off a shot, which is deflected wide.

The mood of the home fans has changed dramatically, it’s like the difference between night and day, and in those final five minutes of normal time, plus whatever was added on, I have never heard one mans name said so often, Carlos this, and Carlos that.

Perhaps not completely understanding the rules, I’ll put it down to his age, the now continuously singing young BP fan, has a brief exchange with a much older local one, when the home supporters shout for a handball. “Your goal was a handball” replies the young man quickly, as if one cancels out the other.

“How many more blue?” asks one exacerbated GA fan, after his team curl a close range shot over. “You're fucking joking” blurts out another, who can’t believe they've not gone in front.

All of a sudden and out of nowhere the sound of a drum echoes around the dazzlingly lit Parkside, emanating from the BP fans behind the goal, “where has that been all day?” asks Tom, as confused as I am, as to why it's taken eighty nine minutes for it to make an appearance.

“Let's make it a good one” appeals a GA supporter, in the moments before they line up to take a freekick. The ball is into the right area, but is cleared. Soon enough though Carlos is back at it, shooting from a tight angle, after another of his solo runs, stinging the palms of the BP keeper. The young BP fan is now constantly on his feet having gone full hyper and is literally bouncing, “come on Bowers, come on Bowers, come on Bowers, come on Bowers, come on Bowers”.

Can someone please explain to me what “bits” means, because for the third game running, someone has told someone else to do some “bits” and I’m fucking clueless.
The sound that rings out around us, is one I imagine someone might make in the throws of a huge coronary. The collective agnony of the GA fans, when the ball is lashed into the area, but is missed again, is palpable. A corner to them follows, its cleared, bouncing to a player on the edge of the box. You can see the thought process all over his face, should I hit this or shouldn't I. He does, and it's only inches over.

“Come on Bowers keep pushing” urges on BP supporter. Their youngest fan here, who is also hands down their noisiest, is living quite vicariously through the eleven men on the pitch in red and white stripes. His heart is almost broken by a poor kick by the BP keeper, which results in a one on one with a GA forward. One recovering challenge in the box later, and the GA fans and players claim a penalty, buts its waved away.

Uncomfortably loud feedback this time blights the man with the microphone, as he attempts to tell us of the “four minutes of extra time” left to be play.

“We deserved a winner” comments one GA fan to another following the final whistle and maybe on the balance of play they did, but it didn't come, despite the one man show that was Carlos and all his efforts. One supporter probably put it best, describing the result as a “good point” earned. One they had to work hard for, be thankful for a stroke of good luck for and one that at times, they looked a long way from getting.

We’ve no idea why, but there is a delay to the players leaving the pitch, when an almighty rukus
breaks out, but thankfully common sense prevails and its broken up. BP are last of the pitch, post team debrief and thanking their supporters behind the goal.

I’m kind of glad it ended a draw, I feel we have a foot so firmly planted in both camps, its like watching two family members have a punch up, it's really hard to take any gratification from them taking lumps out of each other.

BP are a team on the up, they have been since we first saw them win promotion and with all the recent upgrades they have done to their ground, if feels like the sky's the limit. GA, well GA have stalled a bit, still sleeping on other teams sofas, fan owned now, which is definitely A positive, their fate firmly in their own hands, after their own financial issues.

GA much like BP have always been so good to us, so helpful, so accommodating, so friendly. I’m not sure we’ve visited a club with a stronger sense of history, with a more committed fan base, who deserve their own corner of the non league world to call home, and when they do, which I’m sure they will, we want to be the first in the queue to watch them.

For all of our photographs from the match, click HERE

Watch our video from the match ↓ HERE

'LIKE' us on Facebook

 

Follow us on Twitter

Subscribe to our YouTube channel

Follow us on Instagram - @beautifulgame15 - @beautifulgame15_ultra_stickers #beautifulgame15

He’s Going To Be Trouble - Whitstable Town FC Vs Haywards Heath Town FC, Bostik League South East, The Belmont (18/09/18)

Although it's nearly October, the sun is still packing a bit of a punch. My somewhat scorched right arm, that took a bit of a battering over the summer, that is currently hanging out the window of my car, is getting a bit of a late summer top up. The sky though looks anything but summery, all stirred up by the arrival of the latest named storm to hit our shores.

I catch a quick glimpse of the new Spurs stadium development over my shoulder, as I make my way to pick up Tom for a second time this week. Tottenham's new ground, who knows what it will eventually be called, is sparkling and shimmering in the late afternoon sun. Far off in the distance, Canary Wharf and all its towering neighbours are cast in silhouette, shrouded in an ethereal haze.

Tom unlike me is not bare legged today. I am struggling with the notion that I won't be able to wear shorts for much longer, so am still persisting with them, even though it's getting to that time of year where all around the country, in houses the length and breadth of the land, people are wondering, shall we put the heating on?

“We’re driving away from the blue” points out Tom. The state of the clouds and their battleship colour only worsens as we get closer to our destination.

As concerned with the weather he is, tonight Tom has bigger problems, he’s “forgotten” his “nut bar”, which was the only thing that got him through our last trip out, due to the lack of food on offer at Newhaven FC. It is now imperative, the way he’s going on about it, his life might depend on it, that there is food available at this evenings ground. Even more so because earlier today, Tom gave blood and had to sit in his car after doing so for fifteen minutes, mainlining a can of Coke, because he felt well “wobbly”.

Big traffic holds up what until then had been quite speedy passage through Kent towards the coast. Eventually passing the incident, on the opposite side of the dual carriageway, there is no apparent reason why we have been sitting still for nearly twenty five minutes. The tailbacks caused by it, stretch on for what seems like miles, so far that people are walking about on the asphalt, doors are open, and people are on the phone explaining why they are going to be late home from work. One victim of the delay is the Margate FC team coach, “there goes the warm up” jokes Tom.

I thought it was going to be difficult to surpass Tom telling me I have “default hair” to cut, which I have taken as being a good thing, because no one wants simple hair, as the best thing that would happen tonight, but there is nothing quite like getting that first glimpse of the sea, and although it's only brief, it currently sits at the top of today's highlight reel.

It is almost straight away eclipsed by seeing a boat called Bonzo in someone's driveway, as we get ever closer to The Belmont, home of Whitstable Town FC (WT), but not quite. “It’s amazing how grounds just pop up out of nowhere” says Tom as without little fanfare The Belmont makes itself known by its red fixtures board, with today's opponents name scrawled in black marker pen below the homes teams.

Up the bumpy gravel drive, through the gate flying a quite minute Union Jack, we cross the empty car park and find a spot to park. “Those are some dark clouds” says Tom climbing out of the car, sounding like an extra from Twister.

There are non league grounds and then there are non league grounds, The Belmont falls into the latter, the kind of which that would grace a David Bauckham photo essay or a glossy coffee table book. Compact, tidy and on the face of it, it looks in great nick. It’s main feature, the main stand, with its corrugated slanted roof, the clubs name emblazoned across its front and red seats is a dazzler, along with the two small covered terraces behind each goal, it quickly catapults itself into the higher echelons, of the best we’ve visited.

I also like the juxtaposition between the quaint, with an the ultra modern, tower block looming over one of its corners. The large weeping willow thats long leafy tentacles almost dangle down over the pitch, and the hodge podge of flat roofed buildings that are scattered about, make for an eclectic mix.

“Ohhhhh I see ketchup bottles” bristles Tom, and thank fuck for that. It's not taken long for his spidey senses to home in on the vast array of sauces, relishes and condiments, that wait for him on the small shelf outside Pat’s Pantry. I couldn't have managed another day of puppy dogs eyes and self pity about the lack of chips or some such.

Things just get better and better when the door of the clubhouse is flung open and inside is what I would consider the archetypal clubhouse should look like. The blueprint for which all other non league clubhouses, should be modeled.

Slightly garish and ageing floral carpet. A small laminate dance floor, that in WT’s case might be the smallest stage ever. It's no more than about six inches tall. Bow backed dark wooden chairs, sit around small wooden tables, and an arms length from the bar, the fruit machine does its best Blackpool impression. Last but not least and most importantly of all, the walls are covered in tatty and poorly hung pictures of the team the clubhouse serves, absolutely essential.

The presence of golden ceiling fans and the dancefloor makes Tom feel like he's in “America” and that there is the high chance of a “hoedown” breaking out at any moment. This feeling is soon cut short by the barmaid precariously climbing on the furniture to turn the big TV on. Thankfully whatever provider they have, means they are unable to show the Inter vs Spurs game, which I’m recording at home, instead we get PSV’s visit to the Camp Nou, just in time for Messi to curl in a quite mercurial free kick.

We can be 100% sure we are very much in Blighty, and not Arkensaw, when Tom returns from the bar, the barmaid safely down from her balancing act, with a can of R Whites lemonade, and a pack of Golden Wonders crisps, that I last saw a pack of, circa, 1997 on a Scouts summer camp all while a mixture of Heart FM “baby don’t hurt me, no more” and the BT Sport commentary fills the airwaves.

The Golden Wonders were just a make weight, a bit of filler until Pats Pantry opened, however when it does, Tom informs me that he is “not hungry”, but I’m not having that. I’ve not been sitting here twitching the red plastic blinds to see if its open yet for him like a mentalist for nothing, listening to him repeat his new season mantra of the benefit of “eating early” at games. He’s going to get himself over there and order something, even if I have to march him over myself.

A number plate with “teas” on one side and “snacks” on the other, adorn the hatch doors of Pat's Pantry, along with hand cut, neon paper star bursts, each with one of Pat’s specialties on it. Dished out in double time, snugly wrapped in a white paper napkin, nestled in a yellow polystyrene tray, Tom
wrestles with one of life's great dilemas, burger sauce or burger relish?

He first reaches for the burger sauce, but changes his mind post pour, having noticed the relish, “spotted it out the corner of his eye” he explains. Sitting pitch side on one of the many commemorative benches that surround it, not the one dedicated to “The Major” no less, he’s careful not to spill one of the mountain of chips that rub shoulders with his burger, as he starts to tuck in.

Dua Lipa comes bursting over the PA as The Belmont wakes up, and the changeable day turns into a beauty of an evening. Tom is making steady work of his “nice chips”, as we watch a flock of birds, swoop and dive, above the pitch, as they prepare to roost. With the sun almost out of sight, its last rays turn the much clearer sky, a variety of blue and pinks.

At the very far end of the pitch, between us the players of both teams and the officials go through their warm ups, a man, watched on by his friend and a very fat dog, puts the finishing touches to hanging up his flags, one of which is more a banner than a flag, it must be at least fifteen foot long, it’s bright red, and reads “Playing Football The Porter Way”, Porter being the WT manager. The occasional gust of wind hampers his work, he struggles to keep the not inconsiderable sized flags at bay, the man with the fat dog just stands and watches, offering no help to his friend.

Among the jogging, squatting and lunging players, it's almost impossible to miss the Haywards Heath Town FC (HH) number 9, or the “Unit” as Tom’s dubbed him, slowly going through his own genteel routine away from the bulk of the squad. “I hope he’s not injured” says Tom, the explanation perhaps for his solo workout. The chance of missing out on seeing such a force charge at the home defence tonight, is to much for Tom to bare.

The sky starts to turn again, and with it the wind picks up, sending the flags at times demented, it is though sufficiently clear enough to get a good view of the crescent moon hanging above the main stand. A warm and welcoming voice comes over the PA wishing everyone a “good evening” and the visiting team and fans a “safe trip home”.

Tom has his food, and I have my gambling. He at least has been able to satisfy his obsession today, while I’m still hanging on tenterhooks. I’ve been told that the club do a 50/50 but it's not until moments before kick off, that I spot a man in a white shirt and club tie, holding a booklet of tickets, that I’m able to satisfy the monkey on my back.

Such is my fever that I’m sure I’ve pushed in front of a lovely looking couple in matching windbreakers, trying their luck too. I apologise, and take a step back. There is a brief polite off, where we each take turns in telling the other to go first, until I do just that, slinging the seller my £2 and securing my tickets.

I’m wracked with a slight sense of guilt, what if I've nabbed the winning tickets, what if they were going to use the money for charity or the animal sanctuary they run, instead of just spending it on M and M’s. I joke that I might have got the winners, but their reply makes me doubt they run an owl refuge at all, telling me with a frosty edge, that they'll “come looking for me”, if they are.

Most of the people here, which is a fair amount, are gathered around the corner of the pitch where the clubhouse resides. A case of standing up, drink in hand, and rolling out the door, to the first available spot. Saying that though, there are little groups of twos and threes dotted all over the place and a good amount of the red seats in the stand are occupied too. Only two home fans as of yet have joined the flags behind the goal and the first shout from the crowd tonight is not that of a home supporter, but of an away one, “come on yellows”.

In keeping with the rest of The Belmont, it's perhaps not be a huge shock that the changing room setup is a little unusual. Inside what I can only describe as what looks like a Hobbits cottage, the Unit having to stoop quite considerably, almost in half, to get through the door, they are snug to say the least, there is also no tunnel, there is no walk out per se. The referees assistants are in full view of the crowd, as they knock on the doors of them, the players stepping out directly on to the side of the pitch.

Like the massed ranks of some Napoleonic army, both teams line up not in traditional formation, one behind the other, but instead are stretched out shoulder to shoulder, a single man deep, as they cross the pitch. Adopting a slow and methodical pace, it’s only when they reach the other side of the pitch, do they form up single file, to perform the customary hand shake.

We are both delighted to see that the Unit is one of those players making the plodding walk across the pitch, and three minutes into the game he shows off the prime reason he is here, towering for what will not be be the first time tonight above the WT defence, he flicks on the long ball directed at him, climbing into the air much higher, than any of those around him. “He’s going to be trouble” says Tom gleefully.

The first song from the home fans, comes from the supporters behind the goal, whose numbers have swelled since kick off. Their singing though is a little disjointed and I can't make out what they are saying. Tom is not troubling himself with trying to work out the lyrics to the distant chanting, he’s far too busy marveling at the “Wheres Wally socks” of WT.

I soon find I’m the distracted one, and I only half hear the shout of “come on you reds” from a home fan close by, because I’m concentrating on the instructions being dished out from the WT bench. “Bits, bits” he says over and over. Before our last game at Newhaven I’d never heard this expression, but it is clearly spreading through non league like wildfire, and I've still no idea what it means.

For what will not be the last time tonight, WT’s manager, Porter is bellowing at his players. The match is a bit stop start in the opening ten minutes, mainly down to a succession of hoofed clearances that see the ball clear the ground, requiring someone to scramble to find a replacement. “Get in front of the big fella” demands Porter, his players as of yet unable to get to grips with the Unit who is an absolute ball magnet.

I can barely hear anymore what has been since opening the constant sizzle of Pat’s Pantry, over the constant screams and shouts of Porter, who along with his assistant are kicking and heading every ball. With just under a quarter of an hour gone, the Unit gets his first attempt on goal, it will not come as a shock when I tell you it's a header, but its straight into the arms of the keeper. Two minutes later, he wins another aerial duel, flicking the ball on, but it dawns on me, he can win every ball going, but if his flicks and knockdowns are not really of any benefit to his teammates, then what's the point.

The singers by the flags strike up again, I still can’t make out what they are saying, but I recognise the tune, it’s Sloop John B. Their next song is clearer, “oh Whitstable is wonderful, it's full of cockles, mussels and oysters”, but it's still a little, let's say woolly, Tom a little less diplomatic, holds no punches, “they sound battered”.

It’s certainly been an intriguing first twenty minutes, fast paced and end to end, but with little final product from either team. There is thankfully plenty else to make up for the lack of goals, like the smooth as silk Irish accent of one HH defender, whose compliments to his teammates, “good kid” and “big man” almost sound like chat up lines and the singers are finding their voice more and more,
this time slagging off local rivals Herne Bay.

Although the pace inevitably starts to wane, the noise level and regularity of Porters shouts do not, “we are so fucking off the pace it's unreal” he tells his players. “He’s going to have a heart attack” says a concerned Tom. Such is the level of his rage, that after nearly thirty minutes of non stop barking, the referee finds it necessary to have a word, “you've got two options, keep your opinions to yourself or you’ll be going”. Even as the referee walks back to restart the game, WT having been awarded a free kick, which brought on much sarcastic applause from the bench and home crowd, they don't feel things have been going their way so far, he can't help himself but have the last world “your missus must love Tuesdays, when you’re not home”, he says to the man in charge.

Still no goals, but still plenty to keep us captivated. One HH player makes an attempt at as Tom puts it an “ambitious” long range dropping volley. The fact his defense allowed the HH player enough time on the edge of the box, to take the shot annoys Porter to say the least, “embarrassing at times” he moans. HH go much closer not long after, when they flash a header wide.

It’s taken WT over half an hour to craft their best chace of the match, quick passing gets them in the box, but the final ball can’t find the intended player.

There is a neon glow from the home dugout, as they prepare the board for an impending substitution. The player who has had copious amounts of cold spray aimed at his lower back for the last few minutes, is unable to continue and is coming off.

Five minutes to go to the break and there is a sudden and at times violent spike in intensity. As if neither team wants to be the one to get a bollocking, so they are going hell for leather to make something happen. It's a HH player responsible for the violence. After showing a great bit of skill to scoop the ball up in the air, he miss times his second touch, and just ends up chopping his marker in half.

The wind has finally died off, but the chances come in a real flurry. WT lash a horrible long range free kick wide, the ball never leaving the ground, just bobbling off into obscurity. The Unit holds off two players with ease, while riding a challenge as he drives forward, but its WT who catch the whole ground off guard with a thunderous strike, that leaves the HH keeper all in white at full stretch, beaten, only for the ball to crash off the crossbar and back into play.

“Better, better” comments Porter, like us all still reeling from the sheer power of the unexpected shot.

WT’s tails are up, their supporters are back at it “Whitstable, Whitstable” and they create their second chance in as many minutes, the corner that follows the scrambled clearance of the rocket shots rebound, has HH’s keeper flapping, only at the second attempt is he just about able to get it clear.

The pace may have peaked and troughed, the battle Porter is having with the referee and his assistants has only intensified. “I can’t listen no more” he protests, when HH are in his eyes awarded an iffy free kick. “You must have a book in that changing room of excuses” he replies when the linesman explains his reasons for giving the foul.

Luckily for the safety of all concerned, he seems close to spontaneous combustion the HH free kick is well off target and is greeted with a chorus of sneering “wehhhh” as it sails off into the weeping willow.

It’s not only the home fans tiring of the referee, “you’re fucking up a good game” shouts a HH one. There is even a little bit of “white spray” banter from one too, it's either that or VAR at most games now, take your pick.

Smack bang on forty five minutes and HH have a shout for a penalty turned down. The ball is effortlessly sprayed from one side of the pitch to the other, setting free the winger on the far side, on a jinky run into the box. He fires the ball low along the ground and into the area, the ball kicks up in the air, and in the ensuing melee there is a shout for a “handball” but its waved away.

One would expect a couple at any half decent football match, but there seems an unrivaled amount playing today. What I mean by that is the phenomenon that only happens in football where a person's name, whatever it may be is shortened and 'ies' is stuck on the end. We are spoilt for choice today, I lose count of the amounts of Smithies, Sprozies and Fozzies playing.

“Make something happen” is the final plea from Porter, when his team are awarded a free kick, not far into the HH half. The HH player who committed the foul receives a yellow, and is lucky to stay on the pitch, when he kicks the ball away to delay the set piece, as you can imagine Porter is not impressed.

His mood does not improve when the free kick is eventually taken, “sums up our fucking first half” he says as the ball is pumped well long, and straight out of play.

On the final whistle, he is relieved to say the least, that the half is done, “thank fuck for that”.

It’s very quiet all of a sudden with Porter and his staff inside, soon to be joined by the players. The quiet is only interrupted by the same calm voice over the PA as before, whose now informing us all that once he’s “got the results” he’ll let us know who's “won the cash”, its 50/50 time.

“The lucky number is…..” I wait with bated breath, this could get our season off to the best possible start, £70 gets you a lot of M and M’s, but who am I kidding, why do I get my hopes up. 2018/19 kicks off with a resounding defeat, I bet the couple who went after me won, I bet that was some kind of double bluff, I’ve got a good mind to go and find them.

Sedate is how The Belmont feels during the fifteen minutes between halves, not necessarily a bad thing after the mayhem of the first forty five. The bar is doing good business, and there is a distinct lack of shouting. Tom is uncharacteristically quiet, he’s no chatterbox, but something's got to him.
Porters assistant is to blame I discover, his piercing death stares, according to my shaken friend, felt like he was “looking into my soul”.

Whenever the announcement goes out that the raffle or 50/50 has been “claimed” it always feels like the person doing it, is rubbing salt in the wounds.

Such is the proximity of the changing rooms to the pitch, we can hear quite clearly the bell being rung by the referee, signifying it's time to finish up their orange segment. For those maybe out of earshot, there is a gentle prompt from over the PA, “if you’re in the bar ladies and gents, the game is about to restart”.

Much like with the first half, the beginning of the second gets off to a flyer. “Yellows, Yellows” chants one of the HH fans, who have left the bar, not missing the restart thanks to the polite notice and are now gathered around the opposite corner of the pitch that they spent the first.

WT are the first to hit the target, with only about a minute of the half gone, a half volley from the edge of the box. It takes slightly longer than I expected for Porter to get going, but when he does, he has brought his A Game. With less than five minutes gone, and he is about half a comment away from getting his marching orders and just like the first half the flag filled end are singing and just like for most of the first half, I’ve no idea what they’re saying.

It is clear the HH bench dislike the referee as much as the WT one, but they are much more understated. They do though get very animated when the Unit, unmarked at the back post, three foot out, puts a header wide. There is a collective “arghhhhhh” from them all before one turns away, mumbling to himself, “big chance”.

The fact that as Porter puts its, he’s the “biggest bloke on the pitch” and he’s “free” to roam  around his team's penalty area, does little for his blood pressure.

Frantic is probably the only way to describe the opening quarter of an hour of the new half. “Come on son finish”  appeals the steward just along from us, who is growing increasingly frustrated as the game goes on. The WT player shoots, only for the HH keeper to pull off a Schmeichel esq starfish leap that stops the goal. The Unit then goes all Harlem Globetrotters, offering the ball back to a WT player following the awarding of a free kick against him, lifting it high above his head and out of the reach of the much shorter WT player.

“Oysterboys till I die” sing the fans behind the goal, who I’ve just realised have not followed usual non league etiquette and swapped ends, according to which way their team are shooting, but have stayed put with their flags since minute one.

The Units contribution is becoming much more telling. He’s able to hold the ball up much better now, bringing his team mates into the game much more, he sets one up with the perfect opportunity to strike a well placed shot from the edge of the box, “ohhh” gasps Tom as the WT keeper at full stretch saves down low to his right. HH go again, “have a go” commands one of the bench, who are not frequently pushed to shout. The player on a great solo run, just inside the box, wallops his shot goalwards, only for it to slam into the midriff of a slightly stunned looking WT defender.

“If the refs seen it, it's a straight red” says Tom when one WT player is at the other end of what was a bit of a horror challenge in midfield, that leaves him crumpled in a heap, not far from the centre circle. WT’s bench reach peak angriness, but the referee can’t have seen it, he’s been poor, but thats as blatant a dismissal as you'll ever see, because play continues with the home bench fuming and the downed player still poleaxed.

I’m not sure if its the lager, the sea air or the WT fans are always in such high spirits, but much like the action on the pitch, the game flying from end to end, at one point there is a three way crunching tackle, were the players momentarily interlock like a non league transformer, where because so many people were involved, neither side knows who the foul is awarded to, the songs are coming thick and fast and its a real mixture.

Some are just simple shouts or chants, “Whitstable, Whitstable” and “come on you reds”, some are seafood related, the club, as the flags also reference, are known as the Oysterboys, “we’re shellfish” and some are a little bit blue, “we swallow, we swallow, and that's the way we like it”.

HH’s number 7 has used up all his 9 lives, well almost. “I bet they bring him off” predicts Porter, after he commits his countless foul of the night. A sly grin develops across the face of the HH coach, when he does just that, as they prepare the subs board sharpish and signal to the referees assistant, that its number 7’s time come off. Porters subsequent howling is a mixture of I bloody knew it and well played.

The home fans songs have gone from the normal, to the rude, to the outright fucking odd. “Stick your fucking haggis up your ass” they sing, before continuing their Scottish themed anal insertion songs, “stick your fucking Irn Bru up your ass”.

Judging by the last thirty minutes, it's fair to say the game feels like HH’s to win. They have shown much more composure going forward this second half. When one player bursts into the box, showing off some nifty footwork, he’s forced wide, eventually shooting into the sliding torso of the keeper. His bench beyond annoyed that he “stayed up” and didn't go down under the attention of his marker.

Something must be wrong, the home bench has gone very quiet. The home fans are keeping up this whole putting Scottish things up your bum tangent “stick your Super Tennants up your ass” but the bench is very muted. HH’s are slowly getting more disheartened with the Unit, who despite having all the attributes of a target man, is not having the best day at the office, however I feel the lack of noise coming from Porter and his crew is like the calm before a storm.
It is always terribly awkward when a teams supporters think they've scored, only for it to be a trick of the angles, and its gone into the side netting. Everyone of a WT persuasion lets out a mocking “wehhh” when exactly that happens, the second bite of a blocked shot, goes just the wrong side of the post. Even the HH bench half got its hopes up, before realising like everyone else it hadn't gone in.

Ten minutes of the game to go, the players are starting to question the referees increasingly curious decisions, “what are you smoking?” asks the smooth Irishman, Tom agrees, “he's a terrible ref”. One home player suggests now is the time for his teammates to “raise” their game, and the home fans are doing their best to motivate them, they've hardly stopped all half, “we are Whitstable, we are Whitstable by the sea, no one knows us, we don't care”.

When he does pull it off, the Unit can be quite brilliant. Holding up the ball, he again tees a teammate up perfectly, who lets fly from the edge of the box a low arrowed shot, through about three different sets of WT legs, that somehow the keeper is able to get hold of, despite the numerous deflections.

Our local steward has gone from offering supportive shouts, “come on you reds” to threats “get a fucking goal”. It is not his team though who are “getting closer” as Tom puts it, it's all HH, they are showing all the quality. WT look like they are about to be turned over on their own patch, not that you'd know from the home fans demeanor, “Whitstable, Whitstable”, one of whom is bouncing about with a red and white scarf held above his head.

Both benches are close to boiling point, the three points are just sitting there, ready to be pocketed, if only one of the teams could put away just one of their chances. The flag end seem to think in the words of Bob Marley that “every little thing is gonna be alright, I’m not so sure.

They've just hoofed another free kick straight out of play, “fucking shit” says Porter and the Unit once more has shown just what he is capable off, with a move that starts with his knock down and ends with an athletic diving save by the WT keeper to push the sublime shot around the post. “Could have been the goal of the season” says Tom.

Surprisingly it's WT who almost have the last laugh, almost snatching the points right at the death. If it was possible for a game to get anymore frenetic, this one does with the clock running down. “Two to go” says the assistant, when the HH bench ask him how long is left. “Skin the bastard” shouts the nearby steward as the player in red bares down on goal, he does just that, and as he reaches the edge of the box he sends a curling shot across the goal, that goes just wide of the far post, “ohhhh” gasp the fans.

It’s all handshakes and pleasantries the final whistle, the voice over the PA confirms the result, “final score at The Belmont 0 - 0” and while the majority of the fans start to leave, the flag end stay put, offering up one last song to their team, who reciprocate the love, with some above the head football player applause back at them.

For the second time in a week a club's owner has offered us his club, for the second time in a week it's hard to fault the welcome from all the people involved with WT. The ground is great, the clubhouse almost better, in Tom’s opinion in might just be worth the visit for the chips alone, Pat’s Pantry gets his thumbs up, plus they do a 50/50 and sell a programme, so its very hard to pick any holes in our visit to The Belmont.

Porter is terrifying, he falls into the ‘I don't want to bump into him down a dark alley’ category. I’d come again just to see what he’s like when they win, but might be put off, if there was a chance of seeing what he was like when they lose.

I’m not sure I’ll ever understand the putting Scottish things up my bum songs, thats a sentence I never thought I would write, but at least the flag end were singing, that's all that matters.

For all of our photographs from the match, click HERE

Watch our video from the match ↓ HERE

'LIKE' us on Facebook

 

Follow us on Twitter

Subscribe to our YouTube channel

Follow us on Instagram - @beautifulgame15 - @beautifulgame15_ultra_stickers #beautifulgame15

What Times The Ferry Due? - Newhaven FC Vs Little Common FC, FA Vase 2nd Qualifying Round, Fort Road (15/09/18)

It’s been a very odd summer, for numerous reasons. England getting to the World Cup semi final, everyone thinking that Russia is alright, until a couple of day trippers, went and brought reality crashing down around us, the near constant and unrelenting heat, where the UK for about two months straight was hotter than the Balearic Islands and bereavement. The loss of Tom’s Mum was a huge shock, and meant especially this last month, that football has been far, far from our agenda.

Picking Tom up from home this morning, a beautiful, not a cloud in the sky kind of a morning, it had crossed my mind that it might be a bit soon, it was Tom’s suggestion we went to a game today, but I wondered if maybe we were jumping the gun, as far as getting back on the road was concerned.

With his sunglasses perched on top of his head, snug jean shorts showing his unnaturally hairy legs, he certainly looked like someone who was

Just behind Kieran Trippiers free kick against Croatia, coming a close second in awesome things that happened over the summer, was Tom getting engaged to his beloved sparrow. A wet coastal walk in wellies, was his foil for dropping down on one knee, and asking his other half to be his wife. His impending nuptials therefore, gave us much to talk about as we hit the motorway.

Now this is news to me, but apparently asking your guests to “glamp”, after you tie the knot is a thing, and I’m slightly astonished by Tom’s explanation that yurts and teepee's, will all be part of his big day. More shocking though are the sums of money he was bandying about, which if I’ve done my sums right equate to about fifteen family holidays to the Greek island of your choice or a high end second hand saloon car.

Although both of us have already admitted to each other, our long summer break means we feel a bit out of sorts, it doesn't take long until it feels like it was only yesterday we were driving to some unknown corner of the UK. I’m failing to follow the Sat Nav properly, Tom’s gone all quiet because he’s playing a game on his phone, while I do my best to clean up the coffee I’ve just spilt down my front. As annoying as most or if not all of these things are, there is a familiarity about them, and it certainly feels good to be back.

Sussex is not an area of the UK we have been shy in visiting in the past, the tall stone pillars that welcome you to Brighton, are soon whizzing past us and in what feels like no time at all and soon we are only a few miles of narrow tree lined roads, filled with dappled sunlight cast by lush green trees, away from today's ground.

I can see it, its floodlights and main stand, but I just can't seem to be able to get close to it. Every turn we take, just takes us further away. I’ve given up on my Sat Nav, her instructions keep taking us back to a place called Bravo One Field Sports, and when I think I’ve cracked it, I end up in a gravel car park, with nowhere else to go than back the way I came.

Mounting the curb and on to the grass verge, thankfully the nearby Saturday morning tennis game don't really bat an eyelid, I think we’ve found the way in. There is a distinct lack of signage, and no visible turnstiles, so I’ve just adopted a bit of a do as others do attitude, parking under a tree, on the side of what might be insulting to gravel tracks, if I called it that, to the rear of the main stand of Fort Road, home of Newhaven FC (NFC).

The makeshift metal gate is already slightly ajar so I don't feel too bad squeezing through the gap, if its open, it's not technically trespassing is it? The wood chip underfoot reminds me of a child's playground and heading down the side of the stand we finally see the pitch, dugouts, sprinklers and the banks of green seats, that I have been reliably informed were once part of Brighton's old ground Withdean, that line the edge of the pitch.

Guided by Martin, NFC’s chairman, he leads us to the low ceilinged, dark panelled clubhouse in the bowels of the stand, a marked improvement on the old one, which was a run down green portacabin. One corner is gleaming with silverware filled cabinets, next to which a bobble hat and a clubs shirt have been pinned to a cork board. The shirt yours for £25.00.

Although quite lean, his tattoos just visible under the sleeves of his red NFC training top, do not be deceived, his handshake is a firm one. He offers us a drink, and hops behind the bar, grabbing Tom a’ “full fat” Coke from the fridge, and pouring my lemonade from a large two litre bottle. My request for ice, results in a child in an adjacent room being bribed with a free Coke to head off over to the Co-Op to get some.

“Don't think I'm rude” says Martin, who's constantly on the tips of his toes, never actually standing still, he’s just got “so many things” to do he explains.

I welcome the distraction from the Spurs Vs Liverpool game playing on the small TV at one end of the clubhouse, Spurs are currently a goal behind, when a man in dungarees, points to a small black and white photo on the other side of the room, of the one and only George Best, playing for NFC. I’m aware that Best’s career after leaving United, was varied, but I had no idea he’d played for a small non league club is East Sussex.

The man in the denim overalls chuckles, when I ask how many times Best played for them. It was only the once, in a “charity match” in “1988” he tells me, he points through the doorway to the room the child who was sent on the ice run was in, to a framed white shirt on the wall, that was worn by the Northern Irishman.

Before heading off as he does, Tom whispers to me, he’s concerned, “where is the burger bar?”. His early assessment is that “there isn't one”, all of which is said in hushed tones. I try and comfort him with the fact I saw a man walking around with a clutch of cutlery, and we both commented on the strong cooking smells wafting around since we arrived, however there is no customary sizzle, smell of cooked onions or scribbled white board menu.

Liverpool's second goal brings an end to my time in the clubhouse, it's at least a nice day outside, and I can’t bare to watch Spurs heading towards their second loss on the bounce. Martin as he flits about, tells me the teams manger is a Spurs fan too, and is “not happy” either.

There may be no apparent food for sale, we pass an unmanned BBQ that only adds to Tom’s woe, but there is a programme. More and more clubs are no longer doing a physical copy, instead only offering a digital one and I can’t fill numerous storage boxes with digital ones can I. Seemingly there is less and less desire for them now, but NFC are keeping up the age old tradition.

From the man by the gate, at the foot of the flagpole flying the “matchday flag” as the man in dungarees described it, a flag we are lucky to be seeing after the “broken string” emergency meant he had to do a DIY job on, right next to the row boat, half filled with water under a sign asking for donations for the RNLI station, irony, a father with his daughter on his knee, who has a giant red Minnie mouse red bow in her hair, takes my money and hands over the glossy papered memento.

“Not many grounds you'll see a ferry pull up” says the man on the gate, the umpteenth person to comment on the Newhaven to Dieppe ferry that docks within a stone's throw of the ground, since saying we were coming here today.

Eye Of The Tiger pumping from the stack of speakers on the second floor of the main stand does little to lift Toms mood. “I need to try and find some food” he says, with all the anguish of somebody
who's been shipwrecked. He really is wracked with hardship, “don’t think I'm eating today” he adds before almost pleading with me that if I see any food I “must let him know”.

The eclectic mix of music continues, this time a bit of Good Charlotte accompanies the men pinning down the goal nets and the NFC players who feel like have been out for ages for their warm up. Their opponents Little Common FC (LFC) are nowhere to be seen, prompting Tom to ask me to confirm that it is a “3 o'clock kick off?”

LFC have no excuses in being late, it's not like they don't know where Fort Road is. They played here and lost 7 - 0 in the league only a few days ago. In fact the teams have met twice already this season, NFC winning both, “you always get a team you draw in everything” as one person puts it. Maybe they just don't fancy another mauling. One NFC fan suggests that the 7 - 0 was down to the visitors putting out a team of “reserves” and NFC are not to be drawn into a “false sense of security”. One fan is less generous, say he thinks it should be another “hammering”.

I thought it was the case, but I wasn't sure, it's only when Tom points out the NFC player warming up in a neon pink tutu, that I can be sure I’m not hallucinating. Tom seems to think it’s because “it’s his birthday”, an NFC steward overhearing us talking about the unorthodox warm up gear, says its punishment for being “nutmegged”.

There is a single solitary clap for LFC as they finally appear, having to dodge the sprinklers that are still going, but thankful the MAIDEN with all the bibs drying the sun, that had been on the touch line since we arrived, has recently been moved, so won’t be in their way. The NFC manager heading back to the changing rooms, displays some nifty footwork to avoid getting wet and looks very happy with himself as he passes us, “I timed it right” he says smugly.

I think the music that a club chooses to play, says a lot about them, when Everybody Wants To Rule The World by Tears For Fears comes on, I’m inclined to suggest to Tom that NFC is a great club, not having even seen a ball be kicked. “It's your playlist” he adds, clearly having grown a little tired of my constant nudging, every time a song I like comes on.

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen” says Martin, now with a microphone in hand. He has to endure a considerable amount of heckling, as he runs through the starting 11’s, from the fans already in their seats around him. The way teams names are greeted with silence, the home teams names are received with either one of two responses, “booo” or “he’s alright”.

“I wish you all a fun afternoon of football” concludes Martin, before the music is cranked to new high, and Billy Idol fills the air.

There is quite an incline from the door leading from the changing rooms to the pitch. The slope having been covered in artificial green grass, the brown garden gate at the bottom has been pinned open, ready for the players.

As far as entrances are concerned, today's might go down as one of the most dramatic. Once both teams are lined up and the mascots have been allocated their respective player. A musical mash up, the likes of which are normally reserved for the waltzers of your local travelling fair, stuns me into a near state of shock.

The DJ’s ensemble starts with the opening bars of Fanfare for the Common Man, conjuring images of interstellar travel and the moon landings, this is then interrupted by the war cry of Bruce Buffer “let's get ready to rumble”. The piece finishes with the well known signature drum beat of Seven Nation Army, that plays out while the team line up, then shake hands.

“Come on you dockers” shouts a supporter from behind us. I’m delighted with the notion that we are just minutes away from seeing some football, after what feels like an eternity, but I cannot be affected by the look on Tom’s face, he is totally, 100% absolutely, lack of food dejected.

The crowd above us in the gallery, set their stall out pretty early, “come on three you've got another leg” barks one when a tackle results in a LFC player holding his ankle. Their vitriol is not only reserved for the away team, four minutes on the clock, a good ball over the top is met by an NFC forward, whose bad touch sees the ball go out of play. “He’s rubbish, get him off” screams someone. “They're brutal” says Tom.

Although I can’t see the group above us, their very loud and brash comments, are reminiscent of the two grumpy men from the Muppets, times by about three or four, and a lot less Saturday tea time TV.

Despite the suggestions from the home crowd that the injured LFC was putting it on a bit, he is brought off with less than ten minutes played, he punches the side of the opaque plastic dugout, as he takes a seat.

If it's not the away teams players or their own getting an earful, it's the referee and his assistants One man cackles uncontrollably, because as he puts it the referee clearly doesn't “know the rules”.

The sight of the much talked about passenger ship, had somewhat slipped my mind, until Tom asked “what times the ferry due?”. Between the noise of the odd squawking gull and enjoying the midfield masterclass NFC’s number 4 is putting on, breaking up play and winning back the ball at ease, all while sporting a MR T Mohawk, I had forgotten to check the timetable.

NFC really should be ahead, they have been on top since kick off, and somehow one player from point blank range has managed to put his header wide. “Between the white posts” indicates a home fan behind us, who also a bit like the player, can't understand how he missed.

“Relax, relax” shouts the LFC manager to his players, but they can't, because as soon as they do, number 4 will barrel up alongside them, and pinch the ball. NFC have another attempt on goal, but this time it's a wild shot, that as Tom points out, “almost hit that woman” minding her own business in the skate park behind the goal.

When Tom works out that the two women peering out the window behind us, watching the game, are the ones responsible for the smell of food, I think there may be some hope, he may get some food after all, and he wonders if they will “pass some through” for us.

I think Tom is right, I’m struggling to think of any occasion that would match it, but the salvos coming from high behind us, might be the “worst heckling” we’ve “ever” heard. Its non stop. On the quarter hour mark, the nearside linesman is the victim of a tirade when he doesn't give a foul.

LFC number 11 is a little headless at times, giving away foul after foul in midfield, with no apparent consequences, the referees cards staying firmly in his pocket. “Mouthy” says Tom when he takes out another NFC player and is less than respectful, when the referee demands a word. “Don't let him talk to you like that” instructs one of the incensed crowd behind us.

In the space of about five minutes, NFC have three attempts at goal, all are headers, two from almost inside the six yard box, that all go wide. “Whats going on?” one fan asks, “we should be out of this by now” he insists. The second and third chances sandwich much sarcastic applause for the referee from the stand, when he is again seen to having made the wrong decision, “off you come ref”.

Amongst a sea of much smaller vessels masts, the gigantic white and yellow ferry creeps slowly into view stage right, continuing steadily the throb of its massive engines can be clearly heard, until it comes to an elegant stop. This might just surpass the man with a dog in a pram as the most bizarre thing we’ve ever seen at a match.

It is fair to say the locals are less than happy when we witness our first big crunching tackle of 2018/19, “it was so horrible, that it was brilliant” snarls a blood thirsty Tom. It’s always the sound of them that turns my stomach, not the sight of it. The free kick that follows, nicks off the top of the LFC wall and almost creeps in under the bar, but is tipped over by the keeper.

“Go on boys get at them” demands a supporter.

The visitors have not had a shot, and frankly the game has been a bit poor, so I’m surprised when
Tom describes it as “amazing”. I prod him to expand on his comment further and he explains it’s because, “it’s just so dirty”. Tackles and attempts at tackles are flying in from all angles, LFC in particular are losing their cool, they are so frequently without the ball, frustration is setting in. “It's a compliment” says the NFC manager, the fact they keep on being fouled, means his team is keeping the ball better. Martin is not so zen like about it, and is livid at the treatment his players are getting.

Tom is also starting to lose it, talking to himself, “oh I could eat some chips” he moans. His most recent scouting mission came back with the fact that he can only see “crisps and Cuppa soups” for sale. I remind him how much he loves a mulligatawny or cream of tomato out of a sachet, but his reply is a bit snappy, “not in summer”. He resorts to eating some kind of cereal bar, from the bottom of his rucksack. It’s very flat, dark brown, and looks like compacted weirdness. Although its filling some kind of a void in him, it's not going down easily. “Its so dry” he splutters.

The tit for tat nature of the match, means surely someone is going to get a red at some point. A robust home challenge leaves an LFC player down, much to the annoyance of the gallery, “oh come on”. The payback from an LFC player not long after, stops the game. “Straight red ref, send him off”, urges a home fan. No red is given, as you can imagine much to the annoyance of the home crowd, “you bottled it”, “its OK to kick out then ref?”

Only now getting up, the LFC player who was the recipient of the first tackle, which kick started the latest chain of events, has realised he’s not getting a free kick, and the fact that he is OK, after acting like he’d had his leg chopped off at the knee, someone suggests is a “miracle”.

The final quarter of the half, is verging on dismal. The LFC’s keepers propensity for a dodgy punch is entertaining, but that's about it. One of the away bench keeps shouting to the players on the pitch something about “bits” which has Tom and I scratching our heads, but there is little to no action to talk of. Martin comments to the fans in front of us, “it's going to be a long afternoon”.

Bang on half time LFC’s keeper very nearly gives up a goal, due to a shocking bit of kicking this time, not punching. A slice outside of the box, leaves his goal gaping, and a nearby NFC player nearly capitalises, but the man in goal clears it at the second attempt.

“What a boring game” points out someone above us bluntly, not the Robert Plant look alike who is making a b line for the bar, followed closely behind by Tom. Who does not resemble any member of the 70’s rock legends Led Zeppelin. Martin, who is always seemingly in constant motion, apologises for the “poor football” and that “its not been a great game”, like he is personally responsible.

“I saw cake, but it's for the boardroom” reports Tom, only managing to source a bag of bacon flavoured crisps to quench his hunger. One person though who is having a far worse halftime than Tom, is the man who just as he got back to his seat behind the goal the NFC substitutes are warming up in, is squarely hit with a wayward shot, sending his freshly poured pint into a fine mist around him. The player responsible, sheepishly raises his hand to apologise.

NFC are back out first after the break, to the sounds of Blur, they huddle in their new half, and are offered a few shouts of encouragement from the crowd, “come on boys”.

The match restarts in almost complete silence, it's not until the gallery get going again, that Fort Road comes back to life. LFC are the first to have a shot, but it's dragged wide, and I’m pretty sure they have yet to have one on target.

One of the peering ladies from the first half, does so now while doing the washing up. She as most do, flinches in anticipation of a goal when NFC look like the latest cross into the box is going to be nodded in, only for the trusty clenched fist of the LFC keeper, to get to it first. The home team have very much picked up where they left off, the dominant force in the game, and their efforts continue to be appreciated, “come on boys”.

“Who needs oranges” says Tom quite rightly, who needs a quarter of a jaffa, the traditional match time snack, when someone is walking down the touchline, carrying a tray of tea, cakes and coffee for the home bench. Maybe the NFC player who just took a ball flush in the face, and for a moment looked like he had been knocked out, would like a bite of macaroon to revive him?

NFC are creating chances at will, most if not all are coming down the left wing, the side of the pitch closest to us, the full back has free rain. On one of the few occasions something happens on the right wing, they nearly score. The player turns his marker with ease in the box, latches on to the ball that had just been played along the ground beside him, but lashes his shot over.

In spite of all this, NFC have never really looked nailed on to score, and the locals are getting a little restless, “its been shocking, we’ve not been very good”.

It's taken almost an hour, but LFC have finally registered their first shot on target, its not particularly vicious, but it’s a start. A direct free kick clears the wall, but it’s straight in to the arms of the keeper.

I’m getting desperate, the game is far from captivating, and I’m finding myself zoning out, staring at the red and yellow flag, whipping around, on the other side of the pitch, until on the chair in front of me, struggling in a dust filled cobweb, I am engrossed by the struggle of a large emerald green cricket, whose plight of ‘will he make it’, is far more interesting than the match.

Twenty minutes gone and LFC threaten slightly again, a cross is headed into the box from the back post, but no one is there to convert. “We’re gonna lose this 1 - 0” says a nearby home fan. His palpable football pessimism, an emotion all football fans, whoever you support, can relate to.

NFC go close just a couple of minutes later, “YES” shouts one man as the player shapes up to shoot, buts its wide. Two minutes after that, and LFC have their most dangerous moment of the match so far. Counterattacking on a NFC free kick deep in their half, they catch them out at the back. The forward prods the ball past the charging keeper, leaving him stranded, but the toe poke come shot dosen’t have enough on it to carry it in and is cleared.

“Come on wake up”

LFC’s bench are still going on about “bits” whatever “bits” are, buts its working, they are really growing into the game. Having set up with eleven men behind the ball, they have shown no real attack intent at all, but now slowly but surely are getting closer to the NFC goal. The crowd are concerned, “come on boys, what's going on here?” one asks, “talk to each other” says another while one makes the point we are all thinking, “come on boys, we don't wanna see extra time”.

Things are heating up, a shocker of an LFC challenge from behind after the winger had left the defender for dead, brings the whole NFC bench to its feet. “Sit down” shouts one of the away players. This triggers some back and forth between the LFC player and the nearby home fans, who exchanged a few choice words, the NFC supporter doesn't think the offending player should even be on the pitch “anyway” after his earlier indiscretions.

The referee not happy with the all bench tirade that was aimed at him approaches them, the players and staff melt back under the protection of the dugout, leaving the manger alone, to receive his scalding.

Now I wouldn't go as far as saying Tom is out of shape, he's in much better nick than me, but when he points to the skate park where someone is traversing the obstacles on a BMX and informs me that he could “drop in on that vert”, having skateboarded for “seven years” I have to take that with a considerable pinch of salt.

It’s an end to end ish game, if a game can be such a thing, one of the gallery is starting to go hoarse and one fan is a tad premature, when he lets out an excited “yes” as a player lets loose a snapshot, that ends up in the side netting. LFC are having the odd foray, on one occasion one of their players in yellow and blue punches the floor in disappointment when he loses the ball in the box, but his manager is still happy regardless, “love that”.

Five minutes to go, extra time feels inevitable, one home fan will settle for anything to stop it going on longer than ninety minutes, “an own goal would do”. NFC have another pot shot, zipping just inside the foot of the post, but its held. LFC commit another foul, but again it goes unpunished, “did you leave your cards at home?” one supporter asks.

“Are you having a laugh?” shouts the LFC manager, when NFC are awarded a foul right on the edge of their box, the players can't believe it either, hands are firmly attached to the top of their heads in amazement. The NFC players quickly line up the free kick, and there is extra incentive for one of them from the crowd, “your girlfriends says if you don't win, she's coming home with me”.

I’m not sure we will see a sweeter hit free kick all season. Expertly hit from such close range, its up and over the wall and right into the top right hand corner in a blink of an eye. “Goal” mumbles one fan, before it was even in the back of the net. The keepers makes all the actions of someone trying to get towards it, but I'm sure in his heart of hearts, he knew he wouldn't reach it, and was only doing it for appearance sake.

Dashing towards the bench, arms out to his side Vincenzo Montella style, he stops briefly to leap and punch the air, before being mobbed and as it has been all day, music plays its part too, a little bit of House of Pain accompanies the celebrations.

“No one” the NFC fan next to us emphasise, “no one is getting a big head here” he says when he sees how flabbergasted Tom is, at the fact the goal score is being subbed off immediately after scoring. “Cut them down at the knees” he adds, no big time charlies at NFC.

Both teams have a late flurry in the final minutes, the goal having relieved some tension, and both teams are playing with a lot more freedom. Both in quick succession craft a couple of attempts at goal, more maybe than either had managed combined, in the previous ninety minutes. “We can press now” instructs the LFC manager, who is allowing his team off the leash, but it might be a bit late. NFC have a shot, but its straight at the keeper, and then the LFC pressure nearly pays off, when NFC who are trying to play keep ball at the back, are harried out of possession. “We’re not good enough for that” one fan reminds them.

“Don't fart around” snarls an NFC supporter when an LFC free kick is fumbled by the NFC keeper, as LFC register what I think is maybe their only second or third shout on target, with the game just minutes away from ending.

It comes as no great surprise with LFC pushing so many more men forward, they become susceptible to the outnumbered at the back. NFC break and it's the well stuck out foot of the LFC keeper, that stops NFC doubling their lead. He’s soon called back into action, with a much more athletic save this time, pushing the ball wide after a fierce shot. “Good save keeper” says a home fan no less, proving they have a softer side too.

I must admit that Final Countdown by Europe is far from one of my favourite songs, and it certainly is not one that would ever be on one of my playlists, buts its choice as music on the final whistle, feels in keeping with the day so far.

Thankfully the high pitched vocals are not on for long, the music is soon off, the stand is empty of its lets say unwaveringly honest patrons and all we can hear is the quiet chatter from both teams huddles. “Unlucky common” says the single voice of an older man, who then offers up an imaginary “noose for the ref”. The programme seller, now on collecting the corner flags duty, pretends to yawn, stretching his arms above his head, “just woke up after that ninety minutes”.


Fort Road is a bit rough around the edges, you wont be wanting for cones and red tape, but as Martin put it, its a "work in progress" he also told us that it's made him "skint" so he might not be the one to finish it, nevertheless its another tick in the box, for a warm welcome, hardworking volunteers and a passionate owner, who is doing everything he can to keep it ticking along.

A huge black dog in the stand, supporters offering players cigarettes, the reply of the player maybe one of the best things I heard all day, " no I'm an athlete", a chairman who works behind the bar, shakes the hand of every player as they walk out, who jokingly asked if he "could be a mascot" trying to hold the hands of the confused players. Being out with Tom and conversations about "getting into the habit of eating early" and the surprise when I say I might join him for a snack, "oh you're eating"

It really is good to be back.

 

For all of our photographs from the match, click HERE

Watch our video from the match ↓ HERE

'LIKE' us on Facebook

 

Follow us on Twitter

Subscribe to our YouTube channel

Follow us on Instagram - @beautifulgame15 - @beautifulgame15_ultra_stickers #beautifulgame15