Can You Smell The Bovril? - Witham Town FC Vs Heybridge Swifts FC, Bostik League North, Spa Road (02/11/18)

I wouldn't go as far as calling myself a football traditionalist, a football romantic yes, but I’m not adverse to changes or modifications to most elements of the game, as long as they are not just gimmicks, the MLS halfway line penalty shoot out for example and most crucially, that they benefit all involved, the clubs, players and fans.

One thing I am definitely in favour of, and as much as I love a 15:00 kick off on a Saturday, is football on a Friday. Once the exotic folly enjoyed by our European neighbours, it seems more and more that it is being adopted in the UK, and I love it.

You'll be glad to hear that the car is now a FIFA free zone, I won’t bore you with too much with what has replaced it, the amazing Red Dead Redemption Two and the best way to shoot a squirrel to ensure the pelt is perfect or the ideal way to kill a man at thirty paces with a tomahawk, but I was a little peeved to say the least, when describing my character's appearance to Tom that he said he sounded like “Jeremy Clarkson”.

More traffic, the only downside of an evening game, is the inevitable grind of rush hour. “Long way from Lincoln” says Tom, the car in front of us is sporting one of those minute scarves in its rear window. Creeping into Essex no faster than at maybe ten miles an hour, at this rate the Imps fan is going to take days to get to Sincil Bank.

The only break away from discussing our western adventures is when Tom fills me in on his midweek visit to the Emirates and £10 touch base with his beloved Gooners with his visiting nephew. A half empty stadium, a far from riveting match and a curious altercation where the person behind him, hit the person in front of him with a rolled up newspaper, who turned out to be a young woman and not a young man, and all hell broke loose.

Add into the mix Tom being mistaken as his nephews agent, when the already signed future catwalk star was spotted, “you've got Gucci all over your face” said the talent scout about Tom's nephew and not Tom, it was an eventful evening, even if the football was a bit drab.

“Gonna be a cold one” says Tom, looking forlornly out the window. I fear he’s not wrong, it's a definite big coat evening and it is now that time of year, that however early we might get to where we are going, it's inevitably going to be dark when we get there.

Trains seem to be a theme as of late, not travelling on them, but their proximity to the grounds we visits. Admittedly the one running along behind Spa Road, home of Witham Town FC (WT) is not North Ferriby close, however it's still quite intrusive as it rattles past.

The sight of the flat roofed clubhouse, with its illuminated frontage, a guiding light in the gloomy car park is a welcome sight, not long out of the car and away from the caress of the heaters, it’s certainly fresh. Through the front doors and the welcome, well the welcome is not the friendliest, “I’m sorry no Giants fans allowed” says a man to a startled looking Tom, who is wearing a San Fransisco Giants cap.

Baseball is clearly thriving in this part of Essex and so are the rivalries. When the man starts to talk to Tom about some such MLB related news, I know full well that Tom’s confident head nodding and affirmative grunting is a ruse, but don't blow apart his illusion.

Music in so many of our outings, seems to play such a significant part. The girl asking her Dad curiously why the home dressing room is “listening to Whitney Houston?” it’s a valid point. It is not the usual high tempo, get your blood pumping music we normally hear. Saying that Michael Jackson is coming from the away one, as a huge MJ fan myself I’m always in favour of hearing him, but again it's a bit school disco.

A quick wander pitchside, before promptly returning back to the clubhouse, it really is cold, we witness one of the clubs youth teams being put through their paces, being shown their positions as tonight's guard of honour.

Perhaps not au fait with the subtle art of clapping and cheering, their instructor requests a dry run, and informs the young guns not to “boo” any of the away players, when they appear for the warm up. Another train slips by and the young men only in flimsy tracksuits, genuinely look a bit concerned with well over an hour to kick off, when one of their coaches jokes “they've gotta stay there all night”.

“We'll have to chisel them out of their ice cubes” jokes another.

Time for tea, time for some scalding non league tea to help banish Jack Frost. Standing at the long dark wood bar, behind which the shelves are littered with all manner of the clubs silverware, Tom’s choice of accompaniment to his cuppa, is a packet of Wotsits.

The clubhouse is busy, no great surprise considering. A big TV, something else that Tom and I spoke about on the way here, the purchasing of a new one, because my daughter took a wooden block to mine and has broken it, draws most people's attention. No one is using the darts board, but what was covered when we arrived, the snooker table has just had its faded emerald base revealed by some kids, their cues taller than them.

“I could eat now” says Tom not even halfway through his crisps, “they're doing burgers” he reliably informs me. He laughs at my hasty attempt to drink my tea, which is still face melting hot, and I forgo any sensation in the tip of my tongue, just to have a sip of something warming.

Tom gestures with his head, towards the “box of tricks” as he calls it, the blue storage container full of WT club tat, and I use the word tat in the nicest possible way. I'm a big advocate of football tat, who doesn't need a nylon scarf that won't keep you warm or a club branded mouse mat. There is also a big box of programs, but my attempt to get one is thwarted, I’ll have to wait and get one on the “turnstiles” I’m informed.

As ever it is I who has the last laugh, “oh it is hot” splutters Tom, having just had his first taste of his tea, and he also loses the use of his taste buds, however will he enjoy his food now? Cutlery wrapped in napkins is being laid out on the table next to us, someone a bit more decisive than Tom has ordered. Enviously looking at a child's burger, he still procrastinates, “shall I eat now?”. Even the cry from behind the bar, “cheeseburgers”, someone else's order is ready, can’t make his mind up for him.

The single black and white striped scarf wearing Heybridge Swifts FC (HS) fan at the bar enjoys a pint. The thunderous rumble from behind me is not another train, but the kids on the pool table releasing the balls and starting to rack them up. Even the arrival of next doors food, which brings a sizable grin to Tom's face, still can’t twist his arm to order, and having finally been able to finish my tea, I’m ready to head back outside.

Before leaving though, I would quickly like to address a comment I overheard someone make on the way out, and I’m sorry but you're wrong, “jeans and a jumper” categorically don't “always keep you warm”.

I’ve a good feeling about the 50/50 tickets the woman in the WT woolly hat the other side of the turnstiles sells me, next to the club shop, which is little more than a cupboard with the door open and the contents of the blue storage box from earlier pinned to the door. She tells me I can collect my winnings from the “boardroom at half time”, I could tell her about my track record, but she would only get depressed and like I said I’ve got a good feeling about tonight.

I must stay positive, I must stay positive, PMA, PMA.

A man doing a spot of gardening outside the boardroom, freshening up the stone planters, doesn't
flinch at the sound of some fireworks crackling away in the distance. A HS fan clutching a small white drum, plays the customary non league game of hovering around the halfway line, not wanting to make the error of committing to one end or the other, before its been decided, as to avoid making any unnecessary journeys.

The PA sounds like it's seen better days, the mix of the person testing it, all while some music plays, makes a terrible din.

Both teams emerge from the long tunnel, lit by a single flickering security light, one player bangs the high crenellated metal sides, in an attempt to bestir his team, to quite a rapturous reception. The youth players rehearsal has clearly payed off and they expertly welcome both teams, with not a hint of jeering. The little white drum is already going and there are an equal amount of shouts for both the home, “come on Witham” and the away team, “come on swifts”.

The teams shake hands, the PA now on better form reads the starting elevens out. Each team forms a quick huddle, before performing one last warm up. WT run in a circle, all looking inwards before suddenly running away from each other. HB just kind of bobble about a bit on the spot, and then like the home team, all run away from each other.

Post the coin toss, the ends decided, a minutes silence for those killed in the recent tragedy at Leicester City is well observed. Many of the youth players, still in position, bow their heads. The players are linked arms over shoulders on opposite sides of the centre circle, with the referee and his assistants in the middle. The only noise to interrupt the silence at Spa road, was a HS fan, a boy dressed as a tyrannosaurus rex making his way to the right end of the pitch. He wasn't talking, he certainly wasn't being disrespectful, it was simply the swooshing sound his polyester green costume made as he walked.

“That's your warning, don't get caught out like that again” are the stern words of the WT manager, following an early chance to the visitors. A shot is flashed just over, right in front of the dinosaur, who has joined the drummer, and the HS flag in the covered stand behind the goal.

Tom is already feeling the affects, “oh it's cold isn't it”. His brand new maroon, Arsenal branded snood, an “upgrade” on his old one, that he very clandestinely put on when he didn't think I was watching, is not quite having the effect he had desired, in what he calls very dramatically, “sub zero” conditions. Considering how much the HS fans are leaping about to the beat of their half decent drummer, I’m sure they want to cool down rather than warm up.

The young man has emerged from inside the dinosaur, the experience of watching the match out of two tiny holes, from within a neon green straight jacket was short lived. Tom has a vaping rival, because on the opposite corner of the pitch, someone is outdoing him quite monumentally, some older WT fans, not up to date with the world of vaping, have to have what is drifting across the pitch explained to them, and reassured it is not because of a fire.

It is quite an impressive early showing from the HS fans, their songs are frequent if not a little crude, “we hate Maldon, we hate Maldon”. One is sung to the tune of the Sunday evening TV staple of the mid 90’s, Heartbeat, has me thinking that none of them are probably old enough, to remember it being on the box, unless they are keen viewers of ITV4.

They are also quick to pick up on one glaring absence, that of James Beardwell, AKA The Witham Town Super Fan, AKA The Witham Ultra, “where's your famous atmosphere?”. WT’s frankly dismal current record, has even tested James's unwavering support, such is his unrelenting devotion, so many defeats have started to take their toll. It was such a joy watching his one man assault on the ears of the people of Hertford Town, when we saw him last season, so it is a shame not to see him on his home patch, however we wish him well, and I’m sure we'll see him on the road soon.

“That is what I told you about” barks the WT manager, towards the same players as before, who has just made the same mistake.

Although there's a fine home turnout, I might be wrong, one that is much bigger than had today been a Tuesday, the away fans are not impressed, “what's it like to see a crowd?”. Except for the odd shout of “come on Witham”, which is almost exclusively coming from the same lady just along from us, it’s the visitors picking up the mantle of the missing James, the one man crowd, who the WT fans blame the team for not being here, “James Beardwell left because you're shit”.

“Was that a shot or a cross” wonders Tom, whatever it was, it was the first meaningful piece of action we have had, with just over a quarter of an hour gone. The home fans at the sight of it, the HS keeper forced to stretch every muscle to reach the high ball, but in the end the high is fleeting, the lineman's had his flag up.

The opinion of one home fan is that WT look “more like scoring” than HS. As much as I’m sure he would like to see his team take the lead, he is somewhat driven by ulterior motives, the goal might go some way to “shut them lot up”, he says motioning towards the away fans. The latest rendition of “can you hear the Witham sing?” is starting to grate.

When a WT header from a corner is followed by a sizable “ohhhh” from the crowd, the WT fans scoff, not sure what they were getting all excited about. One small child's efforts of putting off the HS keeper with her high pitched scream, gets an A for effort, but isn't really making any difference, however the until now very raucous HS supporters, are somewhat stunned into silence, momentarily at least.

“Told you we would score” says the the nearby WT fan smugly whose prediction was correct, it also grants his second wish of “shutting up” the WT fans, but its not for long. The home fans are able to enjoy the goal and the far better celebration, a perfectly executed knee slide by the scorer in relative peace, however the HS fans are soon back singing, “and you fucked it up one nil”.

The man announcing the goal over the PA is ecstatic, it's been tough going round here of late and to go ahead against a WT side flying since the arrival of their new manager, West Ham United royalty Julian Dicks, you can hear how much it means to him. I can't be sure, I didn't see, but I wouldn't be surprised if he did a little knee slide of his own.

What a way to get back in the game that would have been, near enough from the restart, a fine cross field ball is almost volleyed in from outside of the box, however the dream, the fantasy of those watching HS fans doesn't quite come to fruition, the complete air shot by the forward, doesn't do the
quality of the pass justice, and the ball ends up rolling out of play. The attempt at the shot gets an “ohhhh” from the home fans, but its more one of awkwardness, then of admiration.

A threatening WT cross is cleared over the bar by a HS player, the sight of which is greeted with an “ahhhh” from the home crowd. “We forgot that you were here” reply the HS fans, before bestowing upon the WT supporters the ultimate football insult, ‘’you only sing when you're winning”, before proving just how committed they are, “we only sing when we're losing”.

The resulting corner sees Tom excited at the return of “the love train”, but the set piece routine coined by Glenn Hoddle at this summers World Cup in Russia, can't bring about another goal. “Witham, Witham” chant a few supporters, their first real noise since kick off, that the lady in the woolly hat wasn't responsible for. Tom doesn't think that WT are going to able to “cling onto” their slim lead, the WT fans are sure their “gonna score in a minute", both are right.

Tom and I are big proponents of the headed goal, few things in life are more satisfying than when a player puts one in the back of the net with his bounce. You can have power ones, looping ones, glancing ones and deft ones, HS’s equaliser is most definitely the latter. Ghosting in between two much larger men, the scorer gets his head on the end of the wicked cross and finishes from close range, past the all blue WT keeper who Tom thinks looks, “very young”.

WT held on to the lead, for a full six minutes.

The crowd behind the goal erupts into a mass of bodies and flailing arms, people leaping, bouncing and ricocheting of each other. The drummer is at his station at double time, beating away. The players don't celebrate nearly as wildly, a quick congratulations to the goal scorer, and then back towards their half.

There are sigh’s of resignation from the home fans, “told ya” says Tom. You can hear it once again in
the voice of the man over the PA and even the ever positive lady in the woolly hats, shouts of “come on Witham”, sounds a fraction less optimistic. For WT the signs are not great, HS look dangerous, very slick. I might be doing Julian Dicks a disservice, I never saw him, play, but I understand he was hard hitting, a no nonsense kind of a player, his team are not quite built in his image.

Somewhat out of nowhere a sudden injection of adrenaline sees the game reach a very strange state of frenzy. The still lingering vape smoke in the distance, that’s making one corner of Spa Road look like Bodmin Moor, is still causing much alarm among a small section of the home supporters. There is an attempt at a song from the group of WT fans behind the goal and a brief whack of the stand for some added percussion, but it fades away. The efforts form the away fans have dipped too, the drumming less coherent now, more primitive, the loudest thing here now are the passing trains.

The presence of a young Spanish player in the HS side gives the home fans something to talk about, other than the vape smoke, the game having dried right up with ten to go, the promise it showed after the two quick fire goals a distant memory. It also gives them something else to do than badger the referee, who they don't feel is giving them the rub of the green.

“Pick it up, pick it up” demands one WT payer of his team mates, the woolly hat lady joins him in his attempt to rally the team, “Come on Witham”. The HS drummer has all but given up, there is a brief revert back to form “whoo, whoo, Heybridge”, but he's soon back to just random hitting.

Next to us the tension is building between one home and one away fan, a disagreement about a referee's decision, is bubbling to the surface. “You sure mate, I’ve got eyes” says the HS supporter to the WT one, pointing to his actual eyes in case he wasn't sure what the two holes in his face above his nose were. “Thrown to the ground” adds the eye highlighter, building his case.

The sight of their team nearly and quite fortunately going ahead, after HS almost scored an own goal, raises the temperature of those around us, it might not though be enough for the WT substitute warming up in front of us, who looks frozen to the core.

A late WT charge sees form restored, the visitors really have been the much better side since drawing level, their late flourish and that of their fans, pumps a bit of life back in to what has been a very bleak match. I’m not sure if he is a HS, WT or Julian Dicks fan, on account of his West Ham scarf, which tonight he has paired with salopettes and a small dog, but the man in the curious get up passes Tom and I moments before he informs me there is “two to go”, and that’s his cue to head off for food, navigating through the crowd well, towards the smell of frying chips.

The garden gate that lets the players on and off the pitch has been opened, and I don't think I’m wrong when I say that the HS players are not so quietly arguing with each other, as they depart.

No 50/50 win for me, I was well out of the running, the cheeky comment made by one steward, who unknowingly pinched Tom’s tedious catchphrase, “you've got to be in it to win it”, is clattering around my skull. I wouldn't have had far to go either to collect my “£50”, but alas I am not the “lucky winner” and I won’t be the one heading for the frosted glass door to the portacabin boardroom, less than ten feet away.

Not the best of songs in the first place, but the deafening and frankly awful rendition of Mr Brighteyes blaring out of the distorted speakers, is enough to make you want to go home. It accompanies the HS fans who have swapped ends and are now attempting to hang their large black and white flag from the back for their second half home, but after a few tries they give up and just flop it over the railings. The WT supporter putting his up, has no such problems, it’s much smaller for one, much smaller, but I can just about read what it says across the front of the Union Jack, “WTFC No Surrender”.

The Coke Tom hands me, after his rapid excursion for dinner, must be about the only thing that isn't cold here. He is very thankful for his hot food, “it helps” he says shovelling it in, his upgraded snood, not quite fending off the cold as he had wanted. “Already had this one” he comments between mouthfuls of cheese burger, the playlist has gone full circle, but all I’m listening to is the conversation between the young stewards next to me about the WT fans, “if they pitch invade, they will slip over”.
It was a “proper football burger” Tom tells me once he’s finished, and he was very satisfied with the chip to burger ratio. Sometime he explains he feels “duped”, because the tray will only be half filled half with chips, the rest the burger, but not at WT. They do it, the “right way” he adds, filling the tray completely with chips, then balancing the burger on top.

“That's decent” says one home supporter to himself following the announcement of the attendance, the virtues of Friday night football, rearing its head. “Come on boys” shouts another as the players return, the drum is back at it and the stewards have stopped talking about possible crowd trouble and are now passing around hand warmers, the same ones that Tom had, that did not work, on a similar freezing cold night in Essex last season.

An early injury to a WT player means an eerie hush descends, “looks serious” comments one fan. Another passing train shatters the silence and a player rescues one girls drink, that she dropped on the pitch. “Stop talking, get warm” shouts the home manager to the gossipping players, who spring into action, and start running some drills.

The random whacking of the drum is back and so is the dinosaur, the HS fans alternate between singing about how much they “hate Maldon”, and simply repeating their name “Heybridge, Heybridge”. Po going at the front of the stand, they mix it up with a chant that Tom used to be quite fond of, after a night out, “lets go fucking mental”.

After being down for a while and as of yet not showing any signs of getting up, the downed player is eventually back on his feet, but is moving gingerly. Proving how fickle football fans can be, the attention of those around us has quickly shifted from their injured number, to the fact that someone has a particularly powerful hand warmer, “this ones well good”.

It is because of the hideous racket being made by the angriest sounding of trains, grinding its way along the tracks that I only half hear the most random of questions Tom has ever been asked, “can you smell the Bovril?”, so have to nudge him in the side and confirm if what I just heard was right. The dinosaur has gone, and maybe because of the long injury, but the first fifteen minutes of the second half, might go down as the least memorable in  living history.

A small crowd has gathered behind the goal WT are attacking, “come on Witham”. The reply from the HS fans is a bit crass, “fuck off Witham, you're fucking shit”. Their chants admittedly could do with a bit of work, but at least the drummer is back to his best, beating out the rhythm to a much more pre watershed song, “we love you Heybridge we do”.

“That's going to sting for the next year and a half” says the ever vocal steward next to us manning the garden gate, a monster of a HS clearance has just walloped into a WT player, who didn't even flinch. The same can't be said for any WT players who a minute later, are unable to put their bodies on the line and get in the way of an HS shot that sails just over the crossbar. “We've not started” shouts one WT player, annoyed at his team's slow slow tempo.

The new snood having been insufficient at half time, is now far too efficient, “too hot” says Tom peeling it off, his glasses having steamed up.

Twenty minutes gone and WT go the closest to scoring they have since going ahead, a close range shot at the near post is beaten out by the HS keepers, who is applauded by the home and away fans,
“well saved” says a WT supporter begrudgingly. Our friendly local steward is starting to feel the icy conditions too, my feet feel like they are frozen, “so cold” he says to Tom, someone get this man a hand warmer.

Memories of the incoherent thumping of the drum are all but forgotten, when the HS fans start my all
time favourite chant, the one I always call the ‘Celtic chant’, but I’ve heard more in Essex, than I ever have in Glasgow, “come on you boys in red”.

HS go close now, a free header from a corner is put wide and the single female WT fans lets out a resounding, “come on Witham” while the HS fans dinosaur or no dinosaur start to give their stand one hell of a beating, the noise of the drum no longer sufficient.

Another WT injury stops play, causing this half to feel quite disjointed, “let him die” are the sympathetic shouts from the HS fans towards the stricken player who is making a sign towards his bench, that he needs to come off. As the physio makes his way to him, he brings to the attention of the referee the culprit responsible for this current situation, with a thrusting jab of his finger. The break allows for some much needed instructions from the home bench, but the manager is frustrated, he clearly doesn't feel like he is being listened to.

With just over a quarter of an hour left, the home fans are in a near state of mania at the sight of their player one on one with the HS keeper, is this the moment they take the lead and stop the rot, nope, the MT keeper blocks the goal bound shot out with his feet and the home fans come crashing back down to earth. The away end explodes into a cacophony of random noises, more Maldon hate, more “Heybridge till I die” and then shouts of “who are ya, who are ya” to a WT substitute.

“Why did he stop it?” is the exacerbated question on one WT supporter lips, when the referee halts play, following a HS foul, when he should have perhaps played the advantage. “Should have been a red” says one WT player to the man in change, its only a yellow.

Thank the lord for small mercies, the HS supporters have really been somewhat of a saving grace, yes they are a little bit gobby, but their boundless energy is getting me through the most turgid of games. Both teams are so “hit and hope” as Tom puts it, it's really not been much of a spectacle.

Ten minutes ish to go, there will be a fair chunk of injury time, unless the referee fancies doing us all a favour. One HS player another Spaniard I think, is less than impressed with what he perceives as time wasting by the home bench, the speed in which he ball is returned to him, does not best please him, “idiota” he says, that means idiot in English, but the home manager asks the player for clarification, “Spanish?”.

“Keep fucking going” shouts an away player, he like many here I’m sure, on and off the pitch, know that the three points are there for the taking. “Come on Witham” shouts the same fan once more as the away supporters break out into their second rendition of “come on you boys in red”, and despite the best efforts of his crowd, WT’s number 9 is cutting a sorry figure. It really has not been the best night. His shoulders drop that little bit further after a failed one two, and a fan offers up some encouragement, “chin up”.

Into about the final five minutes and I let out a screaming internal HOW? When the chance for WT to surely secure the win, putting an end to their dreadful run goes begging, a free header, no more than five yards out, goes over. The WT manger agasp, turns his back on the pitch and falls just short of throwing himself to the ground.

An injury this time to a HS player stops the game, he pounds the floor and rolls across the pitch, his breath, just like everyone else's visible as it clings to the cold night air.

Mindless shouting from all corners hits a new high, when HS have a shout for a penalty turned down, players and fans lose their heads a bit. They shout again, another claim of a foul in the box, two in less than thirty seconds, this is waved away, just like the first. I’m almost certain HS fans are simply just shouting for the sake of shouting, maybe in the hope they can convince the referee into making a decision.

Late HS pressure and WT are well and truly on the back foot, “can't be much left now” says the steward hopefully. “Come on you swift's” yells someone from the crowd, “come on Witham” shouts the single female home fan, who deserves some kind of plaque or medal, she has single handedly held the home fort tonight.

There has been no sign of how much injury time is to be played, Julian Dicks as he has done for the whole game, stands steadfast on the edge of his technical area, his team looking like the most likely to nick the win, however, and against the run of play, its WT who once again are offered the chance to score on a platter and instead of scoring from no more than five or six yards out, their manager once more dismayed, they knock the platter to the deck and spit and stamp all over the three point pie.

Delirious in their local rivals misfortune, the away fans let out a spirited “Heybridge, Heybridge”

The referees is getting dogs abuse, the away end continue to call for everything, the mearest contact a foul in their eyes, and they grow increasingly annoyed when its not given.

WT hearts are in mouths when HS look like they've done it, but much like the home side, they can't put away the simplest of chances, and the header goes wide. One WT player does his best to buy his team some time, going down with a bad case of bullshit, but no one is buying it and he is almost embarrassed into getting back up

“Come on Witham” shouts you know who, and having shown five minutes of extra time, what feels like ten minutes ago, one home fan is sure, “that's your five ref”.

More Killers and substitutes wrapped in blankets invade the pitch following the full time whistle. There is no sign of any HS fans “slipping over” and they are rightly applauded by their team for their support.

The home players are not so quick to leave the pitch, they take the time to thank those fans who have stayed behind to cheer them off, walking along the line of them, they dish out high fives and handshakes, the hugs though are reserved for the lady in the woolly hat.

I thought I had the ending of this blog all sewn up before we had even arrived. Tom had blurted out one of his profound little sentences, as he has the habit of doing so from time to time, in the car on the way here. Comparing going to see Arsenal and non league football, and that you know what you're going to get with a visit to the Emirates, but the non league lottery is so much more interesting,
it's the “surprise” of where we are going next and what we will find, that keeps him engrossed.

However when I saw the sign on the outside of the clubhouse as we made our way back to the car, Tom’s vape juice frozen, the big Union Jack that fly's above the ground high on top of its flag post still, it blew his little comparison out the water and maybe summed up non league football in a nutshell and is a sentiment we could all maybe carry with us, into the outside world:

Before you've complained, have you volunteered.

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Today Grandad - Leatherhead FC Vs Hitchin Town FC, FA Cup 4th Qualifying Round Replay, Fetcham Grove (24/10/18)

It's amazing what a bit of traffic can do to your mental health. I say a bit, its pretty constant as we make the not very far journey from North London to Surrey. One woman creeps along next to us filing her nails, the other side of us and thankfully not driving a woman has fallen asleep in a less than flattering pose and Tom amuses himself by gawking at her very public misfortune.

“Not for sharing” snaps Tom, as I attempt to help myself to a couple of his M & M’s from their yellow bag. A mainstay of any of our trips, I was excited when I saw the garish packet at the top of his rucksack, but Tom is clearly not in a generous mood.

Prenups and probate occupy us for a big chunk of the drive, and you'll be glad to hear there is no more FIFA chat, instead we discuss the imminent release of Red Dead Redemption Two and the fact I was so engrossed in the new Call Of Duty, I probably could have pulled a sickie and stayed at home tonight, had it not been for the magnitude of tonight's match.

Things take a very funny turn when Tom somewhat out of nowhere, starts contemplating the state that Toy R Us mascot Geoffrey currently finds himself in. What does a once world wide icon of the late 80’s/90’s, now unemployed giraffe do with himself now the company he so dutifully served, is defunct. “I used to be on top of the world” says Tom, trying to imagine what poor old Geoffrey is going through.

When Tom suggests we should consider “branching out” in to “horse racing” one of the main reasons being that I would look good in a “flat cap” I feel we have hit rock bottom, the sight then of a purple building, makes me ponder has Tom spiked the sweets.

I was not expecting such a grandiose entrance at the end of the dark tree lined drive, when we turned left having just about spotted in time the gloomy sign into Fetcham Grove. Like the gateway to some ageing fairground and the Meccano floodlights rising up out of the night behind it, it was quite a sight. We’re directed through the adjacent imposing green iron gate and into the already swollen car park to find a spot.

Our  welcome to the “least exciting ground going” according to the Leatherhead FC (LFC) media man Alex is a pretty instant one, he informs us that the coach of Hitchin Town FC (HT), LFC’s opponents, isn’t here yet, due probably to the same traffic we were caught up in.

A couple of their fans are here though, a young girl is complemented by a steward on her choice of headgear, “like your bobble hat” says the man in hi viz, who is particularly impressed by the size of the bobble, balanced on top, “that's a big one”.

Not only has the young lady got a very fetching hat, but also a wooden rattle and to complete the scene and as if she was plucked from the centre pages of a ‘things that are great about the early round of the FA Cup book’, she has not one, but two very well crafted tin foil FA Cups complete with yellow and green ribbons, HT’s colours.

Before heading to the clubhouse, it is hard to not stop and stare in awe at the car that looks straight off the Fast And The Furious lot, gold with a black panther down the side and claw marks on the bonnet, it's staggering.

The clubhouse is already well patronised, as ever we have arrived well before kick off, but for once we are not the only ones. A man stands in the doorway wearing a LFC Green Army hoody, and the noise of Sky Sports and the general bar chatter, has to compete with the sound of Axl Rose blasting from the nearby home dressing room.

With the recent arrival of the HT fans, the woolly hat and scarf quota in the bar has nearly quadrupled. The small outside area in front is already cramped, shoulder to shoulder people get their early evening drink on, with a view of the pitch, via a chain link fence.

It’s clearly all about the classic rock for the LFC players, it's now Freddie Mercury’s turn to belt out a hit. Around the ground the music is a bit more eclectic. What sounds like a Lynyrd Skynyrd tribute, is followed by Peter Andre's Mysterious Girl. Mr Insania and then Gala’s Freed From Desire book end a bit of old school reggae.

With roughly just under an hour to kick off, a few people have already picked their spot in the green corrugated roofed main stand or have staked a claim to a spot around the edge of the pitch, while the newly arrived HT players in their dark blue tracksuits, finish their walk of the pitch.

“Shop looked a bit bare” reports Tom, having gone on a reckie for his customary pin. “Old shirt on the wall and not a lot else to it” he adds, having peered through the the locked double doors of the shop which looks remarkably like a garden conservatory.

A group of boys passing us, each clutching a yellow Styrofoam food container pricks Toms ears, “big burgers” he says, perving over their dinner, in a way that is always a bit too thigh rubby.

The slightly curious choice of music, Rocking All Over The World now fills Fetcham Grove, then Chas & Dave, all while the players warm up, is courtesy of the local radio station, Surrey Hills Radio, explains the enthusiastic voice over the PA, who by the sounds of it have not invested in a Now That's What I Call Music! since about the early 90’s. His announcement that no booze is to be taken pitch side, because of the FA’s rules, is delivered with all the panache of a real pro, “greatly appreciated” he signs off as the opening bars of Rabbit are expertly faded in.

Tom’s appraisal of the shop was pretty bang on, the doors have been opened and once inside, the only other person in their isn't even the one in charge, so we leave him to rifling through a box of old programs. There is not much on offer other than a window sill of mugs. When the custodian appears he informs Tom that there is no pin to be had, but perhaps seeing the sadness in his eyes, presents him with a badge, “printed by a local punk band”, called The Head.

It’s not my favourite song in the world, but Sweet Caroline has the innate ability of making anyone who hears it sing along, and I am unable to resist Neil Diamond's powers. “Fifteen minutes to kick off” informs the man on the PA in this best local radio voice. The countdown to the start of the game highlights a bit of a conundrum Tom has found himself in, eat now to “beat the halftime rush” but risk missing the start of the game because the queue is “massive”.

I’m now almost certain the man from “Surrey Hills Radio” must also do weddings, school discos and bar mitzvah, simply based on his choice of songs. A bit of Frankie Valli to get Mum and Dad up on the dance floor, but not wanting Uncle Stu to feel left out, who is showing a few battles scars from his raving days, he then plays the Happy Mondays.

The skinny Subbuteo floodlights do a grand job illuminating the ground under a jet black sky. The full moon is just about visible through the branches of the nearby trees, and unless everyone is in the bar, it certainly is a bit chilly, the surge of people I saw making their way pitchside not long ago, are nowhere to be seen. One passing fan has an explanation for where they might be, “there all in the queue for the chips” he explains to his friend, his voice sounding a little aggrieved after what I imagine was a long wait, “need more people on the chips” he emphasises.

Perhaps there was some method to the madness and the playlist being played over the last hour was compiled in such a way to gently, build the atmosphere. It feels charged, there are spots around the bar and in the stand that are thick with people, there is almost the feel of a outdoor gig about the place. The music feels like its been getting steadily louder, ready to peak just at the right time.

The last few home substitutes shuffle back towards the changing rooms, the first elevens long gone, and they look cold, but are happy to high five the kids waiting for them at the mouth of the tunnel. If Step On was not the pinnacle of the playlist tonight, then the next two numbers are the crowning glory. The first is what sounds like a prog remix of a Fanfare For the Common man, which took my breath away.

Having already secured my program from the dingy cabin manned by a small child on the way in, it

had slipped my mind completely the notion of a flutter. “Johns doing the raffle, he’s rattling his tin” says the voice, “ a chance to win some cash tonight”, but where is John, I can't see him anywhere.

If you have ever watched any kind of TV programme about a zoo you will hopefully know what I mean when I say that the tunnel, the tunnel which effectively cuts one part of the ground off from another, forcing you to take a detour down some poorly lit alleyways, is a bit like something animals are moved around their enclosure in. Narrow and caged, it's about one medium sized four legged mammal wide.

The second of the DJ’s night defining song picks, and the music that accompanies the players arrival and the instruction to “welcome the teams”, is the 1998 Puff Daddy, featuring Jimmy page version of the Led Zeppelin classic, Cashmere, from the film Godzilla of the same year, someone has clearly pinched a CD from the home dressing room.

It is only thanks to the help of some LFC fans, John didn't hear my patients attempts to get his attention over Jimmy Page wailing away, that I’m able to bag my raffle tickets with only seconds to spare.

Cashmere is off just in time, for the slightly late kick off, and the strangest of musical collaborations is soon replaced with almost as loud singing from the packed covered terrace at the opposite end of the ground. A single green LFC flag has been draped over the hoardings, and maybe because of the unorthodox way of getting here, the HT fans who have travelled in good numbers, are absent.

Watching the game and high spirited LFC fans, the man passing behind me whose gruff almost pirate voice shout of “come on you yellows” makes me jump. He also turns out to be the front runner for the HT fans who start to trickle in, filling the end they are attacking, a single file line of tinfoil cup carrying, wooden rattle turning fans, they are quick to start their own chants.

The HT supporters come a distinct second in the battle of the colour songs, to be fair they are outnumbered, but their cries of “yellows, yellows” pale into insignificance up against the rumbling “green army, green army” coming from the LFC fans.

Not long in to the game and there are two factors affecting Toms current mood, the fact there are now two rattles. A sound I love, they evoke memories of a time gone by when everything was better, whereas Tom plainly states “that's going to be annoying” and secondly the lack of food, “I’m hungry” he says weedliy, falling just short of stamping his feet.

Such is the noisy start, its turning into one of those occasions where we end up watching and listening to the crowd more than watching the match. It has not passed me by though that the LFC keeper is all in pink or that they play in a kit made by Kappa, Toms all time favourite kit manufacturer that get his nostalgia receptors buzzing. The HT keeper is also in a very fetching shade of purple, which is nice but not as good as pink of course, and I’m trying to work out why the kids nearby are singing about West Ham's Declan Rice.

For a second he was about the happiest I think I’ve ever seen him when he thinks there is “no queue now”, but just how quickly the bottom dropped out of Tom's world happened so fast, that it’s not measurable by modern technology, when he realises, “there is still a queue”.

“Green army, green army” repeat the home fans, banging the hoarding, whipping themselves up into a near state of frenzy. The visiting supporters reply, but just can't match them, “come on Hitchin, come on the yellows”. Their attempt at a response, breaks the “green army” loop and prompts a new song, “can you hear the Hitchin sing?”.

I think roughly about fifteen minutes have passed, and I can't recall either team having a shot on goal, saying that though there is a chance I would have missed it anyway, everything of interest is happening off the pitch. Tom continues his queue watch, “still a queue” he updates me, his demeanour getting more and more sulky as he starts to waste away.

It is not only the noise levels which is the difference between the fans, but also their temperaments. The home fans are rowdy and boisterous, the visitors a little bit more gentile. Nothing wrong with either way, but the attempt at haranguing the LFC keeper into speeding up his goal kick, is not really going to strike the fear of god into any one, “come on pinky”.

Finally a shot and a collective “ahhhhh” from the home fans, as the HT keeper is forced into a save with his feet. A corner follows and there is a hush of anticipation, that is pierced by the high pitched squeal of one HT supporter, “come on Hitchin”.

The attention of the HT fans soon shifts from “pinky” towards the linesman, whose lack of conviction in which way to award a throw in, I don't think he honestly knew which way to give it, riles them up. Getting it from the LFC fans behind him too, he just stands there, quivering his flag, waiting for the referee to make his mind up for him.

Twenty minutes gone the on field action has thankfully increased, and it's all going LFC’s way. As Tom puts it HT “like the long ball” but its not working for them. “Keep it up there” shouts a HT fan towards her team, who have been forced right back into their half, unable to break out. A towering back post header from a corner looks like it might break the deadlock, but it skims off the top of the leaping players head and into touch.

A break in play because of an HT injury, allows for Tom to check the food queue, its still huge and sees the home fans quiet for the first time, in fact they don't quite reach the noise levels of pre injury for a while. There are plenty of angry shouts from them towards the referee about the length of time its taking HT to do everything and there is the occasional “oh leather, leather” and a quick rendition of “Nikki Bull’s green and white army”, but it's not until the twenty ninth minute that we reach and then exceed the decibels of before.

Up until now, the game had been a little poor, the choice of song to accompany the celebrations of LFC goal is not a lot better, The Fratellis Chelsea Dagger, but that is soon drowned out by  chants of “Jerry, Jerry, Jerry” from the home fans towards the hulking number 6 whose just poked home following a corner.

Having heaped enough praise on “Jerry”, the home fans turn their focus on the away ones, “can you hear the Hitchin sing?” they ask. There are a few family friendly replies, PG at worst, a few turns of a rattle and shaking of a tinfoil cup, a few lines of “yellows, yellows” however the goal has clearly knocked their confidence a bit.

Surprisingly the LFC goal has had the opposite effect than one might expect on the players, if anything it has invigorated them and they go on to have their longest period of sustained pressure immediately after.

The “angry Scottish man” as Tom calls him, whispering, making sure he doesn't hear him is not best pleased with this. “We are Leatherhead” a fellow LFC fans slurs, “too many Stellas” Tom surmises. The drunk man then turns and attempts to hold court, a court made up of far more sober people then him, who are now the quietest they have been all night. Next to me the rattle is going and the lady in a yellow hat and pink hair instructs her team, very politely, to “bring” the ball “up here”.

Clearly being a team that responds to her cordial style of man management, they do just that, one player teeing up another, whose shot is just wide.

“Anyone interested in the raffle” strains John over the most recent shouts of “yellows, yellows”, as he does the rounds. “There you go” he half shouts to someone who has taken him up on this offer, handing them their tickets, joking as they turn back towards the game, “while you're watching this, I’ve gotta go and rip them all up”.

Three HT corners in a row, don't bring any goals, but for the first time the HT fans are louder than the
LFC ones. To rectify this the LFC fans start a chorus of “mighty, mighty, Leatherhead” that goes on for an eternity.

“Maybe I'll go and get my food in a minute” says Tom, his eyes for the past thirty five minutes having been firmly locked on the ebb and flow of the seemingly never waning queue.

The HT fans sigh at the sight of every poor ball forward, I think it's the lack of food talking, but Tom is far from impressed and in my opinion a little harsh, “they are fucking awful”, I think it's called being ‘hangry’. An HT knockdown in the box looks promising, but the HT player can't get the ball out of his feet, the HT’s purple patch is over, they are surviving on scraps at best.

Tom checks his watch again, I can see the cogs in this head still trying to work out the optimum time to go.

“That hurt my feelings, that's not very nice” smirks the LFC keeper, in response to the latest of the HT fans hard hitting jibes, maybe they called him “pinkÿ” again? Old “pinky” though has more to worry about, when he is very nearly caught out by a cross come shot that rattles off the upright, sending him clattering into it, in his attempt to get near it.

They go close again, this time with a snap shot, however my eye has been caught by the glimpse of a massive tinfoil cap among the LFC fans, the size of which is something else, by my reckoning it's about length and breadth of a toddler, but my looks at it is oh too fleeting.

“We’re on top here” bellows one LFC player, I guess you could say they are, but nowhere near as much as they were. The child with the rattle quietly sings to herself the opening line of, “oh when the yellows go marching in” and then falls silent as she watches her team play the most suicidal of passes across the defence, that is latched onto by an quick witted LFC player, who fails to make the most of the gilt edged chance.

“How you doing” asks one passing HT fan to another, “alright” he replies “well you know what I mean” he adds, the caveat being that in the distance, HT had a penalty awarded against them, on the stroke of halftime. “I'll pay you a fiver” offers up one fan, a token gesture towards their keeper, if he keeps it out.

Pay Pal, travellers cheque, postal order, bank transfer, I’m sure the HT keeper accepts them all. “I owe him a fiver” says the same fan, probably the happiest sounding anyone has ever been about voluntarily giving money away.

Tom is long gone by now, I assume he watched the failed spot kick from the queue for his food. “Would have been a bit of a disaster if that had gone in” says one HT fan as they join the migration to the other end, which is done by both sets of fans at rapid speed.

HT’s flags, which I couldn't see in the first half, have gone up, four large St Georges crosses, each with a different slogan on, Barmy Army, Yellows, Canaries. John now stands on the edge of the pitch with a board displaying the raffle results, but I can't make them out. I have to wait for the voice to read them out over the PA. No “first”, “second” or “consolation” prize for me and I have to deal with the ignominy of the loss alone, Coldplay as the backing track, doesn't help.

The half time drinks have been clearly flowing, “Wembley, Wembley” sings one fan, struggling to form the words. The teams are making their way back out, Blurs Park Life has replaced the insipid Coldplay, and the LFC players are cheered on by people pushed up against the fencing, either side of
the tunnel.

“Nearly done” is the message from Tom, still in the queue, he’s been gone well over twenty minutes now and the game has restarted. Now surrounded by LFC fans, the girl next to me whose had her hair sprayed a kind of mossy green colour, is ignoring her dads instructions to put her coat on.

Chatter about the missed penalty occupies most people minds, and that the taker was so insistent he was the one who took it, “he really wanted that”, he was almost bound to miss. I can still hear the rattle, I may well hear it until the day I die, even though it's now right down the other end. It gets a few turns and a complements the latest shouts of “yellows, yellows” after the visitors get the first attempt on target of the new half.

Despite the setback of the missed penalty late in the first half, LFC are quickly back in their stride and so are their fans, “leather, leather, Leatherhead”. Their treatment of the HT keeper is also far more robust, then the HT fans were to theirs. “You're shit ahhhhhhh” follows the taking of every goal kick.

He has returned, “you should see the queue now” he says, nonchalantly nibbling on a chip, oblivious it would seem to the fact that he’s been gone nearly half and hour, “its into the car park” he tells me. There is no sorry, no apologies, just that where he got his burger and chips from, also did “noodles”.

We’ve gotta get that second goal” is a sentiment probably all football fans can relate to. It’s not the case that LFC are hanging on, by any means, but as all fans know, that little buffer helps the nerves, relieves the tensions, allows for a little wiggle room, if any unforeseen fuck ups occur.

They almost get it in the most spectacular of style, unfortunately for them the save, is equal or perhaps even better, “save of the season” gasps Tom. The HT keeper looked like he had no right to get a hand on the pin point curling shot heading right for the top corner, but somehow he made it, tipping it over. “Come on hitchin” shouts one of the rattle rattlers.

Again HT seem to be inspired by adversity. Much like with going behind, the sight of the wonder save has sparked them to life. “Yellows, Yellows, Yellows” sing the fans when a low goal bound shot is saved, and they’re back at it again soon after when a deflected shot is just forced wide by “pinky”.

In some parts of the world, a hearty belch is a sign that you have enjoyed your meal, standing next to Tom in Surrey, it means he has eaten too quickly. “Meaty bun, lots of dough” he tells me.

Compared to the first, the second half has been much more even. “That thud” squirms Tom when a LFC shot curls into the crowd, and makes contact with a person. HT then go close, but the header is straight at the keeper, is gets a nervous “come on your Tanners” from a nearby fan and then the name “Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy” rings out again, the defender hasn't scored his second, but has made a vital tackle, halting a HT attack.

Between breaths of “we are the Head, we are the Head” there is a slightly drunk, and premature if you ask me, chat taking place behind us, about post victory celebrations. Tom thinks LFC are “happy with one” goal, their fans, like I said it might be the halftime refreshments talking, are discussing putting on the video of the victory over Billericay from last seasons FA Cup run on the in bar.

As loud as some of the home fans are, the one directly next to me is quite reserved in comparison. Restricting himself to under his breath comments about his teams performance. When HT are awarded a free kick after a “clumsy professional foul” as Tom puts it, he doesn't snigger like Tom did, but he is not best pleased.

“Can you hear the Hitchin sing?” ask the LFC supporters once again, I tell you what I can hear is that
bleeding rattle. “Jerry” or “big Jerry” as one person has dubbed him officially reaches cult hero status after once more being the difference between the two teams, hooking the ball near enough off the goal line, stopping an inevitable goal.

Despite their jibes at the HT fans for being quiet, the LFC ones are struggling to match the high bar they set earlier, it may have something to do with HT’s increasing dominance. “Get this ball away” shouts a concerned LFC supporter. A HT substitute allows them a moment's respite, but the pace of the departing player rankles one, “today grandad”.

The inebriated fan from the first half, is back on his feet, singing alone, “how many more has be had?” wonders Tom. He is though soon firmly back sitting down, because the shimmering flash of tin foil FA Cups and the ever present rattles are going hell for leather, means HT have drawn level.

A short corner and a well placed header leaves “pinky” stranded. The scorer leaps, punches the air before he is overcome by his teammates affections.

“Shut up” shouts one LFC fan towards the noisy visitors, banging the hoarding in protest. Their next song is a defiant rendition of “we are the Head” then “come on you Tanners”, however the shout of one HT fan from the sidelines, seems the most poignant, “go get the winner boys”.

It would be rude of the HT fans not to have their own little jab at the now demoralized home fans, “you're not singing anymore”, the tide has really turned on and off the pitch, “everywhere we go, making all the noise”. The home fans attempt a reply, “oh leather, leather” but its lacking any of that energy of the first half.

My hands are getting so cold, I’m half tempted to ask the green haired girl to borrow her coat, so I can use it as a makeshift muff. Tom has his hands up and in the sleeves of his jumper, holding the ends closed, making his arms look like strange salami.

With extra time looming Tom considers if “they will swap ends”, by “they” he means the fans, but I think he means the players, causing a hilarious exchange to ensue. “I’m not sure” he says answering his own question, “it's the rules” I point out pompously, “no the fans” he clarifies. Told you it was funny.

HT really look a different side since equalising, “they’re winning every second ball” moans one LFC fan, another has been driven to start talking about cricket. LFC are starting to ride their luck a bit, it's only down to a miss of Ronny Rosenthal proportions, a point blank header that is put wide, that they are not behind. “Wembley, Wembley” sings or should I say, garbles, one LFC fan, but the way things are going, Wembley looks a long way off.

Seemingly wanting to undo all his good work after saving the penalty, HT’s keeper has a sequence of wobbles, and is bombarded with chants of “dodgy keeper”. One a missed punch, leaves his goal gaping, but the shot is wild and over and another error, is only unpunished because the LFC forwards can't get a shot on target.

The HT’s fans flags are coming down, the clearest sign that they will be swapping ends.

It certainly looks like HT are the most likely to score next, their fans are now certainly the loudest, despite the best efforts of some of the LFC supporters. If there is a way back into the game for LFC, it will be down to their number 11, who is as Tom puts it a “step above”. His languid style, but he’s not slow by any means, makes him almost look a bit aloof, like its all far too easy.

“Green army” is now on repeat, hypnotised by their own chant, the home fans sound like they are never going to stop. For some added percussion, they pound the fence behind the stand, however a visit from a steward brings a stop to that, it did look like it was going down.

HT’s keeper is making quite the name for himself tonight, again all eyes are on him, but this time not for a save, but an attempt at a two handed, what I think they call in mixed martial arts circles a superman punch, his with the added finesse, of being about three foot in the air, however he misses the ball completely and instead wipes out his own player.

A sickening yelp and a few rolls later, he’s down injured, clutching his shoulder and his team mates are yelling at the “iffy lino” as Tom has dubbed him, the flag quivering assistant surely saw the shove, that resulted in their downed compatriot.

The break allows LFC’s number 11, “Alfie” to chat with the home fans, who offer up some words of encouragement, “get that goal, you’re the best player on the pitch”.

A bit of rutting ensues, “Alfie” wants nothing to do with it, staying well out the way, while the HT players point fingers at who they think fouled the keeper, this tattle tailing doesn't go down well, and the LFC player, “Jerry” specifically is getting a few mixed messages. “Walk away” says one fan sternly, “go on Jerry”, urging him to get stuck in, says another.

HT’s keeper in eventually back up, and there is some half hearted applause that he is ok. The home
fans are soon back singing, they are led by a brave man only in a t shirt, his arms above his head, a pint in one hand, “we are the Head, we are the Head”.

It's the visitors who have the final chance of the half, the air thick with what looks like the aftermath of a pyro show, but its just Tom’s vape smoke, a solo run from his own area, all the way to the LFC one, but his shot is over.

Groans fill the air along with the copious amount of juicy peach or mega melon smoke, that doesn't look like shifting any time soon. It’s quite the opposite among the away fans, “yellows, yellows, yellows” they sing. Where as most people see the draw meaning another thirty minutes standing around in the cold, one person is very happy, he’s getting more bang for his buck, “£10 well spent”.

The consensus of the home fans is that HT are “up for it” but their team “don't have any ideas”.

Among the fans of each side, as the players take a moment to gather themselves, there are many cases of people who don't know to whether to stick or twist, swap ends or don't swap ends. The home fans are now signing their managers name, and Tom has come to the conclusion that he’s “got to get some fingerless gloves”.

In a last minute change of heart, it looked like they were staying, the LFC flag is down off the fence and it's a quick march to the other end. Although I'm sure not everyone has moved, there is a definite mix of home and away, the rattle is back, and the shouts of “yellows, yellows” are the loudest again. Some people caught in two minds, end up in no mans land, behind the dugouts.

Those with a spot more decisive and are are on the move, sing whilst they do.

“I love how no one is allowed to drink, but everywhere I look people are drinking” says Tom smirking, the FA’s rules being flouted somewhat as the drink continues to flow. LFC seem to have caught a second wind, HT sting the keepers hands with a free kick, however its LFC and their number 11, looking that little bit more composed. “They'll struggle to keep him” comments Tom, after he shows off what he’s capable of, drawing a satisfying “ohhhhh”, from the crowd

The home fans feed on their teams newly found morale, they've found a bit of that early vigour. Their reply to the energetic HT supporters, is a round of “green army, green army”. All this though is about to fade away.

One HT player dives into the crowd, one runs around with his arms out by his side delirious, they all eventually end up in a heap on the floor, the scorer of HT’s second somewhere at the bottom.

“You're not singing anymore” sing the HT fans, but to who I’m not sure, with everyone all mixed up, they could be talking about the person next to them. The LFC fans respond as they always do, “where we come from, mighty, mighty Leatherhead” despite the turnaround in their team's fortunes, as of yet they have not been silenced completely.

To change ends or not change ends, that is the question. There is another migration of sorts, but I’m cold, I've lost all concept of time and who is who. One person who is back is the girl with the pink mohawk wig, while other fans are trying to surreptitiously drink, but I’ve no idea why, it’s not like anyone else is.

My hands are officially frozen, the HT fans keep theirs alive by clapping along to another chant. The LFC fans sing one that Tom’s thinks has the line “itchy balls”” in it, I think he’s lost it, but whatever they are saying, it gets louder and louder as they make their final move of the night.

Drinkers do their best to down their pints or hide them, because a steward is on the prowl, forced to enforce the most ridiculous of FA rules. Both sets of fans again sing about what colour they are, and the sight of a HT freekick means for one person that “if this is in I’m going”.

“Keep it going mate” says the linesman to the HT keeper, the dark arts are creeping in and he is 100% eeking out every second he can. “Can you hear the Hitchin sing?” ask the LFC fans for the last time, who are maybe suffering from a case of beer deafness, because they are booming, “yellows, yellows, yellows”.

Tom joins the locals berating of the referees assistant, “wake up lino” he shouts when he fails to give a clear foul on LFC’s number 11, who despite having his shirt half pulled off, still makes it into the box, and is able to cut it back to a teammate, but the eventual shot is over. With the ball still sailing through the air and out of play, the whole places explodes in indignation.

LFC are throwing the kitchen sink at HT, but nothing will stick. “Switch on boys” shouts one player, number 11 is still looking sharp. The craft two quickfire chances, both headers, both on target, but no goal.

Demands of “off, off, off” from the HT fans follow a snapping LFC tackle, but the player only receives a yellow. The home fans have finally been subdued, the HT rattle all conquering. A group of three LFC fans toast the impending loss, with a spliff. Maybe a bit out of practise or its some pretty potent stuff, all three are coughing their lungs up.

The LH flag has come down and been put away, some people are caught between staying and going.

Another flare up between the teams, holds people here a little longer, but its HT’s keepers time wasting that is really starting to wind some people up and they've seen enough.

“Oh Hitchin we love you” they sing, the game must be near to ending, “how long left?” asks one home fan to another?

Don't you tell me the FA Cup isn't special, the next time you hear some journalist come up with a way to 'revamp' it for the modern era, tell them where to stick it. Don't tell me that the scenes at the end of tonight's game, players embracing fans, players lifting players in celebration, supporters and players sharing songs and the scenes we've seen over the last almost four years in this remarkable competition, don't mean the world to all those involved. Don't tell me that the sight of a twinkling tin foil FA Cup, catching the rays of the floodlights, held aloft by a young boy or girl, is not enough to get the tears of any football romantic flowing.

It's only a shame that this is the first game in the FA Cup we've got to this season, because the first round for me is not the 'beginning' of the competition as many imply, but the end of the best bit.

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Where Sky & Lincolnshire & Water Meet - North Ferriby United A.F.C. Vs Stafford Rangers FC, Evo-Stik Northern Premier League, Chadwick Stadium (13/10/18)

“You know I love the North” says Tom, surprisingly chipper, considering the early start and the fact we are only about twenty minutes into a three and a half hour drive. It might have something to do with the cup of tea I made him, I say I, my other half did, so I can't really take the credit, or for the cheese sandwiches that are now sitting on the back seat, burning a hole in the clingfilm they’re wrapped in.

He lazily tokes on his vape, it’s “juicy peach again” he tells me, looking out of the window, again I emphasise in a exceptionally good mood. Tom is not a morning person, and although I’m not adverse to an early wake up call, much better at them then him anyway, I’m struggling not so much with the time my alarm went off, but with the fact that he’s taken his shoes off.

Not blessed with as a new a car as Tom, it means I’m not blessed with the state of the art radio like he is. He brags about being able to tune into “any channel”, where I’m reduced to endlessly cycling between, classic FM and Radio One Extra, occasionally picking up whatever areas local station we happen to be passing through.

One such station, blasting out a bit of Wet Wet Wet this fine Saturday morning, only reinforces Tom’s high spirits, when it would have the opposite effect on any normal person. I can even hear him mumbling a few of the lyrics between copious clouds of “juicy peach”, however he is not as impressed as I had hoped he would be, when I tell him my Mum’s brother is the spitting image of Marti Pellow.

Instead he continues his weather watch, his hourly reports thankfully have no mention of rain as of yet, despite the grey sky, whipped into a state by the ever present wind. The unpredictable weather, it is abnormally warm for this time of year, sparks the next topic of conversation, that remarkably has some legs to it, the pros and cons of the “gilet”.

Regular readers of our blog will know that Tom and I are fans of large municipal building projects, especially bridges, having had the pleasure of crossing some of the UK’s finest on our travels, we get all excited like a couple of mega structure hoppers, when we get to tick off the Humber Bridge. “There it is” says Tom, looming in the distance.

Due to the unforgiving wind, the speed limit has been reduced, but it allows for a languid crossing, giving us the chance to admire the size of the vast estuary below and after being told it is possible to spot todays ground off in the distance, we think we’ve found it, but in the end I think we just got all giddy about spotting a local petrol station.

The other side, venturing ever closer to our destination and Tom is not half wrong when he says it all looks and feels a bit “seasidey”. There is no pear or ice cream stalls, but our proximity to the coast which is only a few miles up the road, certainly gives North Ferriby with its white telephone boxes, a village by the sea kind of quality.

Peeking out from behind the steeple of a nearby church, the sun is almost blinding, as we weave our way through narrow streets, eventually making the final turning into the long thin hedge lined entrance to the Chadwick Stadium.

Our arrival is momentarily held up by a quick game of you go, no you go, at the entrance to the car park. As is it’s one car width wide, and being maybe one hundred metres long, neither car at either end is sure to stick or twist. We find a place to park, a stone's throw from the emerald green turnstiles and the local children's playground.

“Fucking windy” says Tom, battling the car door, and then his jacket, which is caught in a gust and almost ends up on the top of the climbing frame. A coat that because of the conditions, might be a bit surplus to requirements, because as he puts it, it's “fucking boiling” too, having just about tamed his coat, and is now wondering if the battle was really worth it and if he should just leave it in the car.

Matthew is the first of the North Ferriby United A.F.C. (NFU) fans/volunteers, we meet, and like so many of those who help out at their local non league club on match days, he is in a near state of motion. He is not far off being followed by a slight blur, like roadrunner. “Might do well for us, be the great leveler, the boost we need” he says when we ask is it always this windy.

NFU are in a real state on the pitch, not to mention what is happening off it. In the midst of a seven game losing streak, bottom of the league, after relegation last season, things are far from ideal for The Villagers. There has been a lot of water under the bridge since that day at Wembley in 2015, when we saw them lift the FA Trophy in the most romantic of circumstances and despite all my years as a Spurs fan, they are still the only football team to have ever made me cry.

Considering all this, Matthew as his previous comment attests to, is I think an eternal optimist, always doing his best to find the good in a situation, a trait all too rare in football fans these days. When Tom has to help him attach his flag to some railings, but a moment later its gone, “think I've given up” he tells us, it like the sea of broken plastic tea spoons that litter the floor in front of the tea bar, another victim of the wind, he isn't bothered one bit, when other people might be a bit annoyed, he just brushes it off.

It might have something to do with him being a multi flag man, his much smaller and much more poetic one is just about holding on. “Where sky and Lincolnshire and water meet” it reads, half blue, half green, with the white Yorkshire rose on the middle. The Philip Larkin quote Matthew tells us, links to the occasional trains that pass right behind the main stand, the very railway line Larkin traveled from Hull to London that inspired his poem The Whitsun Weddings.

It's the screaming vocals of Anthony Kiedis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers coming from the home dressing room, that puts an end to our moment of high culture. Also Tom has noticed the “tuck shop” is opening, and by that he means the Food Bar, we have not as far as I know accidentally walked into a Boy Scouts jamboree.

Being in The North, certainly seems to widen the options as far as the food that is on offer, “I don't know what to eat” Tom says, running his eyes over the menu, “pie chips and gravy, I love gravy” he says salivating. Tom was banging on in the car, like some artisanal food champion, that more football grounds should be showcasing local produce and delicacies, much like the faggots we had at Stourbridge, instead of just the bog standard, chips, burgers and hot dogs.

Although a chip butty is not an exclusively northern thing, the addition of lashings of gravy and mushy peas, has a whiff of past the Watford Gap about it and is too tantalising to turn down. This all bare in mind despite his concerns of not picking the burger, which we all know he, “can never say no to”, and he lets me in on why he always goes for the same thing, because he “never knows” when that particular burger might be “ the one” so struggles with the fact he might miss it.

I’m pretty sure I can see the forearms of the red haired woman in a green apron strain, when she hands over Toms order, concealed inside a yellow polystyrene container. The short windy walk to the condiments, all while the CD playing over the PA sounds like a very bad “remix” as one person puts it, because it's stuck, and without even lifting the lid on lunch, Tom tells me it “smells good”.

If you remember the scene in the diner in Pulp Fiction, when they open the briefcase and a golden glow emits from within, the scene on the plywood shelf covered in ketchup bottles is almost identical. Tom lights up at the sight of what is a loaf sized bread roll and family portions of chips all covered in a viscous brown sauce and a generous helping of luminescent peas, “I don't really know how to eat it”.

It's not every day you use the roof of the away dugout as your table, but the chance of losing his lunch to Mother Nature was a lot more likely, although he still had a slight scare where we ended up, if we’d stayed where we were, so we moved. The “remix” is still playing, no one has cottoned on to the problem, and although Tom says it was “bit dribbly”, he is really enjoying it, and it's gone in no time at all, “hungry boy”.

Our encounter with Darren, co founder of the excellent NFB fanzine View From The Allotment End, is a long overdue one. Hawking it from a cardboard box balanced on top of a bin. A Hull City fan for “twenty eight years” he got the non league bug, when they reached the Premier League, and it all “dried up” for him.

He’d “seen them at Wembley” a boyhood dream, but tickets just got harder and harder to “come by” and even though they had reached the holy land of Super Sundays and all that comes with it, I get the feeling that just wasn't for him, “stuff that” he says, but he still had to get his football “fix” somehow, and in stepped NFU.

Now in shades, with a pint glass nestled in the crook of his arm, hands full of raffle and golden goal
tickets, Matthew is on to matchday duty number, 361,000. The purchase of the two strips of orange raffle tickets is clear cut enough, and they are quickly folded up and out of the wind in the breast pocket of my shirt, don't want to lose them, they are winners of course.

The process of picking my golden goal tickets, yes I’m feeling a little flush, so I’ve gone for both, it is Non League Day after all, so why not live a little, is a bit more complicated. Is he doing a “card trick?” asks Tom as Matthew flicks through the deck, “say stop”.

I do, and he hands me one of the rough blue miniature envelopes, but his conjuring is not yet over, he then asks me to pick my second ticket from the pile in either his right or left hand.

We take a moment to peruse the portacabin club shop, Tom considers but decides against a shirt, as nice as the green and white stripes would look on him. I point out the NFU tote bag, which I can see him using on his Sunday shop around Sainsbury's, but instead it's just a pin for him, the choice of which is not straightforward, due to the multitude of the small metal trinkets that cover the counter.

The actual view from the allotment end, that Darrens fanzine takes its name from is not a bad one, the grey concrete wall stops the wind from whipping around the back of my neck, and the Humber Bridge is visible in the distance. Matthews long flag, which is now safely located at the back of one of the two sections of covered terracing, that flank each end of the main stand, where the clubs initials are spelt out in white seats.

With forty minutes to kick off, NFU’s opponents Stafford Rangers FC (SR) appear at the top of the steps, between the dugouts, from the World War Two prefab changing rooms for their warm up. One of their coaches “wasn't expecting this today” as well as the referee, can’t get their heads around the good weather, “can't believe how warm it is”.

SR are in full flow, even the referee and his assistants are doing their gentle jog around the pitch, but NFU are nowhere to be seen. Matthew tells us they “didn't train on Thursday” and I think he is only half joking when he says they might have, “escaped out the back window”.

“Can't believe you put me in for that” are the words that follow me breaking it to Tom that he is partaking in a half time penalty shootout, between a team of home and away fans, as part of the Non League Day festivities. The face he pulled alone worth the drive here today.

I’m happy to report NFU did finally appear for their warm up. Whoever is in change of the music has been made aware of the faulty CD and instead of just putting in a new one, has stopped it altogether. The Chadwick Stadium is relatively quiet, just the sound of the wind and the players, and very little else, except for Tom seething about his upcoming halftime activities.

Each teams players making their way back inside are greeted by a fan club, dishing out high five and sometimes a few words of encouragement to the returning players. One small NFU fan needs a few words of comfort, crying, straining, trying to break free of his mothers grasps, arms inside its oversized NFU shirt trying to keep warm, his Mum jokes that the small one has, “not even got himself lost yet”.

The presence of the very young NFU fan, and the much, much, older ones is made clear as the referee and his assistants emerge. Cascading down the stairs from oldest to youngest, each in an array of NFU shirts, hats and scarves, they are today's mascots. One of the older ones, says to the referee that he just hopes no one is going to take him by the hand and “lead” him out.

Perhaps the youngest of the mascots is a little reluctant to be removed from his mother's arms, so doesn't make the trip to the centre circle to partake in the formalities, one of the oldest, a lady with white hair, confidently takes the lead, first shaking the officials hands, and then the SR players.

“Come on Ferriby” shouts one of those fans, swapping ends, head turned to watch the kick off, not really looking where they are going, hoping I’m sure for no sudden obstacles. The end where
Matthews flag now hangs, is quickly full. Most people, like us with a good view of the pitch, as well as the nearby church and allotments, are somewhere in the long main stand, keeping out of the wind, the neighboring trees steadily swaying.

Darren easily located because of his vivid his jacket, needs no such protection, and is standing just to the side of the away dugout opposite us.

There is an early shout from the SR players for a penalty, but you can tell by the fact that only some are committed to the appeal, but the majority are just getting on with it, that there wasn't much in it.
The SR official next to us is doing his best to work out the wind direction, and makes a good point that for now at least, “its not holding the ball up either way”.

With less than ten minutes on the clock, SR have the ball in the back of the net, but it's chalked off for offside. It does draw a brief song from the visiting fans behind the goal, but I can’t make out what they are saying. SR are soon on the attack again, “good move lads” says my next door neighbour, but it comes to nothing.

The chanting from the NFU fans, is just about as faint as that of the SR ones, but I think I can just about make out what they are saying, “green and white army”. Their keeper defending the allotment end, is almost caught out by a wicked ricochet, but is just able to get to the ball in time, and fumble it out for an SR corner.

A last ditch block, stops a goal bound SR shot from the edge of the box, following a sorry attempt at a clearance from an NFU defender. When NFU are able to venture forward, they are looking for the same ball, a long high one to their number 9, and are already looking a bit predictable. The attempts by the SR fans behind the goal though, to put the NFU keeper off his goal kicks, are so far not working.

My attempts though to concentrate on the on pitch action are however being thwarted by one SR club tie wearing type next to me, who is eating the strangest smelling sweets. It’s like a liquorice allsort had a liaison with the devil and has produced the evilest of spawn.

The referee is very whistle keen, therefore the game is a tad stop start, failing really to take off in the first fifteen minutes. It is perhaps the regularity of which the man in charge is using his whistle, that the SR fans are singing about, but once again I can't make out what they are saying.

You could maybe get away with saying the game is cagey, tense perhaps, in the fact that each team is so conscious of their current record, SR’s is not much better than NFU’s, neither one wants to make a mistake. This is all changed on the twenty minutes mark when a touch of fortune for the visitors, and a heavy dose of misfortune for the home side, sees SR take the lead.

“Dodgy keeper, dodgy keeper” is now the very audible song from the SR supporters, who had a front row seat to the NFU goalkeepers mishap. “Come on Ferriby” is the ever so slightly clipped shout from the man a few seats along from me, the opposite side to the evil sweet eater.

The voice over the PA, a man standing pitch side in a blue shirt confirms the golden goal time as “twenty minutes”. His announcement prompts everyone, me included, to look for their little paper envelope, and I join the chorus of tutting, made up of those who like me also don't have the right one.

A deafening cry of “arghhhh” from the home fans, as they watch their teams promising response to going behind, when they fire a ball right across the SR box, but no one's there to finish the move, can't wake the large man in a check shirt who has fallen asleep. He has the air of, and I might be wrong and might be doing him a disservice, of someone who had a big Friday night out.

He is sound asleep, there was literally a man shouting “you knobhead” at the referee, a foot away from him, when he failed to give NFU a corner, that the lung buster of a run from a defender at least deserved, but he didn't give it and the sleeping man did not even stir. “Got that one wrong ref”, confirms an SR supporter. The response to the error seems to outweigh the actual error itself, a sense of desperation almost from the home fans, who are forced to cling to anything.

When NFU do get a corner it is greeted with sarcastic cheers, and is a cue for the home fans at the far end to start singing again. Despite being behind, NFU are still very much in the game. They are awarded a freekick on the edge of the SR box, which is cleared, but they regain possession, the ball is soon back into the box, its cut back to the free man, whose shot is blocked. “Come on Ferriby keep going” says the man whose tone has improved a little.

The sleeper is now drifting in and out of consciousness, maybe it was the shout from one nearby fan, offering the SR player who he calls a “big baby” his “hanky” after going down in his opinion a bit softly, that woke him. Another stop in play, this time an injury to a NFU player, and he requires the attention of the physio. Some ice in what Tom thinks is a “Tesco's bag”, is administered to the back of
the head of the player floored after a coming together.

“Come on lads keep going” calls out one supporter, the game thanks to the referees still near constant use of his whistle, is not really giving NFU much of a chance to get a grip on it. The first train for what feels like ages, makes the metal stand rattle, as it thunders along the embankment behind us. Tom is quite a taken back by the “serious sleeve” of tattoos the NFU number 4 has and the SR official, is telling one of his players, when they are awarded a foul, to “take your time”.

“Goal scored for The Villagers” says the man in the blue shirt, pitchside once again, a lot happier than the last time he had the microphone in his hand. Their persistence in finding the number 9 finally pays off, a cross from the right and a well placed header sends the ball well out of reach of the SR keeper.

Like I said NFU were never out of it, the referee was hampering their play somewhat, but the goal has clearly given the players a much needed confidence boost. A minute after equalising they almost bag a second. The header, following another cross form the right, this time it's the wrong side of the post, “that's better” says a fan encouraged by his teams up in tempo.

Poor NFU defending during a succession of SR corners, almost undoes all their good work. They as Tom put it have “found a bit of pep up front”, but still “look shit at the back”. The noise I can only describe as sounding like a collective heart attack, follows the second one and the eventual bundled clearance.

It is again only thanks to the agility of the NFU keeper that prevents SR from taking the lead, when he manages to get a strong hand to a shot that traveled through a sea of legs, taking numerous deflections on the way, just getting enough on it to push it wide.

I catch a glimpse of Matthew striding about with a purposeful gait, he stops for a moment to ask a man to do the raffle draw from what I think is a Co Op bag for life, before setting off again, back the way he came past the chanting home fans, who are now the loudest they have been all day, many of whom are clapping above their heads.

NFU finish the half on top, “come on Ferriby keep going” demands one fan after a tame half volley, which is easily caught by the SR keeper. There is a collective sigh when the number 9 is found and is in on goal, but is given offside, “only a yard” says one of the SR tie wearers.

“Better, better” says one supporter, which he accompanies with hearty clapping. The game has finally settled, the home fans now their loudest, NFU have found their stride, but everyone is acutely aware that this purple period, is about to be cut short at any moment by the half time whistle.

The bang of upturning seats is soon joined by more tutting, the raffle results have just been announced, “all on the orange” says the man over the PA, I’ve got orange tickets, but it's no great surprise I won't be collecting any of the bountiful prizes on offer, beer, wine, chocolates, from the “bar” any time soon.

Halftime is normally a period for rest and reflection on my gambling failures and sometimes for Tom to eat if he hasn't already, it never has before and a doubt it will ever be again, the time for Tom to take part in a penalty shoot out.

A local radio presenter has been handed the mic and will be compere. As he makes his way towards the allotment end, to wait for the “victims, no sorry contestants”, from all four corners of the pitch, the participants all with faces similar to Tom’s, make their way towards him.

It is soon clear the fans of SR, are maybe taking it a bit more seriously than NFU’s, “they've got boots” squeals Tom, claiming if I had let him know in advance, he would have at least been able to put on more appropriate footwear, his dazzling white Nike Airs are not ideal.

“Just glad I hit the target” says a relieved Tom, who he tells me was down to his “North London politeness” that he ended up taking the final and winning penalty. He is briefly serenaded by the fans on the terrace, a pennant is presented, “we don't win every week, but we win the most important things” says one of Toms teammates, on his way to hang the pennant in the bar.

The wind out of the embrace of the big stand is brutal, we fancied a change of scenery, as well as the chance to get away from the hideous smelling sweets, so have taken up position behind the goal NFU will be attacking for the second half and brace ourselves against a big green wall.

“Please welcome out for the second half North Ferriby United” says the voice over the PA, the large green gates that form the tunnel have been swung open and the players trickle down the steps. Testament to the size of Tom’s pre match meal, it is only now, a full hour and a quarter later, a record for him, that he is considering his next morsel, “I want some sweets”.

“Come on Villagers” shouts one of the group of home fans who have also changed ends, swapping one small terraced section for another, a few new flags have made an appearance too. The smokers among the locals, are required to peek over a fence, outside the ground enough to satisfy the stewards, but still able to watch the game.

Perhaps it's picked up a bit since kick off, but the wind is now affecting the SR goal kicks, that start to curl back on themselves. It has though not affected NFU’s fortitude, they are right back at it, one on one with the keeper, the forward decided to cross, when he should have shot, the ball eventually smothered by a heap of defenders bums.

SR win a free kick, and there are shouts of derision again from the home fans, “she fell over”. Tom with his Pep hat on, comments that SR are “playing a dangerously high line”. This has obviously not been lost on the home bench either, “do it like you mean it” shouts one coach when an attack breaks down, and a chance to get behind the SR back line goes begging.

It’s all NFU, I struggle to tear myself away from the action, nature calls, because it feels like there is a chance I’ll miss something significant. Making the slow walk to the toilet, one and a half eyes on the game, half on where I’m going NFU spurn two good chances, a header wide and a six yard box scramble that really should have resulted in a goal.

The two men in the second refreshment stand, that I drop by after Tom lumbered me with a drinks order, one of who tells me its run by the “supporters trust”, look remarkably alike. A bit like the twins who featured in a lot of mid 90’s TV and film. Remember the policeman with a coffee cup, who gets a spike through his eye in Terminator Two?

I worry that my Sprite, a drink I’ve not had since secondary school, will be blown off the top of the green wall, but take the gamble and rest it there. It's taken SR a full twenty minutes, such was NFU’s dominance to create a chance, and it's only thanks to another smart save that it doesn't go in.
The clouds above the church are moving at a rate of knots, and although it's as windy as a Twister film set, its not cold. “They've gone very long ball” says Tom, NFU resorting to old tactics, but its working. One attack results in an attempt at an overhead kick, but the NFU player just ends up kicking his maker and not the ball.

Tom thinks the referee is “losing the game”, he tries at one point to reassert himself “behave” he shouts, doing his best tough guy impression, but he’s not fooling anyone.“Keep your heads” he instructs the jostling players in the box at an NFU corner, and now is starting to just sound a bit silly.

“Come on son, he ain't catching you” confirms a SR fan, to the spearhead of a rapid counter attack. The ball is flashed across the NFU box, but no one takes the incentive of getting in position to tap it in.

My drink is safe and sound, although I wouldn't be totally gutted if it blew over, its tastes odd, Toms hat on the other hand is not so secure and is almost lost. The sun is getting lower and is now veiled by an almost ethereal haze, NFU with fifteen minutes left to go are getting a bit frenzied at the back, the fans cheer a goal saving tackle and will their team forward.

“Someone is going to score” says Tom, replacing his Pep hat, with his Nostradamus one. It's all got a bit hit and hope by NFU now, they have lost much of that vigor from early in the half, and the long balls are not finding their target. There are calls of “off, off, off” after a crunching SR tackle, buts it's only a yellow. “Come on Ferriby” shouts one of the fans on the terrace.

A well hit NFU shot looks to be the one to break the deadlock, but as they say it's at a good height for the keeper, and he's able to make the save. The ball is recovered but the cross back into the box is woeful. As another train rattles along, NFU are at times trying to over complicate things. “Get the ball in the box” emphasises one player, when again a player opts for a delicate scoop, when he should have just crossed it.

With less than ten minutes to go, Tom is sure we are on for “another draw”, our forth of the season. Another train, we haven't had one for ages then two in short succession, drowns out the song from the home fans for a departing player, “na, na, na, na Jordan Harrison” and one from the away fans too “Rangers, Rangers, Rangers”.

To say the man doing the PA sounds gutted, might be an understatement. He has the horrible job of confirming that SR, I would say against the run of play, have just gone ahead. There is maybe a chink of hope for NFU, “we’ve conceded some late goals, so I won't hold my breath” says the SR keeper to a fan behind him.

Another NFU cross into the box, another one that is not on target. The voice on the PA does his best to to “thank” the fans for “their support”, but he sounds like he wants to reach for the closest bottle.
“Two minutes and he's adding three on” says the linesman in response to the SR bench. “Relax” says one SR coach to the players, not able to disguise his angst very well. The NFU bench on the other hand, are clearly dejected and are making no efforts to put on a brave face.

A late NFU free kick is greeted with hopeful gasps, but it’s tame, on target, but not hit with any venom, “that'll do, that'll do” mutters a relieved SR fan to himself.

“If I had a quid for every last minute goal we’ve conceded” says a frustrated Darren. The performance from NFU he explains is so “predictable”, they've pretty much got it down to a formula.
Not being able to put chances away, missing “sitters” as Daren puts it + “inviting” the opposition on = losing.

Matthews spin on it is of course positive, they had “one hundred and forty” here the previous Saturday, there were “three hundred and sixty” here today, but I’m sure he’s hurting, despite his upbeat exterior.

Before 2015 I’d never heard of NFU, after that day at Wembley for the FA Trophy final, NFU have been indelibly branded on my football physchi. I can’t tell you why, I admit to being a football romantic, and the fashion in which they won was so dramatic, their effect on me has been long lasting.

Sadly though, developments at NFU since our visit have taken a turn for the worst. Our oh so memorable visit, that will go down as one of the very best from our four years. The welcome, the warmth, being allowed to hold the miniature silver FA Trophy. Matthew, Darren, Mark in the club shop who made us some badges with our logo on. All the beating heart along with all the other fans and volunteers that make the club what it is

NFU are in trouble, another non league club at the mercy of an unscrupulous owner. In the week Dulwich Hamlet are allowed to go home, it doesn't take long for another club to take up the mantle of the one being fucked over this week, and now it’s NFU’s turn. Attempts to change their name and to move them away from their home are afoot, and cannot be allowed to happen.

I could go on and on, about how nice everyone was, not one person we meet was unhelpful or unfriendly, I could write pages about why you should go to the Chadwick Stadium, but in the end that might all be totally fruitless if certain people get their way.

You can help NFU by signing this petition - https://www.change.org/p/the-football-association-save-north-ferriby-united - because it's imperative that people like Darren and Matthew don’t lose their club, because of someone else's greed, but also because NFU need to be around so they can affect other overweight middle class boys from North London, who might by chance see them play, and for whatever reason are so touched, so affected by the passion of their fans, they are moved to tears and that is a powerful thing.

For all of our photographs from the match, click HERE

Watch our video from the match ↓ HERE

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