Back Row Under The F - Waltham Abbey FC Vs Southend United FC, Essex Senior Cup 4th Round, Capershotts (28/11/18)

“I bet he doesn't bring you Christmas biscuits” replies Rachel when I tell her Tom has offered to drive this evening. To be clear I don’t live very far at all from tonight's venue, which I suspect has something to do with him offering and although he didn't bring me Lebkuchen, he did give me half a Sainsbury chocolate cookie that he said he'd “saved” for me.

Although Spurs are playing in a crucial Champions League tie tonight and instead of preparing myself for a night on the sofa with the heating on, watching it on the TV, I’ve spent the whole day refreshing the Twitter account of Waltham Abbey FC (WA) to see if their pitch will pass the three o'clock inspection.

It did, and that's why I find myself standing at the end of my road, with the rain coming down around me, waiting for Tom.

Still slightly in shock, it's not until I see the blinding headlights of Toms car coming towards me, the rain now even heavier, that I realise this is actually about to happen. Flashing his lights as if to say ‘get in’, I open the door to the immortal question, “shall I put the seat warmers on for you?” and fantasy becomes reality.

My car feels little more than an old tin can, in comparisons to Tom’s, which feels like being on the bridge of the Starship Enterprise. Moody lighting, soft furnishings and cup holders galore. “Tell me if your bum gets hot, it's on max”, he warns me. His caring side shining through, as he ensures I’m comfortable. He puts his windscreen wipers on their highest setting, the rain now lashing down.

For those of you who have never been in a Mini Countryman, let me tell you you're missing out. The dashboard is dominated by a large special screen, which Tom can control everything from the Sat Nav to the radio with the dial down to his left. Embodying Commander Chekov and with a few turns of his left wrist, he plots our journey and we’re off.

“This is nothing” he says, the rain we are currently encountering, not a scratch on what he had to endure on the drive to mine, and the both of us share the feeling we might not be seeing a game at WA. Which wouldn't be the first time, our last attempt to visit them was scuppered by a waterlogged pitch.

The woman bedraggled on the side of road, wet through and in a mild state of disarray, prompts Tom rhetorical question, “we’re choosing to go out in this?”. At the moment I’m more concerned about the fact that my back is now getting very, very hot and that Toms car is better in every single way than mine. Instead of a useless and surly Sat Nav, his says “please” when dishing out the directions.

Having not been the passenger in a car for nearly two years, It's nice for once to be able to sit back, relax and enjoy what was more accurately no more than a bite of a cookie that Tom “saved” for me, but it's the thought that counts. Not having to concentrate on getting us where we're going is a bonus, watching Tom have to pull a very quickfire three point turn on an Essex trading estate, because although she might be polite, his Sat Nav has sent us the wrong way, gives me a mild sense of pleasure.

To be fair to her, the entrance to Capershotts is not exactly clear, opposite the entrance to a graveyard, it's well let's say secluded. There is a tall, green unlit sign, but that's about it and when we eventually find ourselves in the right place, indicating to turn left off the main road, we find we’re not the only ones.

About three cars back in the queue, ahead of us a man battles with the lock of a yellow gate, the traffic around us slowly starting to build. Commuters on their way home from work, already with frayed around the edges start to lose their cool, “where do you want me to go?” asks Tom, as the beeping of car horns increases.

More and more people start to join the growing line behind us. One who turns out to be the WA tea lady behind us, has a far from happy face on and parking almost slap bang in the middle of the road in front of us, the WA manager Mark Stimpson, has just arrived, jumped out of his Audi, abandoning it in a very precarious position, to help with the gate.

The tension is building, not so much in our car, we just put the radio on and are quite enjoying the drama going on around us, although Tom does point out, “we can't sit here all night”. What was one man, using the torch on his phone, is now three men, using their torches on their phones to guide them, however three quickly becomes two, one man has had enough of the struggle. The traffic is growing by the second, Tom tells me he is “starting to need a wee” and who we think are players trying to get in, are now causing tailbacks in both direction, Tom is sure the “police” will arrive at any moment.

Celebratory car horn honking usually reserved for New Years Eve or major sporting victories, accompanies the opening of the gate, a man manically waves us through and being one of the first into the car park, we realise just how many cars were waiting behind, as a procession of cars snakes in. Including the blue minibus of WA’s opponents, Southend United FC (SU).

The iridescent green colour scheme of WA’s home, is made clear once someone hastily flicks on the floodlights. Underfoot there is an unmistakable squelch every time you take a step and in the background is the near constant roar of a nearby motorway.

“Shit isn't it” replies the ever Jovial Tony Gay, a WA coach, who we have crossed paths with many times over the last four year, when I bring up the weather. He is the kind of bloke you can hear before you see, larger than life probably doesn't quite do him justice, but although he thinks the weather is less than ideal, he is far from downbeat.

Sitting under the small shelter behind one goal, the rain having gone full Forrest Gump, it’s coming down on the horizontal. Watching it swirl around the floodlights, it’s almost hypnotic, Tom wonders “if anyone will come”. With very little as far as cover goes, there is more fence then anything, places to keep out of the rain are few and far between. Tom has already worked out where he wants to spend the game, “back row under the F” he tells me. The ‘F’ being the one in WAFC painted on alternative green and white bands on the back of the main stand along one side of the pitch. It’s pale blue seats, the only place you'll find to sit.

Considering the setting our last outing at Farnborough FC’s opulent Cherrywood Road, Capershotts

is worlds apart. No corporate lounges or mega stands here, it's all scaffolding, roped off no go zones and a portacabin tea bar, proper non league.

For the moment, the pitch is looking in surprisingly good nick, no ominous pools of water, but as ever Tom fears for the sanity of the groundsman, and what will he have to deal with, come full time.
Surrounded by the never ending sound of dripping water, that tap, tap, taps on the metal roof above us. I almost feel guilty from my low wooden bench vantage point, as the already drenched coaches from either team, put out the cones in preparation of the warm ups.

“Who is the lonely dude in the stand, he is very eager” ponders Tom, pointing to the single dark figure, who isn't under the ‘F’, but has already taken up position in the main stand and means at least one other person, will be here tonight. Keenly studying the Met Office app, it's a mixed bag for the next few hours. Currently its showing a black cloud with two rain drops, however its forecast for the rest of the evening is white clouds, with one raindrop. “Is it easing?” wonders Tom, looking up from this phone, with a sense of desperation in his voice.

The wind is picking up, the rain a blur in the floodlights, the bare brown trees behind the dugouts sway from side to side and inside the portacabin tea bar, visible through a single grate covered window, the lady from behind us in the queue to get in is busily working away.

“I just wanna know who that guy is?”, asks Tom again, transfixed on the stranger in the stand. A second person joins him, just as eager to secure their spot, but when he thinks he has, he realises he’ll get wet there, so starts the process again. In fact there is a steady stream of people now coming through the tatty yellow brick turnstiles, where between taking money the man manning them brushes away the standing water. Sadly, none coming in, seem to be holding a programme.

“Oh it's definitely easing” says Tom triumphantly, celebrating the accuracy of his beloved Met Office app. The lights flicker on in the main stand, so at least the two men in it no longer have to sit in darkness. At its far end a man unpacks the PA system from a cardboard box, and with the aid of his zoom lens, Tom is on programme watch for me.

“Come on Southend” shouts an SU fan from the sidelines as the team jogs out in their bright yellow tops. At the same time, after his brief sound test, the PA opens his set with Crazy Horses by The Osmonds as the first song of the night, slowly fading it in. The weather might be crap, but so far the music is excellent.

Another SU fan cheers the name of each player as they walk out, the WA team not long behind them, don't quite get the same fanfare, a couple stop at the edge of the pitch to cross themselves, before continuing. “Nice snood” beams Tom, the all black Nike number with a white tick, being worn by the WA keeper, gets Tom’s seal of approval.

I just couldn't bare not knowing any longer, so breaking free from our cover I head towards the turnstile, “twenty minutes, girls stuck in traffic” is the reply of the man who no longer has a broom in his hand, but seems just a tad fed up of having to answer the same query from large nerdy men like myself, about if there will be a programme or not tonight.

The rain has stopped or has it, I have to double check by looking into the floodlights, slightly starry eyed, I can see that it hasn't quit yet, but it's far improved. Time for tea, and the tea bar is also in keeping with the high non league standard already been set. No airs and graces, just bare walls except for the faded wonky pictures of old WA teams, one of which most of the lineup have the most wonderful sideburns and cut out luminous stars, displaying the prices of what's on offer.

Considering it's actually quite mild, we don't get a hot drink, instead just opting for a bottle of water and Tom a Lucozade, keen to replace all those electrolytes he's lost so far today, from sitting about. Back in the stand behind the goal, along with the pigeons, we continue to be surprised by the amount of people arriving, “so many more people here than I thought there would be” says Tom, taking the words out of my mouth. Perhaps it's the draw of SU, albeit their under 23’s or WA have a pretty die hard following.

We also notice the as I put it Old Trafford style slope around the edge of the pitch, that Tom can't help himself saying is like the one at the Emirates.

Night Boat to Cairo by Madness makes me think of home and how much my daughter loves to dance to it. Congregated around the turnstile a posse of men, is starting to form, like me waiting on tenterhooks for the arrival of the woman who was only “twenty minutes” away, twenty five minutes ago. Tom just can't wrap his head around it, people “waiting for a bit of paper” but I can't be bothered to explain again how it's so much more than that.

It's quite subdued as far as entrances go, as the players appear from the caged tunnel to one side of the stand behind the goal. The voice over the PA noticeably lifts when he starts to read the names of the home side out. One home fan, with a green and white scarf above his head, shouts “we are the Abbey” as the teams cross the pitch. “We can do this” he says confidently, but quietly to himself. His score prediction however is far from positive, “reckon we’ll lose 4 - 1”,  “well you can go home” replies a fellow fan, far from impressed by his prognosis.

In the brief moment between the players preparing for kick off and the whistle, I nab my programme. Post kick off and SU are straight at it, four minutes gone and the boy with the scarf has a premonition, “they're going to score” he says as SU race towards the WA goal, showcasing their fighting pace.

A small group of the most committed of SU fans pass us, one of whom is soon under fire, seemingly not aware of what red tape means, he passes under it, into no mans land and and is soon bombarded with whistles and shouts. A long chat about concrete paths ensues, not the most riveting topic in the world. Who I think is the WA chairman explains the need for a continuous concrete path all around the pitch, to keep in line with FA rules, whose visits he jokes “cost” him “£30,000” every time they come.

Ten minutes gone and SU dissect WA, “do not let them score” implores scarf boy. “You can’t let them do that” comments another WA fan, the ease in which SU got down the wing, cut inside and were able to get a shot off, was far too easy.

After nearly a quarter of one way traffic, surrounded by anxious home fans, and the both of us sure this is game going to be over before it's begun, WA go ahead, albeit slightly fortuitously. It’s a well
hit free kick, however its straight at the SU keeper, who makes a bit of a meal of a simple save and as the WA players celebrate, we are treated to the ringing of a green fire bell just along from us in the stand. WA’s version of the Harlow air raid siren.

“Come on you Abbots” shouts scarf boy padding about restlessly, who is singlehandedly, creating what one might call an atmosphere. Tom on kit watch has taken to SU’s all blue get up, it has a bit of the “France” about it. For me it's all about the green and white hooped socks of WA, green a colour I still think is all too underutilised in football.

Tom tries for the second week in a row to be ball boy, but returns empty handed, the ball having disappeared into a spooky space behind the main stand, and he didn't look up for venturing down there. His slight exertion has got his stomach rumbling, “I’m hungry” he tells me before letting out a sizable “ohhhhh” at the sight of a WA foul on a SU player, it’s a real shin clutcher.

For all the difference in pace, touch and quality, it’s WA who double their lead on around twenty minutes. A pirouette in the SU area, sees the WA player away and in on goal, only to be clattered from behind and the referee has no hesitation in pointing to the spot. Some of the younger WA fans, including scarf boy, dash towards that end of the pitch, phones in hand to capture the moment.

As the fire bell sounds again, the voice over the PA is now even more excited than when he was announcing the first goal and he has every right to be. Although they find themselves on the other end of wave after wave of SU attacks, it is they who find themselves in front. “Clinical” is how Tom puts it, two attempts on goal, two goals.

SU are so fast, scarily fast, in their number 9 and 10 they have two players with it to burn. A scintillating counter attack just before the half an hour mark, results in a deftly hit curling shot that strikes the post. Ten or so minutes later and I’m pretty sure everyone is scratching their head, wondering how they are not at least level pegging. A slide rule pass forward is latched onto by the number 9, who before going down under the attention of a WA defender is able to touch the ball off to number 10 who through on goal, instead of just shooting over eggs the pudding, and one step over too many later the chance has gone.

There are claps from the stand that are either applauding the defending or the apparent mercy being shown indirectly by the SU player for not scoring.

Considering my last paragraphs, it would be wrong for me not to say, that WA have their own moments, they are tenacious and should probably have three goals by now, a whipped ball across the SU box goes untouched, all it needed was someone on the other end for a simple tap in.

“Offside again” tuts East London's Pep, “if they just held their runs’’ he adds. SU have been a bit over eager some might say or even lazy, when it comes to staying on side. As Tom put it if they just held their runs for a fraction they would have been in on goal at least “five times”, and Tom adds, WA “ain't catching them”.

Another late WA challenge, causes more SU shin clutching and this time a yellow card. The WA players insist to the referee, who Tom is convinced is “semi famous”, that their man got the ball, but he’s having none of it. SU’s free kick is on target, it circumnavigates the wall, but is straight into the arms of the WA keeper.

Into the final five and another WA ball into the box, this time results in a huge threeway coming together between the SU keeper, an SU defender and a WA forward, the ball is loose momentarily but is eventually cleared.

SU’s number 10 hops in frustration, it's just not coming together for him, some of this is down to the WA defence who are a little fortunate at times, but are doing enough to keep the rampant visitors at bay so far. The home fans cheer their teams clear determination to go in for the break, still two goals to the good.

In football you have halves that feel like they were only ten minutes long, and you have halves that feel, well the opposite. “Long half” says Tom, surely the whistle will be blown any minute. “Stay switched on” shouts someone from the WA bench, following another SU attack.

The half ends with no great surprise, another SU chance, but again it's thwarted by some more backs to the wall, Gandalf impressed, ‘you will not pass’ defending. Free and away at goal, SU’s number 9 only has to finish. With shades of Ledley King against Arjen Robben at White Lane, in YEAR, the WA defender who looked like he’d been left for dead, finds a second wind, catches up with the striker and from behind, with faultless timing and precision, tackles him and prevents the certain goal.

What a challenge, what a way to finish the half.

You could almost go as far as saying he sounds coquettish, as the best way to describe how the man reading out the score sounds, following the half time whistle. I can't obviously confirm it, but I think he might have been ever so slightly on cloud nine. The cheers of the crowd are followed by a mini stampede towards the tea bar, much to Toms annoyance, “oh no everyone is going” he says at the thought of having to wait a whole two minutes in line for his chips.

For all the praise I heaped on the DJ for his pre kick off song choices. Deciding that I Don't Like Mondays, by the BoomTown Rats is a suitable way to start the break, undoes all his good work. Even Mother Nature is appalled, as its start to spit, just about the time the song gets to the first chorus. The rain having so far held off since the biblical down pouring on arrival. Thankfully the mood skyrockets, with the introduction of a bit more of everyone's cheeky north london Ska outfit Madness and we in attendance are no longer subjected to Geldof.

Our brief chat with Tony Gay, Tom having arrived back in no time at all, who makes the silly mistake of having his chips out on show and Tony is not shy in helping himself, at least until the “soup” he just asked someone to get him, appears, was like being in the presence of an all seeing prophet. His order by the way that got such an extraordinary response, you would've thought he'd asked for a lobster bisque, “a soup?!?!” the man bellowed back, in shock.

“They would have got the biggest rolicking” he tells us, there was a distinct chance of some flying teacups in the SU changing room he thinks, they are “professional”, WA “train once a week”. One of the biggest differences between the two sides in the second half will be “fitness” and he is somewhat understated when he suggests the SU’s number 10 is simply a bit “lively”. I get the distinct impression from Tony that with WA having “six reserve” players in the team, he thinks its a minor miracle they are two goals in front.

Some 70’s hair metal with high pitched vocals welcomes the teams out. “Come on you Abbey” shouts someone from the back of the main stand.

“Too fucking easy” screams one WA player, it’s taken SU all of two minutes to grab a goal back. The PA is far from coquettish now, he’s downright depressed. The visitors number 9 has come out the traps flying, it's his ball into the box from out wide, that is slotted into the back of the net.

Bumping into Peter Miles, A.K.A. Mr Southend, A.K.A groundhopping royalty, really puts into perspective, just how little football we get to each season, today's match being his “one hundred and twenty sixth” he tell us, and that's not in the whole of 2018, but the 2018/19 season.

MIND BLOWING!

He also tells us of his attempt to visit every “member state of UEFA” his recent trip to Gibraltar taking his tally to “forty” of “fifty five”.

He also fills us in a bit on SU stars of the future, number 10 having made a few “first team” appearances, but he reckons is not “fancied” by the manager. He also lets us in on the fact that SU were 2 - 0 down at half time in the last round, and went on to with “5-2”.

Thirteen minutes gone and the SU comeback is complete, which they achieve in the most outrageous of fashion, an almost halfway line lob, no less, the scorer falling just short of going the full Cantona, his arms out by his side, but his shirt has no collar to pop.

A minute later and WA go a whisker wide with a header, “ohhhhh” go the crowd, the memory of being two goals to the good a distant memory, now they are only able to cling on to the smallest of moments. SU are showboating, WA make a double substitution, and scarf boy is still confident, despite the turnaround in his team's fortunes, “it's gonna be 3 -2”.

Nineteen minutes gone and SU have flipped the game on its head, “oh dear, I feel a bit sorry for them” mumbles Tom. The man on the PA now is in a near state of despair and just as Tony had predicted, SU that have come out this second half a different team and have blown WA away. From a “shambles” as Peter put it, to half volley scissors kick finishes, I can't understand how they made such hard work out of it before, 3 - 2 up now and they are cursing.

“Come on Abbey take your chances” shouts someone from the main stand. I’m not quite sure what “chances” they are referring too, they've not had a shot on target in the past twenty five minutes. It’s SU crafting all the chances, their unrelenting pressure almost sees them grab a fourth, only for the shot to sail a fraction over.

Not that SU need any assistance up front, but WA are clearly feeling generous and give them a bit of help with a short pass back to the keeper, that is soon pounced upon in a flash. Lucky for the guilty WA defender, his keeper reaches it just a moment before the SU player, but hearts are still in mouths as he makes his hoofed clearance, that strikes the SU player on the arse, sending the ball goalwards and wide.

Just shy of thirty minutes on the clock and WA register their first shot on target and it's a good one, low down to the keepers right, it stings his palms and he’s forced to push the ball back into the box. “Come on Abbey” shouts a fan, “greens we go again” shouts a player, both still holding on to slightest thread of positivity. As WA slowly, but surely, edge themselves back into the game.

Despite WA’s slight resurgence, a cross that almost catches the SU keeper out and a second shot on goal in as many minutes is lacking any venom, but it's something. The football romantic in me is stirred and I ask Tom is there any way WA can get something out of this match, “no” he replies emphatically.

SU are so skillful, the impertinence of youth makes it looks like they don't even care, they are able to do things with a football, that someone like me could only dream of. At moments it looks like the ball is glued to the end of their feet, to they swagger about the pitch doesn't quite emphasise just how self-assured they are, cocksure might just about get there.

With just over ten minutes left, SU grab their fourth, an edge of the box screamer low into the left hand corner of the goal, well out of reach of the WA keeper, the voice over the PA ambivalent now. Instead of dwelling on the score, he informs all “eighty eight” of us here, how many other people have braved the rain. “Thought there was more than that” says Tom, as did I.

Scarf boy screams at the sight of a WA header that goes just over, but if I was him, I would be screaming every time SU get the ball, they look like scoring on every attack, as Tom puts it, you would be very “optimistic” about the future if you were an SU fan.

A late lunging and totally unnecessary SU challenge sparks a bit of a flare up, however the referee who Tom is still trying to work out where he has seen him before, has things under control pretty quickly. “Keep battling” insists a WA player.

I manage, with not long to spare to add a tick to my big book of football cliches, when SU send a ball right down the “corridor of uncertainty” as one home fans put it, in the WA box.

The WA supporters wince at the sight of one of their players taking a hammered free kick right in the midriff and then wince again, when SU get their fifth just after, bizarrely replicating the result in the last round exactly. The voice over the PA is nonchalant, he’s completely over it. ”Ohhhhh” says the lady from the now closed tea bar. “Different level” comments one home fan as his team prepare to restart again, and he makes a good point that some of the WA players would have “done a days graft today”.

SU to go close their sixth into added on time, but they start to loose their discipline, awarding WA two free kick in as many minutes on almost the same spot. “Finish” pleads one WA supporter as the ball falls to a WA player on the penalty spot but his shot is blocked and I’m trying my best not to throttle the man behind me, who has ruined my attempt to record the Spurs game and watch it when I get home, “Tottenham have scored”.

The rain held off for the whole match, little consolation for the home fans I'm sure, with the teams back inside, the ground is plunged into the darkness, and the heavens open. Never have we seen a match, that was a game of two halves in the truest sense of the word. The battle of the two ex teammates, who both played for SU no less, was won by SU's manager tonight, but for a moment, just a brief moment I'm sure Mark Stimpson thought the bragging rights might be his.
 
A green and white flag flaps at the end of its flag pole as we leave, its at this point we notice the clubhouse the other side of the car park for the first time, bet its nice and dry in there and I've still got Toms ginormous belch, "shouldn't eat dinner in five minutes" ringing in my ears, and I can't help but wonder if Tony Gay got his soup?

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Nanny Can I Have A Scarf? - Farnborough FC Vs Gosport Borough FC, Evo-Stik Southern League Premier South, Cherrywood Road (21/11/18)

“Provisions, just in case” says Rachel, handing me half the contents of a Greggs in a blue and white carrier bag, as well as a packet of German Christmas biscuits, Lebkuchen. I decline the Mexican baguette, chicken with jalapenos and the doughnuts, tightly packed in their cellophane wrapper, opting for a bottle of water, the cinnamon biscuits, thinking surely lighting can't strike twice.

There is no time for flowery words about sunsets, skyscrapers or clouds, there is not even time to try and catch a glimpse of how White Hart Lane is coming on, by the time I arrive at Tom’s, my eyes are ready to pop out of my skull, there is a pain in my forehead akin to a train trying to smash out of it, so much so I have to get out the car and dive head first into Tom’s bathroom cabinet, resurfacing having necked two Nurofen.

The stress of the rush hour traffic, has done a right number on me. Stop, start, stop start, and a near coming together between me and a blue convertible Mercedes, means I am in a bad mood to say the least.

I’m not the only one to come prepared though, not long into our journey, and Tom produces a single banana from his bag and a small pre used bottle of water, that has clearly been filled up from the tap.

I think it must be the anxiety of what is potentially around the next corner, that means it's probably the quietest drive we’ve ever made. No music, no radio, no Red Dead Redemption chat, just the crackle of Toms vape, the rustling of me taking another biscuit, I’ve had far too many already, the inside of my mouth feels like a Yankee Candle. Toms banana skin sits folded up on my dashboard, and despite my glares, he has not got the hint, that I would like him to close the window, because it's fucking cold.

Considering it was only moments ago he reeled off a long list of the articles of clothing that he has with him tonight to combat the chill and considering he just said “I’m dreading the cold” I can't understand why he is insisting on having the window open, that is allowing all the warm air out and all the arctic wind in. Talk of investing in “military grade” winter clothing, “Everest” type gear to get him through the months ahead, sounds like a sensible investment. Talk though of him making his own “fingerless gloves”, that won't reveal all of his fingers, just two of them, so he can use his camera, is not so sensible.

“Cobham services” says Tom, with all the dread of a veteran returning to the scene of some great battle. The very palatial motorway service station, was the very place our two hour stay on the M25 last week culminated, after a mixture of emergency resurfacing and a one wheeled caravan, put the kibosh on us getting to our intended game.

Sweaty palms and nervous ticks start to lessen as we fly by, the chance of a repeat of all the sitting, sitting, sitting with no movement at all, constant checking on our ETA, before realising we weren't going to make it, very, very unlikely. The appearance of some red sections on Tom’s Google maps fastens ones heartbeat a bit, but they prove to be false alarms.

I’ve never been to Farnborough before, as with many of our trips, it takes us to places neither of us have been to or were likely to go to, had it not been for football. I’m aware of the famous airshow, but I’m sure the locals would attest to there being a lot more to their town, then a few days a year, where a Spitfire does a fly pass..

One thing I can certainly tell you, and this may be worth adding to the 2019 Farnborough edition of the Lonely Planet, in fact I’ll quote Tom, because he put it best, there are “sooooo many roundabouts”. Motion sickness has near enough set in, by the time we arrive at the well lit sign at the entrance to Cherrywood Road home of Farnborough FC (FB).

“Oh I can feel it”, shudders Tom climbing out of the car, the cold making its presence known instantly. Getting my coat and bag out of the boot, it is difficult to not be somewhat dumbstruck by the sheer size of Cherrywood Road. Part of me has to almost pinch myself, double checking that we’re in the right place. Its huge,I feel like we’ve pulled up outside a League One or Two teams ground, and in a minute someone is going to tell me we are supposed to be around the corner.

Your town your team, it reads either side of the turnstiles, the other side of which the ground is still only half lit, not quite revealing its full splendour quite yet. Standing pitchside, Kevin FB’s Vice Chairman, who I’m sure is able to tell from our gawping faces, that we are both quite taken aback by the ground around us, I need to emphasise this is far from your average non league ground by any stretch of the imagination, he tells us it can “hold 6,500” but they would “expect 200 tonight”.

Except for a few stewards, I’m pretty sure we are the first in tonight, the home players are here, we can hear their music coming from the dressing room, but to give you an idea of just how early we are, when Tom notices the woman rolling up the shutter of the fast food kiosk with a fag in hand and asks her when she will start serving, he catches her a bit by surprise, however her reply is fast and overwhelming friendly in equal measure, “anytime, I can cook something for you now if you want?”.

Half of the wiry towering floodlights flicker into life, slowly but surely a bit of life starts to course through the spacious grounds veins. Maybe down to just how cold it is, the whole place feels like it's moving at half speed. Tom opts for a cup of tea for now, I do too, and although it's not your customary non league hot, i.e. you can take a sip of it without needing a skin graft, at least its warm.

A man standing under the shelter of the supporters trust stand, sets up a small blue and yellow tombola in preparation I hope of a 50/50. The whiteboard behind him, the results of the last one having been only half wiped away, means I’m hopeful of being able to have a flutter.

I can assure you it's not the array of shocking coughs that seem to be plaguing most people
here that drives us towards the club shop, but more the curiosity of wanting to look at the panels either side of the blue door, dedicated to FB’s history. One denotes FB’s previous incarnation, Farnborough Town FC’s, time in the FA Cup. The other explains why FB are not called Farnborough Town anymore, after going into administration and reforming in 2007.

Much like the ground, the shop is a lot grander than those we are used to. Most shops, if there is one at all and it's not just a case of selling scarves and hats from behind the bar, or from a shed like at Cray Wanderers or a cupboard like at WIT, normally there is not enough room to swing a cat, and the shelves are quite bare. Although the racks are hardly bursting, there are a nice array of shirts for sale. The counter is covered in all your usual football tat and some a bit more unusual, a Bertie Bassett statue and a red and black scarf covered in enamel pins from football clubs all across Europe.

“Nanny can I have a scarf” asks one young fan of her grandmother as she enters the shop, the debate between her grandparents is, she may well want one, but “will she wear it?”.

Its piece de resistance is the “treasure corner” as Tom calls it, a storage box mountain of old programs, that one man is almost waist deep in, that according to the woman behind the till, took her and her husband “fifty hours” to sort through and categorise.

The first of our football essentials trifecta is soon completed, when I purchase a much more up to date
programme then the fading, sepia tinged ones behind me. A programme that not only covers tonight's game, but FB’s next home game too, ‘double issue’ it says, splashed across its bright yellow cover.

Tom tests my programme nerdiness, when he poses me a scenario: if I was an FB fan, and I attended both games, would I still “buy two?” to ensure my OCD in these matters was satisfied. I tell him even my football programme collection obsession doesn't stretch that far, but I don't think he believes me.

Cherywood Road is all go when we emerge from the club shop, steam from the fast food kiosk grills, hangs below its low ceiling, before billowing out, rolling over the shutter and into the nights sky. Box number two of our football essentials checklist is soon fulfilled, the second half of the floodlights allows Tom to assess the menu, “sausage roll and Bovril, 2 quid, dinner sorted” he suggests to me, after saying I was a bit hungry, and he has very kindly worked out what I should get.

“Do you want onions?” asks the lady serving, to which she gets a very enthusiastic “yes please” from Tom.

Burger sauce applied, which Tom then tells me he “always regrets” because it’s “too sickly” and a copious amount on his chips, Tom insists for the next ten minutes we go and find a seat in the club bar, not only to allow for some some respite from the cold, but also because he has got all precious all of a sudden about needing a table to eat off. I’ve seen him inhale a currywurst on the packed terraces of the Yellow Wall, so I don’t know what's changed all of a sudden.

I relent, but before we head inside, I slip the elderly man in a black hat behind the tombola £2, and he tears four yellow tickets from his book, handing me two, and folding the other two in half, before opening the small door on the side of the octagonal drum and popping them inside.

Tom grabs one of the faux green leather diner style booths in the bar, maybe because they look like the most comfortable place to sit or because they give him the best view of the TV. “Like being at Mums, Emmerdale and crinkle cut chips” he says, momentarily overcome with nostalgia, the theme tune of the ITV soap playing and the irregular shaped potato soggy from vinegar, poking out from underneath his “good burger”.

“Happy boy” he says to himself, one eye on his food, the other on the very odd conversation happening over my shoulder on the TV about erotic fiction.

As with everything else here, the bar is much larger than most places we've ever been to. Two fruit machines instead of one, two dart boards, the plush booths, not just second hand pub furniture, the stage, which every good clubhouse or bar should have, looks big enough for a slightly scaled down production of Cats. Even the size of the club badge hanging behind the bar, seems that little bit more opulent.

“I don't think anyone is coming", whispers Tom, “should be here by now” he adds, with just over half and hour to kick off, one may of expected to have seen a few more fans than are here currently. At the moment the bar staff almost outnumber the home supporters. We do though catch a glimpse of our first way fans, both in matching Gosport Borough FC (GB) woolly hats, having a pint at a table not far from us.

Tom has something in his beard, but considering how ungenerous he is being when it comes to sharing his chips, I break the normally cast iron bearded brother code, and don't tell him. Tossing the last small crust of his burger bun into its box, he hoovers up the final few chips, saying to himself as does “very nice, very nice”, as he prepares to put his hat on, the sign he is ready to go back outside.

Our second look at Cherrywood Road, now bathed completely in the stark glow of the floodlights, it allows us both to fully appreciate it in all its glory. Along one side of the pitch, the same side as the dugouts and from where the players will appear, is what one might call the main stand. All seater with its intriguingly named Platinum Bar hospitality suite at its top, that Tom is very keen to investigate.

Opposite the main stand, and the full length of the pitch is a half standing, half seated stand, and behind one goal is a half covered bank of concrete terracing with white railings. There is not a lean to, repurposed bus shelter, piece of scaffolding or a broken seat in sight, Cherrywood Road is not very non league at all.

You may well have noticed, I’ve only described three sides of the ground and this is not because of an Oxford United type set up, with their three sided Kassam Stadium, but because the fourth stand, the one behind the other goal, is so large, so imposing, one could be forgiven for thinking it had once been part of Maine Road, saying that, and keeping to the North West theme, it does bare a striking resemblance to the Cheadle End at Edgeley Park. It’s hundreds of blue seats more than capable of managing the expected attendance tonight, with some to spare.

I’m convinced that some if not most of the ground will be out of bounds, why would you bother to have it all open if you were only expecting two hundred? Why bother having the necessary stewarding and such when no one will be here to use it, however the patrolling men in hi viz and the lack of red and white tape, leads me to believe this will not be the case.

So intrigued by the Platinum Lounge, Tom has disappeared. Pressing his nose up against the glass like a Dickens character at Christmas, he couldn't stop himself peering through the window, to see how the other half live. Reporting back, we recounts fanciful tales of “silver service” a “programme at your seat” and a “three course meal”, but this can't be true, this is the seventh tier of the football pyramid, not Stamford Bridge.

I think the idea of a sit down meal and someone serving you broccoli with tongs, appeals to Tom. The sight of the finer things, reignite in him a fire that has always been there. Putting to the sword his salt of the earth, man of the people persona he likes to portray. Hospitality and prawn sandwiches is right up his street, no great surprise mind, considering his stint in club level whilst a season ticket holder at the Emirates.

A young FB fan in matching club shirt and hat waits at the mouth of the dark brick tunnel at the base of the main stand for the arrival of the players. She is on mascot duty and is more than eager to thrust her gloved hand into that of the FB’s captain, confidently strides out across the pitch. Leading from the front she shakes first the hands of the referee and his assistants, before them of the GB players.

So used to hearing a bit of music pre kick off, essential on some occasions because it gives something for Tom and I to talk about, it is a bit strange when we don't hear anything at all. I’m not saying everyone has to go to the extent of creating a bespoke mix, like they used at Newhaven as the players walk out, but a little music goes a long way to building the atmosphere. I’d be happy with a bit of Radio 4, but I’m probably the only one.

Other than the sizzle of the hotplates and the players warming up, Cherrywood Road had been relatively quiet, until the booming, stern voice, of the stadium announcer thunders from the speakers. His “welcome” a little frosty, and his sudden introduction, makes me think of the first time Dorothy met the Wizard of Oz.

Let’s be honest, we were never going to sit anywhere else but in the “ridiculous” stand as Tom calls it. As nice as the main stand looks, “ohh mood lighting” says Tom as its lights go out, in preparation of kick off, we opt to climb the few steps into the grandstand, that is near enough empty, looks so out of place, but as Tom crucially points out, it is certainly “comfy”.

“Come on boro” and “come on yellows” are the shouts from the scattered crowd. Any of those FB supporters who have opted to sit in what we are now referring to as the ‘Mega Stand’, who offer up their own shouts, it almost echoes in the cavernous empty space that surrounds us.

There is barely no time for us to have our brief and always ill informed discussions about who is going to win, because with merely two minutes on the clock, the GB players are screaming at the referee, who in turn is glaring at his assistant for guidance, because they have just had a header cleared from what they think is from behind the line. All the players look at the referee for a decision, whose eyes are still locked onto his assistant, who shakes his head.

The promising start by the visitors I think somewhat colours Tom decision making process when trying to work out who will be victorious tonight. Not long after seeing GB nearly go ahead, he tells me it is them who he thinks will win. Normally such decisions are based on current form or past head to heads, however Tom informs me he thinks GB will leave with all three points, in a significant departure from his normally Pep like analysis, because they looked the “more energetic” in the warm up.

I also feel GB will be the winners, but must admit this is based on equally ridiculous reasons. I have failed completely to do the slightest bit of research on either team, so opt for the one whose kit I like the most. GB’s shirt and shorts are a shade of green more familiar in a glade than on a football kit. With the black detailing around the shoulders, it makes it one of the more curious designs we are likely to see this season.

I’m doing my best to concentrate on the game, but it's hard, I just can't get my head around this stand.
I don't know why I’m so transfixed on it. We’re watching a football match in the Southern League, but it feels and looks like Sheffield Wednesday will be playing here next Saturday.

Proving that how fast you run in the warm up or what colour your shirt is, have little impact on anything at all, FB take the lead on nine minutes. A dinked ball into the box, is latched onto by one forward who takes a few touches before finishing well from a tight angle. Wheeling away the scorer is met by a teammate, who puts him in a headlock and ruffles his hair, much like an overly enthusiastic aunt, you haven't seen for ages, might do.

A single gruff voice from in front of us, dishes out loud advice to FB. The shouts from the technical areas are equally as loud, if not a bit more angry, but both benches are at such close quarters, I’m not sure if its the home or away manager, who is pissed off.

It may well be the home one, a quarter of the half gone and GB go close again, despite being ahead FB are hardly in control. A superb flick on the edge of the box, sees the player away and heading towards the goal, he shoots high towards the top corner, from an acute angle. Too powerful for the keeper to hold, he is forced to pad it away for a corner.

“Fastest yellow card flash I've ever seen” says Tom, the referee dishing out a booking to a FB player, as Tom puts it, without even raising the card “above his head”. The croaky voiced FB fan is bemused. “Whats wrong with you?” he asks his keeper, who Tom confirms, “that's the second time he’s done that”, the FB stopper having sent his second consecutive goal kick straight into touch.

Another FB booking, allows GB the chance to swing in a free kick, which results in moment of panic, the visitors claim for a penalty, but its waved away. FB regain possession and counterattack. Their eventual shot is pushed wide and receives the muted gloved applause of the fans. FB go close with a header from the resulting corner and more shouts of “come on boro” echo around the Mega Stand.

I finally succumb to the cold, always keen to portray Tom as a bit of a softy and me a hardy mountain man, that isn't bothered by the silly cold, I cave. Rummaging around in my bag for my black and white shemagh or what Tom calls my “tablecloth”, I wrap it around my neck. He tells me I should get a snood, a shemagh is basically a middle eastern one, just not anywhere near as douchie. Sounding like someone who has shares in Snood Inc, he suggests “everyone should have one” they “make all the difference”.

Tom who rapidly taps his feet as he does his best to bring them back to life, as well as on occasion slapping his thighs, to do the same he points to the man in front of us in a mobility scooter, “he’s got the right idea” he says. The man's legs and lower torso concealed within a blue sleeping bag.

To suggest the game was dead, would imply it had been alive in the first place, the first thirty minutes, except for the goal and the oh so brief moments where GB forge a half chance, it’s never really got off the ground. Just after the half an hour mark, and a dangerous GB ball across the FB box, hits the heels of the intended forward, who can’t meet the pass in his stride.

Tom is longing for his half time snack, “I want a chocolate bar”. I’m trying my best to not write even more about the Mega Stand, because the game is not giving me anything. There are the odd flashes of excitement, like when one FB winger flies down the wing, into the box, makes his way along the byline and lets fly a close range shot and for a fraction of a second, I and all the FB fans thinks they have doubled their lead, but the all seeing eye that is Tom, brings me crashing down to earth, “side netting”.

The shot that ended up hitting the side of the goal must have taken a deflection, FB are awarded a corner. GB’s keepers attempt to clear it through a sea of people, sees him make a right meal of it, flapping he doesn't quite make the intended contact, but is saved by the referee who gives a foul.

Such was the velocity the man in GB's goal hurtling into the other players, he has come off worse for wear and is down in his yard box. What's wrong with the keeper I ask Tom, sometimes the lens on his camera can give us a bit of an insight into what's happening at the other end of the pitch, but he doesn't look, “the cold” he replies.

Other than their very sweetly taken and well worked goal, FB whenever in position are either bobbling the ball around in midfield or are hitting hopeful looking passes up the channels, to exacerbated forwards and wide players who without fail, give the same shrug of the shoulders, each with a ‘what am I supposed to do with that’ look on their face.

As cold as it is, I would still rather be shivering, than inside watching Emmerdale and as the half heads into its final five minutes. GB who much like FB have been very little more than simply present, seem determined to drag this game up by the bootstraps and almost score. Crashing a shot off the foot of the post, they have no intention of giving up on their rare moment of forward momentum easily. Retrieving the rebound, the player who just saw his shoot hit the woodwork, turns and heads back towards the goal, leaving the towering defender whose marking him for dead. The skyscraper knows full well he's been beaten, and can only hold up his hands, and watch the much smaller man race towards the six yard box, where instead of shooting, he cuts the ball back to a better positioned teammate.

Prompted by a shout to leave it the second of the GB players lined up on the edge of the box to drive the ball goalwards, does just that, letting the ball roll to the man behind him, whose side footed effort goes well over.

“Totally whipped him out” laughs Tom, a FB player is down having been accidental forearm smashed by the referee in the centre circle. However such is the strength of the call from the food kiosk, that Tom can’t keep his eyes off, and instead of watching to see if the man in black is about to perform the People's Elbow. He’s waffling on instead about how “stuffed” he is, how he only wants a hot drink, and he “couldn't eat another thing”, even if he wanted to, after his “banana, lots of biscuits, and burger and chips”.

On the stroke of forty five minutes the steely voiced announces their will be “two minutes of added time” and what looked like a “good tackle” to both Tom and I, is awarded as a foul in FB’s favour, giving them one last chance to get the ball into the GB box.

Once again the GB keeper does his best to reach the cross, once again he can't quite make it and flaps once more. This time though he remains unscathed. With what must be only seconds left to play, it is a “lively” finish as Tom puts is as GB have not one, but two pops at the FB goal. The first is blocked by a GB player, just about summing up this game, the second by the poked out leg of a FB defender.

A lacklustre blast of the referee's whistle brings the half to an end. The PA confirms the score, then the fact I have not won “£66” on the 50/50 or as it transpires the “golden goal” either, which I didn't even know was an option. Music for the first time fills the ground and I can't work out if the people bobbing up and down are dancing to Katy Perry or are trying to keep warm.

In a blue and yellow FB scarf and with a pint in hand, Luke, FB’s programme editor joins me. “Came after they went under” he explains, my first question of course about the origins of the Mega Stand, which much to my surprise it came post 2007 thanks to a previous owner, which there have been few. It has been a far from easy revival since the clubs return from the ashes.

Talking to Luke, he quickly joins the long list of committed volunteers, who make non league football tick. Living no more than twenty minutes away from me in North London, he follows FB home and away, he explains his rather convoluted journey here for midweek games, that relies on a lot of moving parts being in sync, to ensure he gets here on time. As well as being the programme editor, he also has a rather large camera round his neck, so I would not be shocked if he told me he moonlights as the clubs photographer too.

Tom spends nigh on the whole of the break in the shuffling queue of woolly hat wearers for a cup of tea, returning slowly, having the steps of the stand to contend with, as he makes the return leg with a cup of tea in each hand.

A combination of nattering with Luke and trying desperately to eat my rock hard Kit Kat, without cracking a molar, the first fifteen minutes of the second half are a little hazy. I can tell you that GB go
close twice, picking up where they left off, and Luke is growing increasingly anxious, “getting closer”. He then utters the immortal words every football fan will say at some point during a match when their team is holding on to a one goal lead, “we need a second”.

“Come on” he barks, right in my ear, half out of his seat, as an FB forward races towards the GB goal, one on one, but his shot is saved.

The GB player who was a hairs breadth from getting on the end of a cross in the FB six yard box, lies on the pitch head in hands, mulling over just how close to it he was. As nice as the “great tea” as Tom puts it is, and as welcome as the mild sugar rush the Kit Kat brings is, the game still has failed to catch light.

“Come on boro” shouts an animated Luke when a FB free kick travels all the way through the GB box and out the other side unmolested, resulting in much disgruntled groaning from the home fans. They look to go close again, but sadly the cross into the box, can’t match the quality of run and delicate touch, that would have been the perfect end to an inspired solo move. The groans this time are not of disapproval but concern, as the wide player at full pelt careered heavily into the hoarding, and most in attendance take a sharp intake of breath.

“He got up quick” says Tom, relieved as I’m sure everyone is, that the player whose run came to an abrupt and what sounded like a very painful end, is back up on his feet.

Luke fills me in on more about the ground, as I badger him for more information, he tells me it is “league standard” and was recently used by a top flight “Russian club” to train in. Then my cross examination is put on hold, when with less than a quarter of an hour left, GB have been reduced to ten men, after a player is shown his second yellow, and as he makes the long slow walk off, he is serenaded with chants of  “cheerio, cheerio, cheerio”.

“Shit” shouts Luke, FB have just conceded. The joy of being a goal up and having a man extra, lasted all of about six minutes. The two GB fans from the bar, have been joined by at least four others behind the goal and they watch the scorer, who just dispatched the ball high into the roof of the net, come to a stop in front of them, after an impressive knee side.

The PA shows for the first time, the faintest hint of emotion, clearly annoyed as he has to confirm the time of the goal and name of the scorer. “It's been coming since about the sixtieth minute” says Luke astutely. There are the odd shouts of “come on you yellows” but they are few and far between, with the ten men of GB now well on top.

A deep GB cross looks like it might be heading for the top right hand corner only for it to be plucked from the air by the FB keeper. “Come on boro” shout the fans, without an ounce of optimism One member of the home bench almost quotes Journey, but gets it wrong, “keep believing”.

“Happy with a 1 - 1” says Tom, the GB keeper, not surprisingly now taking an eternity to do the simplest of tasks. “Get on with it” shouts one FB supporter, his shenanigans have not gone unnoticed by them either. There is much debate between two GB players who should take the latest free kick, when they eventually decided it should be the keeper, he ends up kicking it right out of play, much to the delight of the home fans.

Into the final five minutes and GB are trying to waste every possible second they can, “you've been mugged off”, shouts a member of the ever increasingly vocal home fans to the referee, a GB player has gone down, apparently injured and the physio is called for. Sarcastic applause rings out as to no one's great surprise, the injured player is back on his feet and is as right as rain.

The late appearance of the much coveted number 12, Michael Fernandes, who Luke tells me has been scouted by a swathe of “Premier League clubs” and who I don’t think is the person of the same name I went to primary school with, will in Luke's opinion, “make the difference”. Fernandes is “very fast” and “very skillful” adds Luke, only his “decision making” can let him down, but he’s young and his early touches are very promising.

“Win the game for us Michael” implores a voice from the crowd.

Fernandes introduction has roused the fans, their shouts are a bit more hopeful now, “come on boro”. Luke is now permanently perched on the edge of his seat, “come on” he shouts once more, almost directly into my ear and on the other side of me I’ve got Tom hammering his thighs again, trying now his best to thaw out his hand.

“For a team with ten men, they're playing alright” says Luke begrudgingly, no end of enthusiastic clapping from the home bench, is really inspiring the home team. “Get on with it” booms one voice from behind us, the GB keeper is back at it, and his antics are starting to wear a bit thin.

Like an excited school boy, Luke is a bundle of energy every time Fernandes gets near the ball, “come on Michael” he screams. The crowd are growing increasingly desperate for their team to get something out of the game, it is now simply a case of giving the ball to the number 12 and hoping he can do some magic.

“Make it count boys” pleads one home fan, FB having been awarded a free kick with perhaps no more than two minutes on the clock. It’s hooked in, but it is far from threatening, but they at least get a corner from it. The team form up, jostling with each other for space in the GB penalty area.

“Fucking get it” shouts a relieved Luke, who just leapt from his chair, punching the air, his team in the eighty ninth minute, with a back post header, from the player he tells me, a bit quieter than most of his deafening cries, is making his “debut” tonight, having just signed from Wingate & Finchley.

Seconds after the restart, and the PA, without even the slightest hit that he might have enjoyed the potential winner, informs us all of the “five minutes” of added time there is to play. Which has pretty much everyone scratching their heads, unable to work out how the officials have come to that total.

However considering the marked improvement in the home fans sprites, in particular that of the two standing gentleman, about halfway up the main stand, with hands firmly shoved in pockets, who have not been shy of sharing their opinions, “we like you now lino” says one, to the nearby assistant who before then had been the main focus of their wrath, I don't think they are going to start splitting hairs.

One of the two men, overcome by the sight of seeing his team take the lead, is reprimanded by his daughter, “Dad don’t say that”, she says, when he gets a bit ahead of himself, with still four minutes of the match to play, “it's in the bag, it's in the bag”, he says on repeat.

Luke now even more buoyant before, but falling short of giving a blow by blow commentary, he leaves that to the two men in the stand, is still giddy at the sight of Fernandes getting the ball, “look at the pace on him” he says, like a proud father at Sports day.

“Take it in the corners” instructs one fan, the pain of previous ninety minutes noticeable in his voice, they’re in front now, and that how he wants it to stay. When the player gets there, the shout from the manager echos, that of the supporters, “stay there!”.

There is a brief moment when time almost stands still, the ball has escaped the corner, and are we about to have a Ginola for France against Bulgaria moment? The ball now back in GB’s possession they are allowed the space to take shot at goal, it's on target, but also straight at the keeper, who grasps the ball with two hands and sinks to the floor, and everyone can exhale.

“You can't go early, you don't know what will happen” says one of the two standing FB supporters to a group leaving, “need to beat the rush” replies one of the departing trio.

This is it, GB’s last chance to salvage what wouldn't be a completely undeserved point. “Oh God here we go” says a nearby FB fan nervously, almost unable to watch, “we can't concede now” he says as the visiting team shape up to take their corner. “Well in” he cheers as an FB defender gives it the full Peter Kay, and wallops the ball well clear.

“Blow that whistle” demands of one home fan to the ref.

It’s all handshakes and pleasantries from both teams following the final whistle. Emerging from the tunnel, the dismissed GB player, changed and apparently holding a pair of pink trousers, is looking for trouble. It's only thanks to the quick thinking of one steward, who prevents him from getting much further than the edge of the pitch, that disaster is averted.

In Luke today we met another person who without the need of financial reward, has devoted a large chunk of his life, most of it to travelling, to support and help run his football team, simply as he put it, because of his "love of the club”.

In FB we encountered a club, that our brief time with posed more questions than it answered. Was the person doing the PA a man in a green suit with a curly moustache in a tiny cupboard? Was Tom the happiest he’s ever been in almost four years, when he got to be ball boy, tossing the ball back to a player? Will either of us ever get the feeling back in our hands? Are FB the only club at this level, offering a matchday hospitality experience?

Most importantly though, and to justify the efforts of Luke and his fellow fans and volunteers, will they ever fill Cherrywood Road again?

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Thats Put The Mockers On Us - Cray Wanderers FC Vs Hastings United FC, Bostik League South East, Hayes Lane (11/11/18)

It's not the cheeriest of drives to pick up Tom this morning, Nimrod by Elgar is shortly followed by a single bugler playing the Last Post. The scenes from The Cenotaph that occupied me at home, now fill my car, the solemn voice of Jonathan Dimbleby echos from the speakers. What sun there is, is warm, but the slightest crack in my window lets the ice cold wind come rushing in.

A quote from a Wilfred Owen poem, the enamel poppy my brother gave me pinned to my shirt, which he sells without fail every year, picking them up from our local Royal British Legion and thoughts of my grandfather too traumatised by World War Two to even acknowledge the 11th hour of the 11th month, on the 11th day, run through my mind.

I do my best to try and steal a glimpse of the newly erected cockerel on top of the new Spurs stadium, but the sun is just too bright. The mood though is soon lifted by the arrival of Tom and his gilet based one liners, “I hope that cloud fucks off, I’ve got no sleeves”.

Today's weather is a marked improvement on yesterdays, and the monsoon rain that plagued most of my drive back from the North West after a visit to see the soon to be in-laws. There is the odd grey cloud in the sky, that Tom has his eye keenly locked on, but as of yet they are posing no threat.

It is a reasonably well trodden path for us to the particular corner of South East London we are heading to. Last season in the midst of The Beat from the East, Hayes Lane and it’s 4G surface saved us from a busted flush and this season with Tom’s new rota, and for the time being Saturdays being out of the question, it comes to the rescue once again.

Snow and ice covered the cars and pavements last time, the significant potholes in the car park were frozen over, and the horses, yes horses, were tucked up inside. Today the horses, yes horses live in a field next to a football ground in the middle of suburban London, graze peacefully, there is no snow, but the potholes remain and are just as hazardous.

We arrive as the local kids are finishing up their morning training session, their parents doing their best to guide them away from the craters that litter the car park floor, in fear of losing them.

“Too much advertising” says Tom, which I’m pretty sure is what he said last time we were here, in fairness Hayes Lane does look a bit like a F1 drivers jumpsuit, there is no spot that isn't advertising a local solicitors or double glazing showroom. There is though one glaring change to the place, and that is to the old stand behind one goal, that is no more. The very place we watched Cray Wanderers FC (CW) who three years later are still Bromley FC’s lodgers, survive relegation, has been demolished.

Such is our promptness, a mini game is still playing out. The goals on rollers having been moved to halve the pitch in size. Tom watching on, has one of his Pep moments, albeit a chilly Pep today, “ohh it's cold” he says half shuddering, should have brought a complete jacket then, he gives up one of his pearls of wisdom, sharing his thoughts on the exercises being gone through, “two runners, teaching them how to go forward”.

The upstairs bar, on the second floor of the main stand is already well inhabited, the early kick off on a what I’m sure is going to be a truly stunning Super Sunday, Liverpool Vs Fulham is being shown via a projector. The seated programme seller perched on top of a stool is surrounded so I join the queue and Tom heads straight for the tea bar.

“Ohhh, a cheeky sausage roll” he says, peering into the tin foil lined glass fronted, heater cabinet. There are also some pretty sizable pasties in there too, but he’s “not hungry” he tells me, so it’s just a cup of tea for now and with nowhere to sit in the bar, we head back downstairs, “away from the warm and the big TV” Tom points out, in his best passive aggressive voice.

Any Sunday cobwebs that may still have remained, I’m not one for doing much on the 7th day, for me it's a home on the sofa kind of day, football being just about the only exception that will get me out, are soon blown away by the rowdy kids in the back of the stand talking Fortnite.

One could feel the cold, before even getting outside, I sit, sipping at my tea, Tom stands fidgeting, doing his best to keep warm. Having both been caught out by the rate at which the sugar shaker dispensed its contents, we both grimace with every gulp, it's like drinking a cup of melted Brighton rock.

Talking to a member of the CW board in his tweed jacket, club tie and poppy pin, who Tom says looked “very swish” as he walked away, he is beaming about CW’s current form. They have had quite the turn around since we last saw them. From fighting relegation to challenging for promotion, they are as he puts it, on an “incredible curve”.

The upturn in fortunes are not only reserved to the first team, their youth team is going great guns in the FA Youth Cup, an encounter against Portsmouth is up next, but although he says it's not the case, all eyes are on who and where they will play in the next round if they beat the Hampshire club, “to think of Cray Wanderers playing against Liverpool”.

Thoughts soon return to today though, it's a “massive game”, he emphasises, first vs second.

It’s got a lot quieter now in the stand, the roller goals having been put back in place, which was the cue for the kids behind us, to have a kick about on the pitch.

A man with a much grander poppy then me, climbs the few steps into the main stand to find a seat, not long behind him a man in a long dark jacket, sits just along from us, and leaning on a leather folder, fills in the team sheet.

Wispy white clouds float along in a sea of blue, and although cold and coming down from my sugar high, I’m happy to have dragged myself away from the confines of my house. Tom on the other hand, wracked with some real first world problems, laments his indecisive food purchasing, “should have had a sausage roll” he says to himself, annoyed now he’ll have to “wait until half time”, he somehow has turned it on me, making the fact he is not currently covered in flaky pastry my fault, “you should have forced me”.

“Cheer up, we're gonna win today” says a man sporting a Hastings United FC (HU) scarf, CW’s opponents, to the man completing the team sheet, who is less than impressed with having to be out on a Sunday, unlike me it seems, even football is not an exception.

Tom finally reaches the end of his tea, “oh the bottom” he says contorting his face, having just got a mouthful of undissolved sugar sludge. Both agreeing we have been sitting around for too long, it's time to get a bit of life back in our feet, so we go for a wander. Tom thinks he’s seen something that will get me excited, but I think he’s just winding me up.

Oh what a sight that is, pinned to a corkboard on the door of a changing of the guard sized shed, are the meticulously folded and stapled, orange golden goal tickets. “Everyone a winner until kick off”, says the man selling them, when he can see I’m struggling which one to pick.

‘I am’ says the same man with a shrug of his shoulders, when I ask if there is a club shop, hung behind him a single CW shirt. I eventually pick one of the orange tickets and overcome with an unfamiliar feeling of generosity, ask Tom to pick the second. He opts for one secured with a red pin of course, and as he hands it to me, informs me that it’s his, any winnings that might result because of his choice, are his too.

Considering both tickets are indistinguishable from the outside, I give them a quick shuffle, and his ambitions of getting his hands on my winnings quickly fade.

“Be a good game” says Mark, CW’s Club Secretary, but it will be “close” he adds cautiously, “Hastings are in great form” and CW he explains don't do themselves “justice” in “big one off games”.

Talking to Mark, I hope he doesn't think I’m rude, I hope he hasn't noticed my eye wandering towards
one corner of the pitch, and to the enormous orange and black CW flag, that has just been hung from the back of one section of the terrace behind the goal.

The one flag would be impressive enough, however on closer inspection, and by the time I’ve got over to the man putting them up, more have been raised, each as large and as orange and black as the first. I can see at his feet three overflowing supermarket bags for life, bungee cords, lengths of rope and crocodile clips, scattered across the floor.

I don't think in all my time watching non league football I’ve ever seen quite the display, certainly not all by one person. I admit the James Bearwell show was impressive, but the bottomless Mary Poppins Sports Direct bag in front me and just how many flags and banners it contains, makes James offering, just look like a few hankies on a washing line. Flag after flag and a few scarves continue to appear. His wife by his side helping, his two kids watching on, a bit like, ‘really Dad, it's a bit cold for all this’.

So in awe of his collection, I forget to ask his name, but he tells me he’s been a CW fan for “twelve years” and is originally from Portsmouth, and a Pompey fan. I can see on closer inspection one of his bags has the Portsmouth badge on and not Tesco, he explains he is a little torn about CW’s FA Youth Cup match against his home town club, “don't know who I wanna win”.

I have to ask, all while he ties and clamps, his wife ready with the next one, that surely he doesn't change ends at a half time with all this. He laughs, so does his wife, exasperatedly, they don't he informs me. The “Cray Massive” spectacle, as one flag identifies them stays as it is until it's time to pack them all away again.

Before the 1980’s overtake the airwaves, the PA is tested, and the music that follows is all clearly off a single Spotify playlist. Tainted Love by Soft Cell is first, and the rest follows suit, there is a brief chant of “come on Hastings” from the travelling fans, and wehhhhhh’s of delight, when they get a reply from the flag mans son.

The man having the very loud, shouty and sometimes aggressive mobile phone call, might want to consider taking it outside, he is bringing down the tone a bit. Duran Duran are next up and a good sized turnout, many of them devouring chips, from white paper bags, bob their heads to the lyrics of Simon Le Bon.

A vociferous whistle interrupts Adam & the Ants, a signal from one CW coach that it's time for the team to head in after their warm up. The Fortnite kids, still on the edge of the pitch, high five the departing players, one child whose touch momentarily loses him, nearly boots a ball right in to the face of one of the starting eleven.

“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen and welcome to Hayes Lane” announces the man with the mike in the pin covered CW hat from the stand. He shares with us the itinerary for the rest of the day, there will be a few presentations before kick off and “of course a minutes silence”. He battles with some of the names as he reads out the teams, and as he does so the long shiny black tunnel is extended like the Alien Queens mandibles, from the stand to the edge of pitch.

The music takes a distinctive 1960’s turn when Dion DiMucci’s song The Wanderer, starts to play in anticipation of the players arrival. One stewards asks another what the presentations are in aid of, CW’s gaffa has won the manager of the month award, “thats put the mockers on us”, he replies.

The bang of upturning seats follows the sharp blast of the referees whistle at the start of the silence, the Fortnite boys are impeccably behaved, standing on the touchline, arms behind their backs, heads bowed. Both teams stand shoulder to shoulder on opposite sides of the centre circle, the CW players hold a white flag, with a large red poppy on it.

The second and equally piercing blast of the referee's whistle, is the signal for the HU fans who are here in good numbers with drinks in hand, to get back at it, “come on Hastings, super Hastings, from the south”. With the ends decided, the HU supporters head for the large covered terrace, and are soon banging its back wall as they continue to sing. The Cray Massive end will remain unoccupied for the first half.

An early dangerous CW cross that is only just cleared, a half hearted appeal for a penalty from the home team, then a HU’s shot that goes just wide, plus plenty of singing from the HU fans, “super, super Hastings”, all within the first four minutes, sets the tone for a high tempo, action packed top of the table clash, that doesn't disappoint, that hopefully will even appease the grumpy HU official.

“He didn't touch it” shouts one of the CW fans at the back of the well packed stand towards the referee, who has just ruled off CW’s sixth minute goal for offside, the player who hopped over the ball as it fizzed goalwards, was deemed I guess to have been interfered with play.

Two minutes later, and such is the nature of the wide open game, HU go close with a stabbed attempt at a finish, that is kept out by the CW keepers feet. Less than thirty seconds later, CW are flying down the wing, the wide player making his way unabated all the way into the HU box, where he shoots low, forcing a save from the keeper. His second attempt, the ricochet falling having fallen kindly to him, is saved also.

The back row of the stand, still on their feet, are much happier now, than they had been.

Impressed by the HU fans, “Hastings travel well” says Tom as they belt our their latest song, “oh when the U’s go marching in”, his praise for them and their near non stop chanting is not for long though, “I’m hungry”.

CW are relentless, in the HU box once again, this time their attempt at a cross is blocked, “come on Wands”. What looks like might be the most stunning of openers, an edge of the box volley, falls into the arms of the grateful HU keeper, a CW goal feels imminent.

“He dived” declares one CW fan in the stand, at the sight of an HU player going down. It wasn't a dive by any means. The Fortnite kids, seemingly never far away, are far more interested in getting the attention of what I can only assume is of one of their teaches, who is playing for CW, “Mr Pritchard, Mr Pritchard”.

“Come on Hastings, come on Hastings” sing the HU fans at the sight of their team breaking into attack. The Fortnite kids, no longer harassing their English teacher, at the sight of the same attack, suggest their team “break” the “legs” of the HU player sprinting towards their goal. People really are a lot tougher South of the river.

HU attack again, the keeper gets his hands on the shot, but he spills it, the ball is hurriedly cleared by a CW player. “Come on you U’s” sing the HU supporters behind the goal, whose banging of the back of the stand, has become even more frequent.

End to end, I don't think we've seen this many chances in one match, heck even the whole season, then we’ve seen in the first fifteen minutes today. Many gruff football comments are coming a plenty from the back of the main stand and the CW keeper demands his team mates in front of him “talk” after allowing one HU player far too much time with the ball, and his eventual shot only going narrowly over.

As previously mentioned the HU fans have had no issue finding the bar, and Tom thinks this is starting to affect their performance, “don’t understand what they are saying” he says, as he attempts to decipher their current tune, “all sounds the same”, tilting this head towards the singing fans.

CW’s number 4’s boots have caught Tom’s eye, “very nice”. Black Nike’s with a hint of the Louboutin about them, with their red soles. Back and forth the game continues to swing, “come on you U’s” continue to sing the away fans. In their number 9, they have a player so fast he’s forced Tom to blaspheme, “Jesus!”.

With just over twenty minutes on the clock and HU go close, a near post corner is hooked just wide by the player with his back to goal. Chips by the bag full continue to be polished off, maybe also acting as hand warmers, people using the hot fried potatoes to keep their digits from freezing.

“He's like a centre back in midfield” says Tom, with his Pep hat securely back on, about CW’s number 6. ‘Mr Flick On’ as I have dubbed him, is the main focal point for all the long balls out from the back, winning nigh on everyone. His ability to set attacks up with the deftest of flicks of his head, is impressive. He is also pretty adept in receiving the ball to his feet, holding up play, then initiating a move that way instead.

Sadly for all involved, HU’s number 9, the speed demon who made Tom take the lord's name in vain is limping. “That hit your car” chuckles Tom as a mega clearance, clears the stand towards the car park, however I’m less concerned with the state of my windscreen, and more with the condition of HU’s number 9, simply because I want to see just how fast he can go, because he is down and signalling to the physio.

The injury allows a few CW players to take on some water and have a bit of a conference about the game, “we gotta try someone else” says one. “Oh that’s a shame” says Tom, as HU’s number 9, limps
off. Maybe not a sight the CW defenders want to see, but it is a definite relief when he appears on the touchline, ready to come back on.

Half an hour gone and Tom is convinced that HU are going to win, despite him just saying both teams were guilty of plenty of “almosts”, his decision may have been somewhat influenced by the defence splitting pass by the away team, that the CW defender did well to shield the forward away from and allowing the keeper to claim.

Tom is also at that point in the day when he is trying to work out his ‘when do I go and get my food’ equation. This afternoon has the added parameter of the Arsenal likely to be on when he goes, and the fact he might not return.

For now, he forgets the draw of the top flight and is suitably impressed by a “great ball” from CW’s midfield out to the wing. “Cut it back” demands a fan in the stand, and the player does just that, teeing the ball up for a teammate who hits it first time, his shot is blocked. “Should have taken a touch” bemoans the back seat coach.

An elderly shuffling steward dressed almost head to toe in yellow hi viz, arrives in front of the main stand, having spent most of the half behind the HU goal bearing news, “should have been a penalty” he announces. From his better vantage point he is able to confirm to us all, that the early shout for a CW penalty, should have been given as one.

Tom doesn't think the HU number 9 is “going to make it”, he hasn't got out of second gear since picking up a knock. The HU fans are still dishing out the occasional low rumbling chant, “la, la, la, la, Hastings” and good CW pressure sees them win the ball back on the edge of the HU box, only to be fouled and awarded a free kick.

“Sausage, roll, pasty, got a roast at home, you know I can't turn down a burger, might not have any sausage rolls, always in high demand” is the nonsensical sentence that just tumbled out of Toms mouth, who is now in full snack mode. “Off for food” he tells me, at the same time the HU fans declare they are off “to victory”

Two CW goal line clearances, sandwich a HU free kick right on the edge of CW box that clips the top of the wall and goes over, cementing this game, without any goals and still forty five minutes left to play, as the best one we’ve seen so far this season. The first goal line clearances the pick of the two, the defender, takes up position between the posts and heads the certain goal away to safety. “Hastings, Hastings” sing the HU fans quite clearly, no way Tom wouldn't be able to understand them now.

“Let him die” are the callus shouts from the HU fans towards the CW player who just yelped as he was hacked from behind, and sent crashing to the ground. “You are joking?” asks one less than impressed home fan, when no booking is forthcoming from the referee.

I have seen few funnier sights in almost four years watching non league football, then that of two players, whose intertwined legs, mean neither can get up properly, their mangled limbs making them look like a human pretzel, having somehow come together in the HU penalty area, and neither one wanting to let the other get up first, causing a minor scuffle to break out.

More angry shouts from the home fans towards the man in charge, this time not because of a foul against them that didn't get a yellow, but because one committed by them that did. Even the kids are chiming in, “you're rubbish ref, you don't know what you're doing.

“Justice” cries a person in the crowd dramatically, as if they were auditioning for a courtroom drama. CW having just scored and neither the referee or his linesman this time deem that any of the games laws had been contravened. “We forgot that you were here” sing the HU fans, the only song that any respecting supporter can sing, after going behind

Tom arrives back claiming to have seen the goal, I bet he was in the stairwell, however he has bigger worries than having missed seeing CW go in front, “told you, sausage rolls are like diamonds, all gone”.

“Mr Pritchard, Mr Pritchard” call out the Fortnite kids to the exiting players, as the 80’s playlist starts up again and “Mr Pritchard” hears his students this time, greeting them with a smile, before disappearing up the tunnel. I thought the pretzel leg players, who looked like mating snakes, was going to be the best thing we saw today, but the sight of the two small children doing laps of the ground in a black convertible remote car, is giving it a run for its money.

The chips are “great” Tom informs me, but he is clearly not in a sharing mood. The Cray Massive are in place for the second half, the son of the flag man now in an orange and black jester's hat and the thumping music coming from the Kids Zone, a long white tent on one corner of the ground, as Tom points out would have been “something for Lily” (my daughter) to do, had I brought her along.

Dipping down, the final hurrahs of the sun, turn the sky the most exquisite shade of yellow. Having completely forgotten about them and with Tom reiterating his claim to my prize, because I left my money in the car and he lent me the £2 to buy them, we open my golden goal tickets, and once again we will or should I say I, will not be going home any richer.

Not content with the jingle of the bells on his jesters hat alone, the Cray Massive now have a horn and it’s given it’s first blast of the day as the players appear to the final hit from the best of the 80’s playlist, To Shy by Kajagoogoo

As one of the linesman checks the net, the Cray Massive bring out the latest piece of their second half orchestra, another bell, a much larger one then those on the jesters hat, imagine more town crier. “Your support is fucking shit” chant the HU fans, who have taken up their new position, and I have to disagree with them. The flags and the noise the Massive are making, eclipses that of many groups of supporters we've seen, and there are only two of them.

The CW coaches look effortlessly cool in their bobble hats, clearly the kind of guys that will turn a chair around to straddle it backwards, they decline the bench as somewhere to sit, instead opting for water coolers. “Pads in, be ready to play” barks one of them, to the substitutes sheltered under the curved roof of the dugout.

It is a battle of the fans in the first few minutes of the new half, its all bell, bell, bell from the Massive. The HU fans respond with a few more whacks of the hoarding and a song about how “super” they are, and that “no one likes them”.

For the second time today CW have a goal disallowed, the home bench explodes, the substitutes rushing out of cover, but on the realisation the linesman's flag is up they quickly and ever so slightly awkwardly, have to back track out of sight. “Come on Wands” shouts the Massives youngest member, giving his horn another blast. Clearly not wanting to be outdone, and having held back until now, both sets of fans respecting the ‘no horns in the first half armistice’ the HU supporters let rip their much larger and far louder air horn, like they’re trying to start a local marathon.

The sky continues to turn all kind of shades of wonderful as the sun sinks lower and lower behind the Kids Zone, where the music is blaring and the disco lights are whirling. It’s all CW on the pitch, they crash a shot off the post that then hits the bar. The bell and horn of the Massive a constant and I think it’s safe to say the CW bench is a happy one.

“Get your fucking head up” shouts a far from happy HU player to a teammate and I start to wonder if the Cray Massive who were all but absent in the first half, now surrounded by their plethora of flags, feed off their power, “come on you Wands”.

There are different aspects to a goal that can make it good or even a great one. The finish, the build up, the setting or it’s significance. CW’s second on fifty six minutes, that sends the bench in to near meltdown with much hugging and giddy jumping, might just be the most well rounded goal we will see all season. The build up and then the eventual strike from the edge of the box, by Mr Flick On no less is an absolute peach.

“Come on you Wands” screams someone in celebration, “saw it coming” says one all seeing supporter to himself. The HU fans try a song, but they have recoiled into their shell somewhat, the air horn nowhere to be seen, their confidence dented.

However their shell shock is short lived, CW’s two goal lead lasts all of sixty seconds. An own goal from a corner, sees them right back in the game, and the fans are soon back on point, singing and given the hoarding a kicking and they nearly pull level a minute after getting one back. Quick feet in the box, allows the HU player to create the space for a shot, but the CW keeper is all over it.

The HU goal has brought about a shift in the dynamic, the visitors find themselves on top, their fans
are confident once again, “we're gonna score in a minute” and for maybe the first time today CW heads have dropped and the bench is not such a happy place any more.

One place moral has certainly never dipped is in the Cray Massive corner, from the same bottomless bag of flags, more instruments appear, this time a plastic rattle. Even as their team go close to conceding again. A flick on performed by someone other that CW’s number 6, sees HU away, the shot from the edge of the box looks to be creeping in, but is held.

“Popular” comments Tom, as an HU sub is serenaded and gets one of the biggest cheers of the day, “take your Cruttwell with you”. The sky now a mix of purples and blues, the sun all but gone and high above the HU fans a tiny slither of the moon is visible.

I’m not the only who has noticed the child sized rave in full flow in the Kids Zone, the music now even louder, the lights from the inside lighting up the canvas, “its going off in that tent” says one of the CW coaches. The only things slightly louder is the HU airhorn and it’s attempts to put off the CW keeper.

“Take your booking and hurry it up” instructs the HU bench to the player who has just cut short a CW attack, and is rightly reprimanded. With only a quarter of an hour left, the HU coach recognises there is no time for dicent, so take it on the chin and move on.

On the other side of the coin, CW are doing everything they can to kill time, “slow down” shouts one fan to the CW player coming off, who does just that, not very subtly stopping to take out his shin pads, moving at a near crawl as he leaves the pitch.

HU are rapidly losing their heads, “he’s not got it in him” are the textbook words from the HU bench after a particularly robust challenge. A debate between the dugouts break outs, the CW opinion being that he might not have “it in him” but he clearly committed the foul and its their player lying flat out on the deck

“Diving scum” is the shout one HU fan, when a CW player goes down. The HU supporters who are all but silent now. The HU bench is demanding “discipline” the stop start nature of the game “suits” the team with the lead.

With just over ten to go CW flash a shot goalwards that is just tipped wide, “come on you Wands”, shout the Massive, who follow it up with a ring of the bell and a hoot of their horn. There is a muted rendition of “oh when the U’s go marching in” but its not even half as loud as it had been earlier in the day and from his technical area the HU manager is willing his team higher up the pitch.

“Finish our fucking chances” deplores one CW coach, when the opportunity to effectively kill the game off goes begging. HU’s keeper in his eagerness to reach the ball on the edge of his own box, clatters into his own man, leaving his goal gaping and the ball in CW’s position. The sky blue HU keeper makes up for his earlier mistake and is soon back on his feet and able to smother the ball, his teammate is not so fortunate, and is lying face down still on the pitch.

CW’s number 6 is starting to the feel the fierce pace which has rarely dropped all game and is going through some stretches with the aid of one of his coaches. The HU player who was wiped out by his own keeper has played all he is going to play and is being subbed off.

Except for the odd song, fuelled by more drink, “HUFC, HUFC”, Hayes Lane has fallen quiet and feels a bit on edge. The HU horn being exclusively used to annoy the CW keeper at his goal kicks.

Four to go and HU have gone to pieces, a filthy challenge from their number 3, sees him scythe down Mr Flick On. “What a cunt he is” says a CW substitute, the HU number 3 daft enough to commit his foul right in front of the home bench. The comments from the HU dugout are not as X rated, but just as damming, “so naive”.

Every call against HU gets an increasingly angry response from their fans, every call going CW’s way gets more of the bell and the rattle and shouts of encouragement “come on Wands”.

There is a brief hearts in mouth moment of those of a CW persuasion, when their keeper spills a shot, but it's cleared and parity is restored. The shouts of support, have changed to plees of ‘let's just get over the line’. “Finish” cries one CW coach when on the far side of the pitch the wide player cuts into the box, the goal at his mercy, but his rifled shot flies just wide, and hands are clasped to the tops of heads.

One last push from the HU fans sees them back at their best, if only briefly. The hoardings are taking a battering, and I think I saw a scarf swinging above one of theirs heads and I now, like Tom, have no idea what they are saying, as bell in the Massive end continues its jangling chorus.

“No discipline” laughs one CW fan as HU once more giveaway a needless foul. “Discipline without persession” is the fans suggestion to the HU bench for training on “Monday”.

Today's game likely will be remembered for the CW second goal, but it would have every right to be remembered for the tackle by one CW defender on the edge of his box, that stops a threatening HU attack in its tracks.

“There will be a minimum of four minutes added time”

The Massive give one last father and son “come on you Wands” as we head into added time. The away fans have hit peak angry. Another foul by one of their number, a clear one at that, but they feel hard done by. Mr Flick On is on his arse, the free kick goes CW way and the HU supporters are ready to burst, “he got the foul now, he can stand up”

It is the opening bars of the saxophone intro to Madness's One Step Beyond that accompanies the post final whistle celebrations. The CW manager ensures he applauds the Massive, the bell still going, as it did nigh on the whole of the second half. The HU fans give up one last song as they leave, "we love you Hastings we do", their devotion never in doubt, their support magnificent today.

The final song of the afternoon, is not an 80's one but a 70's disco classic, the very apt Ain't No Stopping Us Now, considering CW have just opened up a gap at the top of the table on their closest rivals. The whole team and all the staff convene in a mass huddle, for a few choice words of wisdom from the boss.

Hayes Lane is once again Bromleys, the only sign that its also CW's home, all be it their temporary one, is a bright yellow plaque with their badge on, that hangs near the mouth of the tunnel, that is taken down and put away. The players under the instruction of their pizza eating physio, are lying on their backs, legs up on the railings around the pitch, going through their warm down, before they head inside past a not insignificant party of well wishes, high fivers and back slappers.

Every football club deserves a home, every football club and its fans deserve their own little corner of the world they can hang their memorabilia on the walls of, paint the clubhouse whatever colour they want and install that garish yellow carpet they like, without getting worried what the landlord will think.

As we are leaving, flag man and his family are in the process of packing away their attempt to make their rented accommodation, as homely as possible for another day and I can't forget one thing he said from our brief chat about CW's impending application decision for their own new digs, the wonderfully named Flamingo Park, that they are waiting on the mayor of London's final word on, "Shame Sadiq isn't here, to see what a community club we are".

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