You're In For A Treat - Potton United FC Vs Biggleswade United FC, Spartan South Midlands Football League Premier Division, The Hollow (28/12/18)

It is hard to describe adequately quite how lethargic I feel. The mere notion of having to move further than plugging in one of PS4 controllers, is not worth thinking about. Four solid days of eating, sitting and endless bad films, don't bother with the latest incarnation of Jurassic Park its shocking, as well as numerous late nights filled with double XP on Call Of Duty, plus all the toing and froing between family members houses, for another mince pie, I’m struggling to get myself in the right gear for the night ahead.

I leave my son, daughter and other half on the sofa, the three of them still in their pyjamas, ready to watch Beetlejuice, trying to remember what day it is, as I stagger to the car in that post Christmas, it's almost the new year, but not quite, haze. I just about work out it’s a Friday, and it's no secret we are huge fans of football on a Friday, but it doesn't feel like a Friday. Frankly I’m not sure what it feels like. It certainly feels like a day I don't want to eat anymore turkey on, let's just call it Christmas Day + Three.

I’m happy to report that Tom's Christmas was a success, long time readers will recall from our last outing that Tom and his fiancee were almost overcome with the stress of having to host on the 25th. He informed me that the beef was not over cooked, in fact it was a bit “BLUE” as he put it, and they did cook sprouts, that went down very well.

Tom also informed me that he did not receive the same bottle of whisky from his soon to be father in law, that he had the previous ten years. Instead he decided to mix it up a bit and got him some gin. His soon to be mother in law, the Queen piss taker, bought him a pink sparkling credit card holder, keeping up the long standing tradition, of showering him with shit gifts.

One day I will learn not to take everything that Google Maps says, as gospel. I should have taken into account that a lot of people are still off work and the kids are not in school, and that it was going to be unlikely to take us the two hours it suggested, to travel only fifty three miles. However such is my Toblerone induced funk, I didn't put two and two together, and as we motor by some kind of post apocalyptic retail universe and row after row of prefab houses, that Tom thinks looked like the “Truman show”, we arrive so early, we’re not even sure the club will be open, so go in search of a drink on the local high street.

Glistening with Christmas lights, quiet and quaint Potton’s main drag is positively picturesque. I’m assured by the man at the bar of the George & Dragon pub, that went a little bit American Werewolf in London when we walked in, falling just short of the music stopping, but there were certainly a few turned heads, that I'm not to worry about the parking restrictions on the lamppost outside, “ you won't see a parking warden round here, at this time of night”.

Perched on a couple of stools in one corner of the room, underneath the dart board and at the foot of the Christmas tree, Tom and I enjoy a drink. We use our time constructively, tallying up the scores of a season long prediction challenge, Tom is ahead by three. Any notion that the locals might at any minute drive us out with their pool cues, are put to the sword, following a hello and handshake from the landlord.

“It's cosy” says Tom, his pint of Coke not sufficient in elevating his high temperature brought on by his long johns and other such attire to help combat the cold. However with our drinks all but done, I’m sure he will still be moaning, when we get outside, for a whole other bunch of reasons. If it's not too hot, it's too cold, it's like hanging out with Goldilocks.

Seasons Greetings, reads the large illumination on the side of one building, as we make our way towards tonight's ground, without a parking ticket, and although Tom is going on about the cold, he is still whinging. “Hot” he says, panting away next to me like a Labrador. Via the front drive of one Potton residents home, where an impromptu three point turn is required, and Tom ensures I don't hit any of the “flowers”, we eventually arrive at The Hollow.

When one imagines a pothole, one thinks of a slight dent in the road, a mild inconvenience at best. It therefore would not be accurate to describe those in the car park at the home of Potton United FC (PU) as simply a pothole. Crater, sinkhole, something that Indiana Jones might explore, may be a bit closer to the mark. The noise the bottom of my car makes at one point as I clear the speed bump on the way in, is so sickening I almost cry.

Bathed in darkness The Hollow is not giving much of a clue as to what it has in store. With little to no signs of life, it is therefore a bit surprising to hear Journey blasting out from somewhere, and although I can safely say they are not my favourite band, they are doing a good job of drawing us towards the red brick single storey building behind one goal. The position of which Tom thinks is a bit “dangerous”, which might explain the black metal bars that cover every window.

The beaming smile of Bev, PU’s Secretary is enough alone to justify putting down the chocolate orange, and leaving the house.

She had a “good Christmas” she tells us, a lot of that to do with the fact there was “no football” at PU on boxing day, which she goes on to explain is no bad thing. Although she “loves football on Boxing Day”, the logistics of it, is one she can do without, “you spend all Christmas Day, worrying about the food for the next day”. So she was actually quite relieved following the league reshuffle over the summer, that the one they were joining, unlike the one they left, didn't have games on Boxing day, and she was able to get her “fix” somewhere else.

A nearby table filled with groundhoppers, taking advantage as we are, of the Friday night football, each scan their programmes attentively. One going through PU’s previous results, comments how the encounter between PU and tonight's visitors, Biggleswade United FC (BU), earlier in the season, was “0-0”, which is received with a few snorts of derision, not very promising for the game ahead.

The sight of the programme shifts me from my seat, and the fact that the lady at the Potton Pantry, isn't “ready for me yet”, means Tom joins me on my quest to find the turnstile, which is actually just a gap in the fence with a shed next to it, and not any old shed, but the Beaver Shed. My enquiry if there is a raffle, is met with perhaps one of the most non league replies ever. The people who normally do it, “only got back from France at four” and are “knackered”.

With half the lights having come on since being inside, as well as the music, the current track a bit of an odd one, it sounds like some one is practising their scratching, we get our first look at the minimal, but well formed ground, with its large flat roof all seater stand along one side of the pitch and a much, much smaller, mini terrace to the side of one goal. Behind the opposite goal, is a high metal fence, so substantial, it's the kind of thing Donald Trump has wet dreams about.

I don't think there is a single person who walks through the doors of the clubhouse, who are not greeted with some kind of hand shake, hello or some such welcome or another. Returning to a now much fuller bar, our original seat gone, we squeeze on the end of table where a mother and son are in the middle of a game of cards, while the home players all in blue tracksuits, huddled around the dart board.

The departure of the PU players, some I overhear are off to inspect the pitch, allows the BU players Bev weaves her way through the crowd, clutching what looks like the team sheet and the much louder BU players laugh at the attempts of some players to hit the board. When the Artful Dodger type in his grey flat cap announces “let's go”, those around the dartboard and the reserved blue tablecloth covered table, stand, the sound of their scraping chairs piercing, they follow him off to the changing room. Reducing the decibel level by about half.
all in red, to have a turn at chucking some arrows.

“We shall struggle” explains Bev’s Dad, Nigel. One of the main reasons being the unavailability of one of their “centre halfs” whose absence he tells us is “out of their countol”. The seemingly constant revolving door at so many non league clubs, also means a “few players have left” but he still remains reasonably positive, “it's about on the day”.

For a club at this level, you can't help but be impressed by the set up. The main stand is one I’m sure many clubs would give their right arm to have. The reason PU have it, and not the “wooden one” that used to stand there Nigel tells us, is down to a stroke of misfortune, that in the end had a silver lining. “The old one burnt down, after someone slept in it and left a fag” so “courtesy of an insurance grant” they now have a stand Nigel is clearly very proud of.

Tom is so ready for the Potton Pantry, but is the Potton Pantry ready for him. Guided by the well placed laminated signs, he returns with a sizable looking burger, what he describes as “promising chips” and tales of witchcraft.

Having memorised the menu, after his first failed attempt and having rattled it off at me, after I said I fancied something, I opted for soup, which he dutifully brought me in a Styrofoam cup. The option of soup is not an unfamiliar one, the fact that Tom remembered all the flavours they have on offer is not normal, but it’s not black magic, however the way my minestrone soup was prepared, is straight out of Salem.

Convinced I wouldn't believe him, if he simply told me, “you're in for a treat”. Tom then produces his phone from his pocket and proceeds to show me a lady in a blue tabard, using a blender to make it, “apparently it's the best way to make a Cup a Soup”.

The soup is good, the game of cards to our right has turned into a game of solitaire and a fellow user of the excellent Groundhopper App, David, joins us at our table, who quickly makes me feel very inadequate when he tells us today is the “seven hundred and fifty fifth” game he has logged on the app. Unlike some people for whom simply being near a match counts, he has some very strict criteria, “I won't do park football or Sunday league”.
 
Not normally one for loafing around in clubhouses, much to Toms annoyance, the one at PU has well and truly got its claws into me, and it's a real wrench when with kick off closing in, Tom suggests it's time to leave. I’m comfy and warm and although there are bars over the windows, I’ve got a reasonable view of the pitch, so seriously consider just staying put.

As per the instructions on the sign at the entrance to the pitch, the players are warming up not on the pitch, but behind the dugouts. The music continues to come a bit out of left field, the latest offering I’m sure has the repeated lyric of, “suck me off, suck me off”. The pitch still only half lit, and the clubhouse is now officially chock a block and in a nice change from someone saying Tom looks like Jurgen Klopp, today its Guillem Balague.

Oh and I forgot to mention the music has taken another interesting turn, when the theme tune to Ghostbusters starts to play.

Sometimes words are not required, a scrunched up face, says it all. That of one home fan discussing their fortunes tonight, gives the game away completely, not very hopeful at all. “Let's get ourselves in” is the stern shout from the PU manager, that momentarily drowns out The Weather Girls, as he beckons in the players who are now ignoring the sign and are taking a few pot shots on goal, one of which very nearly kills someone. It’s only for the collective shout of “heads” that a death is prevented.

Passing a children's slide and the other playground equipment, the players emerge from the side of the clubhouse, down the caged open roofed tunnel all to the sound of E-40’s, Things'll Never Change. The brief appearance of Bev, sees her get a song from the boisterous crowd that have gathered along the mini terrace in front of a St George's cross with P U F C in each corner, “we love you Bev Strong, Bev Strong”.

Not since Germany have we seen a fan with a megaphone, and I must admit I didn't think the next time I would see one would be at a non league ground in Bedfordshire, however I have just been proven wrong, by one fan in the mini stand, who has not used it to start a song or chant but simply to shout, “fuck off Biggleswade”.

There is more shouting, but it's not from the mini stand or the packed main stand, but the BU manager, who in his thick Spanish accent, from underneath his tight blue woolly hat, is responding to the early home pressure, in the most poetic of ways, “you need to win the war”.

Sounding like he's repeating the name of an electro indie band, “Danny react, Danny react”, the home bench joins in, however his request of more from his team falls on deaf ears, because with around thirteen minutes on the clock, bearing in mind there is no clock and no PA to confirm it, so don't hold me to it, the visitors have just taken the lead. The scorer running past the megaphone wielding home fans, with a single finger pushed against his pursed lips, and they are far from impressed.

Although I’m sure PU would disagree, the goal has been a blessing in disguise, after a very slow opening ten minutes, the game has really come to life and we are almost treated to an own goal of Lee Dixon type quality, but the ball drifts just wide, instead of over the hapless BU keeper.

Surprisingly its BU who have been on the back foot since the goal, far from being boosted by goal, it seems to have had the opposite effect and their keeper begins a long string of mistakes, that sends BU hearts racing. “Fucking hell” shouts one player after a shocking kick out from the back, nearly causes them all sorts of bother and when not long after he fumbles a simple cross under minimal pressure, a clear chink in the BU armour is detected by everyone in blue.

There are plenty of people here, there is plenty of low level chatter and a few laughs, especially after the BU keepers fumble, but it's still very quiet here. The home bench is by far the loudest, on twenty minutes they encourage one player in the box to “hit it”, which he does, turning swiftly and getting his shot off, but it comes to nothing. The away manager has simply been reduced to making angry noises, as his team continue to stutter despite their lead.

Toms childhood ambition of being a ball boy has taken a couple of dents in the last couple of weeks. Firstly at Hitchin when he was so scared the ball was going to hit his face he ducked out of the way of it and tonight when his attempt at a side footed pass back on to the pitch, goes no where near its intended target and he almost falls over.

Talking of Hitchin and our post Christmas outing to Top Field, rummaging in my deep pocket I discover the fragile paper bag containing my pick and mix, that are now are little harder, having spent the last week ten days in the boot of my car. “They've kept well” says Tom, who reminds me of his “take a pinch, chuck it in” philosophy, but seems hesitant in giving it a go.

So close! PU go the closest they have to drawing level, after a floated cross is met in the box, but the
flicked header is just wide. The move was made possible by one midfielders smart turn, shimmy and serge forward in midfield, cementing the fact that the home side have been the better team since the going behind.
The reason perhaps for Tom not having an appetite for “dessert” as he would call it, might be because
of the burger, but that’s doubtful, it’s more likely to be down to the fact there is an unmistakable stench in the air, which may have something to do with what Tom thinks is a nearby “sewage works” and having been on both sides of the pitch, he is now referring to where we are now, as the “smelly side”.

When PU are awarded a free kick, their manager is not backwards in coming forwards, “keeper spills everything, get on top of him” he bellows. Sadly his team can't get the ball over the first man, “what the fuck was that?’’ tut's a supporter.

Except for picking the ball out of his own net, the home keeper all in neon orange has had very little to do, his counterpart in trousers, I wore trousers when I played in goal at school, like an overweight Massimo Taibi, has been far busier and by the simple fact he has chosen trousers, when its not cold, means the home stopper wins the battle of the number 1’s.

On a rare attack, a BU forward breaks free of the home back line and is bearing down on goal, but as one of the fans behind the goal puts it, “you’re shit” when somehow, his shot balloons up and wide of the goal, and he ends up as a heap on the ground, his face overcome with embarrassment.

Unfortunately the not inconsiderable sized group in the mini stand, their megaphone having a hiatus, are more concerned with slagging people off, then getting behind their team. On the very brief occasion they sing, banging on the back of the stand to get it going, their very limited chant book containing their own version of “he's one of our own”, is all too infrequent and they soon just revert to type, “you're fucking shit”.

The linesman frantically shaking his flag on the far side of the pitch to get the attention of the referee, seems to disagree with the suggestion from the home bench that their player, “didn't touch him”. The cross body check gets a yellow and not content with just using the megaphone, as a megaphone, the home fans are now using it to pipe in their own backing track, “ola, ola, ola, ola”.

My back is starting to ache, the combination of all the roast potatoes and the thin blue railing which is far too low to actually lean on, one man is at a full right angle up against it, means I’m starting to get that feeling in my lower back, that you get when you've been standing for too long at a concert. Tom points out a “bench” opposite us, but before I can get too excited, he also points out that it is currently occupied by a “little kid”.

Tom is convinced that BU are going to “demolish” PU in the “second half”, but with still nearly a quarter of the half to play, I’m not quite sure why he is making such grand predictions quite yet. Maybe it had something to do with the sight of the latest PU attempt to equalise, a header that ended up going closer to the corner half than the goal.

The game might not be the most riveting we’ve seen so far this season, but at least we have the linesman and his crab like shuffle to entertain us, unfortunately because of my big mouth, he gets all self conscious and as Tom put it, “he's changed now he heard you”.

Despite the shout from increasingly lived home manager, “we're making our own problems boys”, it's the BU keeper who he should be directing that at. He is single handedly gifting the home side some golden opportunities to score, but they just can't make the most of them. With just over five left to play a lofty cross almost catches him out, manically back peddling he just gets enough on it to tip it over and things don't get any better from the resulting corner, when his woeful attempt at a punch, almost ends in tears.

What was at first a chink in their armour, is now a gaping hole, and the PU manager doesn't understand why his team are not punishing them, “we've got to challenge the keeper”.

Someone quite clearly got a new toy for Christmas, because the megaphone does sound effects too, and one has to applaud the timing of the use of the police siren as the BU physio rushes on the pitch, its immaculate. The shouts of “let him die” aimed at the same downed player the physio is attending to, seem a little harsh and both teams use the break in play to take on some water.

“Polite boy” says Tom, impressed by a BU players choice of language when remonstrating with the linesman for not getting a throw in. Much quieter and with a bit more blaspheming the mumbling commentator next to us, is getting fed up at the sight of his teams wayward passing, “oh my Lord”. Taking things up another level and their manager is close to boiling point, so much bad passing, lazy in possession and criminal indecisiveness, half time could not come soon enough for him.

Muffled boo’s drift out from the mini stand on the half time whistle. They had spent the final few minutes of the half singing their loudest song so far, which I couldn't for the life of me work out what they were saying. They then asked if anyone could “hear the Biggles sing?” before going full circle, and telling the departing BU players to “fuck off”.

With the lack of music and Tom having already eaten, there is not a lot to talk about, it's a very somber half time indeed. The passing chat with Luke and his kids, who we’ve bumped into on our travels before is a definite bonus, however never in my life have I wanted some 80’s music distorted by some ageing speakers, like I do right now.

I can't work out what is better, the false restart, the referee not happy with someone, so he asks for the kick off to be retaken, or the fact some life has returned to The Hollow, when the home manager demands his players, “liven up” and they do just that.

“Keeper well done, unreal from you” shouts one BU fan, at the sight of the once wobbly looking keeper, who now looks far more composed, stopping a barrage of PU shots. Firstly one on one with the “rapid” as one person has dubbed the PU number 7, who was well away from the defence, but couldn't find the finish and then beating out a fierce low driven shot.

He then undoes all this good work, with a very shonky goal kick, perhaps it had something to do with the crowd behind him in the mini stand, who have not moved for the second half and are singing, “oh Kevin de Bruyne”.

What a first ten minutes we have been treated to, the tempo is through the roof, there have been chances galore and the stress levels on each bench are reaching maximum, which all makes for very
excellent viewing. Convinced his team should have been awarded a penalty after a push in the box after a flowing move, it's not until he is informed the attacker was “offside” does the BU manager stop his tirade of angry noises.

PU go close following a header at the back post and the ball drops into the middle of the six yard box, which the PU player does well to control and take down well, but he just doesn't have enough room to turn and shoot.

The “ola, ola, ola” is back in the mini stand, but it's not for long, and as the four BU fans next to us put it, “it's all gone quiet over there”, PU have conceded. The BU manager punches the air in delight, as all the promise and optimism of the opening twenty minuets of the new half melts away

“You're not a sub are you?” asks one of the four BU fans, hanging through the tiny side window of the away dugout, giving some of his beer to someone inside. Only such behaviour would be possible because the BU manager has his back to them, resting down on his haunches watching the match.

A fine mist has rolled in, which for once has nothing to do with the copious amount of smoke Toms vape seems to emit and the not so dodgy keeper is again showing off what else he has in his locker along with all the iffy punches, when from point blank range he tips over a wicked shot and one of the beer sharers is in a near state of shock, “what a save”.

From the resulting corner PU squander a chance to score for the umpteenth time, as hushed “how's” ring out when the ball travels all the way through the BU box and not one PU player can get on the end of it.

The police siren is back, the “fuck off Biggleswade” brigade are back, the first half BU keeper who has been a changed man since his half time orange is back, with his biggest faux pas of the match so far. Spilling a low tame shot, that almost, almost creeps inside of the post, much to the pleasure of the mini stand, “you’re shit”.

Twenty minutes have played, and although the home side are two behind, it's all them on and off the pitch. The mega phone is in overdrive, “blue army” they sing, between their unorthodox and very loud match commentary and comments about away players facial hair, “number five has bum fluff”.

Again PU fizz a ball through the BU box, again no one is there to tap it in, again the home fans take a detour way from their usual rhetoric, with a genuine attempt at rallying their players, banging the back wall of the stand, “Potton, Potton” as well as a few lines of “blue army” and only a couple of minutes later, after all their teams huff and puff but with nothing to show for it they are rewarded with a goal.

The backwards header that flies past the keeper is the least that PU deserve and there is no time spent celebrating, the players rush back towards the centre circle limiting themselves to the odd high five. The mini stand have gone all gooey, battering the stand, they show off their much nicer side, “oh Potton we love you”.

“He's in” gasps a BU fan as the PU number seven, races towards their goal but his shot is wild and over. The home fans are singing about one of their players who “sleeps in his kit” and ensuring he tests his managers nerves completely, the BU keeper is charging out of his area, kung fu kicking the ball clear and in an awkward turn of events a BU supporter then celebrates a goal, that isn't a goal, and I’m sure feels like a bit of prat.

We’ve got it all going on here, in the words of Danny Dyer, it's got very “lively”.

It’s normally Tom I rely on with moments of Pep, for my tactical analysis, but he’s still recovering for his Christmas excesses, so instead I’m required to earwig on one BU fan who is dishing out all the knowledge. His assessment of the PU tactics is crude, but acute, “proper Sunday league set up, lump it up front to two big fuckers”. A second BU fan, who is a far less unrefined, but no less on point, hits the nail on the head. “It's been all Potton since the second goal” as another home shot swerves towards the BU goal.

Thinking he is the person who can make the difference, one BU sub sidles up to the manager having just finished his warm up and whispers in his ear, “I’m ready”. More pressingly though the man with the microphone is getting a bit out of control, his latest shout of “yiddo”, he’s either a lost Spurs fan or it was something a bit more sinister, has pressed one BU fan to demand that someone one “take the megaphone off him, that's ridiculous”.

Still very much in the game, chucking everything they can at the visitors, with just under ten left to play, it's verging on the heartbreaking when a daisy cutter of a shot from outside the box quite literally pings off the foot of the BU post instead of rolling into the back of the net.

The mist has thickened, the temperature has dropped and the shouts from previously buoyant away fans, have grown increasingly nervy, “come on Biggleswade”. I’ve lost count of the amount of chances PU have had and BU have conceded, as another ball skips through the away teams six yard box, if the PU don't take advantage of one of them soon, they are going to regret it.

Few things are better in football then arguments between dugouts. I don't condone Mourinho eye gouging or abusing elderly people like Pardew, but a heated exchange of words is never anything other then amusing.

“Google me mate” suggests one of the BU bench, in reply to a comment from the SU technical area. “Shit banter” accuses the home manager of the grey flat cap wearer from the clubhouse. However the decisive blow and the victory goes to the away side, who is a single short sentence, stop the exchange dead, “just like your hairline”.

The nearby BU fans chip in with a few of their own few jabs, “what's the score?”, they ask, then
going as far as to say the the home manger is going to “cry in a minute” but it’s completely unnecessary, he’s out for the count.

Less than five minutes to go and it's dawned on the mini stand, it might not be their night, “you’re nothing special, we lose every week”. In a sign of sheer desperation, after one fans suggests they, “pretend we’ve scored a goal”, they do just that. Thankfully for their own dignity they stop to claim a penalty, but its waved away.

Anything other than a late flurry of more penalty shouts and chances would have been a disappointment, at the end of a rather thrilling half. The home keeper clears a back pass, that spins off the defender and almost in the goal. BU are awarded a free kick in a dangerous position on the edge of the PU box, only for them to hit it straight at the wall.

The home bench waves the team up field and it nearly pays off. A through ball almost finds the number 7 again, but this time the BU keeper is able to gather, clattering into one of his team mates as he does and two late corners, nearly, nearly conjure an equaliser. The first sees the cross go inches above an unmarked PU players head and the second results in a sea of bodies on the floor and shouts for a penalty and the waving arms of the referee is the signal he is not going to give it.


A much larger cheer than I was expecting rings around The Hollow on the final whistle. The shadowy figures in the main stand must have been BU fans, sitting on their hands until now. The group in the mini stand are not shy in sharing their opinions with the BU players walking off, but why would they care, its water of a ducks back, its them going home with the three points.

Best bit of the night? The magic trick BU pulled off by swapping keepers, without anyone noticing, Tom nearly falling over, the way one group of fans turned the "ya, ya, ya" of the BU manager into a song about Yaya Toure or Bev's Dad trying to make sure he finally got a bit of recognition, "she gets all the credit, I do all the work".

 

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Thanks Dad - Hitchin Town FC Vs St Ives Town FC, Evo-Stik Southern League Premier Central, Top Field (19/12/18)

All is far from rosey in Toms household. It’s all smiles on the outside, but behind closed doors him and his now fiancee, are like the waring couple from Father Ted. This festive time of year, is causing no end of “arguments” he tells me, only last night they had one about “brussel sprouts”.

With Tom and his other half Charlotte hosting this year, her parents coming to them on the 25th, there is a considerable amount of pressure on both their shoulders, and the strain is starting to show. Should they or shouldn't they have the Marmite of Christmas lunch on offer, and if they do, who is going to cook them? Tom thinks the single chef approach is the best one, Charlotte reckons that it should be more of a collaborative effort.

What to cook is not his only concern, but also what to get his soon to be Mother and Father in law for under the tree, is causing Tom sleepless nights. The fact Charlotte's Dad has got Tom the same “bottle of bourbon” for the last ten years and Charlotte's Mum got him a gold hairband and a Christmas jumper that not only didn’t fit, but also said “well hung” on it last year, I question if they like him at all, and why is he bothering, but he feels it's necessary to impress this close to their upcoming wedding.

Between some quite excellent Christmas light displays and the groans of the planes taking off and landing at Luton airport, on the way to tonight's ground, we discuss the perils of shopping at Westfield, and that Tom has already had a “burger and chips” so he is in a bit of quandary about what he will eat tonight.

Minutes away from Top Field, home of Hitchin Town FC (HT), Tom produces his maroon Arsenal FC snood, and repeatedly caresses the gold embroidered club badge on it, before putting it on. His eagerness to ensure I see him do it, I’m sure has something to do with that tonight is the night of the second North London derby, in as many weeks.

Underfoot the ground in the car park is rough and uneven. Nearby only half the floodlights that surround the pitch are on, not yet showing off Top Field in all its glory. The yellow and green portacabin Canary Corner club shop, isn't open, and the refreshment huts hatch is closed, however there is some activity beyond. It’s side door is open, and wafting out among the steam from the hotplates is an overpowering smell of “lovely” onions, says a salivating Tom.

Cosy and compact, The Canary Club the HT clubhouse is well occupied. It’s not exactly cold, nothing close to our aborted last outing, where there were shards of ice in the goal mouth, but Tom is still bemoaning that he should have “warm long johns”, especially after investing something like 50 in some fleece lined, Edmund Hillary type gear, that he hasn't bothered to wear.

What looks like a conservatory from the outside, with its large white UPVC windows, inside it's positively sparking, be it the well decorated tree, sitting in front of the club memorabilia covered wall or the long line of silverware on a shelf above the bar, below which faux green holly tinsel hangs.

You can tell how committed someone is to their hobby of choice, be it darts, bowling or fishing, when they have their own kit. The main focus of the room, the snooker table, is surrounded by table tops covered in the black cue cases of those playing. We weave our way through the crowd, Tom heading straight to the bar, me to a table at the back, all while a bit of UB40, drifts out from the sound system.

Tom is not only delighted it's “warm” in the bar, but also that its “nice and cheap”. The dartboard to our left is getting no attention, but it does spur Tom into telling me how much he wants to go and watch darts one day, although I’m not sure his motivation is his love of the game, but the obligatory amount of booze you have to drink to apparently enjoy it.

Meat raffle is back on!!, reads the poster over my left shoulder, Tom reading it out to me, is like music to my ears. Having seen multiple signs already around the ground and above the door of the bar advertising the 50/50, the people of HT are clearly of a similar mindset to me, the only downside of the Meat Raffle, is that you have to go to the local butchers to get a ticket. So sadly I won't be in the hat for a rib of beef or a string of twelve chipolatas, but there will certainly be some gambling of one type or another to enjoy tonight.

“I’ve got a 100% record today, played four games, lost them all” proclaims the loser of the latest game of snooker. Tom also has his own announcement, informing me due to his “late lunch” he will be eating at “half time” and not before. Returning back to his phone, and with the North London Derby very much on both of our minds, he tells me the Arsenal line up is “quite strong”.

Nestled among an old man sipping at a pint of ale and another old gent studying his match day programme, between handfuls of crisps, all while the ever so slightly odd playlist continues, the song that follows a bit of Frankie Valli is off the Pulp Fiction soundtrack, Tom and I discuss one of this time of years biggest questions, tinsel.

Hate it, I reply bluntly, when Tom asks if I’m a fan, he is in the same camp as me, however his other half is very much pro the tacky tree decorations, another source of a recent falling out and I start to wonder why these two have decided to get married in August.

The arrival of the lady selling 50/50 tickets at our table not only allows me to satisfy my itch for another day, but halts Toms attempt to sing along to Mariah Carey's All I Want For Christmas Is You, that has just started to play. Having noticed the lady in her dark apron wandering around the room, Tom laughs that I like some Pavlovian Dog, “get my money out” before I even “know what it is” for. Checking to see the Spurs line up,  Kane is on the bench, but it’s still a relatively solid starting eleven, Tom tests my nerves, “sold out” he says, forcing me to look up.

“Too easy” he says sniggering. I’m glad to report she was far from sold out and was more than happy to accept my 2. Despite his best efforts, suggesting we instead should stay in the bar and watch the game at the Emirates, our drinks are done, I’ve secured my tickets, it’s time to head back outside.

Although the door is closed, we are reliably informed that the club shop is now open, Tom rubs his hands in anticipation of what is potentially on the other side of the green door. There is no programme for one, I’m to get that from the “shed by the turnstiles” I’m informed, however there is a fine selection of all sorts of football tat, that one would expect, as well as a small confectionery corner, including 50p bags of sweets that make me think of childhood visits to Highbury and has Tom very excited.

Want to share? I ask him, “no” he replies candidly, so we each choose a white paper bag of our own. Tom having already purchased a pin, it's time to find the “shed”.

In much better nick than the dilapidated turnstiles, the “shed”, with a man stooped in its low doorway, much like the lady selling the 50\50 tickets is more than gracious when it comes to taking my money, in exchange of a very glossy, all colour copy of the Canaries, which has some considerable heft.

No digital here, I say to Tom, who doesn't really care, however the white haired man with his brown satchel selling the 50/50 tickets does, and is clearly someone who knows where I’m coming from and gives me a knowing smile.

The constant sound of the nearby road, takes nothing away from Top Field, which is really one of the best non league grounds going. The stark bank of concrete terracing behind one goal, the long sections of narrow wooden steps along the whole length of one side of the pitch, and the single storey corrugated iron roofed main stand with its mismatch of benches and different coloured seats, with the clubs name emblazoned across the front in the club's colours, make it quite unique and unlike any other ground we’ve encountered.

Both teams are out, neither keeper is able to warm up in the goal mouth as they have been roped off, in an attempt to preserve them, after all the recent rain. The St Ives Town (IV) coach is putting his players through some particularly aggressive drills, both teams find themselves at the wrong end of the table, so he does his best to motivate his players for the test ahead, “we can fucking win this”

Whereas the music in the clubhouse was an eclectic mix of old classics and wedding reception staples, in the ground its very music from a bad 90’s school disco. Those in the queue for the refreshment stand, which is doing good business, are able to enjoy a bit of the Shapeshifters, Lolas Theme, while I try and work out where the big HT flag that was hanging behind one goal has gone.

“I love this song” says Tom, as he does every time we hear Freed From Desire, by Gala, a song that when I come to think of it, we hear quite regularly. Singing quietly to himself, “nah, nah, nah” Tom is in somewhat of his own world, which he is snapped out of by the young voice over the PA, who is offering up some advice to those whose visit tonight, might be their “first time at Top Field”.

Return Of The Mac by the old police taser himself, Mark Morrison, serenades the teams as they head back inside. Talking of coppers, we bump into ex bobby and Watford match day YouTuber Paul Muzzy, suitable wrapped up in a large puffer jacket, about to tuck into his dinner. “How's the burger?” asks Tom, moments after shaking Paul's hand. His food clearly untouched, Paul informs him he’s “not had any yet”, Tom obviously keen to get the low down, insists he is to “let him know”, as soon as he has.

Such is the proximity to the changing rooms, which are just the other side of the thin wall at the back of the stand. The violent buzz to let the teams know it's game time, can be heard as clear as anything. In a slight detour from the musical theme, A-ha’s Take On Me, now circulates around the ground, and sitting quietly in the stand, is Matt, one of HT’s media team, his green and yellow scarf tucked into his jacket, nose deep in a book, who before I started talking to him was enjoying his “day off”.

He’s “confident” about HT’s chances of grabbing a win, the home side coming into tonight's game off the back of “three wins in the league” and “hopefully” they will “make it four”. The presence of all their “attacking players” who are in “good form”, makes him think that victory will be theirs, before their “Boxing Day clash” against “local rivals Biggleswade”.

The second jarring jolt of the buzzer, it feels a while after since the first one, fails once more to dislodge either team. Moments from the supposed kick off time, the not inconsiderable crowd, who are mostly gathered in the corner of the ground around the burger bar, wait for the players, and the toss, before making a move.

All eyes are fixed on the tiny tunnel at the centre of the main stand, which is probably little more than one overweight blogger wide, the players nowhere to be seen. The third buzz, more prolonged and therefore even more harsh than the first two, finally stirs the teams. Shortly after the roar of one of them can be heard, and slowly but surely the two sets of players start to arrive.

“If you've just arrived, here are your teams again” says the cool voiced PA, a very young looking red headed man, trapped within a tiny square fish tank. To say the tunnel is cramped is an understatement, the “unit” of a referee as Tom dubbed him during the warm up, barely fits. Standing on the side lines, arms crossed and leaning on the railing, Tom points out one HT sub, “Alfie Cue” as the PA has just confirmed. A player who we saw playing for Leatherhead, against HT in their recent FA Cup contest, who was quite excellent that day, despite being on the losing team, who is now turning out for the home side.

Two substitutes, including Cue, look on baffled, at the sound of the mini meltdown playing out over the speakers, as the young man, manning the PA, struggles with the notion it is him sponsoring the match tonight. “Thanks Dad” he says, struggling for the right words, having just drawn his name from the Secret Santa envelope. “Yellows, Yellows” shout a couple of kids on the concrete steps and Tom is concerned that the “big crowd near the burger bar” is a sign of things to come, “hope they’re not queueing for food”. He can rest easy, they're not, they’re are still waiting on the outcome of the toss, which is still yet to happen.

As a sign of things to come, the toss does eventually take place, but it seems to take an age, and I’m sure we are now well past the 19:45 kick off time. There are more shouts from the kids to our left, “come on Yellows” and from the players on the pitch as they prepare to start, “come on boys”. There are a few black and white scarf wearing IV fans dotted about, although their team are playing in a vivid Netherlands World Cup 2010 shade kit this evening, “Netherlands Vs 90’s Norwich” says Tom in the latest round of ‘Kits That Look Like Other Kits, who have taken up position along from the few chanting HT kinds, on the uncovered steps.

The rest of the crowd, much to Tom’s relief, have shifted away from the burger bar, and now occupy the long swathes of wooden steps.

It’s a quick going from both teams, making up for the tardy start. IV are on the front foot early on, a close offside which draws an “oohhhhh” from the crowd around us, shows their intention and that they have listened to their hostile coach.

We are not the only ones in attendance who are keen to keep abreast of what's going on in N7. Staring at the chair next to him, the man a couple of rows behind us, is watching the North London derby on his phone. “By far the greatest team the world has ever seen” can clearly be heard through its tiny speakers. Being sung by who I assume are the Spurs fans, as no Arsenal supporter surely thinks that is the case about their little South London club.

“Heads” cries Tom, half out of his seat, trying to protect me from the ball flying our way. I flinch, the ball thankfully missing me as it hurtles into the stand, but it was a close call, showering me in mud as it passed me.

I like it when the joy of the person doing the PA is clear through their announcements. There's nothing worse than a monotone bore, I want to hear all the highs and lows of the ninety minutes in their voice, flooding over the airwaves. Tonight from within his small glass fronted box, the ecstasy of being the person who gets to tell us HT have just gone in front, is more than apparent. “Michael Cain” the scorer, who has just put in the rebound following a low long range driven shot, that the keeper could only parry and Cain was Johnny on the spot to slot home.

IV respond quickly following the restart, getting the ball out wide, they whip it into the box, but the extremely shouty HT keeper all in purple is able to claim it.

Although we’ve had a goal and what felt like a positive start by both teams, the game has not really had the chance to get going, in great part down to the referee, who as Tom puts it, is “very blowy”. One IV player is so irate at him giving a foul against them, he is only able to yell a frustrated “no”, which gets a “calm down” from someone around us, sadly missing what I thought was the mandatory Harry Enfield Scouse accent.

A good bit of wing play once again sees IV on the attack, the wide player leaving his marker for dead, allows him the time to get a good cross into the box. Coolly and under reasonable pressure the HT defender wins the ball and plays it out from the back very calmly, “he’s done well there” comments one home fan quite rightly.

“Again” sighs Tom, when the referee gives a foul against IV, who he is growing increasingly unpopular with, when as Tom points out, “it looked like a very good challenge”. I didn't see it, I must be honest. I’ve removed the bag of sweets from my coat pocket and have decided to investigate. Some of these you’re having, I tell Tom. Jelly beans, eggs to name a few are just not my cup of tea, “it's called a mixed bag” tuts Tom.

Constantly looking at his phone, now with the volume down, the fan behind us would have just about been able to hear the muffled shout from one IV fans, “come on you Ives”, but would have missed the Pickford esq looking IV keeper rushing well out of his goal to claim a ball almost on the halfway line. Assuming he hadn't looked up to watch the game he was actually at for a moment, he would have seen Spurs go one nil up. I’m almost certain that the scorer here's surname being Cain, although spelt differently from Spurs and England legend, and I don't use that word lightly, Harry Kane, I’m sure it was a sign from the football Gods.

Tom tries his best to downplay that his team have gone behind, while I repeatedly pump my fist in his face, “might have chips and curry sauce” he tells me.

IV’s propensity to stray offside, is starting to wear thin with their fans, “every time” one fan grumbles, “why can't this geezer see the fucking line”. The early promise of what I thought was going to be a goal fest, has yet to materialise. In fact not much of note has happened in the fifteen minutes since, and Tom is a little scathing of the visiting team, “they're not very good”.

I’m not sure if its intentional, but the man next to us, tapping his foot, with what sounds like a petty cash amount of change in his pocket, is almost creating his own genre of music, that only momentarily stops at the sight of one HT player letting fly a dipping shot from outside the box, that looks like its creeping in, but in the end is saved.

It’s all HT, their fans are clapping them on, however despite their dominance, their keeper is still really angry. A bit like an episode of Soccer Saturday, the man watching the Arsenal Vs Spurs game, Tottenham fans shouldn't “get too excited”, because “Arsenal should have scored two”.
is giving a near running commentary, suggesting that despite their lead,

The home side keep coming forward, “get in the box” demands one fan of the players, as another dangerous ball is sent into the box. IV are getting into promising positions, but are lacking composure, “weyyyyy” go the crowd, when a good opportunity is wasted and sent well over. “Oh you complete donkey” shouts the man behind us, not towards the IV player responsible for the miss, but towards Spurs’s Sissoko, who apparently has just missed a sitter.

“Someone's gotta follow it in” moans the IV throw in taker, who as one person points out is trying to take a leaf out the “Rory Delap” book of chucking far, but as Tom says, he has no right to blame his teammates for not getting on the end of them, as they are “shit”.

Every time IV get the ball, it's passed out wide, nine times out of ten towards their number 11 running the touch line in front of us. “We've got to be a bit sharper” says one IV player, when another attempt to find him goes awry.

A huge shout for a HT pen around the thirty minute mark is turned down, and one HT player is perplexed, glaring at the linesman, he can’t believe that he didn't give it. “Blowy, blowy” groans Tom as the referee stifles play again, with the overuse of his whistle.

“How is that possible?” asks the most vocal of the nearby IV supporters, when instead of side footing the ball into the back of the HT net from the edge of the six yard box following a corner, the player manages to put it wide. The loose ball is tossed back into the box, and this time an IV shot is cleared off the line. They go again, not once, but twice, two goal bound shouts, one a real cracker are blocked and then they have their own shout for a penalty waved away.

“You know when it's not your night” laughs the IV fan to himself, wracked with despair at his team's apparent bad luck.

Tom has grown weary at the sight of the repeatedly bad throw ins, “don't give it to him” he mumbles, as the man who is insisting on taking them, but is not very good at them, is given another chance. “Yes you can throw it far, but it's not powerful enough”, gripes Tom, “Delaps” were “powerful and direct” the IV players just aren't.

A crunching midfield tackle that leaves an IV player down injured gets the kind of sympathetic response, one has become accustomed to watching football, “get up you powder puff”. One IV supporter as you can imagine, is a bit more bit more sensitive, “could have broken his ankle”.

Not quite overtaking the “thanks Dad” comment as my personal highlight of the evening, but giving it a good run for its money, the totally failed attempt at a bicycle kick by one IV player, who lands in an embarrassed heap on the floor, comes a close second.

Anxiously looking over towards the source of tonight's food, Tom is slowly getting closer and closer to the edge of this seat, in preparation of getting his food on. “I’m off”, he blurts out, on his feet with his back half turned to me.
Five minutes to go and HT send a shot just wide, which triggers a few claps and shouts of “come on Hitchin” from the crowd. The half comes to an end with each team guilty of just lumping the ball about and the notion that throw ins are never taken from the right place is reinforced less than five feet away from me.

“No further” says the linesman to an IV player, who then takes a good five or six steps up the touch line without any repercussions.

Watching the referee being asked to make the 50/50 draw on the edge of the pitch, from a small yellow cloth bag, is a sight I've never seen before, and I’m maybe unlikely to see again, but it makes me think it should be a practise all clubs are made to observe. The simple action of asking him to pick, makes it a completely impartial process, and removes my long standing feeling that they are all clearly fixed, as I never win them.

Moments later, after the PA has remembered its “evening” and not “”afternoon”, what I thought was a watertight theory, is blown right out the water. Even with the referee picking the winning numbers, I won't be the recipient of the “62.50” either by the sound of it, will any of the people around me, who all let out a simultaneous “arghhhhhh”.

“Beat the rush” says a happy Tom, returning at the back end of the long procession of people making the half time end swap, with a polystyrene tray loaded with a burger and chips swimming in gravy. “Run out of curry sauce” he explains, forced to shout a bit over the words of, Rhythm Of The Night. Spurs are still winning, and Tom still tries to make out he doesn't care, but he is very quiet, much quieter than normal.

One of those making the change of ends, a young HT fan clutching a hot water bottle, catches Toms attention, her preparedness very impressive. The sound of the buzzer rings out again and IV, a little slow to respond get a shout from the referee to hurry up. The PA informs us of the HT changes at the break, Alfie Cue is on for the second half and as the teams appear, Tom rolls his snood up over his face, food done, thinking I’m sure about the hot water bottle.

Two minutes gone and we are almost treated to the most spectacular of goals, a mazey run from one HT player sees him evade what looks like almost the entire IV team, making it all the way into the box, he shapes up to shoot, only for the ball to be taken off him right at the last, by an IV player who clearly has no desire for the sake of the spectators, to let him continue and therefore letting us witness a bit of a wonder goal.

The referee continues to make no friends, “has he given a foul?” wonders Tom, the man in charges style is so relaxed, that he blows his whistle so late after the event, it's hard to know what's going on, “very odd ref” ads Tom, “the unit” in the middle, is somewhat in his own universe, as he sauntered around the pitch

HT squander the chance to double their lead, “blimey” says a fan as the header from a free kick goes wide. Toms burger having suitable settled, he’s now onto “dessert”, but only once he’s located it, “don't know where the sweets are” he says frisking himself, “found them” he declares in delight when he does. Not as concerned as I was about the possibility of getting a jelly bean, his mantra is “grab a handful, chuck them in”. He, unlike me, enjoys the strange soft crunch of a jelly bean, as he puts it, “its all sugar”.

“Oh my word” gasps an IV fan, not because he found an all too rare cola bottle among all the bananas and what look like toadstools, but because from point blank range, his team have just rattled the crossbar with a header, when in his opinion they really should have just drawn the game level, “thats bad” he says.

Getting probably as large a round of applause as the goal did or maybe even larger, the save the HT keeper just pulled off, is right out the top draw, the first of his heroics tonight, he somehow managed to cross the entire goal, making it just in time to somehow stop the low shot, that some IV players were already celebrating, but now, like the crowd are in shock, that he saved it.

Not, I’m sure, the impact he would have wanted to make since coming on, but Alfie Cue just very, very nearly killed a small child behind the goal, with his sliced shot, veering off target and into the crowd. HT have had it far from all their own way since the restart. IV look a much better side and HT
almost give IV the easiest way back into the game, making a mistake at the back, that almost punishes them.

“Record the series” says Tom on the phone to Charlotte, who is trawling through the TV guide trying her best to find the League Cup highlights. Wishful thinking I suggest, with his team still a goal behind, but he remains positive, preparing for the “next round”, he tells me.

The dark figures that line the back wall of the covered terracing opposite join in the goading of the referee, whose decisions continue to baffle. “Embarrassing” shouts one, Tom just puffs out his cheeks in bemusement, “he’s all over the place”. The volume of the sarcastic “wehhhh’s” is a good indicator of how well respected he is. The IV players are close to meltdown, which is very entertaining for the home fans, who just laugh at the fuming visiting players.

I know he heard me when I told him Spurs have now doubled their lead, both of us unaware of just how a marvellously Dele Alli did it. Instead he points out a man “smoking a pipe” and tells me how much he loved his latest handful of sweets, “Ohhh that's a nice one, peach flavour”.

Twenty five minutes gone and IV’s latest attempt to get back in the game is wild to say the least, a volley from almost the edge of the box, falls just short of clearing the tall naked trees behind the goal. HT then go close themselves, as the game swings from end to end. “Make it count” shouts one fan, as a cross field pass finds a player unmarked on the wing and his first time hooked cross, almost reaches its intended target, but is cleared.

Soon back in possession, after one IV players hashed attempt at a clearance and only a couple of steps into the box, an HT forward is bundled over by the defender trying to make up for his previous indiscretion and for the first time tonight, without any hesitation, the referee points at the spot. I’m not sure there is one IV player on the pitch, whose hands aren’t clamped across their face or to the back of their head in despair.

Before the spot kick is taken, the taker hovering over the ball, the players lined up on the edge of the box, one IV player is booked for dissent. When it is taken, towards the goal that the large HT flag that disappeared now hangs, the HT forward can’t convert. “Yessssss” cries an IV fan in the stand, his team are still in it.

Despite the missed penalty, Tom is of the opinion that IV are still going to “equalise”, he reckons HT are riding their luck just that bit too hard, and IV currently look the most likely of the two to score. However no one is going to be able to even get close to scoring, until the referee gets his act together. “Come on ref, we wanna go home today” says one home fan, as he takes an eternity to book someone.

With a quarter of an hour left, we are treated to our second penalty of the match. “What an idiot” says Tom, not very impressed with the HT defender who fluffed his “header” and then just like the IV player who in an attempt to make up for his previous mistake, gave away a penalty, the HT player has done the same thing. “Owes the keeper a pint for that” says Tom, as the second resounding “yesss” reverberates around Top Field, the man between the sticks for HT has not only pulled off the save, but in doing so has confirmed his position as a local legend.

The amount of shouting from all corners, including the bench is increasing by the second, most of it, if not all of it is aimed at the referee, “this is getting ridiculous ref” shouts one fan after another odd call. One IV coach is close to losing it with his players, “stop giving cheap free kicks away”.

With ten minutes left, HT break out from their own half, outnumbering IV at the back, their fans will them on, “come on Hitchin” the chance to get that all important second is surely now, but they rush it, and the linesman raises his flag for offside. Both benches berate their players, HT’s for going too soon, IV’s for getting caught out on the counterattack.

“Ohh funny bean” grimaces Tom, as his chuck it all in his gob technique has failed him and he has encountered an “iffy sweet”. HT at a push look like maybe they might score again, their most recent effort on goal is on target, but it’s not very powerful and the latest ball to head our way does not deposit mud on me, but the sound of it crashing on the roof of the stand is starting to make me twitchy.

An injury to the HT keeper, thankfully not a serious one, allows each team to convene around their respective dugouts for a pow wow. The keeper is soon back on his feet and fit to play on, and an IV player does his best to inspire his team mates, “keep going, come on”. The HT manager prowling his technical area wants more from this players, “liven up”.

Tom’s eagerness to be ball boy nearly results in an injury, worried it was going to damage his “pretty face” he was grateful that it’s unpredictable spin took it away from him, and not towards the money maker. With not long left at the Emirates, my latest check of the score, results in a very unconvincing “well done” from him, which I don't believe for a minute.

“Off, off, off” demand the HT fans after a brash tackle from a IV player on the far side of the pitch. “Already booked” comments one supporter, another adds that he “has got to go”. Considering this referees performance so far, it's no great surprise that the player only receives a talking to and it didn't even look like a stern one, which does not go down very well, “embarrassing” snarls one fan, so incensed that he takes to his feet. Another goes full Game Of Thrones, repeating “shame, shame”.

In a promising position, one HT supporters urges his team to “make it count” but the free kick is well over, and it turns out the abuse going the referees way, for not sending off the IV player was on pause, “you bottled it ref” heckles the same fan, back on his feet again.

“Did they forget to make a substitution” ponders Tom, when IV in the dying minutes, decide now is as good a time as any to roll the dice and make two changes. The barrage aimed at the referee is still on going, this time its an IV fan, who is so animated, that one HT fan tells him to, “sit down”.

The departing Paul Muzzy, asks if we are “avoiding the North London derby result” which I gleefully tell him we are not. IV then have a succession of uneventful corners, as the added on time board is prepared, a flashing green four shows we’ve a little more left of this game, which neither Tom or a fan behind us, can work out how they came to that number, “four minutes” says Tom confused, the man behind us can only blurt out “four” in a mild state of shock.

HT are now exclusively heading to the corners, not risking giving up the all important three points. When they win a corner, there is no one in the box, and they just end up passing it about amongst themselves. A rare attack, sees a rapid HT forward win the leg race with the IV defence, only for his shot to be saved one on one. “Keep going” says one supporter, but unless its towards the corner, they don’t look like they're are going to be going anywhere else.

There are shouts from a group of kids around the mouth of tunnel of “we want another one” but they better not hold their breath. The announcement of the “Morrisons man of the match” gets a laugh from the announcer, telling us that it was him who picked the keeper to be the recipient of a bottle of fizz. This goes down well with the kids, “wehhhh” they all shout, before belting out the man of the moments very own song, “we love you MJ we do”

In a mild case of shithousery, Queens, Another One Bites the Dust plays, as the players shake hands and HT quickly form a tight huddle on the pitch, for some words from the boss. The kids around the tunnel, who have crept onto the pitch, try to grab a picture with the Man Of The Match, before he poses with the beaming PA announcer and his prize.

With the result at the Emirates confirmed, Tottenham into a semi final with Chelsea, Tom pretends he is actually happy they are “out”, the Caribou Cup seemingly an unwanted distraction for his high fliers.

Leaving the ground, a ground that is worth the trip here alone, regardless of the match, the result or the weather, it's special, the kids are stealing a last few selfies with the HT players and the HT manager suggests to us that we should come to their next match, thanks to our “100% record”, but trust me we have had a similar situation in the past where other teams think we are good luck charms, and it didn’t end well, I’m deeply concerned about something a passing comment Tom just made:

“Long way to come from St Ives” he said, concerned about the away teams long drive back home tonight, having spent the whole evening thinking IV had shclepped up from Devon for this evenings match.

Give me strength.

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You Can't Boo The Bee - Barnet FC Vs Stockport County FC, FA Cup 2nd Round, The Hive (02/12/18)

Tom never sings show tunes, especially from Annie. Tom never insists on an in depth conversation about the scent of the miniature Yankee Candle car air freshener and why it’s called Red Raspberry, when there are no other colour raspberries. It is soon quite apparent that the absence of my normal companion is going to be more telling than I thought, and as it stands, his stand in is being, well frankly a bit annoying.

I’m pretty sure it’s the exhilaration of just having dropped off our daughter at my Mums and the idea of a whole five or six hours without our demanding one year old, which has just dawned on Rachel, my other half, as to why she is acting a bit loopy. In between the never ending stream of comments about raspberries, she mocks me, joking about how nice the “sky” and “clouds” are, in preparation of my usual flowery blog opening, that she will ultimately have to proof read.

Although the weather is changeable, flitting from bright sun to rain, it's not worth the grief, expanding on how calmly the dense white cumulus float by, so I’ll leave it at that. The fender bender on the way to today's ground, somewhat aggravates me, the slowly moving and then redirected traffic frustrating, but that pales into insignificance, compared to what the man who has wrapped his BMW around the central reservation, must be going through.

The drive to The Hive the relatively new home of Barnet FC (BFC), that is not in fact in Barnet, but is in Harrow, is no more than twenty minutes from home. A journey that is littered with an almost supernatural amount of signs from the football gods.

I refuse to accept that the amber and black scarf wearing BFC fans around the corner from my Mums house were a mere coincidence. You can't tell me that once past the electronic billboard and the large orange sign at the entrance to The Hive, that it means nothing that the car we park behind has DAN in the number plate and a small blue Stockport County FC (SC) scarf, BFC’s opponents, is hanging in the back window.

It must be some kind of sign from the football Gods, there is surely some significance in that ten years ago, Rachel and I on one of our very first dates, yes I know, I don't hold out any stops, was at Underhill, to see exactly this same fixture, albeit in the league then and not the FA Cup and that was the Football League, not the National League.

Oh how the fortunes of both clubs have changed in the past ten years.

Underhill was one of the good ones, nestled among semi detached houses, with crumbling concrete terracing, bright orange railings and of course it's famous sloping pitch. A place I spent many an afternoon and evening, whenever Spurs were away, enjoying a match for a £1. Getting off the bus at the Odeon, walking under the railway bridge and down the alleyway next to the pub.

Like I said a lot has changed in the past decade, I’m bigger, hairier and now have two children and both teams positions in the football pyramid has taken a significant nose dive. BFC fairing perhaps a little better. Tom and I were here in 2015 when they gained promotion back to League Two, however that didn't last for long, relegated last season, meaning they are back where they started, non league once more. SC find themselves even lower down the ladder than BFC, their fall from grace, probably a lot more dramatic than that of the home teams.

Climbing out of the car, behind us numerous games of kids football are taking place on the artificial pitches, before us the black and orange build by numbers stadium, named no doubt by some bright marketing executive, because of BFC’s nickname being the bees. I’m all for progress, but it's not a patch on Underhill.

Wearing her blue SC scarf, the very one her parents gave us each, the first time I met them, to be clear we were going to a SC home game that weekend too, they don't just hand out random pieces of club merchandise and although I have a strong affinity for BFC, the signs are just too strong, I’m very much in the County camp today.

There is little character to The Hive, it's all very municipal, feels a lot like a council built sports centre. From the outside the most interesting thing is the man carrying what looks like a stuffed border collie in a Father Christmas hat.

Outside the club shop, I indulge Rachel, just as I do Tom. Both of them sharing the need to procure one piece of football tat per game, we are stopped by a BFC fan, drawn towards Rachel's scarf, who asks her quietly,

“How many will you bring?”

The home fan does not wait around for long, and although Rachel doesn't have the exact figures to hand, it is clear by the abundance of coaches lined up at one end of the ground, what seems like a shops worth of retro SC shirts on show and the slurred chants of the group of three lads who just passed us “Edgeley, Edgeley” it's going to be a lot or as the BFC supporter puts it, “more than us”.

Inside the shop her keyring or as she calls it, her “objet d'art” is secured, as is a pin for Tom. As we wait to pay, it's hard not to eavesdrop on the conversation taking place behind us, I say conversation, more of a monologue, from a man venting about the fact that BFC no longer sell a programme. They have joined the ever growing list of online only, much to the disgust of the person behind us who is getting quite agitated, “I don't want digital”.

Also in the shop wearing a Father Christmas hat, is not the border collie, but perhaps BFC’s most famous fan ‘Village’. White beard and all, he poses for a picture with a young home fan, before firmly shaking my hand and recalling our previous encounter, under the narrow railway arch on Zampa outside The Den.

“Knew there was something wrong with her” he says, not best pleased to hear it will be the away end we will be sitting in today. I shrug my shoulders, that decision was made for me about thirty years ago when Rachel was born. He is also the second person to use the phrase “more than us” when discussing what apparently is going to be quite the gulf between the home and travelling support.

If Tom thought I had a thing for flags, Village has made his obsession for them a lifestyle choice. The national flags plus a few other curiosities, line the long wooden fence outside the shop, where they flap and billow, in a stiff December breeze.

As I’m driving, and it's only one o'clock in the afternoon and I have to be in some kind of reasonable
state to be a parent later on today, its coffee for me and not beer. I’m not talking about anything pretentious, I’m more than happy with some brown water with plenty of milk sugar in, all served up in a white polystyrene cup. I wouldn't in a million years expect to be offered hazelnut syrup, Kenyan roast or for it to come in a seasonally appropriate designed cup.

A Starbucks, what at first glance looked like a gleaming chrome filled bar, is a Starbucks. It’s not until I see the green and white mermaid on one corner of the ground, do I realise that I’m about to get a venti latte, from a Starbucks, attached to a football ground. Like I said, a lot has changed.

Waiting for Rachel outside, not wanting an encounter with one of the door staff, yes a Starbucks at a football ground with bouncers, I have my third encounter with a BFC fan, perhaps their second most well known one, Matthew of the YouTube channel LoudmouthBFC. He in his Deadpool hoodie and shorts, and completes the hat trick of “more than us”, he doesn't use that phrase exactly, as the other two had, but the sentiment is the same.

“We’ll be the away team” he says despondently, “always have been since leaving flipping Underhill” he adds. Today's game at The Hive is not the only coming together between two titans of the game in the north of the capital, there is a little matter of the North London derby happening too, which I’m doing my best to record and not find out the score. I think Matthew is both impressed and baffled by the fact I’m “missing Spurs and Arsenal for this”. “Oh wow” he replies when I confirm I am with a sheepish nod of my head.

What is it with us trains and football grounds at the moment? They seem synonymous with our recent outings, today is no different, standing by the turnstiles of the Stand ‘66, the standalone bank of black and orange seats, it's hard to ignore the constant rumblings of the nearby Northern line trains, I say nearby, they’re practically part of the ground.

Through the turnstile, past a man in a long black coat and top hat, a camera crew and member of the Stockport band the Blossoms, the pub which they are named after, Rachel will without fail point out whenever we are up in her neck of the woods, is a sign that “thanks” the SFC fans for making the “380 mile round trip”, and coming through the double glazed doors of what is actually a bar and not a high street coffee chain, is a sound challenging the tube train for being the loudest thing in the vicinity.

Perhaps on reflection the idea of selling a day on the beach bucket sized double pints on special offer, will maybe go down as an error. Not because people are pissed and out of control, not because anyone is get lairy looking for trouble, but because the limited amount of furniture that is dotted about the ‘66 Bar, might not make it to the end of the day intact.

Currently at the far end of the long hall, which has a large picture of an agonised looking Geoff Hurst on the wall, is a boiling, heaving group of SC fans who are going headlong into chant four or five, and that's just in the short time we’ve been here. Chairs held aloft, the sound of a drum emanates from somewhere within the crowd, its electric.

This way to the match, reads the black lettering on the wall. Having edged past the friendly moshpit of still singing fans, the pile of furniture being nervously guarded by a steward, and doing my best to avoid the man whirling his scarf above his head or to bump into the gent ticking off a few Mancunian stereotypes, in his bucket hat and parka jacket, floating around to the beat of the drum, in his own world, pint in one hand the other in the air, the bright light of the outside takes a moment to adjust to, and things just get, in the words of John Motson, "better and better and better".

Flags, flags, flags and more flags, only one continues the theme of nations from around the world outside, a small Uruguay one, a nod to SC legend Danny Bergara, the rest are very much all in honour of SC. “What a fucking atmosphere”, says one supporter emerging behind me, and he's not wrong. Having eventually got in and minus the pop star, the man in the top hat, spins his blue and white rattle, much to the delight of one BFC steward, “not seen one of them in a while”.

Bunches of blue balloons bob above the heads of the fans, who have already and still with a fair old few still inside, done a good job in packing almost the entire stand. The seats fenced off with red and white tape, become the perfect place to drape one of the many flags. The juxtaposition between the home end, quite, not even half full and the bustling away end, is striking.

The appearance of the BFC mascot, a giant bee is followed by a torrent of boos, “you can't boo the bee” says Rachel disapprovingly. This scalding of her fellow fans though does not last for long and she is soon back on weather watch, the similarities between her and Tom increasing by the hour.

“Oh I'm turning into Tom” she says when it dawns on her too.

Jim Gannon's appearance, SC’s manager, near the mouth of the tunnel, takes the attention off the large wandering insect for a moment, as some people surge towards him for the chance of a photo. The bees attempt to ingratiate himself to the away fans with a round of applause in their direction, backfires. “Who are ya, who are ya” they sing, his large felt face, unresponsive to the barrage.

The departure of the SC team, jogging past the away end, gets almost everyone on their feet, balloons are frantically waved and a chorus of “blue army” serenades them.

Turning as he walks up the touchline, in his National League sky blue coat, Jim Gannon, raises his hands above his head and applauds the fans singing his name, “Jimmy Gannon's blue and white army”. Not far behind him, the two sets of players appear from the orange tunnel, to the backing track, which I thought was a joke, a case of the wrong CD being put in, the last time we were here, but it turns out BFC actually walkout to, Sweet Child of Mine by Guns & Roses.

Thankfully the volume of the SC fans drown out the hair metal classic, with a song of their own to the tune of The Lion Sleeps Tonight, “we’re the County, the mighty County, we always win away”. Everyone to a man is singing, clapping, some like the man behind me, pumps his fist to the rhythm of the song.

The final actions of the bee is to high five each member of the BFC team, before performing a few stretches as the teams line up to shake hands.

Before kick off the ground is tinged with sadness, a moment of reflection for the home fans who had
lost one of their own, who died in the week before the match. Some SC supporters “shhh” the others as the teams gather around the centre circle, ensuring silence, to make sure the moment is well respected. However instead of a minutes silence, it's a minutes applause, which is well observed by both sets of fans.

The tail end of one my all time favourite football chants, accompanies the kick off “at Edgeley Park our greatest pride, is the scarf my father wore”, which is then followed by an earth moving roar, with scarves held above heads, the drum at maximum and numerous shouts of “come on County” flooding forwards.

On a near loop, the drum drives the SC fans as they sing their managers name once more, “Jimmy Gannon's blue and white army” and with no bee to heckle, they take the opportunity to reel off a long song sheet of chants about the state of the BFC attendance, “you're supposed to be at home”, “shit ground no fans”, “what's it like to see a crowd” they ask, before the ultimate insult to any home team, “shall we sing a song for you?”.

Small kids on the back row, stand precariously on the folding seats to ensure a better view above the clapping hands and scarves. “You've got to be having a fucking laugh” shouts one fan, at the sight of a BFC player going down on the edge of the SC box. The visiting player is booked for foul and there the slight hush as the BFC free kick is lined up, taken, and whistles just wide.

There are plenty of sarcastic jeers as it does so, but they are nervous ones too. It was close, and with only four minutes on the LED scoreboard to our left, it's been a slightly shaky start by the Hatters.

The lull in singing and drumming is only for as long as it takes the free kick to be taken and it’s soon back up to speed athe noise when SC fizz a dangerous looking ball across the BFC box.

It's taken a back post header and one of their players executing the perfect knee slide celebration to coax the first bit of noise from the home fans. The SC supporters efforts, “blue army” does not dip for a moment as their team go a goal behind. The orange nought on the scoreboard flicks to a one alongside BFC’s name. “Come on lads”, shout a few fans between songs, “1 - 0 and you still don't sing”.

The SC players seemingly haven't let the goal dent their confidence either and are looking for a quick reply, minutes after the restart they are back on the attack. “Come on County, come on County” sing the SC fans, whose support of their team so far has been faultless. Their next song is to the tune of the Dambuster Theme and is just one of many different chants they will belt out today.

Somewhere else that can suffer from a lack of atmosphere, Wembley Stadium’s arch is visible over the squat terracing opposite, that on inspection contains a couple of handfuls of BFC fans congregated around a drum secured to the brushed steel railings along with a few small flags.

A short stop in play, allows a downed SC player to be treated, he returns to the pitch with the full Terry Butcher head gear and not long after the SC defence is a bit slow to respond to the BFC player on the edge of their box, who is given far too much time to get a shot off.

SC have been far from out of the running in the first quarter of an hour, despite being a goal behind, but there is a feeling they are going to have to really be at their very best to get anything from today and at the moment they are just a bit off the pace. A smatter of grumbling infiltrates the crowd. Not much, just enough to be noticeable, but not enough to interrupt the as of yet never ending singing, “hello, hello we are the County boys”.

“Ahhh” gasps the SC fans as their free kick goes close, just shy of twenty minutes gone at the beginning of a brief purple patch for the visitors. The Hive still devoid of any home noise, one SC fan suggests that his “local library is livelier than this”, another fans replies his “local library” has been “shutdown”.

The SC player just can't control the ball in the BFC box and the opportunity of a shot on goal goes begging, “come on County” shout the SC fans, as they craft their clearest chance of an equaliser. Minutes later and another goal bound shot is deflected and sent looping up and into the BFC keepers arms, who is in action again once more not long after. Clutching onto a curled angled SC shot from the edge of the box.

It's been all SC since they went behind, it's been all the SC fans since the doors opened around 12:30, “olla, olla, olla County” they sing before being caught in a near hypnotic trance of “blue army” 

The disapproving shake of Rachel's head, is not something anyone wants to see I can tell you. The venomous shouts of “cheating bastard” from the fan behind us mean all but the same, but there's something about the look in her eyes, that makes it far worse.

If I had been the BFC player who just committed the most blatant of dives, near the edge of the SC box, who should have been booked, but wasn't, the referee just simply waving at him to get up. I would rather have a large man from the North West call me a “bastard” one hundred times, then be subjected to her mean wobbling head.

It has taken almost half an hour before we hear the BFC fans for the first time, “come on Barnet” they chant, which gets a much louder, “weeeehhh”, then a few lines of “we forgot that you were here”.

Having been unable to make the most of their time in and around the BFC box, it's now the home teams turn to go close. Again with a header, a point black range one at that, which the keeper is able somehow to fist clear. A coming together between two opposing players, the BFC one a pony tailed man mountain and the much shorter, follically challenged SC one, almost results in a flare up. The fans around us are far from pleased with the Khal Drogo lookalikes antics, “you dirty southern bastard”.

The groans and grumbles among the SC fans are increasing, they have had plenty of possession, plenty of chances to get the ball into good positions, but their passing has been poor. The man directly behind me, has boiled down all his dissatisfaction into a single word, “shite”, that he blurts out after every failed move and for the first time the SC fans have fallen quiet’ish which allows me for the first time to actually hear the BFC drum, and not just see the young man hitting it.

The wind has changed direction and is now blowing in our face, the respite in singing means I start to notice the passing tube trains again and Rachel's face is scrunched right up at the, as she puts it, “load of nothingness” currently happening on the pitch. Going into the last ten minutes of the half and the match has all but fizzled out and cruelly the most entertaining thing is a BFC child fan playing ball boy. He takes a tumble retrieving the ball from the stand, and gets a “wehhh” for his troubles, the same one people give in a pub when someone drops a glass, but he is quickly back on his feet, and is applauded as he skips back to his seat.

“Ohhh” gasp the SC supporters, who are jolted into life, when a hopeful looking volley form the edge of the BFC box, slams into a defender. With just over five minutes to play, the slow trickle towards the bar and refreshments starts. A lady passing down the front in a rainbow jacket jogs people into making the decision, stay until the whistle or head off now.

Another BFC chant, the same as before, “come on Barnet” is given short shrift by the still much, much louder SC fans, “come on County”. Rachel unlike Tom, is still in her seat, despite deciding she will be going “full Tom today”. She has “bought something”, “moaned about the weather” and now it's just a case of getting something to eat. “Chips” will be her food of choice, but she won't be moving until the referee says so.

The lady in the rainbow jacket and anyone else who had gone in search of a double pint, would have missed BFC nearly scoring their second. A waist height ball across the box, falls to a lunging BFC forward, who makes contact with it, but his shot flies over, and he ends up in a heap, just short of the goal line, tangled with the neon green wearing SC keeper.

Instead of chastising their players for conceding the chance, they celebrate their keepers heroics, who is currently looking a little worse for ware, to the tune of a bit of Madness, “in the middle of our goal Hinchcliffe.

A slide rule pass into the BFC box looks to be getting SC somewhere, the chop from the forward inside his marker looks to be getting them even closer. The robust but fair BFC challenge stops any inkling of danger, “defending like beasts” says Rachel, puffing out her cheeks.

“Three additional minutes of added time” says the velvet smooth voice of the BFC stadium announcer, and as Rachel puts it, it’s “not much considering” the stoppages there have been. Once more I can hear the dull thumps of the BFC drum, but it is soon muted by ones mans violent exclamation of his dislike of the referee, “you're a fucking wanker” he bellows, confirming to a neighbour if it wasn't clear, “I hate him”.

SC control added on time, much like they have controlled long periods of the game since going behind. A smart exchange on the edge of the BFC box, ultimately breaks down, pretty much summing up their attacking form so far today, just not clicking when it matters.

The players depart, almost to the same level of rapturous acclaim as they had received when they arrived. Lousy pop music, replaces the signing of the travelling SC fans. The stand pretty much empties, including Rachel who in the finest Tom tradition is off in search of food. Those who've stayed behind take the chance to rest and take a seat, except for the man in the long black coat, who's scruffy white hair pokes out from under his top hat. With his back to the pitch, he jabs his finger towards the home fans, with a look on his face like he is delivering a Churchillian speech.

A couple of kids given the freedom of the away end, break out into a little scrap, until what I imagine was a stern shout from a grown up, that puts an end to it, so they just floss instead. The voice over the PA wishes those in attendance a happy Hanukkah and Villages Norwegian BFC fan, who he was talking to the shop, before us, gets a shout out.

I check the score of the North London derby and Spurs are 2 - 1 ahead. If SC could grab a couple of goals in the second half, then it could turn into a pretty splendid day.

It’s boos for the Barnet players as they reemerge to what I think is some Daft Punk and the stand is only half full, Rachel still MIA as the game restarts. The drum is back at it, there are the odd shouts of “come on County”, however with little more than a minute on the clock, not many SC fans witness the early dangerous SC cross that is cleared for a corner.

SC look to have picked up where they left off, BFC also seem determined to throw their weight around in the penalty area at set pieces, the jostling around the home keeper, catches the attention of the referee. The SC fans claim for a penalty, but the ref just has a word with the players involved and waves on the corner taker to get on with it.

“Took you forty eight minutes” laughs a SC supporter at the sound of the BFC drum. As has happened all day so far at the slightest bit of home noise, it is quickly mocked by the away fans, their go to loop of “blue white army” is soon doing the rounds again.

The home fans largest on mass chant, “come on Barnet” follows them going close once again to a second goal. An excellent cross into the box, is matched by the leaping header, which thankfully for the SC fans is bettered by the one handed save of their keeper who keeps them in the game. Around me, a mass exhale from the SC fans, sounds like a giant fart, running through each and every one of their heads is not ‘did I just make a noise with my mouth that sounded like a fart, but, ‘we got away with that one’.

As the clock ticks, the tensions grows, and not because Rachel only returned with a packet of crisps, explaining the queue for the food was too long, but because the longer the game goes on, the less likely SC look like they are going to score and there is a feeling the game is getting away from them.

For the record Tom would have stayed in the queue, even if it was only “hot dogs, burgers or cold baguettes” and “no chips” on offer. Starbucks and baguettes, so overwhelmingly North London. Rachel tries to change the subject, doing her best to deflect my displeasure, I really fancied pinching some of her chips, suggesting that the queue was “full of kids” because people send them to “do their bidding” and I’m to ask Tom if this is the case at other matches.

Both teams are sloppy, but the fact the BFC drum is slowly becoming ever more present, means the party atmosphere of an hour ago is slowly waning, and a few more people are sitting now. SC apply some good pressure on the ball in the BFC box, but it just doesn't pay off. The fans still singing, “SUFC”, still have plenty of energy to give the man in charge some stick, “you're not fit to referee” but the players on the pitch are just not able to replicate the efforts of the fans off it.

The lure of the double pints has become too much for one SC fan who is bundled out by the police just a couple of minutes shy of sixty. Two minutes later and a mistake in the SC defence sees BFC back in possession just outside of their SC box. The home player jinks his way through the SC back line and lets free a fierce rising shot that is just tipped over. The rock steady beat of Madness fills the stand again, “in the middle of our goal Hinchcliffe”.

On the hour mark its all SC but its growing tenser by the minute, the inflection in the fans voices changes from one of support, to one of mild desperation, “come on County”. The worldly voiced stadium announcer, introduces a BFC substitute, which prompts some fans to ask, “who are ya, who are ya?”.

“I thought that was in” cries one SFC his face in his hands turning away from the sight of the poked chance that went inches the wrong side of the post. Going close stokes the fires within the SC fans “I O County, County I O” they sing. “You wouldn't know there were any Barnet fans here” says Rachel nodding towards the BFC supporters, “remember last time they were very polite” she recalls from our visit to Underhill in the home end, “they only clapped”.

The situation though has not changed, because despite the lion's share of possession, BFC look threatening on every attack.

I can literally feel the beat of the SFC drum in my chest, the guys standing on the back seats, hanging on to whatever they can, mostly the fine black netting that lines the roof to prevent the pigeons taking roost, squirm and react to every pass. “Jammy bastard” says Mr Shite, mixing it up a bit. What looks like might be a stroke of luck, in the BFC area, just won't see the ball fall right for the SC forward, and the moment passes.

A quarter of an hour to go and the SC fans are now the quietest they have been all day. There are the odd shouts, “come on boys” but all the intensity of earlier has slipped away, the BFC drum now even more frequent. On the pitch and BFC are sat right back, happy now to counterattack, while SC are throwing everything but the kitchen sink at the home defence. BFC’s chances on goal have been few and far between, but when they get them, they just look that little bit more composed.

BFC are not only content with setting up camp in their half, but with still over ten minutes left are more than happy to waste as much time possible, at every opportunity, “cheating bastard” scowls one SC fan, the BFC keeper the main arbiter of the lollygagging.

SC continue to go close, ish, half chances you might say, getting in the right position but then fluffling their lines. Skipping into the box, the player makes enough room for himself to shoot, but there always seems to be a “beast” in orange to block the shot. The bandaged headed defender goes close with a back post header, but its wide, “go again” demands one fan.

“Fucking shite” says Mr Shite, almost returning back to his catchphrase, “he should get that on a t shirt” whispers Rachel. BFC’s keeper is taking the piss, the drummer rattles off a native American style beat as he goes through one of his overly long goal kick routines.

Down the front and the space between the seats and the barrier, marked with yellow hatching has slowly filled with fans, wanting to get that bit closer to the action. The other side of the shiny black railings more police appear in yellow high vis and hats, to bolster their defences.

Into the final ten minutes, and “great ball” says one nearby fan, sees SC momentarily look like they are on to something, but again an all orange “beast” hoofs it clear. SC still have all of the ball, BFC are still happy to not move much further forward than the edge of their box, SC just can't make it count.
The home fans sing, which gets the customary “wheyyyy” and “we forgot that you were here”. Spurs are also losing 4 - 2 now, as Rachel puts it, it's “not a good day for either of us”.

Heads slowly but surely start to lift and the sea of standing fans has been restored, with less than five minutes left to play, there is a resurgence among the SC fans, spurred on perhaps by the home supports attempt at a song, which is quickly blown out of the water, “Jimmy Gannon's blue and white army”.

The SC fans contest everything, “how can we see it, but you can't, tosser” shouts one, as the away fans just don't feel like they are getting the rub of the green. The SC fans continue to will on the player, BFC have erected a big orange wall and the ref, who again in the eyes of the SC fans has made a mistake, gets a deafening song of his very own, “the referees a wankers”.

One last SC push, while their team go in search of an equaliser or in BFC case they try to cling on to their lead, fans of each team or as Rachel points out, “children” gesture and posture, trying to emulate a bygone era, with lots of chest slapping and pointing outside at each other, but considering the vast distance between them, not to mention all the police, it’s embarrassing.

A single piece of a bright orange seat spins through the air slowly, finding a home on top of the net as more and more police pile on to the edge of the pitch, the hatched area down below almost overflowing and the fans are so angered by the BFC time wasting, it's getting a bit toxic.

I can't be sure, but what might be the most blatant case of time wasting by a team there has ever been, forces a SC player to climb over the railings and into the stands to retrieve the ball. A ball when it's in play they are very rarely out of possession of, but the goal just doesn't look like its coming.

In the seconds before the final whistle, the glimmer of a single tin foil FA Cup catches my eye among the BFC fans, much larger than the one in the SC end that looked more like an egg cup. The big cheer that follows shortly after the game is over, almost doesn't sound real, like its happening a lot further away than it is.

"We love you Stockport we do" sing the SC fans, as the forlorn players, the look of missing out on the third round and a glamour tie, against one of the big boys as they say, visible across each and every one.

A scarf is tossed towards them, and I can smell it before I see it, someone has let off a blue smoke bomb, sending wispy blue tendrils up in to the sky. Some players breech the gap in the police line to talk to the fans pressed up against the railings and its then things take a very Iceland 2016 turn, as players and supporters join each other in a thunder clap.

The BFC players huddle at the far end of the pitch, a single flag from their fans is hung over the railings. The acrid smell of the smoke bomb now permeates everything. The SC players sit in what was the BFC six yard box, dwelling on the defeat, before a coach slowly but surely starts to pick them back up to their feet. The vast majority of fans are still yet to move, still singing and clapping, the name of their manager once more not far from their lips. 

It would be slightly remiss of me to ignore what happened on the way our. What I believe was triggered by some goading by BFC fans, turned into a bottle being chucked at the BFC manager and ended with people being pushed, shoved and hit with batons by the police. Accusations that "all cops are bastards" by one fan seemed unfair, admittedly the polices response did seem a little heavy handed, but it takes two to tango, and there were SC fans more than up for ruck.

My day ends with me shuffling back towards the car, half deaf from the banger someone let off, half deaf from Rachel's squeal in response to it and someone half hanging out the passenger window of a passing car singing at me, "Hagrid, give us a wave, Hagrid, Hagrid give us a wave".

"A lesson in going sideways" is Rachel's rather scathing assessment of SC's performance, she is also equally harsh about the BFC celebrations on the final whistle, "its like they put 10p in the fan meter". I am at this point, staring at my phone and the final result from Spurs vs Arsenal, waiting for the traffic to subside, and a deluge of Whatsapp messages from Tom, ogling the mountain of Domino's pizza making their way I would think to the victors dressing room.

Despite the result, and the silliness at the end, today only bolstered my affection for SC and its supporters. The pride and passion they display, out singing the home fans, travelling all this way for a frankly inconvenient two o'clock kick off on a Sunday, which is only for the benefit of the TV producers and nobody else, is stirring stuff. "Do it for the fans" shouted one SFC supporters towards the end, today the players couldn't do it, but that never stopped them backing them.

A sleeping giant, a fan base that deserves more, and as I said last time we saw them, my SFC scarf, alongside my Spurs one, is the only one that hangs in my house.

For all of our photographs from the match, click HERE

Watch our video from the match ↓ HERE

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