Belly Buster - AFC Rushden & Diamonds Vs Hayes & Yeading United FC, Evo-Stik Southern League East, Hayden Road (20/03/18)

“No long johns today” says a positively gleaming Tom, patting his thighs. He is almost as bright as the sun, who after two consecutive matches consisting of grey skies, snow, shivering, frost nip and numb toes, is a sight to behold. In fact there is no sign of the white stuff that twenty four hours ago blanketed almost everything in sight.

It’s not a long drive tonight considering how far and wide we've been on some trips this season, however it's quite a distance on a weeknight for us. The extra time in the car though allows Tom to fill me in on the aftermath of the Pukka sausage roll he'd had the previous day and the fact he went to Hatton Garden earlier ring shopping.

Having been subtly dropping hints for months, I can only hope I get the solitaire black diamond with platinum, I've always wanted.

The outskirts of one town we pass through is a curious place, full of new build "toy houses" as Tom calls them. So new is the development that my Sat Nav thinks at one point we are driving headlong across a field and Tom and I can't stop ogling the prefab dwellings up for sale, in these preformed clusters, like they have been fired out of a child's play set. You can even have a pink one by the looks of it, if you so desire.

Closer to our destination and the brand spanking new houses are replaced with much older ones, and as we wind along the back roads of Northamptonshire, playing the “oh that's nice” game. Pointing out which of the palacious mansions set back from the leafy road, behind closed gates we fancy moving into.

After all the nearby dainty houses, with a few newer ones scattered among them, passing through what seems like the very pleasant town of Rushden, I did not expect to find myself parking opposite the long red brick wall of an industrial estate.

Tall thin spindly floodlights shoot up skywards beyond the flat roofed entrance to Hayden Road. There is little or no signs of life, there is though an open door, which we investigate nervously. A long corridor the other side of it gives up no suggestion of what is to be found. An empty bar and many closed doors, makes us wonder if we have broken our all time record for being too early, that for the first time ever, we are the first here, before anyone to do with the actual club.

“You here for the Diamonds?” asks a lady behind us. Having not quite found what we were looking for, a club that Tom remembers on the way here “playing on Fifa” once upon a time, but who now in their new guise after reforming in 2011, play in the Southern League and not the Football League, AFC Rushden & Diamonds (AFC)

Turning to be greeted by a helpful face, is a woman who I'm not sure how she could tell, but said we looked a bit “lost”.

So early are we, that there is a wedding reception still taking place in one of the functions rooms. Someones special day stands between us and the pitch. If we hadn't had our friendly local guide to lead us, I think we would have just waited for it to finish, far too embarrassed to barge right through. I try to cover the dance floor as quickly as possible. Getting out of the way of the glaring people in their finest.

I offer a mumbled and flustered “congratulations” to the happy couple at one table as we pass, but just get blank faces back.

From the state of the pitch you wouldn't know that earlier in the day it had been subject to a dreaded pitch inspection. Waterlogged was the reason, if I remember the tweet correctly. Thanks to the volunteers here late last night and during the day today we have a game to watch. As one lady standing pitch side near us puts it, giving an inkling as to just what kind of club we are at, when she tells us about the “good band” of fans who turned up to help.

Watching on as the groundsman finishes touching up the lines with his white paint dispensing machine, Tom says he imagines its quite a “nice job”, “theraputic”. As he completes the goal line, someone shouts “don't fall in”. The considerable patch of sand in the six yard box, a giveaway to that area being one of the worst affected.

The radio playing around the ground, echos the same controversy that Tom had mentioned on the way here, that the wedding cake for the royal wedding this year, for the first time since God only knows, will not be fruitcake. Heretics, burn them at the stake.

Still talking about food and after he has informed me just like radio 5 live just has, slow news day, that it will be “lemon cake”, he stops, his jaw almost hitting the ground, he's just spotted The Burger Monster menu.

I had not told him, but I knew before getting here AFC were somewhat well known, even famous you might say in the non league world for their food. A prime destination for anyone on a pilgrimage like Tom is, for those trying to achieve food at football nirvana.

Scrawled across a whiteboard pinched from a primary school, in different coloured marker, different shapes outline different things on offer. With all the choice, it could take one a while to decide what they are having. Towards the bottom left hand corner of the vast menu, almost discreetly, is by the looks of it, something from Man Vs Food, the “Belly Buster”.

I think we both put on a stone just reading its contents: burger, bacon, sausage, egg, cheese. I almost considered loosening my belt, such is the sheer volume of ingredients, all of which are somehow contained within one standard bun. Tom though does not have the look of someone relishing the challenge, but of someone who looks defeated before even ordering it.

Having said I was thinking of eating today myself, having said I fancied a nibble of something, Tom points out “I picked a good day to eat chips”, considering the vast array of toppings and combination of things you can have with them.

Talking to Jon, AFC’s Vice Chairman, he emphasises quite what a “rush” it was at the beginning of this season to secure Hayden Road as their home, having played somewhere else for the previous one. When I ask him why there is a lack of anything to signify this is their home, he points out that it was far more important to “make sure” they had “ground grading” before worrying about any “fancy signs’.

Slowly but surely though they are starting to establish themselves here, Jon confirms they will be here for at least next season too, which allows them to put down some tentative roots, instead of not bothering to unpack any boxes, before they will just have to fill them all up in a few months time.

The club shop is being renovated, as we talk to Jon a man hangs a long line of sweatshirts and hoodies on its outside. Next to that, and the other side of the mini metal covered terrace, is Dale's Bar, which to the fans is a lot more than a place to get a pint, but a shrine, in honour of a keeper from their previous incarnation who sadly took his own life, and why the club Jon explains have “retired” the number 1.

There is no shortage of people to talk to here. When Jon departs, the mantle to tell us more about this famous team is club Treasurer John. From the North West originally, Mossley, his face awash with confusion when we tell him we had been their recently, he explains how AFC are one of the most hallowed things in football, fan owned. The club is 100% supporter run, the board made up of all fans, no-one from the old regime.

Both John and Jon do not take me as fans who are wallowing in the mire of losing the club they
once knew, forced to rebuild it, due to the mismanagement of others. There is a brief moment of nostalgia from John, telling me how good his son was at “winning the Champions League with Rushden” but he is not overly nostalgic for long, and is soon telling us about the “fourty teams” they run, and their “not for profit academy”.

“Should be a good game” he adds, its first vs fourth tonight. Although he admits to having “lost count” of the amount of games they have had postponed this season, so I’m sure there must be some relief that it's going ahead in the first place. All the bad weather means their run in to the end of the season is pretty consistently “Saturday, Tuesday, Saturday, Tuesday”.

The draw of the white portacabin club shop is all too strong. The row of club merchandise hung on hangers outside subtly lead you towards its small door. Inside, the three or four trellis tables are smothered with an extensive collection of wonderful football tat, badges, magnets, mugs, keyrings, giant mouse mats and phone covers. Most intriguing of all, are the temporary tattoos. For the princely sum of 50p, you can lick and stick your way to being the ultimate AFC fan with a semi permanent club badge about your person, wherever you may wish.

“Like the Hayes Santa hat” says Tom, as a Hayes & Yeading United FC (HYU) player strides on to the pitch. A player one of their coaches is glad to see after getting a “bit worried” because they were all running late. Tom also realises he could have quite easily worn his "red and white” Arsenal “scarf” and fitted in just fine tonight.

The small table placed outside Dale's Bar, has all the necessary accouterments for a good non league tea or coffee placed on top. Inside its a moving and poignant tribute to the former player. His shirts and pictures cover the walls, and a large AFC flag hangs from the ceiling.

When the players emerge from the short narrow tunnel at the base of the main stand, which is securely closed and looks almost derelict, all the lights of the ground are put on and there is a cheery welcome from the voice over the echoey PA “hello and good evening all you earlybirds”.

With a few spots on the back row of the mini metal terrace already filled. A terrace that for some unknown reason I have become quite fascinated with. It has all the features and fittings of one from a much larger stadium, but has been condensed to fit in a non league ground. It looks like, with just under thirty minutes to kick off, the announcers wish of a “decent turnout” may be becoming reality.

“Ladies and gentlemen” says the man with the microphone who knows how to play a crowd, leaving a suitable dramatic pause to grab everyones attention, announces that everyone is to make sure they get themselves an “end of season draw ticket”.

My ears prick like a like a startled foal, although it wouldn't have the instant gratification of a golden goal win or a football scratch card. If I play the long game, I could end up with a nice little surprise come the end of the season. When he also informs the crowd that there is a "50/50" too, well that beats any Belly Buster or countless options of things to have with chips.

It’s a succession of old wooden tables near the turnstiles where I’m able to conclude a tidy bit of business in no time at all. First up the man in the blue rain coat, sells me my programme, a real, glossy paper programme, not a digital one as I had feared AFC produce and one with today's date, contrary to what John said, that they wouldn't be doing a “reprint” as tonight's fixture is one of the many that have been postponed.

Next door, three elderly ladies sitting on white patio furniture take my money in exchange for the 50/50. I’m allowed to pick from which colour book I want, pink and blue for me. Next up is the lady selling the end of season draw tickets, where there is a chance to win some big money as well as “vouchers for a meal out” or if I'm really lucky I might be able to “get my nails done”.

A single HYU flag hangs from the fence behind one goal, a fence that separates the nearby flats and the ground. So close are the windows, that one flick of the curtain and you would have a grandstand view. The names of the HYU players are followed by a “wey” by the small but animated bunch of visiting fans standing in front of the flag.

There is a slight haze hanging over the pitch. Has the announcer who is clearly one for a bit of the dramatics released a suitable blast of dry ice or was it as Tom claims, “that was me” and it's his sour cherry vape smoke making things a bit murky.

“Is this all you get at home?” ask the HYU fans. When the reply is less than forthcoming they ask “is this a library?”. Considering how many people surround the pitch a steady uninterrupted line of onlookers, the mini metal terrace looking close to full, it must be one of the highest attendances we've seen all season, and certainly for a night game.

Eventually the busy covered stand comes to life, “come on Rushden, come on Rushden” one person at its very back, standing in near darkness, bangs the metal stand of extra noise. They remind the noisy visitors that as it stands “we are top of the league”.

On the pitch there is a brief outburst from a few players from each team, “lets start fucking well lads” shouts one AFC player, “come on boys” shouts a less sweary HYU player.

It's the AFC fans turn to ask something, “can you hear the Hayes boys sing?” and just like their counterparts at the other end had, they follow one question with another, “whats it like to see a crowd?”. The HYU fans refute the claim they are being quiet, suggesting in reply it is them “making all the noise”.

It's quite a manic opening fifteen minutes, the ball changing possession seemingly with every pass or should I say attempted one, but there is little to nothing as far as actual goal threats are concerned. AFC’s early sloppiness, a feature of their whole evening inspires the latest HFU song, “top of the league you’re having a laugh”.

Once again this season we are in the presence of a very noisy keeper. The HYU stopper in his all purple kit makes up for his small stature, with his big voice. So numerous are his shouts and instructions, that they quickly start to just sound like noises, a succession of grunt and yelps, that has not been lost on one AFC fan. “Understood that” shouts the fan when the HYU keeper says something that actually makes sense.

For a once league club, I guess it should not be a great surprise of the following they have, it really is an impressive turnout. Their loudest song of the night “come on you whites” is followed by a few shouts of “you whites”, “you whites” from different fans.

The HYU supporters are certainly outnumbered, but continue to give a good account of themselves, “we've got more flags than you”. AFC's singing is sporadic, it even gets a little quiet, as Tom comments it's just “murmurs from the crowd” and the inquisitive visiting fans ask AFC’s, “where” their “famous atmosphere” is, but not before informing us all of the extent that they are willing to go to follow their team “over land and sea” and “Uxbridge”.

There are the occasional flashes of activity on the pitch, much like in the crowd, “we’re the white and blue army” sing the AFC fans, who stop and fall quiet just as quickly as they start. Their number 10 has caught Tom’s eye “he's got magic in his boots” he says, as he repeatedly shows good touches and a bit of flair, but nothing yet to fashion a real attempt on goal.

“Think I should get in the burger queue” ponders Tom, it's over twenty minutes to the break, but such are the numbers here, and it's a tight ground, not a huge amount of room, he is getting a little anxious about getting near the food.

AFC’s number 10, proves with some dogged determination, that Tom is justified when he shouts “told ya” in my ear. Then like someone who runs a Klondike he reiterates his previous point “magic in them boots". Somehow after slipping and with the overly close attention of his marker, he still manages to keep possession and continue forward. However like so much of AFC’s play in the final third it really comes to nothing.

Finally a shot, a low driven shot that stings the palms of the AFC keeper.

“Off, off, off” are the shouts of the AFC fans, when one of their players is flattened by a rather crude tackle. The referee deemed it a fair challenge, and awarded a corner. “This guy's a comedian” says an astonished AFC player.

The home team have plenty of possession, but the same flaw continues to haunt them. They have numerous prolonged periods with the ball, passing it around the edge of the HYU box, probing for an opening. On one occasion when the ball is passed to their roaming number five. A centre back not afraid to charge forward and ping balls all over the place. The quite simple pass, rolls over his foot and goes out, he looks mortified, Tom leans over and whispers in my ear “no magic in those boots”.

“He headed it the wrong way” exclaims Tom, when AFC maybe go the closest to getting something on target. A match of header ping pong breaks out in the HYU box, but the final touch instead of going goal wards, somehow goes in the opposite direction.

It finally dawns on me, with just over five minutes of the half to go, who the HYU keeper reminds me of. The mixture of he hairstyle and the short stature, makes me sure he's got a bit of the Griezmann about him, Tom is far from convinced.

“Ohhhhh”” gasp the AFC supporters, breaking their near silence in response to HYU going close to taking the lead late in the half. Right in front of the away fans, they ask again if this “is a library”, then start singing “oh when the Hayes go marching in”. They quieten ever so slightly when one player makes a wild attempt at a volley, that goes close to breaking a window of the flats behind the goal.

A passing car beeping its horn, may have been a coincidence, but it stirs AFC fans from their malaise, “come on Diamonds”. For them though their team are giving them little to sing about, for a countless time a good move is undone by a rushed final pass and HYU are looking more and more to capitalise on their mistakes with fast counterattacks, which only encourages their fans “we are the Hayes, we are the Hayes”.

Since the start, to me at least, it has felt like AFC were always going to shoot themselves in the foot somehow, that their propensity to give the ball away would come back to haunt them, on forty four minutes, that's exactly what happened.

HYU's goal that sends its scorer and most of the team haring off into the crowd, leaping on their fans, doesn't come directly from a mistake per se, more a lack of decisiveness in defence. Having plenty of opportunities to get rid of the ball and there for the danger, instead they hesitate. HYU win it back, and take the lead.

There is never a great time to concede, regardless of what someone on the Match of the Day panel might say, but so close to half time, always feels that little bit worse. The fans attempt to rouse the players for the final minutes, “come on Rushden, come on Rushden”. However it's the HYU supporters who are the loudest as the players walk in, “super Hayes”.

Finally the moment I’ve been waiting for, the thing that has got me through a relatively ordinary first half, the 50/50 draw. “Blue ticket” says the voice over the PA, yes, I have one of them. A prize of “£85”, yes, I would be more than happy to take that home. Ticket number “584”, no, that's not me, fuck it.

Just to rub it in, a man with a much smaller and more mobile whiteboard than the one outside the food bar, its walking around the pitch with the winning number on.

“They deserve to be one up, fair reflection of the performance” says one AFC fan to another, reflecting on the first half. He is quite right that when he adds that HYU just looked a “yard faster” than AFC, but powered by the eternal optimism all football fans possess, in varying degrees of course, he makes sure his “fingers are crossed” as “you never know”.

All that remains in the yellow polystyrene box that once contained the 1/4 lb Diamond Burger with bacon Tom has already finished, is a small bit of rind and a couple of chips, “double fried” ones at that. The noise as he sits down is enough to tell me he enjoyed it, a slow exhale of air. “Glad I didn't go for the Belly Buster” he says, struggling to get his words out, his entire being concentrating on digesting what he calls the “best burger at football ever".

Tom is not a person to throw this kind of accolade around willy nilly, this is serious stuff, as he puts it, the man who made it, “knows how to make a burger”. High praise indeed from the André Michelin of the non league food world.

“Come on Rushden” shout the fans, in response to their teams early pressure. HYU’s small group now occupy the mini metal stand, with no space to hang their flag, it is now draped over the hoarding around the pitch. AFC supporters now fill the narrow strip behind the other goal and their noise reflects their teams good start, “you whites, you whites, you whites”.

AFC have a big shout for a penalty turned down, “handball” is the collective cry, nope, just a corner according to the referee, who is starting to come in for some stick, “you're having a blinder ref”. The resulting corner is played short and almost came to something, the ball ricocheting around the box, but just doesn't fall to a home player and is hoofed clear.

“Dear oh dear” says a nearby AFC fan, as the mood turns a bit, and the supporters are really starting to grumble. One is far from impressed by one of his players decision making, “that's silly, absolute lunacy”. AFC just continue to get sloppier and sloppier.

Every AFC attack is coming down their right side, their number 7 the main outlet, and they put together a few nice moves to release him down the wing, but he epitomises his whole teams performance. In bags of space, he chooses to cross first time, instead of taking a much needed extra touch and composing himself.

There is a hush as one AFC player prepares to take a corner. The shouty keeper looks to me to have fumbled his attempt to claim it, the referee thinks he's been fouled. If I’m honest the man in goal looked to make the most of the very minimal contact and one AFC fan lets him know that, “you cheeky sod” he barks angrily.

Fifteen minutes to go, the tension amongst the home fans is palpable, many continue to show their displeasure at their teams complete inability to complete a pass. As Tom puts it HYU look to “want it more” they are more “up for it”. AFC’s fans are given a thin sliver of hope, when a shot cannons back off the foot of the post. “Come on Rushden, come on Rusden” they sing, at least they got off a shot this time, attempts on goal have been few and far between all match.

The home end is very quiet, I’m not sure the away end has ever been less than a bit rowdy all game. The one thing that both sets of supporters have in common, is their growing dislike of the referee. “You don't know what you're doing” chant the HYU fans.

Tom thinks the visitors have come with a concise “game plan” and have so far executed it very well. They have been compact and break quickly. Not to want to bang on about it, but nothing has changed much as far as AFC are convinced, is has not been the performance of a team at the top of the table, and the HYU fans let them know that, “you're not very good, you're not very good”.

A late HYU break, sees the ball fizzed across the AFC box, and is just about cleared. Watching their team almost go further behind, doesn't dampen spirits further, but has quite the opposite effect. For the first time in a long time, the fans are well and truly going for it, “come on Rushden, come on Rushden”.

Everyone thought that was it, everyone, every single fan of either team, every player, both benches, everyone thought that was the equalizer, however the HYU keeper who is by no way a tall and imposing one, somehow, pulled off a point blank save, stopping a top corner bound header.

It was one of those saves where time stops still, he seemed to hang in the hair, the ball by the looks of it already behind him, but he manages to claw it out. “Come on boys” screams one HYU player, knowing full well that luck might just be on their side tonight.

The remarkable save inspires an AFC siege, “Rushden, Rushden”, this though does not perturb the HYU fans who been treated to little or no action at their end, but still keep going, “we are Hayes, we are Hayes”. One AFC player hits a low pile driver of a shot just wide. With the traffic going only one way, they win what looks like a dubious free kick, the HYU player who supposedly gave the foul away can't believe it. In absolute shock at the decision, he falls to his knees and repeatedly punches the floor.

“That was never a foul, not in a million years” says one AFC fan, when they are awarded another suspicious free kick dead centre in front of goal, just outside the box. Last chance to get a shot on goal. Nope, comes to nothing. They win another one, in almost exactly the same place. “This is it then” says the man from the shop, this is the last bite at the cherry, but again they just can't make it count.

“If only it was like this in the first half” says the man from the shop, after watching the second well placed set piece come to nothing. If only AFC had shown the same desire for the first eighty minutes, that they had for the final ten.

HYU bobble a shot just wide, a two goal margin would have maybe flattered them a little.

“We love you Hayes we do, we love you Hayes you do” sing 5the HYU supporters, who are almost exclusively making all the noise now. With a few people starting to make off, they sing the age old, “is there a fire drill”.

There is a team huddle, and plenty of high fives for each other from the HYU players on the pitch. The goal scorer does a celebratory knee slide in front of the still singing and applauding fans.

Favourite bit of Toms night, hands down the burger, favourite bit of my night Tom telling me about the HYU player slipping over on a celebrating fans programme that flew onto the pitch, following the HYU goal. Handing it back to the fan who had lost it, the number ten had a face like thunder, that could have killed, he was not impressed.

I imagine its not really important where AFC play, if they stay at Hayden Road for the next two or ten
seasons its not important, maybe they will go back to their old home, that John said was only "three miles" away, and is still awaiting development to this day, its the ethos and heart of the people running the club who make it hands down one of the nicest we have ever visited. Not the bricks and mortar.

Tom said to me within ten minutes of arriving, "community". That sense of spirit that maybe only fan ownership can give you, the likes of which we've felt in places like FC United of Manchester, is very special indeed.

Will AFC ever reach the climes that means some kid will be able to win the Premier League with them on Fifa again, who knows. However they seem to have stable and passionate foundation, that certainly means they are going to give it a good go trying to get there.

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Two Pairs Of Socks Today - Dulwich Hamlet FC Vs Worthing FC, Bostik League Premier, Imperial Fields (18/03/18)

The closing bars of the Desert Island Discs theme tune lulls me somewhat into a false state of security. I’m sure I can feel the sun on my face, the rustle of the palm fronds above me and the feel of sand between my toes. My mind is clearly playing tricks on me though, because outside my car it's like a scene from a well known Rebel Alliance bolt hole, which is only reinforced by the sight of Tom almost waddling towards the car, like a toddler with too many layers on.

“Two pairs of socks today” he explains.

I’m not a religious man, so I don’t feel like I’m being disrespectful to some higher power, by doing stuff on a Sunday. However I have my own strict views, neh philosophy on what one should be doing on this holy of days and the very core of this mantra is centred around not leaving the house.

Unless it's for a croissant or some other such baked morning pastry, its mandatory to watch at least one black and white World War Two movie, watch at least one if not two mediocre televised football matches, European or domestic, and never, I repeat never move from the sofa, unless absolutely necessary.

Just about the only thing that will get me dressed and out, among the park walkers and day time drinkers is football. Sadly non league football on a Sunday is an all too rare occurrence. Yes there are a few teams, mainly loggers who don't have their own ground who play on the sabbath, but other than that, you might have more luck finding someone who doesn't shout on Arsenal Fan TV.

So as delighted as I am that I’m driving over a selfie taking covered Tower Bridge, heading to a game, it’s just unfortunate that the circumstances around the club we are visiting, meant it wasn't played the day before.

Unless you have been living under a rock these last few weeks, living in some self imposed football news blackout, you cannot not be aware of the plight of one particular pink and blue wearing non league club, whose badge looks like the lesser known house at Hogwarts, Dulwich Hamlet FC (DH).

Crikey their circumstances has been brought up in the House of Commons, has the backing of the likes of Gary Lineker, Rio Ferdinand and ex Dulwich player Peter Crouch. Their unscrupulous to say the least landlord has locked the gates on their home of eighty seven years, evicted them, and has thrown the club into turmoil.

However the fans of DH are not the kind to sit idly by, sitting on their hands to see what happens, they are far too proud of their clubs heritage, what they have achieved on the pitch and the work they do in the greater community, to let one arsehole ruin that.

Suddenly homeless at a crucial part of the season, very much in the running for winning the league, some might have said that the off field distractions may well derail their seasons, only for a knight in black and white striped armour, to offer a helping hand, and save the day.

I certainly don't know of any other examples of two traditional foes, shacking up, to assist in the preservation of one of the main topics of your fans songs. I know Spurs and Arsenal shared White Hart Lane during World War Two, however that was for slightly different reasons, but at least it shows its possible.

So when DH were approached by Tooting & Mitcham United FC, who forgot old rivalries and offered up their stadium as a temporary home, for the remainder of the season, I imagine no one was more surprised, than DH themselves.

Despite how hideous outside it is, Tom is surprisingly upbeat. “It will be worth it” he tells me, he reckons we will be treated to an “8-6” score line, in return for our commitment to braving the elements. His positivity takes a little dent when I tell him it's unlikely that the dumpling stall from our previous visit to watch DH at Champion Hill, that were so good, I named the blog after them, are unlikely to be there. He does though explain he is even more determined to have a “Cup-a-soup” today, after failing to get one at Basingstoke yesterday, where he was unable to satisfy his craving.

The pitch of the regally named Imperial Field is almost completely covered in snow when we arrive, as are the steps of the large covered terraces at each end of the pitch that really makes this ground quite unlike any of the others we have visited. One hardy soul though has already cleared the lines, today is very much an orange ball day.

Tom the DH media officer, not the moany one I spend too much time with, hopes that they will get around one thousand through the gate today. Yesterday there was a superbly attended march in support of DH’s predicament, and he would hope for just as good a turnout today, despite the awful weather.

DH are a well supported club, sometimes getting bigger head counts then league teams, so an eight mile detour across South East London for their fans, is unlikely to put them off. If anything, people will want to be here in even greater numbers to prove they won't be bullied by the main protagonist in their current struggle.

Almost under his breath, but not going as far as covering his mouth, like an over sensitive Premier League player leaving the pitch after a match, he admits he “fucking" hates "Tooting” but “loves” their ground.

A few of the Thermos and sandwich brigade have already taken up position in the main stand, fully stocked and well prepared for what ever Mother Nature throws their way, the same cannot be said for the man wandering around in shorts. Just like at Basingstoke yesterday, where the weather was just as atrocious, someone here also seems impervious to the sub zero temperatures.

Although disappointed at the absence of the dumplings, the smell of the Caribbean BBQ has Tom intrigued. We head in the general direction of the wafting smell of burning charcoal, where I hear the call of the programme seller “programmes £2” he shouts. Not only is he ensuring I can add the vivid pink matchday magazine to my collection, but also that there is the promise of a prize if the one you purchase has one of two “pink stars” you will win yourself a “lucky bottle of prosecco”.

A matchday programme, 50/50 tickets, and the potential of a free bottle of bubbles too. I have all my matchday essentials wrapped up in record time.

“Testing 1 - 2” says the voice over the PA, who is then cut off by the most monstrous feedback, that sounded like a “spaceship” according to Tom, someone getting to grips with a new system perhaps. Once he has stopped the awful noise, he is quick to offer a “thank you” on behalf of DH to their “hosts”, and apologies to the visiting team Worthing FC (WFC) for “inconveniencing” their “Sunday”.

The normal colour scheme in these parts is very monochrome, quite the opposite from the vibrant
pink and blue DH wear. It is well documented that I’m a big fan of pink in the football sphere, particularly when a keeper wears it, but I’m also far from adverse to it on an outfield player either, Palermo and Juventus 2015/16 away kit, gorgeous.

It is therefore pleasing to see, that even though this is a long way from home, well not that long, but you know what I mean, that slowly but surely as the fans start to arrive, so does that one colour synonymous with the club. Hats, scarfs, flags, and banners, even a dog has got in on the action.
Before kick off a brief presentation takes place on the sidelines, a crystal decanter is presented to the DH management duo, the Gerard Houllier and Roy Evans of South East London, but far more successful. “500 competitive matches” in charge, the “longest serving managers” in the clubs history, according to the voice over the PA.

With the half's decided, and each set of fans knowing where they will be spending the next forty five minutes, there is a sudden and almost instant increase in activity. Not just from the home fans but also the visitors. Both with a distinct colour scheme, the pink and blue of DH is soon plastered all over the ever so slightly treacherous ice covered steps of the terraces, no grit or salt on there, they are braver people than us. Most striking of all is the giant striped scarf hanging from the front. There is only one real deviation from the pre agreed, a Saltire someone has erected.

In the away end, red and white is the order of the day. WFC's fans have their own selection of flags that are soon up, as well as a sizable drum, and it’s the visitors who have the first chance of the match, even before all the flags can be unfurled. Not long after, they have another attempt on goal, however the shot is wild, the player responsible sending it sailing high over the goal and the stand behind it, “sign him up” shout his own supporters.

From our spot in the front row of the stand, whose own steps were no picnic, I’m too big to fall over, so adopt a shuffling, OAP's gate to get to my seat. I try to remember the recent advice of Caerphilly County Council to walk like a penguin. Beyond the confines of the ground, a large field, and all the surroundings houses are covered in a thick layer of snow.

“Hello, hello we are the Worthing boys” sing the WFC supporters, who make up for their lack of numbers, by for the moment at least being much louder than the DH fans, who almost fill the whole of their terrace, outnumbering them considerably. DH flash a ball right across the box, which gets a sizable gasp and a “ohhhh” from the supporters around us.

Such is each set of fans devotion to their respective clubs colours, there is a brief exchange between them started off by WFC’s “we’re the red and white army”, which gets an almost instant response from the other end, but with the obvious relevant changes, “we’re the pink and blue army”.

It's a lively start on the pitch, and the noise from the fans, are all justifying the extreme temperatures. I’m sure it’s mostly down to sitting and not moving about, but I’m already totally frozen and maybe after spending the previous day standing around outside, explains why I really feel like shit.

WT's fanatics according to one of their flags, continue to grow in volume, their drummer in his white baseball cap and red and white striped scarf, is genuinely a very good one. A big step up from aimless passing, that we so often see, he his showing some bona fide skill. Neither of us are sure though if it's a coincidence or as Tom queries are the DH fans “copying” all the WFC's supporters “songs”, but there is more than one occasion when WFC’s finish a chant, and DH’s reply with the same one.

I’m sure in a sign of solidarity, rather than some aggressive non league ultras curva takeover, a DH banner is raised in the away end.

I am pretty sure I’m watching the fans more than the match, but I don't think I've missed much. It's been a relatively equal first fifteen, after WFC's lively start. On the terrace their fans also continue to impress, finding a few more decibels here and there as they only seem to get louder. The pick of their songs so far is a simple one, to the tune of ‘Ring of Fire’ by Johnny Cash, and only has three words, “we hate Bognor”.

“I’m hungry” says Tom, looking at me with puppy dog eyes, like I’m going to do something about it. I feel awful, but I’m not going anywhere, the steps are far too slippery, plus I’m trying to work out what the most recent DH song is in reference too, “we’re the famous Dulwich Hamlet and we look like Tuscany”.

I really struggle to connect the dots between a non league club in London, and a popular and picturesque Italian holiday destination. Something about the pink and blue hews of a summers sunset?

Tom returns from the tea bar behind us with sustenance, much needed sustenance contained within a  paper cup, with a white plastic lid. Managing to scale the slush covered steps, that make my heart go in my mouth every time someone uses them, I wouldn't go up or down them without crampons, like East London's very own Paul Daniels he produces a quite large and warm Pukka sausage roll from his coat pocket.

“Moreish” is how he describes it, looked a bit soggy to me, not even finished yet he tells me he “could do another one”. I just settle for my tea, but he's already wishing he had got himself a “Mars bar”.

“Here for the Worthing, you're just here for the Worthing” sing the fans to our left. The man waving the pink and blue checkered flag in reply makes his position on who he is here for quite clear.

DH play for a significant stretch of the half with ten men due to a blood injury, the poor player is forced to stand on the touchline topless, while he is seen to. In the end what Tom crudely says looks like a “tampon” is shoved up his nose to stem the bleeding and he is eventually let back on.

Five minutes before the break and the deadlock is broken. An always rising shot from the edge of the box puts them ahead, the scorer heads for the corner flag, beckoning his team mates to join him. A single pumped fist from one of the DH managers in recognition of the goal, has the air of 'that's more like it' about it. The quality of the strike though is eclipsed by the quality of the scorers name, Sanchez Ming.

Until now the home end had been a little sober, the whole place had except for the WFC’s fans, all felt a bit Sunday, in combination with the cold, it was verging on the sleepy. The goal was just what we needed, just what the home fans needed, who really make a sizable din for the first time. The joy can be heard in the voice of the announcer when he fills us in on who bagged the goal “for the Hamlet”.

Tom wonders if the reserved manner of the the crowd is because Imperial Fields is still a bit “new”, they haven't quite found their feet here yet. It’’s home for now, but its not home, you could never feel totally at ease here, you couldn't walk around in you tatty jogging bottoms and old shirt and feel completely at ease.

DH very nearly double their lead not long after going ahead, only for a good block from the WFC keeper, stopping them. The ground is officially alive, that vibrancy that DH games are so well known for is slowly growing.

Although DH are well on top in the dying moments of the half, again they go close, but again meet a keeper in fine form, the WFC fans still sing. Tom though not watching the game, is doing his bit for the local neighbourhood watch. “Look at the freebies” he says scathingly, twitching his metaphorical

curtains, pointing to the two people in wellies, standing on the bank overlooking the ground.

After all the excitement of the final five minutes, when the whistle blows for the break, it feels like a bit of a damp squib. Quickly the fans responsible for their respective flags are taking them down, the person in charge of the extra long DH scarf, has a tougher job then most.

A single man walks the pitch, with a tiny fork, prodding in the divots, while a group of kids have an impromptu kick about around him, who are then scalded by the booming voice on the PA for playing in the goalmouths.

“They set up quick” says Tom, surprised at just how fast WFC’s fans swapped ends and got their flags back up, they have clearly got it down to a fine art. With still some of the break left, they occupy their time making snowballs.

The DH supporter responsible for the mega scarf, having just passed us, struggling with it stuffed in a large Tesco bag for life. He has his work cut out to ensure he can get it up single handedly, before the restart. Seeing maybe he is having difficulties tieing it up, it must be over fifteen feet long, easily, some fellow fans step in and help.

'Waterfall' by the Stone Roses is cut short by the return of the players. I also learn my fate regarding the 50/50, having already learnt I won't be taking home a bottle of prosecco. It won't be me going home with the “£203” prize fund. “Shame you didn't win that one” says Tom, stating the fucking obvious. That's a serious bit of cash, that would have come in well handy.

“Bury it” shouts a DH fan as a player shapes up to shoot, but all he can do is sting the palms of the keeper. DH are flying, Tom reckons that WFC are “falling apart a bit” they don't look half as good as the side who were troubling DH early on.

The sun, I think I can see the sun, trying to break though the clouds, doing its best to fend off everyones collective case of SAD.

Just under ten minutes gone, and DH go further ahead. The slide rule pass from midfield is inch perfect, dissecting the all red WFC defence. So well hit, that the player running onto it barely has to break his stride. Quickly joined alongside by a teammate, the player with the ball gets well into the area, well within shooting distance, but instead chooses to roll it across the six yard box to his teammate to tap in. The WT keeper can only scrabble, slipping on the soft turf, hapless to do anything.

As with the first goal, in the minutes following the restart after the second, DH go close again, they are totally in control. So relaxed are their fans, that they start tossing their own snowballs around, those not frolicking in the snow are singing a song to the tune of Chaka Khan & Rufus - ‘Ain't Nobody’.

Some Mo Saleh against Watford esq feet get the crowd excited. “Sexy football, sexy football” chant the DH fans in appreciation of the twinkle toed player. The grandstanding comes at the perfect time, with the snow starting to fall again and the thermometer plummeting.

WFC have their own crack at some “sexy football” Tom coos, when a slick move gets the ball to the wing. A succession of great saves from the sky blue wearing DH keeper, are the type of which to get you just as excited as some wonder goal, and prevent the flurry of activity in the DH box coming to nothing.

Tom has a theory that there is a reason the keepers kit is the same colour as his parent club Coventry. He summarises that his contract negotiations may have included that he was only prepared to join, if they agreed to one crucial point, “I’m wearing sky blue”. Every subsequent save there on, results in Toms own cheer of “Coventry, Coventry” for the remainder of the match.

The visitors get as close to scoring as hitting the bar, the shot even out of the reach of the towering DH stopper. So livid is one of the DH managers he somewhat forgets himself, marching a good ten feet onto the pitch to remonstrate with his players for letting the chance happen. “Get off the pitch” grumbles one less than impressed WFC fan behind us.

With almost half an hour still to play, the points are all but confirmed for DH when they get their third. Wheeling away the scorer crosses his arms Wakanda style. The DH fans once again are given reason to release some of that pent up frustration.

When a DH player is cut down, flying down the wing, there are calls from the now energetic home fans nearby “off, off, off” when its only a yellow it all gets a little bit pantomime “boooooooo”.

DH continue to dominate, another big save from the WFC keeper, this time with his feet prevents the fourth. They go close not long after from a corner, the player dashing in almost scoring with his knee, puts it inches over, he punches the pitch repeatedly in frustration.

WFC bring on a sub, in an attempt to shore things up, DH look close to scoring on every attack, the guy is a mountain, more of a “rugby player” than a football player, according to Tom. The home fans now in almost constant song, are referencing that certain part of Italy again, “Tuscany, Tuscany, Tuscany”, but I still can't work out what its about. Are they just showing off about where they are going on this years holiday?

DH introduce their own fresh legs, the arrival of said legs, causing a group of about three women to outright to break out into fits of screaming and hollering of a One Direction fan's proportions. Waiting to come on the player half turns his head, half grinning, half looking a bit embarrassed at his slightly over the top reception. The three women fan club, are nearly the loudest thing here for the next twenty minutes or so. The slightest hint of him getting the ball, getting near the ball, or getting close to goal they scream.

“Always been a prick lino” shouts one WFC fan when they think they have scored, but the man running the line had other ideas. The supporters to the beat of the now less active drum, start an impromptu song about him being the “worst lino in the league”.

With the game close to its end, DH make a late substitute. The return of a long term injured player, who gets one of the biggest cheers of the day.

DH once more go close to a fourth and there are new shouts of “sexy football” after a nifty flick into the box, almost results in a goal. The snow now falling at its heaviest, it does not hamper one player for doing his own bit of “showboating” as Tom calls it, a quite unnecessary, but quite “scorpion kick”. Not quite Rene Higuita, he only uses one leg high up behind his head, instead of the two, and doesn't have a tragic black perm.

Tom’s man crush for the DH keeper only continues to strengthen when he pulls off a quite miraculous save from a late WFC freekick, “Coventry, Coventry” he chants to himself.

"Yessssss" says one DH fan on the final whistle, the checkered flag is now going at double speed and those brave enough to do so have removed their scarves and are whirling them above their heads, "we love you Dulwich we do". The team, like all teams should do, but all to few do so, applaud the supporters.

In the main stand, few people have moved, they are waiting for the departing players and have some news to share. "We are top of the league, say we are top of the league". At the front a small group of autograph hunters has formed, leaning over railings, programme in one hand a pen in the other, they wait patiently for their favourite player to pass, before thrusting their biro his way in hope of a scribble.

"That's a snood" says Tom, impressed at one DH's coach's get up who is wearing an almost full upper torso covering knitted cold keeper outer, just his eyes are about visible through the many rolls of wool.

Plucking every string of my football romantics heart, is the young girl also in a fine bit of knitwear, a bright pink hat with a blue bobble. Standing alone, with a single hand stretched out, she also waits, not for an autograph, but for a high five. When one player obliges, she turns to who I think must be her parents, beaming.

The tea was good, the DH kit is always good, the weather was bad, WFC's nickname 'The Mackerel Men' is a new favourite, the sausage roll looked questionable, but Tom enjoyed it, and I still don't have an answer to Toms question "is that allowed?" when we saw a woman wearing two scarves.

It would also be remiss of me not to mention just one last time the WFC fans who were quite excellent throughout, as one DH fan put it "imagine travelling up from Worthing on a day like this",
but they did, and they didn't stop. Those twenty or so supporters are not fair weather fans.

I'm not sure there is anything I can add to the well documented problems DH are going through, I will leave that to the Al Jazeera and Sky News cameras who were here today, I only hope that they tell the story the way it should be told and not as some puff piece at the end of a broadcast, some silly story about a non league club and its 'hipster' fans.

For eighty seven years DH have played at Champion hill, except for one season where they in fact slept on Tootings sofa while their home was being refurbished , so they love each other really, like a mate you have known for so long, that drives you up the wall, but you wouldn't think twice about offering them somewhere to sleep if they needed

For the time being though, there will be an eight mile diversion on matchdays in place, but as their fans put it "we all follow the Dulwich, over land and sea, and Tooting".

 

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Wonder If They've Got A Sausage Roll For Me? - Basingstoke Town FC Vs Hereford FC, Evo-Stik Southern League Premier, The Camrose (17/03/18)

St Patrick's Day, St Paddy's Day, the annual excuse to get pissed and make culturally insensitive stereotypes is here again. Instead of staying in, supping down a couple pints of the black stuff, enjoying the craic and gorging on the Irish themed takeover of one particular music channel my fiancee keeps flicking past, I'm getting ready to go out.

Enya, U2 and Samantha Mumba fill my living room, but I can't ignore what's going on just over my shoulder, the other side of the blind covered window, the ‘Beast From The East 2’.

Other than rain, snow is the much colder arch enemy of non league football. With the return of this particular villain games are dropping like flies and the club we intend on visiting today has just tweeted those two words no one wants to hear on match day, “pitch inspection”.

It's been nearly three and half weeks since our last match, a combination of Tom having a housewarming party where he served an insufficient amount of sausage rolls, him going to the theatre and the ‘Beast From The East 1’, means I’m itching to get to a game, so I push the tweet to the back of my mind, bid my daughter and fiancee a fond farewell, and like Han Solo heading off in search of Luke Skywalker, venture out into the tundra.

“Where do you live? Iceland?” asks Tom, the snow in my neck of the woods apparently a lot more plentiful than his. Instead of making our way as we usually would, after of course he has filled me in on his own personal weather proofing, “brought my long johns” he tells me. I pull over by the side of the road, cradle my phone in my hands, constantly refreshing my Twitter timeline.

Five minutes later and our spirits are lifted, Tom has settled, the heaters have started to kick in and the update from today's club is a good one, “The pitch is perfectly playable at this time!”

It doesn't take long for Tom to comment on my new haircut. I’m always a little anxious when I see him post trim, as I’m not sure what he will make of it, and I always feel a bit bad that I haven't asked him to do it. He says I look a bit “Spiderman 3”, not sure what he means by that he elaborates, “a bit goth Spiderman”. I still do know what he is going on about, maybe it's some kind of technical jargon.

Talk of my overly long fringe, and apparent vague resemblance to Toby Maguire, I think I preferred when people were saying I looked a bit like Rag & Bone Man like someone did on Twitter this week, doesn't last for long. Between puffs on his oversized vape, Tom explains his action plan for today, “Cuppa Soups”.

It’s certainly a warm drink day, a multiple warm drink day, and Tom is clearly feeling adventurous. He “always” sees them he tells me. If he does have one mind, when he gets to the end of it, he’ll realise why in the three years we've been going to matches, he's never had one before, when he gets to that undissolved sludge at the bottom of his cup.

It’s almost impossible to miss The Camrose, home of Basingstoke Town FC (BT), the back of it’s main stand is nigh on the pavement running along the road behind it. Sandwiched between that and the Toys ‘r us the other side of the road, this is not a ground where you have to be overly reliant on your Sat Nav.

I take it back, I take back everything I’ve said in the past about the previous non league clubs slightly dilapidated car parks we’ve had to endure, the one at BT takes things to a whole other level. These aren't potholes, small inconveniences on the high street one might have to suffer, these are creators, these are the result of a World War One artillery barrage, these are the kinds of things Apollo 8 went up to investigate.

The incredibly cold looking older man on the way in, points us in the direction we should be heading, past the car wash and the “three speed bumps”. The sleeping policemen are the least of our worries as we make our way along, Tom acting as spotter, advising me which way to go, as to avoid disaster.

Finally coming to a stop in front of a bank of Amazon lockers, the other side of the cavity covered car park, to a Coral bookies, we each take a deep breath, before opening the door. Safe and warm in our little bubble, neither of us are looking forward to getting out. I'm usually ever so mocking of Tom’s feeble nature, he’s always whining about the cold, for once I’m in agreeance.

The single storey flat roofed, glass fronted clubhouse, sits opposite a long high red brick wall with the wording BTFC built into it. Behind that is the pitch, and the front of the stand we had passed just before. It’s quite the distance between the bar and the ground, you might just be that bit closer to being able to place a bet, than watch a match of football.

I’m hesitant to go in into the warm inviting shelter the clubhouse offers. Not in fear of a music off, head turning 'who the hell are you' kind of welcome, but the fact I can see they are showing Spurs’s FA Cup quarter final, which I’m desperately trying to avoid, as I’m recording it, and hoping to watch when I get home.

Somehow I manage to convince Tom that a walkabout is what we need after our hour and a half in the car, not a comfy chair, food and a drink. However nothing is going to happen before he's gone to the loo, where he is gone for an overly long time. It’s not until he gets back he tells me was adding another layer to his winter ensemble.

Waiting for him, back turned to the large glass windows, not wanting to catch a glimpse of the goings on in Swansea, a woman passes me carrying a large tray of sandwiches, slightly hunched over in that way people do when they are cold and don't have a jacket on, she tells me “you don't have to stand out here” as she goes at double speed to get out of the elements.

As we head in, a convoy of two coaches arrive carrying the fans of today's opposition and league leaders Hereford FC (HFC).

Tom is soon not completely preoccupied with the bitter cold, “them onions smell good” he says, the half opened hatch of the pitch side burger van, is allowing whatever is being prepared inside to leak out. He asks himself out loud, one of life's important question, “wonder if they've got a sausage roll for me?”.

The few people already here, busily moving around, whenever they catch the eye of someone else, inevitably mutter one of the following, “bit cold”, “it's freezing”, “it's awful”, without fail. One BT club official tries to lighten the mood, talking to the newly arrived HFC manager, in the most excellent black, red and white bobble hat, who is about to assess the pitch himself, by joking that the conditions are like the “northern hemisphere Bahamas”.

I can't be 100% sure, I think it's HFC’s, but coming from one changing room is a Blue song. Generally the music coming from football changing rooms is bad, normally something fast paced, something to get the blood rushing and the adrenaline pumping, but Blue, they don't do anything other than make you fall asleep or do a little bit of sick.

The constant hum of the nearby road is what I tune in to, away from the cheesy ballad. One HFC player emerges from the double doors at the base of the stand and down the imposing fully enclosed yellow caged tunnel, like something from the Continent, and onto what he is clearly surprised to find is a decent surface, “nice and soft” he comments as a new dusting of snow starts to come down, adding to the few patches that have settled across the pitch.

Tom has had enough, he doesn't have a football match to avoid, so heads back to the clubhouse. I try to sit it out, but I fold not long after. On my way to join him I pass two policemen, in black jumpsuits, semi kitted up and its reminds me of something I had read online, that today is segregated.

I don't think it will ever not be odd, seeing the police and a segregated ground at a non league game.

All cosy in the corner, cupping his tea from its china mug, nice touch, Tom is the vision of Saturday afternoon coolness. His choice of seat away from the TV for my benefit was a nice gesture, but I saw the score coming in, Spurs 3 - 0 up, with the fans on the TV singing, “Spurs are on their way to Wembley”.

With his pack of crisps already demolished, he is sat not far away from what looks like the aftermath of a child's birthday party. A long table with a red crepe paper table cloth, big jugs of juice and cups full of straws, for the “ball boys” he''s deduced.

As comforting as the low rumble of someone starting a game on the small pool table is and how tempting it is to stay and watch the final minutes of the ruined Spurs game, I finish my quite excellent cup of coffee, and we both make the short walk back to the ground.

“Snows coming” says Tom pointing outside as we get ready, to the new and much heavier flurry coming down. He also thinks it's important to highlight the fact that “Poch has a snood on” which I shrug off, but internally it makes me question my opinion on that certain garment, because if it's good enough for the Argentinian then it’s good enough for anyone right?

Huddled in the only covered part of their section of the ground, some of the HFC fans do their best to keep out of the frigid wind. Watching on as we do, the players from each team appear for what Tom calls a “lethargic” warm up. Each player as they step outside without fail, swears at least once in reaction to the cold. One BT player looks positively Victor Meldrew, glum beyond belief, he is having to do what he's doing.

BT’s drummer, is already standing to attention with still half an hour to kick off. Stood at the back of the stand behind the goal, sticks in hand, he is ready to go. The yellow and blue flag I had seen one boy wearing as a cape at one point, now hangs over the hoardings, and is soon joined by a couple more.

“Really?!?” gasps a shocked Tom at the sight of a photographer in shorts. However the sight of the man's pale legs, being exposed to the bad weather, soon pales into insignificance, on the realisation that the fact the ground is segregated, means the burger van is out of reach. I point to the other one on the opposite corner, but he's not impressed, the one next to the blue and yellow striped club shop, which is also out of bounds due to the grounds division, is “bigger”.

“Welcome to a warm Camrose” says the voice over the PA, the referee leading out the teams fails to see the funny side of the witty quip. “Oh wow” he says, taking a sharp intake of breath as his sleeveless arms and uncovered legs get a taste of the sub-zero conditions.

The sight of the players means the decent sized group of BT fans behind the goal, stop taunting the HFC players taking shots at goal, and instead start chanting to the rhythm of the drum, with the added noise from some hefty whacks of the back wall of the stand too.

There are a few shouts of “up the bulls” and “come on you whites” from the HFC fans who are also here in good numbers and their drum also sparks to life, but at the moment they are coming in second behind the home fans, as the players get ready for kick off and the snow continues to fall.

“Can you hear the Hereford sing?” ask the home fans. When kick off happens the away fans let out a cheer, which gets a near instant reply “we forgot that you were here”.

With only one hundred and twenty seconds on the clock, BTFC take the lead. A rising shot from just inside the box, clips the underside of the post and in. The scorer heads straight for the fans, who rush the railing to meet him. Although I’m glad the game has got off to the best possible start, lots of goals and an exciting game, justify frost nip in my book, I can’t get the words of BT’s media man Nick out of my head, from a quick chat we had earlier.

“Hope we give them a game this time” he told me after I’d asked him how he thought they would get on. The corresponding fixture earlier in the season ended up 4 - 1 to HFC, like today BT had taken an early lead, “one nil up after three minutes” that day. Today they have gone ahead even quicker, but will history repeat itself?

“Good thing you didn't get golden goal” says Tom, thinking such an early goal would have made for a wasted pound. My hunt for the lady doing it pre match was almost unsuccessful, until thanks to the help of one BT fan I hurriedly managed to get myself one of the sewn closed envelopes as the players walked out.

I produce the little paper purse from my notebook and struggle to open it. When I eventually do I’m greeted with a number 9, out by six minutes.

Clearly not as affected by missing out on the golden goal as I am, the BT fans are pounding the back of the stand, as they continue in fine voice, “ally-o, ally-o BTFC”. Their racket reducing the HFC drum to a faint murmur in the distance. Such is the lack of noise coming from their end, according to a few home fans the away support is falling well short of  the “famous atmosphere” they are known for making, and they ask them if they should “sing a song” for them. They get no reply, and the few HFC flags tied to the railing of the uncovered terrace continue to flutter in the breeze.

“How are your toes?” asks Tom, they’re not great if I’m honest. I can sense them, I know they are still there in my shoes, but I can’t feel them

After the dramatic start to the game, with a quarter of the first half gone, it has now settled. Tom of course is hungry, asking if it's “time to eat?. The proximity of the nearby McDonald's has made up for the small burger van, and he is wondering if he can fit through the hole in the fence for a half time quarter pounder.

The local kids in the main stand are offering out the travelling supporters, “who are ya, who are ya” they shout in their high pitched prepubescent way. A HFC breakaway doesn't resolve in a goal, only thanks to a fabulous tackle from a BT defender. A really classy effort, in a dangerous position, it makes me uncontrollably shout out “challenge”, and the home fans crack on with another song, “oh when the stoke, go steaming in”.

HFC think they have scored, the players are adamant, a downward header they think has crossed the line, but the referee does not think so, Tom reckons some “goal line technology” is required. One nearby child is totally unfazed by all the drama, far more interested in the tray of chips they are eating from, sitting on the cold step of the terrace.

Sadly that's it as far as the gripping entertainment goes, the game since the goal, and the slight spike of excitement brought about by the, was it a goal, wasn't it moment, it’s not really taken off. Tom is bemoaning his “cheap snood” and the fact it's not “long enough” which means its leaves a “little gap” around his Adam's apple, which is getting cold. He tells me the next one he gets will be a “mean one” like an eastern European ultra, with “skull teeth” on it.

“We all live in a yellow submarine” sing the nearby home fans, the HFC supporters have certainly stirred somewhat, but they don't have any fab four inspired chants. When their team go close, as Tom puts it HFC have “grown into the game” after a slow start, a last ditch block stops the shot continuing goal wards, they go up a few decibels “come on Hereford, come on Hereford”.

Not to be out done though, the BT fans reply once again, this time with a little tune about their manager on a near constant loop “Terry Browns barmy army, Terry Browns barmy army”.

With the half almost over, we are passed by one BT player who for him the whole match is already over. He hobbles past us along the edge of the pitch, one boot half off, his sock rolled down with blood coming from a wound on his ankle, Tom turns to me with a bit of a grimace, “studs”.

I’m not sure who moved faster, the substitutes running for the sanctuary of the changing rooms or Tom for the burger van. The BT drums come to life sporadically and are joined by a couple of people, “la, la, la BTFC”, most noticeably the fan with his BT shirt over his hoody and blue and yellow scarf up over his face, who has not stopped since the first whistle. Most though are conserving their energy, doing their best to make sure no skin is exposed, and all their remaining stamina is reserved for the second half.

The snow is falling at its hardest now, when I catch up with Tom he is shivering at the back of the long terrace with the alternating blue and yellow walls, that is some way back from the pitch. Chowing down on his burger, he just motions his head towards my cup of coffee sitting on the back wall. We both stand in almost silence, half frozen, listening to the hum of the burger vans generator and the transistor radio of the man next to us drinking from a thermos.

HFC are first out, my coffee is scalding hot and although Tom has finished his burger, and his hot chocolate, there was no soup, he is contemplating going back for more. “Not enough hands” to carry my drink and some chips.

Not overly fussed about the lack of soup, c'est la vie, the same though cant be said for one person who also fancied come cream of tomato. When told just as Tom was that they didn't have any, but had "Bovril" instead, he appeared quite put out by the suggestion and flounced off.

There is a muted roar, a roar’ish if you like when BT appear. We don't hang around long by the terrace, the wind is fully blowing the snow in our faces, so we head back to where we spent the first half. Our slow walk back is halted by a big collision between the HFC keeper and an outfield player, which leaves the goal gaping. The home fans scream for someone to shoot, but the referee blows up to allow both parties to be attended to.

For the first time today, about ten minutes into the new half, the away fans are louder than the home ones, it's only fleeting mind, we are treated to some of the skills of the HFC drummer, but the BTC fans soon find their voice again, “please don't take my Basingstoke away”.

On the pitch and its all HFC in the opening exchanges, the BT fans nervously jeer ball after ball going into their box, pretending it's not bothering them how close the team in white are getting to equalising, “top of the league you’re having a laugh”.

The early HFC dominance has turned into somewhat of a siege. Their drummer is going good guns just like the players. BT have a sudden breakout and look, quite against the run of play, like they are going to double their lead. One on one with the keeper, the player puts it wide, its a bit of a tame attempt or “weak” as Tom puts it.

Breakthrough for HFC on the sixty fourth minute, a looping header beyond the backpedalling keeper sees them pull things level, the anxious ''ohhhs" of the home fans as HFC continued to threaten were
warranted. The large man with the Guinness hat and the HFC drummer are particularly animated, the drummer running up and down with what is not an inconsiderable sized drum above his head. The players are not so joyous, collecting the ball and heading back to their half showing little emotion.

“Come on Hereford, come on Hereford” sing the away fans. HFC are now fully on top on and off the pitch. It's all gone a bit quiet from the group behind the goal. The big Fellaini looking number 5 for BT is trying his best to put out fires, but HFC are looking a bit rampant.

BT give a big shout for a penalty, but the referee is having none of it. It looked more like the forward made contact with the defender rather than the other way round. Tom is not pulling any punches, he’s not having any of it, “absolute dive”.

Every single one of the HFC coaches on their feet in their technical area, are sporting the same exquisite bobble hats. They must be very happy at their team's performance since the restart, their players are really hustling BT’s, applying good pressure, winning the ball back in good positions. They have reduced BT to the odd counter attack. Once again it's completely against the run of play when a “good save” from the HFC keeper prevents their second.

Having rode their luck somewhat, it is a bit of a surprise even a shock, when BT take the lead again. It's under slightly controversial circumstances, another case of is it in or not over the line. There is a brief moment on the pitch where every player in blue is staring at the referee, willing him to give it, he seems unsure, the HFC players are certain that it didn't, but the linesman on the far side is sure that it did. You can tell by the manic waving of his flag above his head.

The BT players celebrate in front of the HFC fans, the pink top wearing keeper pumps his fist towards the home fans behind him, yes I've got this far without swooning over the delightful kit he has on. Tom is not convinced it was a goal, not that we have the greatest vantage point mind, but he still gives an iffy hand movement to signal his uncertainty.

HFC’s keeper has a bit of a propensity to rush off his line, causing his team a few unnecessary headaches at times. BT’s keeper is getting instructions from the fans to “take” his “time”. Don't be in such a rush to take the goal kicks, there is still nearly a quarter of an hour to play and they are currently ahead again against the the lead leaders.

Tom is not the only one who thought the BT second goal was questionable, “unbelievable” says one fan “no idea if that crossed the line” says another.

The snow is getting heavier and heavier by the minute, and the HFC squeeze on the match is tightening just as quickly, “come on Hereford”. They themselves have a shout for a penalty declined, it is construed by the BT fans that the player who went down was looking for it, trying to manufacture something, and let him know what they make of that, “dirty northern bastard”.

HFC are presented with a gilt edged chance to equalise. A free header after a quite excellent cross is powered over. “You’re fucking shit” sing the home fans, unsympathetically towards the player who just missed a sitter and has a look on his face that shows just that. “Was that it?” asks Tom, was that the visitor's last chance of snatching a point.

Four minutes of extra time to go, nearly there the BT supporters gode the HFC fans, “it's all gone quiet over there”. Every miss placed HFC pass or cross gets a sarcastic cheer. One fan near us is living out every tackle, his body almost jerking in reaction to what's going on on the pitch, “come on blues, keep going”

“Yesssssss”” shouts the engrossed fan, wheeling away from the pitch in celebration following BT’s late third. You can see the relief overcome him, tension that contorted his face is gone, and is replaced with a huge grin.

With the end of the game now only seconds away, a few HFC fans start to make their way down from their seats in the stand, getting a rousing rendition of “cheerio, cheerio, cheerio” as they do. After the final whistle their are some choice words from one HFC fan towards the players and staff, "not fit to wear the shirt" is one of the accusations he throws their way, which is quickly batted away by one HFC coach, "shut up".

In what I understand could be the final season for BT at The Camrose, moving on to new pastures away from the spindly ageing floodlights and crumbling terraces, will there be a better result all season? A nice memory to have of the old place for those fans here today, if and when they close the turnstiles for the last time. Like the BT drummer whose voice has all but gone, but he still has a song for the last few players making their way inside, after applauding the fans behind the goal.

My hopes that our bitterly cold evening at Cheshunt three and a half weeks ago would be our last cold one of the season, thinking spring was almost here, were quashed today. Never have I been so cold, never has Tom ever looked so miserable, never taking into account both those last statements however, have we had such a good time.

 

For all of our photographs from the match, click HERE 

Watch our video from the match ↓ HERE

 

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