Get The F**king Grit Down - Mossley A.F.C. Vs Skelmersdale United FC, Evo-Stik Northern League North, Seel Park (20/01/18)

Over two hundred miles separate Tom and I this morning, instead of the usual three. While I’m sipping my coffee in the warmth of my in-laws two bed semi, he's sitting on a Virgin train surrounded by well mannered Huddersfield fans on their way to Stoke, complaining to me via WhatsApp about the seat I booked him facing backwards.

He cuts a sorry figure trudging up the cobbled ramp outside Stockport station, the rain has not stopped since the early hours, but at least it's not the snow the BBC and every other news outlet had forecast for this particular part of the North West today.

I can't think of a suitable Game Of Thrones “king of the North” reference quick enough as he opens my door, rain dropping on the upholstery, “it’s even wetter up here”, he says to me, unimpressed that he’s travelled all this way for weather worse than what he left behind.

The weather has been somewhat on my mind the last forty eight hours. Visiting my fiancee and her folks for the weekend, I wanted to take advantage of being somewhere other than Essex or Hertfordshire, so some non league football outside of our regular sphere was a must. Such levels of snow, wind and constant rain I’m informed is standard in January by my other half and her Mum. I thought it was just a bit of a cliche that it didn't stop raining north of the Watford Gap, but from my experience it does always seem to be the case.

Bad weather is non league footballs arch enemy, pitches devoid of all the modern trappings of their cousins higher up the pyramid, means games postponed due to waterlogged or frozen pitches are all too common at this time of year. Constantly refreshing Twitter and the BBC weather page, I came to the conclusion late last night, that there might just be a window large enough for our intended game to go ahead, before all hell breaks loose.

When I told Tom to get his train as planned, if I’m honest I wasn't 100% sure we would get a game, but blinded by the fact we've not been to a match for nearly a month, I was a little economical with the truth, crossing all my fingers, hoping his journey up from London would not be a wasted one.

The request from the AFC Mossley (AFC) Twitter account for volunteers to make their way to the ground to “fork the pitch” with “all tools supplied” did not boost my confidence, but there was no talk of a inspection, so I was keeping positive.

Sitting back in the office chair at the desk in my fiancee’s childhood room, life felt good, well better then when I got up and looked out the window, until an hour or so later a second tweet appeared, and it wasn't what I wanted to see, “pitch inspection at 11am”.

The wait was agonising. I had hunted around for a plan B, C and D, but they were falling by the wayside, the weather having having already taken its toll, so as they say all our eggs were very much in one basket.

“Game on” said the tweet, like a 90’s sitcom, I could breathe easy. However the rain had far from let up and was continuing to stream across the window.

Once he'd told me about his less than appetising mocha he got at Euston that tasted of “mud” and the fact that the Southend United squad got off at Stockport too, conversation turned to the movements of a certain Chilean to this neck of the woods and that of a crying Armenian going back the other way. I was happy to go along with his Arsenal chat, a topic I’m not usually interested in discussing, but anything to help take my mind and his off the worsening weather.

Quite suddenly suburban red brick Manchester melted way and was quickly replaced by rolling snow covered fields separated by dry stone walls and as we climbed higher into the Pennines, the rain turned to snow. Tom was surprisingly upbeat, suggesting we do a bit of “tobogganing’ but as we passed the Welcome to Mossley sign and noticed what he called the “treacherous” looking ice covered pavements, it didn't fill us full of hope.

“Lilywhites, that's why you wanted to come” Tom says to me, having just passed the turnstiles with the club's nickname written across the front, through the black iron gates with AFCM on them and into the almost full and slippery car park. Although not at the forefront of my decision making, I can't help but gravitate towards a team who share such an excellent moniker with my beloved Spurs. However one of the main reasons we are here, other than because of the promise of a warm welcome, as well as a decent meat and potato pie, was the potential to see a cracking view of the Pennines in the distance, that at the moment are shrouded in clouds.

The pitch is covered in a light dusting of snow, like someone has been a bit overzealous with the icing sugar. It almost looks like a thankless task clearing it, as its still coming down, but a few locals with spades and rakes in hand and one on a sit on mower dragging some kind of device behind it, are doing their best to make the surface playable.

“Some of them been here since nine” says one of the stewards, pointing to the men on the pitch. Overhearing a conversation between two men in hi viz, one carrying a bag of orange salt, the “pitch is alright” its fan safety that's the issue. The uncovered terracing in front and to one side of the black seat filled main stand are a little sketchy to say the least. The hope is that a liberal application of salt will be enough to melt the ice and placate the officials who are expected any moment.

As we arrive, so do the players of AFC’s opponents Skelmersdale United FC (SKEL), who look just as stunned as I’m sure we did, that what they see before them is going to be playable and when I ask one glum looking SKEL official clutching his leather folder he tells me he’s “surprised its on”.

Of course a friendly club and nice surroundings are high up our priority list when considering a team to visit, but the feedback on the food is also keenly considered, completing our decision making trifecta equation. With the snow still falling, Tom thinks the chances of a match are slim, but hopes he can ”get a pie at least” even if we don't get to see a match.

All eyes are on the officials who arrive in suits and inappropriate shoes, they mill about on the pitch and then at its side for a moment, “the tractor is doing a good job” says one to another, as they pass us on their way inside.

The snow is not heavy but constant and despite all the umming and ahhing if the game is going to happen, it's business as usual for the refreshments hut, its hatch being pinned open, Tom might just get his pie after all.

One of the early arrivals, one of the people who answered the call for help, whose been clearing snow for almost five hours, is perhaps a little miffed to say the least at seeing so many people standing around watching. With spade in hand, he shouts instructions to those observing to “get the fucking grit down”, there's no way he's breaking his back all morning, for the game to be cancelled due to slippery terracing.

Those not shelling out salt or getting cold feet on the pitch, are taking shelter in the clubhouse, most watching Brighton Vs Chelsea on the big screen. No-one, I can imagine only because they are not on yet, are playing on one of the three Xboxes set up alongside your obligatory non league clubhouse fruit machine. Said fruit machine that not long after we sat down, is making quite a hefty payout to a man that was only standing in front of it for a moment.

With all the entertainment on offer, not to forget the dart board too, there is little reason to go outside and as one AFC official says to another, snow on his shoulders having just come inside, “it's still coming down”.

The table next to us is occupied by four members of SKEL's travelling party, each with at least one piece of club crest covered apparel on. Before sitting they all stood looking out of the large window overlooking the pitch, at the man touching up the boundaries with white paint and the tractor still pottering up and and down. “Still at it” one says, with the tone of someone who thinks they are fighting a losing battle.

Edging closer and closer to two o'clock the tension mounts, officially the game is still going ahead, but I’m not sure anyone believes it. Every so often people will just stand and give a long lingering look outside, making their own judgement on the conditions. When there is a suggestion that the officials are doing their final walk on the pitch, many spring to their feet hoping to suss out his decision, but its a false alarm.

As much as a few goes on whatever games the Xboxes are set up with sounds like a great way to spend the afternoon, we head outside, having eventually finished our lava hot non league tea, which has struck again and burnt my tongue. Instead of just sitting and waiting, I’d much rather go in search of an answer to are we on or off.

I’m sure I can see some blue in the sky, Tom however is not convinced. The mist covering the distant hills and mountains has certainly cleared and we get our first good look at the view so many people said was worth the visit alone. It’s a patchwork of different sized snow covered fields, each distinguished by a thin black line.

The fact that all the trimmings associated with your standard pre match warm up are appearing on the
pitch, gaily coloured cones and poles are being put out at regular intervals, must be a good sign. Its gone two now, and when I ask the same SKEL official that was “surprised” the game was going ahead, he tells us that the referee thinks the pitch and ground are “fine”. I was expecting some great announcement, when everyone else is just getting on with it.

“Beach Boys, really?” asks Tom, the choice of music not quite in keeping with our “Christmassy” setting as he puts it, but I think Brian and the gang are the perfect remedy.

60’s surfer music or the alternative rock musing of Black Francis and the Pixies are the soundtrack to the warm up, every so often the speakers crackle and Tom suggests someone needs to “wiggle the wire a bit”. Watching on, wincing, the pitch getting mullered, Tom reckons after today the “pitch will never be playable again”.

One player has Tom jealous, his snood “way better” than his. The player in question has one that reaches from this shoulder blades to well over his ears and nose, making him look like one of The Knights Who Say "Ni!".

So consumed with worrying about if we were going to see a game, I’d forgotten to get a programme or find out if they have a raffle here. It’s gone two thirty and I’m getting Erith Town flashbacks, so it's a comfort, like music to my ears when I hear the call of the seller “programmes, golden goal”. As well as my programme I’m handed two borrower sized envelopes, sealed with sellotape. Within them the chance of a prize, if my number coincides with the first goal.

The familiar shouts of “come on you Lilywhites” is a joy to hear. The fans on the steps in front and to the side of the main stand applaud as both teams appear from the single file tunnel, which by the looks of it has what appears to be a garden gate at its end.

Someone has an air horn, and the SKEL physio has a hot water bottle which she clutches tightly to her chest, well prepared for her afternoon in the ice covered dug out.

SKEL have an early chance, with the game only minutes old, however the conditions play their part, the ball sticking in the six yard box, allowing the AFC keeper a vital few seconds to pounce on it and prevent any of the looming SKEL players to poke it goalwards. One fan suggests the players could do with “rugby studs” as a few go a bit Bambi, sliding and falling over.

There is a fair old crowd watching on, lots of local games falling foul of the weather and there is a steady stream of people coming in, even after the whistle. The group behind us are talking about AFC’s white kit “not being the ideal colour” for such conditions and behind them we see who is wielding the air horn. One of the onlookers from the hospitality suite, with all their drinks lined up on the window sill, periodically points it out of the window, not far from our heads and gives it a blast.

As the Pennines drift in and out of view, AFC create their first of many chances, the ball across the box is an excellent one, but the recipient on the other end of it, miss times his run and the ball goes through his legs, only two foot out from goal, “bloody hell’, grumbles a nearby fan. “How did he miss that” asks a bemused Tom.

“Chip him” shouts an AFC supporter towards the player bearing down on goal, the keeper has made his way to meet him and the chance is there for an audacious lob, but instead he rolls it past him, the ball eventually bobbling over the line on sixteen minutes giving AFC the lead.

“16 minutes the golden goal” says the voice over the PA, “you got it?” asks Tom, as I struggle to open the the two envelopes, neither contain the winning number, 2018 picking up where 2017 left off.

When one player does finish with a delicate chip, its sadly ruled offside, and AFC haven't doubled their lead, for now. Tom though is only thinking about food, ‘’I’m hungry” he tells me, the draw of that pie is getting stronger, but he is also cold and needs something to warm him up sooner than half time, “think I might have a hot chocolate”.

The hummed tune of 'Entry Of The Gladiators' is a common thing at many football grounds, the sign of a cock up by a visiting player or official. When the linesman gives a throw in the wrong way then corrects himself he's serenaded and it won't be the last time today the men who run the line become the focal point.

It’s AFC who have acclimatized to the soft pitch the quicker, even though the surface is already looking a state, they are still passing the ball around well, look good on the break and are well on top. The “lively” number 10 as Tom dubs him, the scorer of AFC's first hooks a shot over from close range, and not long after they hit the post. One home player is quick off the mark and slides in to connect with the rebound, connecting with the keeper with a full blooded, but fair lunge. The man in goal ends up with the ball, as well as a “kick in the head” as Tom points out and is applauded for his bravery.

On the half hour mark, AFC go further ahead. A poor punch from the SKEL keeper following a corner, doesn't see the ball clear the box. It’s chipped back and after a ricochet, it falls kindly to AFC to stab home, 2 - 0.

“Fucking sharpen up” screams one SKEL player moments before the restart, his team are close to being overrun and the game being put out of sight.

“VAR” demands an AFC fan, the linesman having raised his flag for offside, that to my untrained eye didn't look like it was. Another supporter goes into much more detail, not requesting the use of technology and a consultaion with a man in a room of monitors in Heathrow, but that it was simple “geometry”, meaning it couldn't be offside.

There is a good case for agreeing with Tom when he says “game over”, following AFC’s third this time from the spot with about four minutes of the half left. Sending the keeper the wrong away the scorer nonchalantly chips the ball up into his hands and starts jogging back to his own half, receiving a few high fives from his teammates.

SKEL haven't had a shot all half, and Tom points out that “their centre backs are too clean” his reasoning for why they find themselves three goals behind, because they just aren't getting stuck in.

Halftime couldn't come soon enough for visitors and fans, some who shake their hands to get the life back into them. When the whistle goes for the break, Tom joins the masses making their way for food or the shelter of the clubhouse.

There is nothing more annoying than being in the presence of a raffle and having not taken part in it. When the results are read out and the instructions to collect the prize from the “pie hut” are given out over the PA, I wonder again why clubs don't advertise these things better, I’ve money burning a hole in my pocket.

Tom returns with a yellow Styrofoam tray heaving with pie chips and gravy. He's shivering as we take a seat in the back of the stand behind a couple of blue scarf wearing SKEL fans and he doesn't hang about tucking in. His food is hot, but he doesn't let that stop him. “Good” he tells me it is, managing just one word while a column of steam rises from his mouth, much like the smoke from the chimneys of the houses that surround the ground.

He can spare one chip, dripping with gravy, opting to feed me, instead of letting me pick one myself.

The DJ in his tiny booth keeps up his eclectic music choices. The Strokes are followed by some 80’s light metal, that I can only imagine the front of the LP had a dinosaur on, but when that starts to skip in the CD player he hits the next button and the teams reemerge to the closing bars of ’Rocking all over the World’, entering a pitch which is now covered in a dense mist.

An early crunching challenge has Tom make his first quip of the day, “that was meaty like my
pie” and not long after, four minutes into the new half, there is the ever so slightest hint of a comeback, when SKEL grab a goal, a goal they have deserved.

They've come out for the second half with a lot more purpose that the home team. A free header from a deep free kick, seems to bounce under the keeper and in. There is no celebration, the ball is scooped up by one of the players in blue, who all run with purpose back towards the centre circle.

The few visiting fans in front of us cheer and clap, but it’s mainly groans and tuts from those AFC supporters around us. Its as if two different sides have come out. The home fans are growing increasingly frustrated, their team are sloppy and wasteful, like they think the game is all but won. A game that is certainly getting more robust you may say, tackles and niggly fouls are on the increase.

When one SKEL player crashes in to the hoardings, he is simply told to ‘’run it off” by someone in the crowd. Tom and I wince as he skids off the pitch, crashing into the boards, soon picking himself up and dusting himself off. Tom expresses something we've both been thinking that they are a “different breed” of men up here much tougher than us.

“Bit soft” says Tom, as the referee awards SKEL a penalty with just over twenty five minutes left to play. For the second time today the keeper facing the spot kick goes the wrong way and again there is no celebration from the SKEL players.

“Come on boys, come on” booms the SKEL fan two rows in front of us, who then repeatedly punches the air like he's doing the signature move of a Tekken character. The young home fans are quite amused by his animated actions and royally take the piss out of him behind his back for the rest of the day.

Toms suggestion of the score staying at 3 -1, that that was “it” for the goals today, is now well and truly out the window. AFC almost add to the growing goal tally themselves with a free kick, but its just wide.

The home fans continue to gripe and the SKEL number four continues with his frequent war cries, “pick it up” he bellows so loudly he momentarily silences the crowd, rallying his team singlehandedly. A bit of a bull in a china shop at times he crashes into tackles, with hearty devotion. However when he goes down frightfully easily after barely being touched, it's quite the irony.

Such is his enthusiasm at one point he runs into his own man trying to win the ball, “where's your sense of direction” one fan asks, the nearby SKEL fan can only mutter under his breath, “Jesus Christ”.

He knows though his team can capitalise on the clumsy play of the home side, so does the air punching fan in front of us who's getting even more emphatic, encouraged by his teams performance, “come on boys, come on skem”.

Ten minutes to go and it’s freezing. Tom is dumbfounded at the state of the pitch, and is concerned for the mental health of whoevers job it is to sort it out post match, “would you wanna be the groundsman?!?”. The SKEL fan continues to cheer his team on, “come on boys” but its getting increasingly hard to see what's going on, the mist having turned to fog.

Tom has started to play ‘match the clubs kits with a team from the football league’ by himself, telling me the kits today look like Ipswich Vs Derby. He flip flops between teams who play in a similar blue giving me a headache, I’m just waiting for him to say Porto.

Five minutes to go, the anxiety is close to peaking, the match poised at 3 - 2 and there is the definite feeling more goals are to come. “Hit it, hit it, hit it” urge the SKEL fans as the players tee each other up on the edge of the area two or there times in a row, and two or three times in a row an AFC player makes the all important block.

BLOWN IT! I scribble in my notebook, 3 - 3. “That was offside” says the SKEL fan in front, turned round in his chair with his furry hat half off his head, his hands a foot apart to signal just how offside his player was, “I'll take it though” he says laughing to himself. He is the only one laughing mind, everyone else is fuming.

This time there is certainly a celebration from the SKEL players, the scorer running along with his finger to his lips, shushing the crowd.

The linesman who failed to raise his flag is getting it both barrels from the AFC bench, many of whom are well outside of their technical area and have charged up the line to remonstrate with him, unable to understand how he's not given what everyone was able to see was so blatant. Once more there is a demand for VAR, one fan outlines the shape of a screen high above his head.

The referee has a job in regaining control and has to march the AFC bench back to their area, his arm in the air waving them away.

Thankfully the fog has cleared now, allowing us to see the slight flare up on the pitch as the amount of sturdy sliding tackles starts to test a few players patience.

Any notion that the goal scoring was over, with four minutes of the game left is put to bed by the home side, two minutes after SKEL pulled level, they go ahead once more. The header aimed at the back post, the scorer doing well to get on the end of the cross in the crowded box, isn't a powerful one, but is well placed and the SKEL players and keeper can only watch on as it nestles in the side netting.

Such is the outpouring of joy, one AFC fan rushes the pitch to join the full team huddle to celebrate what must be the winning goal. The AFC bench punch their fists almost all in unison at the linesman who gave the controversial third SKEL goal, a bit of ‘have that pal’.

The head of the SKEL supporter in front of us drops considerably, with only minutes of the match left, his team's comeback and valiant efforts, seem to have been for nothing. Such is the confidence of one young AFC fan he is standing behind the SKEL bench with his index finger firmly against his lips, this time shhhing them. Such is our confidence that the game is all but over, we have left the stand and made our way pitchside, our view of the AFC goal now completely obscured by the flat pitch covered roof of the away dugout.

I’m only really aware that SKEL have scored a fourth, yes a fourth, they've drawn level again, bang on ninety minutes, because the SKEL physio who was getting the main brunt of the shhing, is now jumping up in the air. It’s made even clearer that AFC have chucked it away for a third time, by the amount of “fuck offs” and other such expletives that start being blurted out.

A little less blue and a lot more pre-watershed, one fan simply says the team "switched off”.

There is a reasonable crowd either side of the tunnel entrance, the garden gate open once again, holding back the fans, and allowing the teams to make their way off after the final whistle. “Fucking embarrassing” says one AFC player, distraught that they just couldn't hold on. The referee and his assistants are told what for, in no uncertain terms as they leave, “shocking lino, shocking”.

I'm not sure either of us thought there was a cat in hells chance that the game was going to happen when we arrived, so as we descend closer to sea level, one ear popping slightly like they do on a plane, just without the presence of peanuts, it seems even more remarkable that the SKEL fans were able to congratulate their players at all, as they warmed down after the match.

Tom since we started, has always had this dream of a "snowy game", well he got it today, there were great piles of the stuff surrounding the pitch, which players were in danger of falling into. Once more he reiterates how no-one could possibly want to be the "groundsman's" after today, but somehow I reckon all will be fine. Another group of volunteers will convene, tools supplied by the club of course, and they'll get it ready for the next home game.

It's not the fact we saw the come back that we did, a 4 - 4 thriller, that was the best thing about today, but the "attitude" as Tom put it, of those people who arrived at nine and plugged away and got the game on.

Dodgy decisions, freezing feet, crumbly grounds, views you cant see, nice food, even better company, the fact that the programme seller knew in an instant that we weren't "local" but didn't treat us any differently, watching goals through a gap between a pillar and floodlight, Tom having chemical hand warmers, but being too embarrassed to get them out, to quote one of the SKEL party from the clubhouse earlier in the day, these are "the joys of non league football".

For all of our photographs from the match, click HERE

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The Future - Aveley FC Vs A.F.C. Sudbury, Bostik League North, Parkside (30/12/17)

My body groans in response to the alarm on my phone, as I drag my carcass from my bed, doing my best not to wake the baby, lumbering past her on the way to the bathroom to turn on the bath. The added tonnage of countless pigs in blankets and cream filled scallop shells my Mum forced upon me, are weighing me down, as is the notion of now having to cajole my eleven year old son from his bed, get him ready, and then drive him home.

All of that to be done before I can even contemplate picking up Tom.

Four hours, one hundred and twenty five miles, one service station mocha and a near argument with the manager of a well known chain of coffee dispensers later, I’m informing Tom of my arrival. Waiting as I always seem to be doing outside of his flat.

The normally delightfully smelling Tom, today smells more like a liquorice allsort than one of those shirtless men from an indecipherable cologne advert, as he climbs in. I must admit on occasion his scent is a little overpowering, I question sometimes if he bathes in the stuff, instead of just applying the odd dab behind the ears. I would much rather he smelt like the perfume section of a major department store than Bertie Bassett. However, it’s not a new eau de toilette he is sporting, but his toothpaste I can smell, trouble with “sensitive teeth” he informs me, too many Quality Streets while visiting his Mum methinks.

No long trip to some distant county today, no hours spent on one motorway or another this afternoon. Today's game is a bit of a bonus, one I squeezed out of Tom, as he only got back from Devon yesterday, and we’ve a big dinner with friends tonight, so under the condition I could find something local, he was up for it.

There are few more local places to find football than Essex, especially to Toms East London residence, so it's a short hop in the car towards a new ground, for our final match of the year.

It’s been a very quiet festive period for us, sadly it always is. Tom is off at his Mums and I’m playing countless rounds of Cluedo, which it turns out I’m very good at and trying to find the perfect Pokemon themed case for a Nintendo 2DS XL, so it's good to be able to enjoy the tailend of the seemingly endless amount of football on at the moment.

“Feels like we’re heading to nowhere” says Tom, the other side of the A13 looking increasingly desolate. The bare litter filled trees, with their spindly branches like fingers catching all the roadside refuse, somewhat obscure today's venue. Finally a break in them allows us to get our first glimpse of the royal blue stand of Parkside, and the shimmering silver Aveley FC (AFC), written across it.

It’s a mild day, much milder than one would expect for late December. For now the sky is clear and blue, a light blue, a blue that's not quite as perfectly dulux colour chart blue as the main stand of AFC’s brand new home.

Our admiring of the ground is somewhat interrupted by the most brutal of speed bumps in the car park, the yellow and black striped bastard nearly snapping my car in two.

“Welcome to Parkside” it says above the crest covered double doors, however it's not just the words over the entrance that greets us, but also Craig, AFC’s JOB.

Before heading in, I think it necessary to pass comment on one observation I've already made. As nice as our surroundings are so far, those speed bumps nearly dislodged my fillings, they’re like something you might find outside an embassy to stop a runaway HGV, but Craig is nonplussed, “they do the job” he says smirking, with the look in his eyes, that I’m not the first person to have been caught out by them.

Through the doors and into the heart of Parkside, it's hard not to be overcome with an immediate sense of dejavu. The feeling of ‘we’ve been here before’ funnily enough is related to AFC’s opponents today A.F.C. Sudbury (SUD). The glass fronted two tiered clubhouse is a near replica of SUD’s very own home the King’s Marsh Stadium.

“I like the newness” says Tom, “feels like it was opened today” he adds. Not quite today, but not that long ago, August 2017, so it still has that newly decorated smell, and there is the definite air of an Ikea showroom about the place. Not awash with much colour, the single Santa Claus on one wall between two wreaths, and a sparsely decorated Christmas tree in one corner, therefore stand out a bit.

Craig who has gone from door man to bar man, polishes the long bar, as well as doing the last bit of mopping, upholding the non league tradition of the hands on board member.

He lets out an almighty sigh when I ask him how he thinks today will go. “Two sides struggling for confidence” he explains, two teams with indifferent form at the moment makes it hard for him to put his finger on how it will pan out.

When the conversation turns towards Parkside, Craig bristles with pride, reeling off a list of National League sides who train here, a “testament” to the high standard of the “facilities”. In his role not only as Chief Executive of AFC but also as Vice Chairman of the Bostik League (Isthmian League) he has visited a fair few grounds in his time, creating a vast mood board in his brain, keeping note of “little bits and pieces” from which he drew upon when it came to drawing up the plans.

The viewing gallery above us, just like the one at the King’s Marsh Stadium, that Craig freely admits was his inspiration, is his favourite feature. Not wanting to boast, but clearly doing so by telling us, he reckons it's one of the best views going, but doesn't want us to just take his word for it, “let me show you”.

Marching off in front of us, he guides us to our now elevated position and its unparalleled view of  Parkside’s main 3G playing surface. He also points the various grass pitches that surround the ground, which are for the use of any number of the twenty plus youth teams AFC currently have.

We visited AFC’s old digs, Mill Field and although it was bursting with character and non league charm, with its old wooden stand and long crumbling concrete terraces, Craig is adamant the change was required, and he tells us that it has already been proven warranted with the big jump in attendances. More a leap than a jump if I’m honest, from an average of seventy five to two hundred and fifty he says is solely down to the “facilities”.

As with any relocation, some fans couldn't understand “why” they were moving he tells us, and I understand that. A club's ground is so sacrosanct, filled with so many memories for the clubs fans, as Craig puts it Mill Field was “unique” and they “don't build them like that anymore”, so it can be hard for supporters to contemplate playing anywhere else. However Craig is sure that the “rundown, 50’s ground” was keeping people away. There are now more women and more families attending games for example, because he thinks due to the “facilities” they have become a lot more of a “family club”.

Tour over, Tom and I take up a place on one of the large round functions tables in the bar, looking up at one of the two TV’s on the wall. Although it's well before kick off, a few people are already here, escaping the reheated turkey curry and shocking Christmas TV schedule. Those not interested in the final minutes of the televised game, flick though their programme, one of which I have of course already secured, one man nigh on studies it, with his glasses perched on the top of his head.

Tom studies his phone, “you're above me!” he says surprised, having realized I have overtaken him in the Fantasy Football. He is not best pleased.

Our modern backdrop has made Tom come over all nostalgic, although Parkside is pristine, it is lacking any real personality, its similarity to the King’s Marsh Stadium does make it all feel a little bit flat pack. Although crumbling and cramped, Tom uses his visits to Highbury as an example, where there was a good chance a pillar would be in your way, of a ground that felt “like football”, a feeling for now at least Parkside, and any new developments are lacking.

As an Arsenal fan, he is probably best placed to understand the conflict between old and new, the pros and cons. He admits that places like Parkside are “the future”, but I’m not sure if he thinks that's a good thing.

My final flutter of 2017 sees me hand over £2 for two strips of yellow raffle tickets, the seller informing me its “cash prize” that will be “called at half time”. Tom is impressed that I ”didn't have to leave” my seat, people are now I’m sure able to sense my desperation, and now seek me out in search of an easy sell.

The second big sigh of the day comes from Gerry, an AFC fan since “1963” who for his first game saw them win “11-1”. Much like Craig he tells us it's “hard to say” how AFC will fare today, “depends what team turns up” he tells us, AFC “can't string two results together” at the moment, consistently inconsistent.

Gerry who is familiar with our ramblings, before leaving us asks, “you’re always early to games, can't just be for the programmes?”. I let out a nervous laugh, hoping that will placate, not wanting to admit that’s exactly why. I can't go through Erith again.

“Think we’ll win 11-0” says the always immaculately turned out Mark, SUD’s manager, who claims to be “even smarter today”, than the last time we saw him a few weeks ago, where we were bowled over by his far from typical non league get up. Everything from his Rupert the Bear esq waistcoat to club pin is gleaming. His firm handshake and big smile, that show off his Hollywood teeth are just as friendly as the last time we met, although my last memory of him, was the scowl on his face, as he marched off the pitch following SUD’s defeat.

Although the score might not be as emphatic as “11-0”, “I say that before every match” Mark tells me
laughing, he does think his team will “win” today. He admits SUD are a work in progress, most of his team were playing “under 18’s football” last season, so as he explains he has been given a free pass if you like this year, to build the team in his vision, playing a style of football not common in this league which he says shows the kind of “foresight” SUD as a club have. However the age of his side, does mean that some struggle with the “aggression” and “blood and thunder” defending of other teams, a reason for his teams own up and down form.

Slowly but surely both teams start to come out in ones and twos. One AFC player attempts to finish 2017 on a high, attempting a bottle flip with a large Evian bottle, but can't pull it off. With the arrival of more and more from each team, Tom notices a definite theme, “very clean” boots, wondering “how many got new ones for Christmas?”

Perhaps it's his recent large intake of refined sugar, but Tom’s mind seems particularly all over the place, flitting from subject to subject at a record pace. First it's a slightly barbed and sarcastic comment when I’m handed a team sheet “didn't have to pay for it” (I did at Bromley), then he goes all ornithological when his attention turns to the wildlife, “lots of birds here”, and then of course the food.

He may have eaten a family's worth of Celebrations while at his Mums in the past week, but he still has a healthy appetite, “Oh burger and chips” he says lecherously, noticing a few AFC scarf wearing fans tucking in, in the stand.

Perhaps not realising quite how creepy he sounded, I shoot him a glance, keep yourself together I think, “just checking out the goods” he explains.

The first time we heard the voice over the PA, he was ever so slightly monotone almost robotic, with no huge amount of emotion in his voice. However it’s all change when the concertina grey tunnel is extended and the players are welcomed onto the pitch.

Just before the players arrived I overheard the final instruction to the gaggle of excited ball boys, lined up, and awaiting their player. “Remember you’re ball boys so no just watching” they're told, one young man informs another that their role today is a “big responsibility”, looking anxious enough already, I’m not sure he needed the added pressure.

Sadly there is a moments silence for an AFC committee member who recently died, that is impeccably observed. The players stand still on the centre circle either side of the referee and his assistants all with heads bowed. The man in charge takes the pause to discreetly check his pockets to make sure he's got everything, before blowing his whistle, and inviting the atmosphere back to Parkside.

“Give it up for Aveley FC” says the PA who has done a full 180 and now sounds very chipper. So eager are the ball boys, the already noticeably freezing cold ball boys, I don't think they quite understood how much standing about they had to do, they are told to take a few steps back from the very edge of the pitch.

“More like Birmingham than Spurs” says Tom when I suggest our game of ‘match the clubs kits with a teams from the football league’ is perfectly poised, AFC in white and blue, Tottenham, SUD all in red Arsenal, but he doesn't see it like that, eventually we agree on Porto Vs Leyton Orient, somehow the Portuguese super club getting a mention again. Regardless, the SUD keeper is in a delicious pink jersey and is the clear winner of the battle of the kits, beating everyone all by himself.

Early on, about six minutes into the game, and a pattern is quickly established, that continues for the full ninety. Whenever AFC go close, on this occasion its a side footed attempt that goes wide, it is always followed by a gasp from the main stand and then a very mild mannered ripple of applause.

It's hardly a “lightning start” by either side as Tom puts it, inserts joke about too many chocolate oranges here. if anything its all a bit “sloppy” Tom adds. The home side are probably shading the opening exchanges, again they put a chance wide, “that was a good shot” says one of the shivering ball boys, the crowd following protocol, gasping, then applauding.

“I’m hungry” says Tom, I must admit I am too, my early start means I’m full of coffee and very little else, however Tom is a little stumped, unable to quite see where the people with food are getting it “I don't know where its coming from” he says scanning every conceivable place.

There are most definitely two styles of play on show today, and Mark’s suggestion that his team struggle with the physical nature of the league, means as Tom points out SUD are sometimes “bullied” off the ball quite easily. The home side are direct, with a ‘big man up front’. SUD are more inclined to play it on the ground as we saw when we visited them, and play some attractive football at times.

SUD switch the ball excellently from one side of the pitch to the other, “great ball” shouts Tom as it catches out the AFC defence, allowing the all red attacker to surge into the box, who then goes down, no penalty, looked like one. The AFC players suggest to the referee that if it's not a foul “it's a dive” and he should punish the SUD player accordingly, but he does nothing.

“Shut up and play” says the man with the gruff and scary voice behind the goal, I think he's an AFC coach, he’s certainly dishing out plenty of instructions to the defence and whoever he is the players listen, and give up arguing with the officials sharpish.

Tom is hardly decisive when I press him for a score prediction, 1-0, 1-1, OK 1-0 Aveley”. They have certainly had the lion's share of the chances and when with eighteen minutes gone they take the lead thanks to a towering header from a corner, Tom’s prediction just a moment before is both spooky and accurate, for now. “I’ll go with that one” he says sticking to the third of his three suggestions, just after it became correct.

The voice over the PA is full of joy once more, having fully shaken off the early cobwebs. When he reads the name of the scorer out, there is the expected clapping, and then a little more, a few woops and cheers from what it would seem is the players very own fan club.

One ball boy sings quietly to himself, “1-0, 1-0, 1-0” , one SUD player asks his teammates loudly, “guys are we gonna switch on?”.

SUD have moments of real class, you could even say pizzazz. “Cheeky, cheeky” says Tom as a forward uses the flight of the ball and his good movement to turn his marker and get away. They are not shy of using the odd back heel, which is fun to watch. “They’ve definitely woken up since the goal” says Tom, only for them to contradict his praise and my appreciation of their smart play, when they have a throw in in a promising position and go and throw it straight to AFC, “what do I know” says a bemused Tom.

Another “ohhhh” another ripple of applause from the crowd, half had gone as far as starting to celebrate what they all thought was a certain goal, when the ball was fizzed across the box and looks destined to be poked in, but the chance goes begging. AFC are going close, but just can't finish.

The game has become “congested” and somewhat “stuck in the middle” of the pitch suggests Tom. AFC look most likely to score, despite SUDs “youthful, nippiness” as Tom puts it. Other than at “set pieces” where AFC have looked dangerous, “they've not created much” and SUD certainly pass the ball around a lot, but with nothing at the “end” of it, he adds.

“Sounded like something out of Star Wars” says Tom, I having just done my best X-Wing impression apparently. My sharp intake of breath sounding like the Rebel Alliance craft, having just watched what was shaping up to be the most wonderfully executed volley from outside of the box by an AFC player, only for an SUD defender to get the slightest touch on it , and deflect it over..

“Save!” says Tom, the very tips of the outstretched fingers of the AFC keeper having just stopped the SUD equaliser. When they do click they show so much promise, but its few and far between.

At the other end the visitors continue to just about keep AFC at bay. Their direct or “long ball” approach as Tom calls it, is being foiled time and again, normally by the very last defender. However
it only takes one slip in concentration and they'll be bearing down on goal. It certainly seems the home sides main tactic, as Tom puts it “if you try ten times, one will go in”.

The single SUD fan in his blue and yellow scarf and flat cap, standing behind the goal, is getting increasingly annoyed. First he questions if they know what colour strip they are playing in today, their profligacy with the ball is starting to wear thin, “we’re playing in red you know”. Then almost at the end of his tether he insists loudly that his team “pick it up a bit”.

Close to the half time whistle, wandering past us on his way to the bar, he watches on as SUD have one of their rare forays into the box. Firing it along the edge of the six yard box, but no-one is at the other end, “oh fucking hell” he mumbles to himself.

Tunnel out, matchday sponsor wished a happy birthday, score confirmed, players make their way inside.

A hidi high dingdong over the PA catches me unawares just outside the toilet scrabbling for my tickets for the draw, only to find out I’m not even close. As Tom reminds me before disappearing for food, “you've had your winnings”. Is he right, will my win at Taunton be the only one?

The clubhouse is busy, seems silly calling it a clubhouse, there is not a spot of mould or dodgy carpet in sight, it's more like the executive lounge at an airport.

Half listening to a couple of AFC fans discussing the first half, they both agree “it's all about getting that second goal”, I lose track of time. The voice over the PA asks everyone to “please welcome” the teams back on to the pitch, which triggers a mini rush for the doors, and I realise Tom is nowhere to be seen.

SUD’s chances of getting back into the match take a dent very early on at the beginning of the second half, their number 9, one of the “super signings” he is brandished, who one person suggests he's not “done anything anyway”, so he won't be missed, is shown a straight red. “Must be something he said” suggests a nearby fan, as there was certainly no foul. He was the one appealing for a foul on him, but he didn't get it and I’m guessing let the referee know what he thought of that.

As he makes the long slow walk off, the PA announces his transgression, the likes of which, I’ve never seen done before. Do we really live in a world now where red card shaming is acceptable?

The fact a disgruntled Tom returns ten minutes into the new half chipless, they were “sold out” he tells me, his dream of us “eating together” scuppered, might have something to do with the two hundred and seventy one people the voice over the PA has just confirmed are here.

“Some onions would of been nice” replies Tom between hurried mouthfuls, as I conduct my assessment of his burger, taking place on the hoof as we take up a new position for the second half. Prodding him like Jeremy Paxman would a Tory minister, I want to know how it is, half trying not to choke, I finally get an “OK” out of him, which he revises to “nice” once he's able to breathe properly.

The tackle that gives away the penalty at the far end of the pitch was so loud, that it sounded like it was right in front of us. "There goes my prediction", says Tom. With the chance to double their lead, the AFC player steps up, and after a bit of a pause, crashes it off the crossbar, bouncing back down, but it's not over the line. “What, no!” says a ball boy, unable to comprehend that he’s missed. It was a bit of a “thunderbolt” comments Tom, more Shearer than Pirlo.

With the sun now dipping down, it's all snoods and hands in gloves in the small stand opposite it's bigger showier brother. Plenty of people are taking advantage of the soft furnishings of the viewing gallery and are watching from inside, but many are braving the ever lowering temperature and are still doing things the old fashioned way, watching pitchside.

You wouldn't know AFC had the man advantage at times, they are still fashioning chances, with twenty minutes gone another ball travels right across the box and out the other side unimpeded. “Bust a gut” shouts one of the AFC bench to the players, but not one can get on the end of what was a cracking ball.

It feels like the home team are slowly, slowly turning the screw on the depleted visitors, again the ball is in the box, this time the keeper in pink punches it clear, along with a bit of one unfortunate AFC player and I can't work out if AFC are just not being clinical enough, ruthless if you like or are SUD showing a high level of maturity and an ability to soak up the pressure, and deal with being a man less.

AFC think they have doubled their lead, only for the goal to be ruled out for offside. What started off as an SUD corner, quickly turned into a rapid AFC counter, the keeper parrying the first shot, but the player who thought he'd got that “important second goal” had strayed offside.
Ten to go and this time it's a “big save” from the AFC keeper, who stops SUD scoring. The loudest of applause from the crowd since the goal, signals just what a good job the man in goal had done and the closer we get towards full time, the home side still only one ahead, despite all their time around the visitors goal, the more SUD look like they are going to nick a point.

Five to go, “we ain't gotta force it, keep the ball” pleads a member of the AFC bench. AFC are getting to the edge of SUD’s box time and time again, each attack almost a carbon copy of the last, but the crucial pass or cross is always a little panicked. Each time their attack falls apart, it feels like one step closer to SUD going up the other end and biting them in the arse.

Finally they look to have made done it, a well worked attack, with the smart final pass, but the ball is blocked just in the nick of time for SUD at least. Another ball into the box follows, again no-one is there to meet it, the bench are quite literally pulling their hair out.

“Told ya” says Tom smugly, SUD have done it, on the eighty ninth minute.

The mood of the PA has taken a very sudden, severe and noticeable nose dive “five minutes of injury time” to play he tells us. The bench close to losing their shit want to know “where the fucking desire?” is, there is still time to get the win I think they ultimately deserve.

Wave after wave of AFC attacks are close but no cigar, they win a free kick in a promising position, but its poor and comes to nothing. Then it happens, the match defining moment, more than the red card or the penalty miss, but a penalty that wasn't given. The right wing and in particular the AFC number 15 have been the main if not sole outlet in the second half, he bursts into the box, right in front of us and seems to be bundled over..

Despite the appeals from nearly everyone the referee is having none of it and waves it away. “Fuck off” shouts one AFC player on the final whistle, hoofing the ball in the air.

Most of the black silhouettes in the main stand, caused by the blinding floodlights have disappeared, as have SUD. AFC’s players on the other hand are still strewn across the pitch some flat out on their backs, looking skywards. There are offers of help up from teams mates to get up, but some can't quiet drag themselves to their feet yet, much rather staying put to contemplate the lost points.

The loudest voice coming from the on pitch debrief is that of the AFC goalkeeper, beyond livid it's fair to say, that they conceded so late in the day.

Craig is behind the bar once again, clearly and understandably glum, “got to kill teams off” he says. Also in the bar is Mark, who is at the other end of the happiness spectrum, “love to hear what you made of that” he says to me cheerily, ordering a drink, much needed after his sides last minute smash and grab.

On the subject of the last minute penalty shout Craig said it “definitely” was but admits the referee was “never going to give it in the 95th minute”.

New won't be new for ever, Parkside will loose some of that out the box feel over time, a few marks here, a few scuffs there and it will start to feel like 'home' in no time.

On our way home, I always seem to find myself mulling over one particular thing from the past few hours. Very rarely is it a pass, a tackle or a goal, but normally a person and something that they had said or done. Ultimately its the people who are a clubs DNA. It's the volunteers and fans, who define a club not bricks and mortor. Yes it would be great if every ground looked like an Archibald Leitch creation, but variety is the spice of life, and if such temples of the 'Beautiful Game' a full of populated by unbearable sorts, who cares what they looks like anyway?

As Tom checks to see if he's overtaken me in the fantasy football, I try and understand the actions of one man, standing in the smaller of the two stands, who we both noticed during our prematch amble, pulling on quite inexplicably a pair of waterproof trousers. Tom looking at me wondering, "maybe he knows something we don't know?"

 

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