Felt Like I Was Sucking On A Cow - Hampton & Richmond Borough FC Vs Wealdstone FC, National League South, Beveree Stadium (16/11/19)

There are certainly some grounds and therefore some clubs who for one reason or another we have passed through the turnstiles of and spent more time in the company of, then others. Be it because of a personal obsession with a certain non league club in N17, the fact it’s the team of your other half or that particular club just happens to play on Wednesdays, which for the last couple of years has been our go to midweek match day.

The fact that Hampton & Richmond Borough FC (HRB) are neither local, play on a Wednesday or as far as I know are not supported by any known loved one, I'm not quite sure why our visit today to their tidy West London home, The Beveree, tucked away at the end of cul-de-sac a stone's throw from the banks of the Thames, is our third, having seen them play a total of five times at home and away.

No end of nice cars, parked outside nice houses surround their little corner of the football world, and when I finally find a place to park with what in comparison to some of the motors, is a complete shit show of a car with it’s broken rear window windscreen wiper, drooping down like a gun dog's tail, it is a more than an agreeable walk to the ground.

The blue wrought iron gates, and similarly coloured turnstile at the end of Beaver Close, no really it is called that, are all very familiar, so are a few of the faces as we walk on in. The lady selling the golden goal tickets from the bespoke white wooden box with a hinged lid and the person managing the table outside the club's supporters trust office, which is a re-purposed shed, all ring a bell.

One thing I naively didn't expect to see, in such an affluent part of the capital was a table set up to accept donations for a local food bank. The lady behind the heaving table makes it clear in no uncertain terms that my assumption that such a thing can’t surely be necessary in an area where a river side dwelling costs probably the same as some small nations defence budget. In fact the necessity for such things is so great, they have just opened the “fifth” one in the borough recently.

With The Beveree you just about get the perfect mixture of charm, dilapidation and proper football. A tuck shop hidden away down the side of the slightly incongruent and extremely deep covered terracing on one corner of the pitch. A ramshackle all seater stand alongside it’s older neighbour in marginally better condition, are just a few of the options as to where to watch the match. If that’s not for you, you can always shelter underneath the mixture of scaffolding poles and marine ply behind one goal or if you’re feeling revering, you can take a seat in the stand named after the man who wrote such comedy classics as Steptoe and Son and Hancock's Half Hour, who until his death in 2017 was the clubs Honorary President.

Trees starting to lose their leaves surround almost the entirety of the ground, poking up into the murky Saturday afternoon sky, and they are all that separate the nearby houses from the match day goings on. Such is the proximity of the clubs next-door neighbours that if I remember correctly from a previous visit, they are not allowed to play music, but it does little to hamper the building atmosphere.

One thing any half decent non league ground wouldn't dare be without, is of course the humble portacabin, be it for a clubhouse, club shop or changing room, the building site staple that is front runner of affordable accommodation, is ever present today adopting a role rarely seen, and in a slight twist to the norm, is where we will be spending the afternoon.

An unexpected email was a welcome surprise among all the usual spam about penis enlargement pills and compensation claims. An invitation to join the guys of Fotmob, for a day of prawn sandwiches, that was only my assumption, any potential food that might be available was not outlined in the initial email, in surroundings somewhat far removed from what we usually do at a match, plus the chance to go to a game in daylight at a ground we’ve always enjoyed visiting, was too hard to turn down.

The second of the blue double stacked portacabins behind one goal, with the clubs crest adorning one end is where you will find the Chairman's Lounge, accessed along a narrow passage and winding blue metal staircase, that feels almost intertwined with the adjacent tree. Once inside the it’s not quite what I imagined, less VIP, more annex at the end of the garden built for an elderly relative so they can have some semblance of independence, but are close enough at hand for when they take a tumble that you can help, just minus the cats and the floral covered armchair.

The small tablecloth covered table with a kettle and selection of tea and coffee only strengthens this feeling, however I’m not sure Grandma has a small fridge containing completely beer. A small TV secured to the wall is not showing rolling Sky Sports News as I’m sure happens in such surroundings higher up the pyramid, but some random European rugby, that happens to be on channel four.

We are not alone however, and because of this, neither of us are brave enough to peel back the see through plastic that covers, if I'm not mistaken and I know my shop bought sandwiches, so I doubt I am, two platters of M&S’s finest.

Being the two salt of the earth kind of guys we are, somewhere to lean and a hot cup of Bovril is normally all we require, but with high life though does come the odd perk other than free coffee. The view the Chairman's Lounge allows is one of them. Ask me this again when someone has finally peeled open the delicacies and I might have a different answer for you, but for now the sliding patio doors allowing us exclusive access to the balcony and the obscured vista, is just about defeating the internal turmoil I’m experiencing, that we might have sold out.

Below us those having to struggle with only standard admission tickets seem happy enough, but really they don't know what they are missing.

“For the Beavers” says a well spoken voice over the PA as it crackles to life, the kind of voice from a person one might imagine wears a monocle and a freshly cut carnations in their buttonhole pocket, as he proceeds to read out the homes starting eleven.

With their allegiances not clear until now, the ever growing crowd, something that has been lacking somewhat on our recent outings, soon make which side they are rooting for abundantly clear. Catching me out somewhat the followers of Wealdstone FC (WFC) most if not all have congregated under the roof of the sloping covered corner terrace, break into song, “we are the Stone”. The home fans are quick to reply, with what I still stand by is the nicest football nickname in the world, a nickname that from as far as I can work out no one knows why they are called it, that could not be more diametrically opposed to something hard and coarse like stone, “come on Beavers”.

Combined both sets of fans make a fair old din when the players emerge from almost directly below us. For a moment it goes all very GTA circa 1997, our birds eye view of the top of the players heads filling out from our lofty position on the now almost full to capacity balcony, no one has taken up one of the single line of fold down chairs, is a new experience for us.

If I’m honest the thought hadn't even crossed my mind standing up here, but the WFC fans seem to
be goading us to “shit on the bastards below” or is their latest song about someone else? Whoever it may be, I feel for the unsuspecting people below in direct firing line of any potential dirty protest, should a certain section of the crowd get their way.

The home fans now down the opposite end of the pitch, sound faint compared to the rowdy gaggle of travelling supporters standing around the base of our ivory tower, who reply quickly not with songs about pooing, but something far more PG, “Beavers, Beavers, Beavers”.

Tom impervious to the vulgar exchanges and animal based chanting, mutters in my ear that he is quite fond of the blue and red faded shirt being worn by the WFC players, which is paired  with neon orange shorts, but I have to admit it looks like the kit man has packed the wrong kit. A kit clash, all in one strip.

We don’t have to wait long until the first chance of the match, a lashed HRB shot from close range skims over the bar, prompting a “ohhhh” from the home fans and a nervous “weyyy” from the away ones. There also isn't long between songs from the sizable WFC support, “oh when the Stones go marching in” they sing, the home fans respond as any good home fans should, by rattling the hoardings.

The flood lights flicker on and one person on the busy balcony comments “I didn't expect to watch a game under the lights”. Sounding like someone doing a Friends impersonation, one home defender does his best to emphasise to the referee that he is sure the ball has gone out of play “hello, hello” he repeats, only for the throw in not to be given, and the WFC attack is allowed to continue, culminating in a slightly panicked clearance, nudging the WFC supporters to belt out their next chant.

Another shout from the home players goes up that the ball has gone out, but it’s not given and again the table topping visitors are able to fashion another chance, much to the dismay of the angry HRB players. All the calling for the ball being out, means some are out of position when the ball is eventually cut into the box. This time the chance is over, however the away fans know full well they have had a stroke of luck, so thank the referees assistant accordingly, “nice one lino”.

Not one, but two quickfire saves from the man between the sticks for HRB keep the score level. Two saves one after another, which proves that the speed I’m able to get up off the floor after playing with my daughter is of concern, because he was up in a flash. “Well done keeper” applauds one home fan close by. WFC showing every inch of their league leading credentials, crafting the chance with some excellent football, turning it on all of a sudden like the manager had flicked a switch in the dugout.

Seemingly not needing much of an excuse to sing, the WFC supporters crack out another, “we play in white, we’re fucking dynamite”. One of their flags hangs over the railings and their singing does a cracking job in drowning out the constant call of the still covered sandwiches. Everyone is either too polite to be the first or they are just not quite as obsessed with free food as us too, so are yet to tuck in. By being the person to break the seal, I only reinforce age old stereotypes I’ve spent thirty five years trying to quash, ‘oh look at the fat bloke tucking in, typical, no wonder our NHS is struggling’.

A home fan spins their old wooden rattle and WFC chalk up another effort on goal, this time a wild volley, the player in question watches the ball dropping from way on high, but his connection is poor.

Having admitted to not really feeling very well, and having looked all sorts of sad when we met earlier, Tom is feeling the side effects of allowing someone to pump him full of rubella and typhoid, the inoculations for his honeymoon taking their toll. He does look a little grey and pasty, but the draw of football on a Saturday was too good to miss out on, so he’s resorted to the age old remedy of Coke a Cola and Ibuprofen, to keep him going. “Feeling rough” he says, as he necks his umpteenth white pill.

“They're threatening” Tom ponders between sips of coke. HRB in a matter of about five minutes go close to taking the lead on more than one occasion. “Ohhhh” gasp the home fans at the sight of a header going wide from a corner. A quiet cry from the far end of the of the pitch for a penalty is waved away, with the rest of the place stony silent and then on the stroke of twenty five minutes their best chance of the match. An up and under pass is plucked from the air by the forward, who has just enough time to bring it down and shoot, however the WFC stopper is out quickly to meet him, deflecting the ball out for a corner.

The acrid smell of a nearby bonfire is soon masked by the sweet smell of one tropical fruit or another as Tom takes a large hit on his vape. The wooden rattle goes up another gear and lets off its loudest salutation so far and the visiting fans in ever growing voice inform us all they “care about is Wealdstone”.

One conundrum I didn't expect to encounter during our VIP experience was Tom fretting about wanting a burger, but not wanting to bring it in to our luxury surroundings. He could just sit on one of the steps below us and have it, where one man passing does a fine job carrying a tray with three pints on and a Kit Kat, watching the match with one eye and the path ahead with the other, without spilling a drop.

Spelling out the name of their beloved team, “e…….a……..l” the WFC supporters deviate from their en masse spelling bee, to berate the free after their forward was clattered from behind as he shaped up to shoot on the edge of the HRB box at the end of a breakaway. “He's gotta go” insists one man about the guilty looking home defender.

The resulting free kick right on the very limit of the HRB penalty areas sees them bombard the home goal with not one, not two, but three shots, each one blocked in turn, until one WFC player mixes it up with a floated cross to the back post which has to be headed out for a corner. The defencive masterclass, the likes of which Tom could only dream of seeing from his beloved Arsenal pull off, inspires his one word review, “solid”.

I’m weak, I could not even hold out until half time, I got a sandwich. The break is only minutes away, but the lure of an egg mayo was too great.

A groan from the home fans follows a poor cross and Tom is starting to wonder if we have been “cursed” this season. We’ve not exactly been blessed with thrillers this year, the two we were supposed to go to, but missed because life as is its habit of doing so, got in the way, were both 4 - 3 barnstormers. Today's match although it's been OK, has hardly really got going.

“The referee has indicated two added minutes” says the voice over the PA. “No rush keeper” jokes
one WFC fan, the HRB stopper is not exactly hurrying to take his goal kick and come the double blast of the referee's whistle, it's a bit of a slow trudge off by the players. “Come on lads” urge the WFC supporters gathered around what is not an extending tunnel as has been the case on previous visits, but temporary fencing right off a building site and someone loudly reports in the lounge that “they got sweets downstairs, we’re missing out”.

Another potential stumbling block I didn't think we would encounter was what I call the Goldilocks Effect, it being a bit too chilly on the balcony but far too warm inside, so I’ve no idea where to put myself. The fans who don't have such dilemmas, swap ends and with the WFC ones departing it’s a lot quieter now. The whole of the covered terrace opposite us is now packed out, with their expectant faces peering out waiting for the restart.

I must admit not having to watch Tom eat a cheeseburger is quite a pleasant reprieve, I spend my half time for once chowing down. Scoffing coronation chicken and discussing parenting tips and stories of soft play. On tea duty, Tom is unhappy with my overuse of the milk, “felt like I was sucking on a cow” he tells me, but I’m not really listing, someone has just opened some spring rolls.

It’s the turn of the HRB supporters to serenade us now. Lower in number, they are are though no less passionate, “come on Hampton, come on on Hampton”. With ten minutes gone WFC appeal for a penalty, however nothing is given and the home fans are let's say far from impressed with how easy one visiting player goes down, claiming a foul. “Get up you inbred” shouts one, “thats unkind on inbreds” adds another.

Tom’s fears for another dull match are soon out to the sword. When a roar goes up for another home penalty, the referee is having none of it and then WFC race right up the other end and go close themselves. However with fifty six minutes gone and I think somewhat against the run of play, although Tom disagrees, HRB take the lead.

The quality of the finish and the subsequent celebration with the fans following the goal where the scorer effectively waited for the WFC keeper to sit down having gone one way, then another before poking it in, just about make up for being three minutes out on the golden goal, three minutes. Actually what am I saying, I’m gutted.

Seconds after the restart and WFC hit the target with a bobbling shot, the tension around the ground is palpable and for the first time both ends are quiet. On twenty three minutes HRB almost double their lead with a rising shot from a very tight angle that ripples the wrong side of the net, chatting a few home fans out, who have to cut short their celebrations.

“I get no pleasure watching” says the chain smoking HRB chairman, who I think spends as much time on the steps lighting up, than he does watching the match. He squirms and contemplates his next gig, at the sight of an edge of the box shot by WFC being touched over the bar.

WFC are starting to pile on the pressure, with a quarter of an hour to go. The smooth voice of the announcer giving the attendance goes unnoticed. The HRB keeper is forced into a rash punch to clear the ball and then pulls off another smart save low to his left to keep the visitors out. “Hampton fucking stick in there” pleads one fan. The feeling of impending doom only lifting for a moment when laughter breaks out among the fans, because of a bit of a shonky kick from WFC keeper.

It feels a bit like tempting fate, but the latest HRB song “you're top the league, you're having a laugh” could maybe considered a tad ill advised when they're only one goal to the good. Firing the ball back and forth across the HRB six yard box, not one of the WFC players are able to hit the target, instead they thrash the ball across the home penalty area, causing hearts to reside in home mouths. “Come on Beavers” chant the loudest section of the home fans, the home team now forced right back up against their own goal, the WFC hitting against them time and time again.

HRB’s one and only outlet when they have possession is a loan forward found with a big lump up field. A tactic probably sneered at in some circles, but it's working for them. With less than ten minutes left, they close one and one with only the keeper to beat, the forwards side foot finish is wide. “Ohhhhhh” go the home fans, who knew full well that was the cushion they so desperately need.

What better way to distract yourself from the anxiety of just about holding onto a one goal lead, then giving the opposition goalkeeper some grief, “you're going bald in the morning”. They then resort to some more traditional prose, with a less personal song, “aly o aly o red and blue army”, before all hell breaks loose, and all that tension dissipates in a heartbeat.

A well measured pass across the WFC box, a well timed run at the back post and side footed finish via the face of the away keeper and again against the run of play, although Tom still disagrees, HRB double their lead. The crowd below us erupt, pints are spilt not quite summer 2018 style but close and more than one person takes a tumble down the steps.

“Is there a fire drill?” they ask as some of the away fans who have seen enough, start to make their way home, “we can see you sneaking out”.

Two goals up against the league leaders and with less than five minutes to go, what better way to celebrate than slagging off your rivals, “we hate Staines Town”, as well as rubbing salt into the wounds of your opponents, “2-0 to the Hampton boys, 2-0”. The small group underneath us have hit
peak loudness, the hoarding is getting a kicking and they are struggling to comprehend how the team they look very close to beating, are so much higher than them in the table, “top of the league you're having a laugh”.

The final throes of the match all belong to the away side, the nerves at new levels, but you wouldn't know that judging by the fans below us, “cheerio, cheerio” they sing waving to the departing WFC supporters. The name of their manager is now stuck on loop “Gary McCann’s red and blue army” and one person hopes the WFC faithful have enjoyed their “stay in the good part of Middlesex”.

“4 minutes of added time” enunciates the PA, dripping with such regal magnificence , I feel like a have to curtsy in his presence. Every WFC error is greeted with a relieved “weeyyyy”, each one eating into their time to potentially score and make the last few minutes unbearable.

A third for HRB might have been a bit flattering, but with nigh on every WFC player in the home half, they were always going to be vulnerable to the counterattack might and bearing in on goal, one on one with the keeper, they miss the chance to once and for all put everyone's mind at ease. Which for some reason prompts one person to ask “are you Tottenham in disguise?” bit rude.

There is a collective "yeahhhh" from almost every HRB fan come the final whistle, separated by only the recently erected semi permanent tunnel, both sets of fans go at it. "We are top of the league" sing the WFC ones putting on a brave face, after I would imagine was somewhat of an unexpected defeat. The reply from the home ones is loud, with plenty of banging, every flat hard surface close at hand is whacked with a clenched fist.

With the ground all but empty, the last few fans who stuck around following both teams elongated tunnels have left, I take in my surroundings one last time and deliberate with myself if I've room for just one last sandwich. I also mull over the pros and cons of watching football this way, and I'm scared to admit that I quite liked it, which I'm not sure why makes me feel a bit annoyed with myself.

Who doesn't want a great view, plenty of room and the odd few nibbles too? I used to turn my nose up at those in the corporate seats, fat cats killing the game we all love, that don't care about the match, they're just there for the hospitality. Am I turning into everything I once loathed, is this a slippery slope, I've tasted it once, so now chasing the high? Sniffing around boardroom doors for a biscuit or the chance of a coffee in an un-chipped china mug?

I'll tell you one thing I understand why they call them fat cats, it's the sandwiches, all the bloody sandwiches. If I am going to take this up as my new way of watching football, I might have to get a gastric band or something, otherwise I'm going to become a very fucking fat cat indeed.

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In Direct Line Of The Burgers - Guildford City FC Vs Hanworth Villa FC, Combined Counties League Premier, Spectrum Football Ground (30/10/19)

Bumper to bumper traffic and 40 mile per hour speed restrictions make for slow going, but at least I have the unusual, but not to say enjoyable mix of the Queens of the Stone Age, George Michael and Soundgarden to entertain me, as I journey along the M25. With no Tom, the music fills a void, however I miss our banal chatter and friendly bickering. Tonight, as has been the case on a few occasions this season, because of the location of our destination, we are both travelling solo.

Entering the Guildford Spectrum Leisure Complex, the UK’s number one leisure complex by all accounts, the name I accept is quite a mouthful, and not one I think that will be remembered in the annals of time with other more evocative stadiums like Anfield and the Camp Nou, is visible from quite a distance.

Illuminated like something from a Spielberg film set, it's about as far from the usual non league set up then we are used to then you could imagine. The rows and rows of parking bays, many if not most are filled, signs pointing off in all sorts of directions towards one thing or another, an ice rink and bowling alley and not one of them says club shop. Modern, bright, and more concrete then you could shake a stick at, a monolith built in honour of wholesome family entertainment.

“I left the house it was 11.5” is Tom’s opening gambit, me barely out of the car, and he’s already miffed that it’s a bit chilly. He recounted how his on board thermometer tumbled the closer he got, until stopping almost at zero, although the way he is going on about it, you would think it had gone well below, “freezing”.

A long white banner fastened to a high green fence lets us know, in no uncertain terms we are in the right place, the club's name Guildford City FC (GC) written across it, however there are no obvious hints that there is a ground anywhere nearby other than the towering floodlights. The green fence doing a good job of obscuring what is beyond. Something that is vast, much, much larger than your average bottom of the pyramid football ground, and I’m curious to investigate. It’s not until Tom escorts me through a small open gate, that our venue for the night, comes into full view.

Imagine a bowl cut out of the earth by General Zod’s World Engine. Then drop into it, all the necessities for an athletics stadium. The red running track a lone runner is doing laps of as we arrive, hammer and discus cages at either end, the steeplechase hurdle, and blue tarpaulins covers the long pit jumps. There's a large steep grass bank at one end, and an even steeper bank of concrete steps at first floor level down the home straight, and of course a football pitch far out in the middle, and you have yourself the Prospect Football Ground.

There is more than a smattering of the Eastern Bloc about the place, one would not be shocked to see a steroid pumped shot putter appear and start hurling things about. The noise of the nearby main road is a constant and the newly arrived players and staff of Hanworth Villa FC (HV) who have just trekked down the formidable steps like a troupe of Sherpa's arriving at base camp, each ladened with one giant bag or another, mill about on the edge of the pitch, looking less than impressed by the facilities to say the least.

The vast complex that surrounds us, that not only includes the athletics track and football pitch, but also we’re told an ice hockey rink too, where a game is also on tonight, and I think I'm correct in thinking the now home of the former Chelsea and Arsenal goalkeeper Peter Cech, is in direct “competition” with our match, which according to one GT volunteer, will cause a bit of a dent on their gate, “lucky to get fifty” he tells us. Fifty that is unlikely to include any away fans, “not much hope the visitors will bring many, if any,” we are informed they “don't travel well”.

The clubhouse, a pitch side portacabin accessed by a single file path that I’m just about able to get along, without getting stuck, reminds Tom of his exploits on a “building site”. Between his brief stint in the army and time as a hairdresser, what he knows about building sites, I'm not sure, but I take his word for it.

Signs around the rather bare room allude to better times in the club's history, and their stint in the Southern League. A ghetto blaster straight out of 1981 witters away on a small table, the unmistakable drone of TalkSport tumbling from it’s tiny speakers.

A somewhat makeshift looking bar takes up one end of the room, its red and white frontage, with the club crest on is currently unmanned. A shelf with everything available for the anticipated customers, does not give them many options. Next to our table on a blue notice board, four pennants hang wonkily, each one a memento from a previous FA Cup or Vase encounter.

“Two years ago it won best programme” says the man selling the clubs match day offering, from a bag for life. My money along with the few others who have bought one, goes straight in a small red metal lock box, the likes of which once upon a time you kept your Christmas and birthday money. The kind that was about as secure as a chocolate safe and if you lost your key, a swift whack from a hammer would open it.

I’ve yet to see anyone make their way through the single turnstile perched halfway up the side of the large bank of grass, the way down to the pitchside a zig zagging path, that makes you go back on yourself as you descend, like a day at a theme park.

A few of the green plastic seats in the covered section of the first floor stand sandwiched between the huge slab steps have been occupied. Below the teams appear for the warm up, first hit by the blinding orange glow that radiates from the running track, then the cold. Many with hands secured in sleeves, wishing they had not forgotten their gloves.

I’m happy to be accosted by a teen with a book of green raffle tickets in one hand and a plastic money bag clutched in the other. Tom then shares some advice for when and if I decided to visit the loo, “take a torch” but on opening the door when I do go, I’m not sure what he was going on about, it was perfectly well lit.

“A fucking queues forming” says Tom under his breath, standing at the rear of the baying mob waiting for food. The lifting of a blind to allow the fixing of a menu to the inside of the window, is like a red rag to some. The crowd surges slightly, but the shutter remains down. Nearby a committee of three kids write the teams out on a white board. The two dictating take no end of pleasure from winding up the scribe, sniggering loudly, forcing he with the pen to rub out great swathes of what he’s written, because he’s not noticed that starting in goal for the home team is I. P. Freely.

Tom’s transition, by his own admission, from summer to winter wardrobe has been a rather slow one, however this evening has prompted him to quicken the pace, “time to get the long-johns out”. The crowd shuffles a few steps further forward when one lady looks close to opening the hatch. The false sense of hope coming from the throng of bearded anorak wearing men, Tom included, when she doesn't, is palpable.

A traffic light system would be more than appropriate for the single file traffic in front of the clubhouse, however the bottleneck soon clears when a young woman throws open the shutter, “look at them go” mutters Tom. The stampede which he refrains from joining, lunge at the window in search of something to eat. We hang back, Tom sticking to his half time regime, surrounded by those also not eating, but instead occupy their time by defacing their programmes while updating the starting elevens.

“Testing, testing, 1, 2” says a quiet voice over the PA lifting the place out of just somewhere people have gathered to eat outside in the cold, towards somewhere in the realm of an actual football match. To be fair to him, I can't work out if his voice sounds quiet, because he is a softly spoken type or just because where we are is so vast. It wouldn't matter if it was Brian Blessed, it would still sound rather mousy.

“That's all from me, enjoy the game” is how he signs off, having read out the starting lineups. The away team complete their final shooting practice, “you don't save those ones” shouts one player having slammed the ball past the diving keeper, and soon the pitch is clear, the referee and his assistant appear to lead the teams out over the running track and onto the island pitch surrounded by a red sea.

“It’s chappin” says the home captain, his team in a classic get up of red and white stripes, his opposite number, the visiting captain, heads up his team who have effectively been dressed to look like yellow highlighter pens.

The home manager is booming to say the least, “leave everything out there,” he tells his team, standing in front of the Subbuteo looking plastic dugout, resting on wheels to allow it to be wheeled

away and off the track come the end of the night. “We start early, come on” he beseeches before restating his previous point, just in case nobody heard him the first time, “leave nothing out there, I mean it”.

A few late comers are pacing down the hill from the turnstile as the referee completes his final checks and such is the gap between the back of the goals and the edge of the ground, it's got to be at least sixty, seventy metres, two ball boys are standing fast, and they better be on it or we are in for about twenty minutes of added on time, come the end of the match.

Tom’s review of the tea is to the point, “hot”, and even though we bought them about ten minutes ago, it’s still scalding. There is little more I can add on my thoughts of the phenomenon that is the temperature of non league tea, but really someone should set up some kind of study group. He then tells me he “likes” the neon yellow away kit, but my mocking of him for this laughable opinion is interrupted because of our proximity to sustenance. Sitting as Tom puts it “in direct line of the burgers” the smell wafting up from the burger bar directly below us is verging on the overpowering.

The first chance of the match falls to the visitors, all because of a mistake at the back by GT, a goal for the highlighters is only prevented by the home keeper in a Jens Lehmann shade of orange, gathering up the ball moments before the HV forward can take advantage of the error. The home manager continues to be the loudest thing here, a little petered by this teams slow start, “It's fucking embarrassing. We've gotta get back quicker”.

Ten minutes gone and a goal bound GT header is cleared off the line, the man behind us tucking into his sandwich brought from home is only able to muster a muted “ohhhh” on account of his mouth being half full of cheese and branston pickle.

HV then go close with a flashed shot wide and less than a minute later a ball cut into the box is cut out, seconds before reaching its intended target. The home side then get a chance to catch their breath, after a high HV tackle poleaxes one of their midfielders, which in turn ignites a fleeting scuffle. “Fucking referee” shouts the home manager, the man in charge soon has control of things, “It's a physical one” snorts Tom.

Strutting around in midfield, you can see how the GT keeper might just be able to add to his goal tally this season if he stays that far up the pitch, “he clearly wants another goal” says Tom, having scored one in their last match. “What's he doing, on the edge of the centre circle?” ponders my fellow ex keeper, his positioning causing him some concern, “he's not the smallest bloke to run back” he adds, “he’s gonna get lobbed”.

Skipping into the box, and after a spot of good fortune, the GT defence tests their managers patience again, letting the visitors in, but luckily for them the shot is tame and right into the midriff of the keeper. A home shout for a handball is declined by a stern “no” from the referee and then off his line at a rate of knots, the GT keeper makes Tom eat his sizeist comments, out to clear a through ball in a flash.
The visitors are bossing it, the Villains as HV are known aren't letting GT have a touch, and the away side are soon in again after another lapse at the back, a last ditch block stops the close range shot hitting the target.

“Can you smell rosemary?” asks Tom, turning towards me with a rather perplexed look on his face. He’s convinced that the ladies in the kitchen are whipping up a bit of “roast lamb” and his craving for a bit of a midweek carve up, prompts him to tell me to go and get him some “roast potatoes”.

The first cold feet dance of the season sees Tom frantically tapping his feet, doing his best to get some life back into them, “my toes are frozen”. However the thawing technique is soon forgotten when a home breakaway, a slick and well rehearsed overlap pulled off by the full back and the winger is brought to an end by a “Guendouzi” type tackle. Tom laughs out loud at the similarities in the move more commonly seen at Twickenham. Imagine the young Frenchman's recent tackle against Crystal Palace, but with a heavy dose of Boris Johnson at Soccer Aid chucked in too.

“Think that's the weirdest goal I've even seen” suggests Tom, slack jawed. The combination of not one, but two flicked headers in a row following a GT corner, sees them, quite against the run of play take the lead, and before the delighted sounding PA can confirm the time of the goal, I do love a stadium announcer who can clearly be heard to be delighted that the home side have scored, someone, much to Tom’s annoyance, informs everyone that “Liverpool” are “beating Arsenal” in their game at Anfield.

Blessed with an ungodly amount of pace, the HV winger on the far side is soon flying once again, causing the home side all sorts of issues. His latest foray down the touch line is ushered out by one defender, much to the delight of one concerned home fan at the sight of him striding goalwards, “come on”.

It’s fair to say Tom takes pleasure in the simplest of things, a good cup of tea, some well cooked chips, tonight however it's not food that’s got him grinning, but the name of one of the players, Cyril. “Kind of love that” he says, “a name from football yesteryear”.

The away bench does it’s best to rival the noise of the home one, when following a particularly big tackle they go all “braveheart” as Tom describes it. “Well done” cries one man, overflowing with enthusiasm after his player won the ball back.

Into the last five of the half and HV are in again, but put it wide from a narrow angle. Tom has taken to his feet, in an attempt to wake up his extremities, “I’m getting frostbite”. With me still sitting he suggests I’m going to need an “inflatable” if I stay on my arse for the rest of the game, increasing my chances he thinks of getting “piles”.

“He nearly missed that” scoffs Tom, who I can just about hear over the one women cheer squad along to our right, celebrating the home sides second goal. The simple tap in is almost sent the wrong side of the post, but gets in the end to double GT’s lead. “Cheese that” says Tom, it being this close to half time I imagine he’s talking about his burger, but actually its some FIFA 20 lingo. A “cheesy goal” he goes on to explain is lots of R2 to sprint down the wing, a touch of X to pass it to the player in the box, and a dot of O to roll into the empty net, but the scorers connection was a tad scuffed, but he was spared any blushes.

GT’s keeper is elated, the HV keeper is not. “What the fuck?” he asks of his team mate, arms stretched out, not because as Tom points out he has “no number” on his shirt, but because his defence were non existent in the face of the GT attack

Bang on the stroke of halftime, what looked like a comfortable lead for the home side is halved. “Looked innocuous” says the man behind me, a tackle in the GT box has resulted in the referee pointing to the spot and curiously and for no apparent reason, the player brought down to win it, picks himself up and at nearly at full pace runs away from the scene of the crime, back to his own half. Very odd.

“Yes” exclaims the HV manager, “we go again” shouts GT’s, both of them keeping up the battle of the loudest gaffer right to the death.

An injury to a home player holds up halftime and Toms inevitable dash for food. The vigorous massaging looks to have done the job and the downed player is soon back up on his feet. “Bad sportsmanship” tut's Tom, when instead allowing the customary throw back to the keeper after the ball was put out of play, is instead kicked back out for another throw in.

Tom is absolutely chomping at the bit, “is it not half time yet” he wines. Barking his instructions, “hold, hold” the GT keeper makes sure there are no more slip ups, and such is his volume that I can barely hear the half time whistle.

“Our staff will be happy to serve you” says the young man over the PA, with Tom already on his way to put that to the test. It’s quiet as the teams depart, with neither managers having anything to say. As I unfold my 50/50 ticket I’m sure I’ve won, “211, 211” confirms the voice, but on second glance mine says 217, six out, my heart sinks, fuck. Tom thinks it's very funny when I explain just how close I was on his return, seeing it fit to nigh on laugh in my face, but he has his own problems to deal with, so his mocking is short lived.

“This is not going to end well” he prophesizes, the height of his ginormous burger, his huge, double patty burger, that looks close to toppling over that he admits to having been “too scared” to put sauce on.

Like some kind of sick wind up, the PA pipes up again informing us that the “50/50 has not been claimed” maybe this means a redraw, the ticket six away gets the prize instead? “I’ll have it” shouts one local optimistically, but any hope of my first win of the season, that our petrol money might be covered, is soon dashed to the floor, “quick update, it's just been claimed”.

Tom’s quiet, which can only mean he’s enjoying his food. “Sorry I’m dripping juice on you” he tells me, breaking away from his furious chewing. His apology and the constant pinging of his phones notifications as the goals fly in at Anfield is all I can hear, in fact all anyone can hear, until one home player appears buoyant for the new half, “come on Guildford”.

Bemused I think is how you would describe the expression on the face of the GT player, when for no clear reason an HV player next to him crumbled to the floor in search of a free kick. The visitors mind you are not the only ones guilty of a bit of play acting. The blood curdling scream that follows a tackle on a home player, surely means his leg is broken, no both of them, but soon he is back up, like nothing has happened.

The half time oranges have done little to dispel GT’s wobbles at the back, a cross into their box is crudely hacked away and the foul play is increasing too. “Never” screams a home fan when HV are
awarded a free kick on the edge of the box “he fell over him”, however GT have nothing to worry about the set piece is woeful.

“Start playing, start playing” pleads the the GT manager after what has been a pretty uninspired start to the new half. When they are in possession of the ball it inevitably ends up out on the wing. “He can’t catch you” shouts one home fan, when the wide man is off on one of his gallivanting runs, “he’s nowhere near you” they confirm. Only for the defender who looked right off the pace, who is now the new poster boy for perseverance sticks with him, and against all odds recovers well and wins the ball back.

As the clock ticks down the rate of theatrics increases. “Embarrassing” shudders a GT supporter, “get up” shouts another. In an attempt to win another penalty one HV player has just gone over very easily in the GT box, but his efforts go unrewarded.

The halftime break has also done little to defuse the increasing physicality. “Thank you,” says one man sarcastically, when a poor HV tackle ends up with the home side being awarded a free kick in a promising position. “Do not lose the work rate” says the home bench, offering up a few words of encouragement, that ultimately have the opposite effect than intended. This free kick, just like all the others that preceded it, is poor.

GT are growing increasingly sloppy, determined to chuck their lead away, and their manager is losing it. “Don’t let him cross” begs a home fan, but the defender does just that and the HV player sliding in at the back post is only a fraction away from tapping in for the equaliser.

Long time readers will know how fond of shorts I am, how it was only recently I retired mine for the year, so because of this Tom is happy to do a bit of short shaming, when a man comes into view, who is not one of the twenty two players or any of the three officials, sporting the aforementioned no leg garment in November, “putting you to shame”.

A long range HV shot is on target and has to be beaten away by the GT keeper, who has been nowhere near as cavalier with his positioning so far this half. All this pressure on his team, is causing the GT manager to hit new levels of audibility, forcing him to call out Tom’s favourite player, “Cyril concentrate”. What must be even more frustrating for the GT manager is when his team do knuckle down for just a second, they are able to dissect HV with ease. “Clip him” instructs one visiting midfielder after a GT players just skipped past half the team, bearing down on goal he ends up running somewhat down a dead end, the chance to pass has gone and the home fans are livid, getting the most animated they have been all night.

In on goal, one on one, GT have the best chance so far to create themselves a bit of breathing space, but the side footed shot is wide, stirring an “ohhhh” from the crowd, whose half own half time refreshments, has clearly livened them up.

“One, two, three, four” counts the home manager, his over the top delivery, is an attempt to highlight just how many HV fouls have gone unpunished, pointing to each spot of the pitch one of his players have been taken out. One home fan, ensures to make sure the players are not dejected by this rather underhand tactic, “boys keep your heads up, you're still the better side”

What looked like it could have been a nasty one, a challenge on the GT keeper, goes neither punished or results in an injury, the man in goal rolling out of the collision like an old pro. The wind is picking up, and I feel a little exposed on the side of the man made mountain, the temperature is dropping and the game, well, the game is not great.

The closer GT get to securing the three points, the closer they get to chucking it all away. “He’s in acres of space” bemoans a home fan, HV are away down the wing, the player cuts the ball into the box, tees up his team mate, the equalizer looks nailed on, however the shot is wild. “Weyyyyyy” cackles one man, the shot way, way over.

A soft flicked header causes the GT crowd to squirm, but the late effort on goal is right into the hands of the keepers. Tom decides it's time to “get his little mittens out” and the home supporters, no rival to their managers noise of course, have though really come out fighting this second half, “switch on” bellows one. The recurring issue of major lapses in concentration at the back strikes again, HV are in, but can't take the chance, causing one grown man to briefly sound like a toddler, when he screams at one of the offending back four, “you stupid”.

It’s a mistake by HV at the back which presents GT with their next chance, in on goal, the third goal looks only moments away, but for some completely unfathomable reason, the player with the ball squares it, instead of shooting and Tom is dumbfounded, “why?”.

Falling short of stamping his feet and holding his breath, but sounding a lot like my two year old daughter, the boy in the shorts repeats “we've lost it, we've lost it” as HV get closer and closer to the goal, with only the keeper to beat. A block of John Terry esq proportions, flinging his whole body in front of the ball, stops the goal bound shot, the HV players appeal for a hand ball, but nothing is given.

The wind gets stronger and is cutting through me like a knife and the home defence again, do everything they can to throw the three points away, despite the shouts of “urgency, urgency” from one supporter. Some miscommunication at the back ends with the one GT defender and the keeper coming together in an almighty heap, neither of them with the ball, which pops out as if it was a bar of soap in a cartoon, skidding through the box and wide of the goal.

“Clear” shouts a home defender, sounding like the last man alive in the fox hole, when HV send another ball from out wide into the box, and goes close once more. GT are on the ropes, exploiting them on every occasion from wide areas, HV are in the box, only for some last ditch defending forcing the ball wide. The home fans are only able to show their displeasure now by making low guttural noises, “aghhhhhh”.

The resulting corner, despite its best efforts misses everyone, every single HV player in the box is forced to just spectate as it’s whistles by, by the time it's travelled all the way though, its eventually hoofed clear, but the chances keep on coming for HV. “That was close”, gasps a home supporter, the GT keeper at full stretch can one watching as the ball sails past him and the post.

Conspicuous in their absence, the ball boys are nowhere to be seen and when they do pop up, they are far from as energetic as they were in the first half, the time it takes for the ball to get back into play, slowing the last throes of the match to a snail's pace.

Having clearly seen enough, those making their way back up the hill towards the way out, are stopped in their tracks by an almighty to-do, that plays out in one corner of the pitch. “I didn't stamp on him” states the HV player accused by a GT one, of just doing that. Close to all twenty two players are involved at one point, but soon calm returns. Allowing those drifting off early, to continue their climb.

Doing their best to torture their supporters right until the very last whistle, the GT players continue to make things hard for themselves and the home fans patients is wearing thin, “keep. the. ball” orders one, “simple”, and come the final whistle one lets out a very loud and relieved “yessss”.

If you put your hand on your heart, I think you will admit that the idea of watching a football match in an athletics stadium is very, very low down your list of things to do. I admit to being of those people, I'll hold my hand up and admit that a little bit of me cried inside on the realisation that GT played in one, but I can also admit I was pleasantly surprised. The elevated view makes for a very agreeable vantage point. That and the chance of a prize winning programme, and the chance of seeing a goal keeper score, I'd suggest a visit to the Guildford Spectrum Leisure Complex, see it actually rolls right off the tongue, will not be a wasted one.

For all of our photographs from the match, click HERE

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I'd Go Closer, But I'd Need A Snorkel - London Lions FC Vs Enfield Borough FC, Spartan South Midlands Football League Division One, Rowley Lane (16/10/19)

Thank Christ for A Tribe Called Quest, was never a sentence I ever thought I would utter, I say utter, I just roll it around in my head, having tentatively opened the passenger side door of Toms car in anticipation of a deluge of morose music like last time out, but instead I’m greeted by the New York four pieces 1993 hit, Electric Relaxation, what a relief.

Although I don't have long to enjoy their melodic hip hop beats, as tonight's ground is less than ten minutes away from my house, its eight minutes to be precise, I have just about enough time to consider the advice of my other half, “I don't know if its a big jacket day” she said to me as I left and just how thankful I am for ignoring her this time, because the last game we went out I was freezing and tonight's even colder.

Another reason for a coat, is not just the plummeting thermometer, but the very high chance of getting wet, “at least it's not raining” mutters Tom as we step out of the car, the fact it's not is a minor miracle. It's been raining non stop for what feels like days and looking out across the floodlit pitch, the car park within touching distance of it, Tom says pretty much exactly what I was thinking too, “there is not much here, but it's very nice”.

A single all seater blue stand, The Alan Mattey stand, with its many yet to be occupied blue plastic seats runs along one side of the pitch and that and the blue framed curved roofed dugouts really is all there is, Tom was not kidding. A white railing, the kind I always describe as looking right from race course surrounds the playing surface, and like I said, that really is all there is, as Tom puts it, “it feels more like a Premier League training facility than a ground”.

Midweek games can be testing for many non league clubs at the best of times, but according to Velina London Lions FC (LL) 1st team Secretary in her long almost knee length club coat and high red boots, she reckons they would be lucky if they got more than “15 or 17” tonight. She also points out that come kick off, the sections of fencing currently lent up against each other in one corner of the car park will be used to “build the tunnel”.

The clubhouse is more of a “conference suit” than anything else says Tom, a couple of large round tables sit in front of the bar, the rest of the room is empty, the enormous parquet dance floor is yearning for Barry from accounts to start doing his best Travolta impression.

Scouring the bar for things to eat it’s soon apparent that its little more than bar snacks and J20’s available, Tom most likely is going to be going without any kind of dinner tonight. The face on him as he sits down next to me in the seat previously inhabited by either someone at a wedding reception or the speaker at a medical seminar, is not a happy one.


“Dinner: Coke, crisps, Snickers” he explains, plonking them down on the table, he even contemplates nipping off to McDonalds, if it didn't mean he would most likely lose his parking space. He follows all that up with a couple of biscuits pinched from the hospitality table at the far end of the room. Where the hot water urn we grabbed our coffee from, makes a very unfortunate and flatulent noise, whenever anyone uses it.

“It's a nice evening for some football, shame we've had too much rain” says a man on the adjacent table to us, breaking the deathly quiet that shrouds the large room. Tom is head down, food all gone, opening a couple of FIFA 20 packs on his phone, his bad mood emanating from him like a bad smell, only looking up to tell me “they've got free Wi Fi”.

Outside it’s still dry and thank God for that, because the pitch sounds so soggy underfoot of those brave enough to venture out across it without armbands, but it’s getting colder. “Bit nippy” grumbles Tom, trying his best to pretend it’s not his snood he’s just pulled from his rucksack, telling me like I was born yesterday it’s a “hand warmer” and not the much maligned go to for the latest South American import playing in Yorkshire in December for the first time, but that he’s trying to bring back every Victorian ladies staple, the muff.

A man starts to build the tunnel and some very swanky cars jostle for position in the now rammed car park. The click clack of studs on concrete sees the players swerve around the makeshift construction, as they make their way to warm up. “Whats this?” squeals an Enfield Borough FC (EB) player, bending down to touch the sodden pitch, “oh my, Lord” he says on the realisation of just how saturated it is. Tom in a mild state of shock, astonished that anyone is allowed to warm up on it in the first place, the potential for absolute carnage, very high.

Over the constant buzz of the nearby motorway, one EB supporter comments to one coach about the long line of “unfamiliar faces coming out of the changing room”. The coach in hushed tones then reels off a long list of “missing first team regulars”. Those readying themselves to pull on the clubs shirt tonight are a “young squad” many of whom are no older than “seventeen, eighteen” or “nineteen”.

With the DIY complete, the referee stands at the head of the long temporary tunnel, that highlights one benefit of it’s bespoke design, it's probably about wide enough to drive my car down, and there is tons of space for both sets of players, no shoulder rubbing here, plenty of room to swing a cat or even a couple of cats.

It is a rather muted entrance as the players walk out, there are a few enthusiastic shouts from the home players “come on Lions” but there is little noise from the crowd, most of whom are in the stand, that after doing a quick head count, might just exceed Velina prediction.

Standing just to the side of the emerging players, a small group of men with the air of committee members about them, are having a right old grumble about the pitch, the pitch which is showing some rather significant signs of the recent work of a ride along mower. Three or four great scars cut into the turf. “I’m worried about over there,” says one, pointing off into the distance.

I can't be certain if all the vigorous hand clapping by the players is a technique to gee each other on, accompanied by the odd hearty shout or its just a way to keep their hands warm. There is one other EB fan in attendance, he gives himself away by giving up his own shout with kick off imminent, “come on borough”.

In front of us the referee's assistant runs the line, I say the line, because as Tom points out he is about “a foot” off it. To actually run the line, would mean stepping foot on the worst affected part of the pitch. “This side is bad” cringes Tom, on the few occasions the lino does get close to the white line, the squelching sound is akin to that of a person punching a bucket of jelly. Overhearing us discussing his predicament, the man with the flag engages in some top level, non league official bants, “I'd go closer, but I'd need a snorkel”.

With just over five minutes gone the home side are first to hit the target, a rising powerful shot is pushed wide of the post, the home side in a kit Tom is a bit keen on “I like it” he tells me, the unusual design a nice break from the standard Nike template with the name of a local accountants on the front.

The visitors weather the early home pressure well, and the young team slowly but surely start to get their foot on the ball and when they do, they move it around well. So much so, their ability to shimmy past the LL players is starting to affect one or two of them to “this is shit, get tighter.''

Tuned into these kind of things, I must admit it completely passed me by, but Tom informs me of the slew of people who just prior to kick off “sneaked in” via an open gate by the overflow car park, one
person who came in the official way, wished he had just stayed put, “£5 to get in, I could have watched from the car”.

“He's got the right idea,” says Tom pointing to one man, who has just walked the full length of the pitch to get some crisps and a drink and is making his way back to his motor. “Perfect view” as well as a “bit of music and the heaters on” in Tom’s eyes is a no brainer and if he could get away with it, he would be off doing the same thing, but not on my watch.

“Where are we?” screams for what will not be the first time tonight, the LL manager. EB are starting to run riot, the pendulum has fully swung their way now and the home players are rattled, “tighter” shouts one. The captain is emphatic to say the least, waving his arms at his teammates demanding more from them.

A late away tackle doesn’t stop the flowing home attack, the referee allows play to continue, the move coming to an end with a dinked cross, that almost looks like it’s floating, the flight of which almost catches out the EB keeper and instead of praising the man in charge for allowing the match to carry on, Tom calls the referee “fat” and complements him on his dry cleaning, “I like his white collar”.

“There it is” says a home fan, in a moment of clairvoyancy but the shot from the LL player is inches wide of the post, but minutes later they take the lead, much to the displeasure of the lone EB fan, who is prone to the odd outburst, “fucking hell man” as are a a couple of the players watching on as the LL ones celebrate, “too easy”, the ball looking to go right through the keepers midriff.

Despite taking the lead, the home manager is not exactly impressed, “not good enough, by a long way” he hollers. His voice already starting to show the strain and we’re only about twenty minutes in.

It’s around now and not for the first time since going to non league football, I see a sight that I imagine you might be hard pushed to see in your whole life, let alone twice in only four years, a dog in a pram, a dog in a bright pink pram, that by the looks of it is nicer than my own daughters.

“It’s not a baby” clarifies Tom, like for a second I thought it was just a very hairy infant. Peering out of its luxurious carriage, its owner sitting in the front row of the stand like it's totally normal to take a canine in a buggy to a football match.

The home goal has somewhat left EB, following their promising spell, looking a little bit shell-shocked and the home side are now officially bossing it. The linesman has officially given up actually trying to run the line, having stood still for about thirty seconds for a stoppage in play, he has almost sunk down to his ankles, but neither of us can take our eyes off the dog. “It's just sitting there,” says Tom, “licking its lips”.

I must admit the presence of you know who, is a tad distracting. I’m trying to work out why the need for its own personal transport. Tom suggests it might be “too old to walk” or “its got no legs”. Legs or no legs it looks very happy, it's probably better wrapped up than me, its little head poking out from among all its blankets. I do though have to take umbrage with Toms suggestion that it is “cute” it's the opposite of “cute”.

One of the many things that non league football has over its relatives higher up the pyramid, is the chance of the officials giving a little bit back to the crowd, in response to getting it in the neck about something or another, and the half swimming half, officiating one before us, is just that sort, and I have to admire him for it.

Assured, confident and with great feat the home captain is showing all the qualities that you would want from the person leading your team. Playing the ball out from the back, he has been the architect of LL’s resurgence since going ahead. They go close again following a corner, but the effort on goal is caught on the line and within the blink of an eye, EB show off just what they are capable of. Racking up the other end, it's a foot race with only one winner, bearing down on the home goal is the EB forward, but the keeper is there just in time to gather in the ball, curling up and clutching it to his chest.

The pitch is holding up surprisingly well and it's an uncharacteristic error from the home captain, charging out from defence and missing the ball completely, that sees EB in again. A drop of the shoulder and the EB front man is in again, but he shoots straight at the keeper.

Chances are coming at both ends. A curling LL shot from the edge of the box gets a “oohhhhh” from the crowd, and it needs two attempts by the EB keeper to gather it, who is starting to look a like shaky and the first booking of the match is for a EB player and not long after the home players are calling for another. “How many ref?” asks one, after a particularly agricultural EB tackle goes unpunished.

Despite the away side seemingly unable at times to make a two yard pass when it counts and the home side wasting a Pep Guardiola amount of possession, the game has been far from dull. A home shot that’s high and wide bounces off a car in the car park and the away bench is full of praise for the player who just made the slide rule pass inside the LL right back, cutting him out of proceedings with ease, “that’s the ball I want”. The shot at the end of the move is low and from a tight angle, but again it’s right at the keeper.

The simple awarding of a corner, would not normally be worth a mention, however detailed I like to be, however this particular one awarded to EB might be worth bringing up not for the set piece itself, but because for some reason the EB player assigned to take it, decided the corner flag was getting in his way, so he plucked it from the ground and chucked it. Not impressed in the slightest with his unsporting behaviour, the referee blows up and makes the offending player recover it and put it back before we can continue. The EB player looking a little sheepish as he does so.

Reaching ever new heights of displeasure, the LL manager is scathing about this players efforts, “you're going deeper and deeper, that's not good enough, that's lazy” he shouts. This criticism nearly has the desired effect, because they almost score a cracking goal. LL’s number 7, who has a touch of the Griezmans about him, hooks the ball out the air with his right foot, wriggles away from his maker and the crowd are celebrating his impending goal, before it's even gone in, but awkwardly for them, his shot is a fraction off target.

The phrase ‘if that was Barcelona’ comes to mind on the stroke of half time, when a one touch master class by the home team sees them threaten again, however where Messi and the gangs attack would end in a goal, queue the big inflatable pitchside men at the Camp Nou, this one ends with one LL player hoofing the ball right up a teammates arse.

EB finish the half with the last effort of what has been an action packed forty five minutes. In on goal one person in the crowd is not exactly confident, “bet you he misses” which he does. The visitors are more than competent, they have the skill set and are prone to the odd nutmeg or two, but their lack of cohesion across the team is killing them.

With the teams gone, the dog well and truly becomes the centre of attention for those unlike Tom who haven't gone in search of tea. By the size of the crowd that has gathered around the pooch, they could have charged a fiver for people to come and see it with no problem and when Tom returns with tea, the brown sweet liquid in the polystyrene cup is life giving and much needed.

There are new shouts of “come on Lions” from fans and players alike as they appear for the second half, but not one cry of the visitors nickname, The Panthers. If I followed a team named after a big cat, I’d be shouting it at every possible opportunity.

The break and whatever words of wisdom the EB manager had for his team have worked a treat, and it’s a very strong start for them, racking up three half chances early doors, one as Tom puts it “their best of the match”. The mini EB onslaught has one LL player to a point of imploring, “come on guys, what are we doing, do your jobs”. The home side having looked at one point like they were going to roll EB over, have come out half asleep, the bench is incensed for them giving away “too many fouls” and as one player puts it “we’ve gotta start playing”.

What a glorious sound, what a hit from long range that more than deserved a goal, however the LL player responsible for the shot from well outside the area can only look on as we do as his effort comes back off the crossbar, the sound it made as it did so still ringing out as the ball spins back into
play. Winning back possession outside, LL go close gain with a flashed shot wide.

It’s a pass of sublime accuracy that does all the hard work, and makes the actual scoring of LL’s second a formality. “Goal” says the man standing next to me, before playing on the other of the pass from midfield down the right hand channel of the EB box, has rounded the keeper and slotted it home.

The applause from the stand is as much if not more for the player who supplied the ball than the scorer himself. “Great football” says an appreciative voice from behind us. LL have notably stepped it up a gear in the last five minutes, the goal a culmination of three or four chances in short succession. They are stroking the ball about with ease.

Some have paid to get in tonight, some have sneaked in and one man has climbed a rather steep hill to stare through a fence. Whatever way they have ended up watching, they can't ignore the furore the LL manager is getting himself into, high standards doesn't quite go far enough to describe his demands, “keep the ball, keep the ball” he screams, his team absolutely cruising.

When EB have a rare half chance of their own, they are flirting with possession at best, sending the ball across the edge of the LL six yard box, it sends the home manager into near meltdown, “you must do better. KEEP. THE. BALLLL”.

Football is better at changing one's mood, more than any drug. “Benji. Welcome back son” purrs the home manager, “Benji” who I’m not sure where he has been, has just scored LL’s third, making his gaffa sound like he’s just taken a very strong dose of a high grade upper, the EB players are reduced to signifying their discontent by simply letting out a long succession of pained groans.

A shout for a home penalty is waved away, but three goals to the good, they don't seem all that fussed its declined, as Tom points out with the EB defence in such disarray, “I've never seen a back four or three, I’m not sure, look less comfortable on the ball. None of them want it
None of them are talking” a fourth goal for them seems like only a matter of time.

“Well played Lions” gushes a member of the crowd, that fourth goal with us sooner than I thought, a fumble from the EB keeper, pushed the ball to the waiting LL scorer, who even though he was falling over as he does, he is able to poke the ball into the empty net. “That's it” says Tom turning towards me, following the muted celebrations from the home players. The away players are probably louder in their remonstrating with each other, “fucking shit”.

Into the final quarter and Tom suggests LL have, how do you put it, taken their foot off the gas, “it's like they went up a gear and now they've gone down one, happy to just pass it around”.  The EB keeper is forced to vault the barrier in search of the ball, slipping over, his return to the pitch much more straightforward if not a little embarrassing. NAME on hand to open a nearby gate to allow him back on.

“Keep it going to the end lads” motivates the LL keeper and so far his teammates look to be doing every bit of that. “Show off” chuckles Tom, the home side demonstrating a few of their tricks and flicks, totally in charge, they can afford too.

Having eased off, it does allow EB the odd probe forward, one run into the box ends with a poor shot and the home player responsible for the lapse in concentration raises his arm in apology, which does not go down well with the bench, “I don't want your fucking hand”.

Although the EB ball into the box comes to nothing, the home manager is still livid, his voice almost gone, his latest shouts reduced to screeches, “I don't want everyone saying sorry, get it right, get it right”. Tom almost whispering, frightened of getting scolded himself if he hears makes the understatement of the year, “he’s angry”.

When EB score a goal that is little more than a consolation, his anger hits a new peak, ripping into his team, “you think you're all too good”. The players do their best to rally each other, “keep your composure” says one, “we want the three points” says another, sounding like they know full well they are in for a deluge of shit if they somehow conspire to balls this up.

A “cracking save” as one of the crowd puts it by the hand of the home keeper pushing the ball onto the post stops EB’s second going in. “We’ve got to keep the ball” barks the LL manager, “tighten up” instructs one player as the home side suffer what is quite a sizable wobble, putting their comfortable lead in jeopardy. “Get them to liven up” says a concerned fan of one of the players. EB go close again, the keeper forced into another excellent save, this time the visitors are offside, but LL’s drop off in performance, must be causing their manager to have kittens.

"Oh my God" says the EB keeper, prone on his back, for the second time tonight what was a tame shot has completely evaded him. If there was even the slightest suggestion of a comeback, that's been well and truly put to bed with LL's fifth.

A four goal advantage and only minutes left to play, one might think the LL manager might just relax a
bit, the jobs done, the points secured, but not on your nelly, he's still going apoplectic at the smallest of errors. "Want the ball, want the ball" his new deranged mantra. The sight of his team almost bagging a sixth, a curling shot from wide, brings no respite at all. It's only a late tackle on one of his players right in front of the bench, that sees him direct his vitriol at the referee for a brief second and away from his players, "fucking deal with that".

EB very nearly get a second of their own, but a last minute interception saves not only the goal, but everyone in a ten mile radius's eardrums and the crowd have seen enough, they are suitably entertained, but its time to go, "blow the whistle it's cold".

You're not going to come to Rowley Lane for the chance of a hulking great beef burger, the rickety old stand or the years and years of history and non league charm. You're going to come for the chance of seeing a good team play good football, a manager putting himself through the ringer and of course because you might see a dog in a pram.

You'll go to Rowley Lane for the chance to hear your mate say, “it's got a pink jumper that matches it’s pram”, it will be worth it just to hear that alone, I promise you.

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