Who Gives A F**k, I Own This Club - FC United of Manchester Vs Worcester City FC, National League North, Broadhurst Park (02/10/15)

It’s a worry when you get on a bus, and the driver doesn't know where it goes. Having faith in my research, and that I was at the correct bus stop just off Manchester’s Piccadilly Gardens, I hopped back on, but even after showing him the map, of where I wanted to get off, he was still unsure. Only thanks to a couple who overheard where I wanted to go, and after much debate and convincing of the driver, that he does in fact go there, did we finally take a seat on the top deck.

I’m one man down today, so it’s more accurate to say it’s “One Man And His Fiancee In Search Of The Beautiful Game”, having managed to shoehorn a game into a visit to the the North West to see the soon to be in-laws, as my fiancee is a native of these parts.

Today Manchester has been blessed with what is the main topic of conversation, with every person we have happend to talk to since arriving, a sunny day. It’s also a Friday night, not a day you would typically watch football in England, until recently that is, and having only done it once before when we visited Berlin, and what a night that was it meant that a Friday night under the flood lights had a lot to live up to.

Unless you are a follower of Manchester Untd or you are up on your football history, the area of Newton Heath may not mean much to you, but as we pass through it on the bus, it seems pertinent, considering tonight's final destination. It reminds me of the yellow and green scarves that were so prevalent at Old Trafford in the early days of the Glazers takeover, a sign of protest from United fans appalled by the actions of their new owners, flying the colours of the Newton Heath LYR FC, a club formed at a local railway yard in 1878, by the Carriage and Wagon department of the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway, that would eventually go on to become the world famous Red Devils.

No talking buses round here, no robotic female voice informing you of the next stop, and not having a lot of faith is this ship’s captain, it was thanks to the same passenger who got us on the bus, who told us we had arrived, Broadhurst Park home of FC United of Manchester (FCUM).

As seems very much the way round here, we get chatting to the couple of FCUM fans, and I get the feeling their story is one replicated a lot at FCUM, one of split loyalties, but ultimately siding with the club that will give them a voice, be affordable and not be totally engulfed in all the trappings of modern football.

They have been coming since day one in 2005, in fact he had missed that game, but she was clearly very proud to have attended. Now ex season ticket holders at United, they had kept them on for the first season of FCUM formation, but have now stopped going. I ask if they prefer to come here, he is quick to say “yes” her reply is stifled with a little hesitation, but she ultimately agrees. She says they “occasionally go to Old Trafford, but the atmosphere” she gestures to the stand closest to the road, just behind us “is stunning”, so not only does she make our mind up for where we are standing this evening, but also confirms what I have heard, read and seen.

There is already a considerable amount of people here as we arrive, either ordering from the burger van, sitting around or like a couple of kids are, kicking a ball around on one of two greens in front of the main entrance. We are so punctual, that the turnstiles are not open yet, and a queue of people has informally formed.

“Two pound your match day programme” says a cheery women, holding one high above her head, on the wooden Nucky Thompson absent walkway, leading between the two greens outside the ground.

Although admittedly not a huge fan of new build grounds, I think I’m with the majority who would prefer a history filled, ageing ground, over a flat pack Ikea one, but Broadhurst Park is a bit more stylish, a bit more modernistic, the combination of wood, metal and brick, all red and black, is almost chic, in fact it does not look like a football stadium at all.

The opportunity to win a fudge hamper or £200 is too hard to resist as one of the raffle prizes, so another roll of the dice, and the chance to win big, and as with all of these things, it’s all for a good cause “the money goes towards the ground development fund”.

A clunk from behind the red turnstile door, grabs the attention of the informal queue comprised of kids and families, which very quickly becomes a formal one, waiting for the door to open. I stand studying the ground regulations on the wall, which whilst I was taking a picture earlier someone had asked me if it was an “eviction notice”.

Once inside it’s very easy to be blown away by the compact, but perfectly sized ground. The fact one of my favourite bands are playing Queens Of The Stone Age, and the large ever ascending covered terrace behind one goal, the "The St. Mary's Road End" recommended by our bus saviour, with its red railings brightly lit, is currently empty, will undoubtedly be where we stand tonight, but before we pick our spot, there is a lot to take in beforehand.

A tarpaulin covered market stall, you would normally see outside, is pitch side, with clothes rails of shirts, as well as hats and scarves, and pins. If you have a sweet tooth, there is a stall selling enough sweets, all lined up in white boxes side by side, to satisfy Augustus Gloop, where you can pick up a bottle of “pop” or an FCUM lolly.

Although tempted, very tempted indeed to get Tom a shirt, the red with white collar, and no sponsor, is very cool indeed, a nod I’m sure to the other team which fills so many hearts of the people and fans of FCUM, a retro design that looks very 21st century. Instead I plumb for a pin to add to his ever growing collection from the clubs we have visited so far.

Walking past the "The St. Mary's Road End" you can not help but want to go and investigate the flags and banners of various sizes, suspended from the stand, that runs the whole length of the pitch. “FC UNITED SONGS OF FREEDOM” and “TRAFFORDABLE FOOTBALL”, are just a couple, but the one that sums up FCUM up perfectly is the one that reads "2 UNITED'S 1 SOUL". There are no seats, but just a gallery if you like for all the supporters groups, from all around the world, France, Poland and China, to display their allegiance. An opportunity for all those people who have invested their emotion, time and money into this idea, this ethos which seems to have captured so many imagination's, just like a medieval army, the Vanguard flying its colours before battle. Behind the other goal, the “away end” is a huge scarf that almost runs the full width of the pitch.

“Dad can we stand behind the goals?”.

The main stand, mostly all seating, with a couple of small standing sections at the front is almost full, by the time we have done a lap of the ground. One thing that caught my eye was the man offering historical walking tours on Saturday's, before a match. Taking in all the local sights and points of interest in the area relevant to the history of both United and FCUM. Staring in Newton Heath, and ending up at the ground well in time for kick off.

Allowing a man with a walking stick, decorated in the clubs colours to pass, we climb the terrace and take up our spot for the night, and as we hang our flag from the railings someone asks us “have you found it yet?”.

There is a steady stream of people making their way in, and as the attendance grows, so does the atmosphere, fewer and fewer places to stand are available. People selling more raffle tickets, climb up and down the stand, weaving in and out, taking a pound here, a pound there, from all the lovers of fudge here this evening.

“Bring on United, bring on United, bring on United” starts just to the right of us, and engulfs the crowd. It keeps going, getting more intense until a swarm of luminous green hoody wearing ball boys fly out of the tunnel, followed by the the teams, FCUM and Worcester City FC (WC) breaking the hypnotic chant with shouts of “come on” and “FC, United. FC United” as the supporters call and respond amongst themselves.

As the flag with a bee waves back and forth in front with the slogan “buzzin” below it, a kid drops his chips and looks mortified, more and more songs flood from the terrace

“I am an FC fan, I am a Mancunian”

“We go wild, wild, wild, FC make some noise”

It mostly starts from a core in the middle directly behind the goal, and on hearing the first rendition of “Dirty Old Town”, something which has become a personal obsession of mine it sends the hairs up on the back of my neck.

“I met my love by the gas works wall.

Dreamed my dream by the old canal,
I kissed my girl by the factory wall
dirty old town, dirty old town.

This is our club belongs to you and me
we're United, United FC”

While this has all been going on, a football match broke out, and I realise quite how long I have been watching and listening to the crowd, and things going on around me, like the smell of chips and gravy or the frankly pornographic way the slightly drunk man in front of us devours and digests one of the gourmet hot dogs on offer.

FCUM really look great running around under the flood lights, a combination of their vintage look, standing on a terrace, the signing, the sound of a wooden rattle, it’s like a football DeLorean, a time warp to a rose tinted time of pure nostalgia. A time I’m too young to have experienced directly, but one you can read about, watch films on YouTube about, but this was real, this was happening right here, right now.

“You soft bastard, you soft bastard, you soft bastard” is the opinion of the crowd in regards to the WC player who goes down injured, rolls off the pitch, and then rolls back on, forcing the referee to halt the play.

Its packed!

The game, yes I have not completely forgotten about it, has been a bit stop start, with no clear chances for either side, with FCUM slightly shading it, so with 25 mins gone, WC go 1 - 0 up, you might say it's against the run of play. It’s a nice goal, a high ball controlled well, a touch to take it away from his marker in red, and a clinical low curling shot, well out of reach of the keeper.

For the first time in about an hour the chants are slightly muted except for the youths behind me “You blue cunts!”, but this is quickly remedied “FC United, FC United, FC United, FC United”.

Since the goal WC have taken control, and their rapid number 7 is causing all sorts of problems. When FCUM do break out of their half, they pass the ball well around the box, but the killer ball is just not there for them.

WC have everyone laughing when a free kick routine ends up with each player leaving the ball for the other, and they both run away from the ball, one has a bit of a strop and an FCUM fan near us quite rightly asks “what the fuck was that?!?”.

Once again the WC number 7 is creating all the danger, a quick counter attack finds him running along the goal line, after cutting inside from out wide, passing into the area, only for the resulting shot to be cleared off the line.

FCUM are handed a lifeline, after the goal scorer Lee Hughes, who is probably more famous for spending 3 years in prison, than playing football is given a straight red, after raising his hands, and what looks like putting them around the neck of his appointment. An innocuous coming together, seems to rub him up the wrong way, and he leaves the pitch to a chorus of “cheerio, cheerio, cheerio” and the half finishes with FCUM a goal behind, but a man ahead.

Half time went like this: Players off, sprinklers on, subs warm up dodging the water. No £50, no £200 and NO FUDGE! Gambling is cruel, I have to take deep breaths and remember it all goes to a good cause, breathe, it all goes to a good cause.

“United, United, United, United” the noise of the wooden rattle starts again as the teams come out for the second half, FCUM have 45 mins against 10 men, “United, United, United, United”.

The home side as you would expect with the numerical advantage come out the stronger side, and it’s not long into the half that they have an attempt cleared off the line, but the same affliction of the first half is hampering them in the second, as they continue to get into good positions, but with little or no final product.

“Manchester, la, la, la, la, la”

WC are happy to sit back, and are doing a good job in nullifying the FCUM attacks, they are proving very hard to break down. The fan next to us sums up the half so far perfectly “we’ve got 11 men, but can’t get hold of the game!”

Perhaps the biggest cheer of the game is for the booking for the WC keeper, the same keeper who every time he kicks the ball the whole terrace shout “ohhhhhhhhhhhh, you soft bastard, ahhhhhhhhhh” after he went down after a very tame nudge from an FCUM player. The referee has had enough of his blatant attempts to run down the clock, and so have the fans “you time wasting bastard”.

A chant to the tune of ‘Peaches’ by the Stranglers, accompanies FCUM’s best chance of the half so, with 10 minutes to go, a great turn and long range shot, is just tipped over the bar, and the two resulting corners come to nothing.

“Get the ball in their fucking half”

“How?!” I scream with minutes left of the half when FCUM are offered a golden chance to salvage something, from what could be a bit of an embarrassing result, considering how long they have had the man advantage. A superb flick, sends the ball out wide, a cross into the box is dummied at the front post, leaving a player practically under the bar to grab the equalizer, but he misses, he puts it over. In the words of Rachel, my fiancee “that sums up their night”.

The request of the FCUM fans for the team to “attack, attack, attack” ends up biting the team in the arse, because as the whole team floods forward, they are vulnerable to the counter attack, and WC’s pace sends them flying up the left and a great finish across the keeper into the opposite corner. For the first time this evening I’m aware of the travelling support, jumping up and down beneath the mega scarf, and the team race to the barrier to celebrate with them. Not long after the restart, the announcement of the attendance 3,619, gets a massive round of applause, and is just shy of the 4,000 the couple we met outside had hoped would be here.

The final whistle brings a reasonably quick exodus, but not before the team, gracious in defeat approach the fans and applaud them on mass, not in dribs and drabs as the rest slink off, but as a team they thank the fans. It’s something we are seeing more and more, the first time was in Germany, and I think it highlights wonderfully the connection between players and supporters “we love United we do”.

A fan in a pragmatic mood walks past us on the way out and I think expresses the overall emotion perfectly “who gives a fuck, I own this club”.

“Booo get off the pitch, hang them” is the tongue in cheek opinion of a woman standing behind us as a couple of kids jump the barrier, and start a mini pitch invasion. The remainder of the fans still here, as we take down our flag, walk along with a bin bag in hand cleaning up, just like the anti fascist wombles we had seen at Clapton, these must be their left wing Northern cousins.

On our way to the bus stop, it’s now dark and chilly, and we find 3 Portuguese tourists who have been somewhat caught out, as we are about to be, by the infrequency of the evening buses, and we potentially have a 1 hour wait until the next one. They disappear into the night in search of transport, we walk back the way we came, in search of a drink at the fingers crossed still open bar in the ground.

Through the white double doors, and directed up the stairs by a man on the front desk, past a display of all the clubs silverware, and into a still busy bar, full of fans from each team, standing around in small groups.

£5.20 for two pints, not one, two! I’m not going into some rant about the North South divide, but this is fucking mental, and the look on my face, brings a slight grin from the bar man. All the tables in the bar are full, so we take a chance, and lucky for us some of the doors leading outside, are open, and on our way out I overhear one fan who hits the nail on the head “we never looked like winning that”. We join some of the press in the process of the packing up, and take a seat in the area reserved for “accredited press and media representatives”.

I’m not sure I have ever had a nicer spot for a post match pint, the Irish Centre after a game at Spurs will never feel the same again. From on top of the main stand, the ground in almost complete silence, we sit with perhaps the best view of the pitch you could want. The main flood lights are off, but each stand is still lit, the flags look fantastic, and the terrace we had watched the game from is very imposing.

The last bus has been and gone, as one pint turns into three and four, and we are the last people to leave the bar. Broadhurst Park is a very different place now than when we first arrived, a few hours earlier, a much quieter place, a much less vibrant place. This evening has left me scratching my head a little, perhaps only something a visitor would not understand: I just didn’t get the anti City, Chelsea and Leeds songs. Now anything this young is going to have a identity crisis, and I’m sure that will resolve itself in time. Old grudges die hard, and with so many fans coming over from United, it’s inevitable, but I just don’t understand what it has to do with FCUM. Is it just a new version of the old, but without all the fluff and hangers on that is plaguing so many big clubs, or is it a whole new enterprise built around a core value of the fan led football, or is it both, or maybe it’s neither.

We had a fantastic time, with out a doubt on par with one of the best atmospheres at any game I have been to, non-league or not, and the music kicked ass to boot. It ticked every box, and we would be back in a heartbeat. I have never been sure if I like punk music, but it’s becoming more and more apparent that I love punk football!

For all of our photographs from the match, click HERE

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Too Hot For Scarves - Hanwell Town FC Vs Mildenhall Town FC, FA Cup 2nd Qualifying Round, Reynolds Field (26/09/15)

Considering that I’m not a huge fan of East Sussex based “rock” band Keane, hearing one of their songs being played was not the best of welcomes as we walked up the gravel driveway to today's club, passing through a gate with the club name on it “Hanwell” on one side and “Town FC” on the other.

The turnstile is not yet open, and as we get closer a man in a white shirt bounds down some stairs and welcomes us, it’s Clive the club secretary, who has been kind enough to allow us to come along today.

Reynolds Field the home of Hanwell Town FC (HT) is perfectly pleasant, just what you would expect of the Evo-Stik League South side, except for one striking feature, the big white house over looking the pitch. Imagine a grand house like something from ‘Gone with the Wind’, from some plantation in the Deep South, but plonked next to a football pitch in Middlesex. Home of HT since 1981, it was previously a local schools changing room and sports field, a bit different from the grotty old changing room at my old school.

We join Clive, and other people with their clubs ties on the veranda.

“Normally everyone is here by now, but not today” Clive gestures at his watch. “The pitch has just been marked out” Clive tells us, who at this point seems like a nervous ball of energy, he obviously has a lot on his plate today, and I’m sure the fact that Brian, who runs the turnstile is late is not helping.

There is a busy road along one end of the ground, behind one of the goals, and everyone is eagle eyed on the lookout. The opposition, Mildenhall Town FC (MT) are due any minute, and like a meerkat on sentry duty, once the shout goes up, the onlookers scatter “the coach is here”.

The MT coach squeezes in reverse up the drive, and the players disembark, and I must admit they look very professional, all in matching tracksuits, some with large headphone cans, cooly walking into the the ground, up the stairs and into the changing room, it requires a double check, having to remind myself this is a FA Cup 2nd Qualifying Round game, and not some top flight team who has just arrived.

My attention is somewhat distracted from the events around me, as on the TV in the clubhouse I can hear the commentary of Spurs Vs Man City, and I have to pinch myself, when Tom tells me we have gone 2 - 1 up, and my first assumption is that he is winding me up.

It’s been a long trip from Suffolk this morning for MT, but today's surroundings may be vaguely familiar, as in the last round, they played a club about a mile up the road. The players are quick to dump their kit, and make their way onto the pitch, to wander about a bit, some stand in groups talking and every so often test the ground beneath them, looking happy at today's conditions.

Since the dam has been breached, there is now a constant stream of men in suits and blazer, and members of the home team, with bags slung over their shoulders, looking smart but perhaps not quite as dazzling as the away team from a step above.

Through the main lobby of the big white house, past a large mirror with the club crest on, we are very lucky to to be shown around the boardroom by the club Chairman, Bob “Mr Hanwell” if you like, who has been involved with HT since he was 16 years old, has 750 appearances under his belt, and is this year celebrating 60 years at the club. He very modestly points out a few of the many pictures covering every spare inch of space, with him in, alongside signed shirts, and all sorts of club memorabilia. The tea urn is bulging on a small wooden table, crammed with very snazzy club mugs, waiting for the big wigs to have a cuppa.

Bob is probably the best person to ask about what the FA Cup means at HT, and he does not mix his words, “it’s an enormous game for us today”, he remembers fondly what a big day it was the first time they played in the competition, back in the 1988-89 season, he seems quite a shy chap, but his face lights up when he starts talking about the club's history. He never played in the Cup himself, but is very proud of what the team has become “from a parkside to where we are today”, he beams in his own reserved way.

“Ring me if no-one is here” says the sign on the dinnerladies bell at the bar. Thankfully today I’m not required to do a town crier impression, as the attentive lady behind the counter, is quick to serve us, and we take our drinks outside, it's been lovely, bright and warm all day, Tom ruing the fact he brought a jacket, and we sit on a bench on the verandah, the quiet chatter between people is occasionally broken, when someone shouts the Spurs score.

“Anyone want a 50/50 ticket?” bellows a man clutching a green jug, and like a couple of addicts, gluttons for punishment, we hand over a couple of quid, and cross our fingers for a windfall.

The much more agreeable “Whisky in the Jar” is now playing over the sound system, accompanying the constant ticking of the turnstile, when Tom informs me about the arrival of fantasy royalty, “Gandalf has just walked in”, however instead of clutching a wooden staff, it's a cloth ‘bag for life’, but minus his hat, he has the most marvelous long white beard and hair, putting both our facial hair to shame.

We get talking to the Father-in-Law of the HT Manager who emphasises how crucial the competition is financially to the club “it’s so important the money, someone told me it’s £4,500 this round”.

HT come out first to warm up, we chat with Clive from our vantage point in the Big House, we discuss quite how ginormous, in height that is, not width their keeper is, all the while he nervously clicks his pen. “One of the coaches says when he has his gloves on he looks deformed”.

There are a few late comers from MH as they walk at a quick pace to the changing rooms, and not long after the click of studs on concrete and the bouncing of balls, announces that the opposition are on their way out.

Once again my attention is diverted as Tom tells me Spurs have gone 4 - 1 ahead against Man City, and I had to verify this myself, surely he is definitely pulling my leg this time.

There is a good atmosphere steadily growing, with a continuous stream of new arrivals, including another amazing beard, and one cool customer in a suit, shades and a black and white striped scarf around his neck, he looks right out of an M&S catalogue. Only the occasional drone of a low plane overhead, making its way to Heathrow can interrupt.

We are not the only people in search of the romance and history of The FA Cup, we meet the guys from @AcrossParkBlog, two Uni friends, who are attempting to to watch every round from “Wembley 2 Wembley”. They started at Hillingdon Borough FC Vs Wembley FC and have followed the winning team since, thinking it would also give them the chance to explore different parts of the country, they seem to have only seen the London Borough Of Ealing, but at least with the last round they got a trip to Suffolk.

“The away fans have arrived” announces Tom, as another coach squeezes up the drive, and the noisy away supporters are quick to announce their arrival “Mildenhall, Mildenhall, Mildenhall” as they make there way through Dave’s strained turnstile.

Tom & Martyn from @AcrossParkBlog seem to have made quite the impression on one fan of MT, as not long after arriving she is quick to thrust a cupcake, with icing in the shape and colour of the MT shirt on top, upon them and by association we get one shoved our way as well. Trying to be polite, and in no way a comment on what looks like a tasty Bake Off signature bake, I kindly refuse, but it just stays in front of me, at the end of an outstretched hand until I accept it, she was not taking ‘no’ for an answer.

The arrival of the traveling fans has ramped up the atmosphere, they are making plenty of noise “come on the Hall”, and when the teams emerge from the changing rooms, and funnel down a green garden fenced lined “tunnel” the noise continues to rise.

Manning the gate on to the pitch, is another chap in a club tie, and as both teams walk out, he shakes the hand of every player, and wishes them luck. A giant of a man in a blue jacket, taps the end of the microphone, makes sure its on and welcomes the teams.

The MT fans have not stopped since the minute they arrived, and @AcrossParkBlog had mentioned what a well organised bunch they were. They said within minutes of winning in the last round, a note was up their clubhouse, advertising the coach for the next. They quickly take up position behind the home goal, with an air horn, and their yellow scarves hanging on the fence around the pitch, it's too hot for scarves.

A clash of heads moments into the game, results in a lengthy stoppage, and only thanks to the power of Toms zoom, could we see that one of the MT players has his wound stitched on the pitch. A round of applause went round when he got to his feet and walked off, and an even bigger one rang out, when he changed his shirt, with a big bandage around his head, and makes it back on the pitch.

Other than that the first 45 was lacking in any real talking point, in fact I’m not sure there was a shot on goal, but there was certainly a few boxes to tick in your “I-Spy Football” book, so pens at the ready, here we go.

• Goalkeeper in a cap
• Physio giving a player a rub down on the side of the pitch
• One player looking like a professional. In this case the MT keeper looking like Fabianski
• One player shouting “fuck” at himself, every time he did something wrong, and looking like he might explode, just like the HT number 7
• Away fans trying to distract the the home keeper with the timing of their air horn, every time he takes a kick.
• One player with an exotic name. HT player called “Diego”

“We’re red, we’re white, we're fucking dynamite” sing the MT fans, but how far from the truth they are, neither team has even resembled a sparkler let alone TNT. You know it’s been a bit of a dire half, when you end up hypnotized by the action of the linesman running sideways, clicking his heels together as he goes, and Tom and I discussing my love of goalkeepers in pink shirts.

“Boys fucking lift it” shouts a HT player, but it falls on deaf ears, and the half finishes 0 - 0.

“Not a lot to write about” says one of @AcrossParkBlog as we walk back towards the bar. “we have had a replay every round, no one looks like scoring” and considering we have yet to see a home team win, we are both bringing our own curses to the table.

“Burger time” says Tom, but returns with only drinks as the queue for food was too long. We take up a seat in the front row of the main stand, and await the second half, the HT fan next to us sums up the first half perfectly “two poor sides”.

Again all the noise is coming from the away fans as the teams come out, “Mildenhall, Mildenhall” and they are quick to poke fun at their quiet hosts “can you hear the Hanwell sing?”.

Steve Pound the Labour MP walks past us, and makes his way to the back of the stand to sit with the giant in a blue jacket, and Clive who is desperate for the game to be resolved today “I don't want to go to suffolk on Tuesday”.

The jibing from the MT fans has woken up 4 or 5 HT fans who have taken up position behind a HT flag behind the away goal, and offer their first songs of the day “come on Hanwell, come on Hanwell” and “Toon Army, Toon Army”. No, they are not hideously confused, HT play in black and white stripes and are nicknamed the Geordies. Steve Pound says smirking “our boys giving it large? Keep it classy lads”.

Clive and his little mob at the back of the stand, have probably been the most vocal of anyone since the half began, constantly offering support to the team “come on town, let’s get going”.

Tom looks at me, “can you hear……..?” and we both reply at the same time “bagpipes”. The game however, has not driven us into early senility, from somewhere, God only knows where, and for most of the second half the game is played out to the music of a single piper.

The HT players have started to tackle each other, and the fan next to us hits the nail on the head “this is a mess”, unfortunately the game is continuing on a downward spiral, and a goal looks even more unlikely.

A song perhaps more familiar at Fratton Park, has been reworked by the noisy bunch of HT fans “play up Hanwell, play up Hanwell” and they continue in good voice to encourage the team “attack, attack, attack, attack”.

Double points in your “I-Spy” book because a second half substitute has an exotic name. He turns the game on its head, and something happens, something football related actually happens. Denielson has struck up an instant partnership with his HT teammate number 11, receives a ball in the box with his back to goal, turns on a sixpence and crashes the ball off the crossbar. “I think Denieslon is better than Diego”.

“Denielson, Denielson, Denielson”

He is just what this game needed, someone who can single handedly make a difference, create something out of nothing, because as Clive puts it “we have no creativity in the final 3rd”.

GOALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!

The relief amongst the fans around us is palpable, HT have gone ahead, with 15 minutes left to go.

I’m not sure either side has deserved to win or lose today, but great hold up play and distribution by the Brazilian sounding game changer hitting the ball out wide, has left number 11 only having to pass the ball into the “corridor of uncertainty”, the keeper gets down and manages to get a hand on it, but this only manages to chip it up and into the path of a HT player who pokes it in from point blank range.

“You're not signing anymore, you’re not singing anymore”, but the MT fans are quick to respond “you only sing when you’re winning”.

One MT fan sitting by us is positive, despite going behind “its only one goal” but Tom think he is “optimistic” considering the teams toothless display up until now.

The remaining quarter of an hour sees Denielson and Number 11, Harry, single handedly try and and grab a 2nd goal. “Harry is totally gassed, but he’s not stopped running” says a fan behind us, and they are not wrong.

A second half sub for MT causes everyone to sit to attention, after the booming voice over the tannoy informs us of the imminent introduction of "Harrison Ford". Steve Pound reply brings a big smile to a few faces around us, "welcome to the Temple of Doom"

“Corners H, corners H” shouts Clive. His desire for no trip to East Anglia is almost a reality, so he advises the team to kill the game off, don’t give MT a chance.

To say the last moments drag would be an understatement, “you got a calendar or a watch ref?” One person apologies to the team for the protracted extra time “sorry lads, 5 to go!”

“Wembley, Wembley” sing the fans, HT have done it, and in doing so have now progressed the furthest in the FA Cup in their history. There is a bit of a full time melee, where the MT keeper is booked, and the referee gets all sorts of shit from the away fans, as he makes his way off.

There are two very different groups of players on the pitch, heads are low in the MT camp. For his constant running HT’s Number 11 is named Man of the Match and is handed a bottle of Champagne by Steve Pound.

Both teams are applauded as they leave the pitch, “well played Hanwell”, “Mildenhall, Mildenhall”.

Drinks are on Clive in the bar afterwards, as two blogging duos, Steve Pound and Clive discuss the match, and what the win means, “the money is a huge help, because we are in a constant state of flux. You get £7,500 if you win the next round!”

MT are quick into the clubhouse, for a post match bowl of what looks like curry, and we make our way home, thanking Clive and bidding farewell to our fellow bloggers. I can’t have been the only one who thought there was a kind of doppelganger thing going on, wondering if they were Terminator bloggers from the future.

Tom put it perfectly in the cab home, because the Central line has decided to break down “a bad game rescued by a nice ground and great hospitality”. The FA Cup is alive and well, good luck HT in the next round, go on and make some more history!

For all of our photographs from the match, click HERE

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Willy Wonka's Factory - Greenwich Borough FC Vs Slimbridge A.F.C., FA Cup 1st Qualifying Round, Princes Park (13/09/15)

Tall, wrought iron gates greet us, like the ones in front of Willy Wonka's factory, not long after getting off the bus. They are impressive to say the least, imposing is probably a better word, jet black, the hazy sun means you have to squint when you look at the top of them.

We know we are in the right place, another ground share in fact, the name of the landlord is across the top of the gates “DARTFORD FC”, but this doesn't look like a football ground, not like any we have ever seen, the concrete and steel has been replaced by trees and grass, like the welcome centre at a nature reserve, we walk and gasp at quite how pretty, and quiet it all is.

Admittedly we are here well before kick-off, but the usual noisy urban setting of your typical football club, has been replaced by an air of tranquility, and on a barmy Sunday afternoon, it’s very pleasant indeed.

“Are you lost?” asks an old chap in a blazer, at what must look like two numptys walking around with their mouths open. Another man appears from the same double glass doors, his older counterpart had,

“Tom, Dan?”.

“Yep” we both reply.

The second man smiling, walks towards us, holding out his hand asking “Now who is the Tottenham fan?” I smile and Tom points his finger at me, our reply sends the outstretched hand in Tom's direction first. I can only assume he is a sympathiser of the nomadic South London football club Tom supports.

Once again social media, matched by people's incredible generosity and passion for football, means we have been given the opportunity by Greenwich Borough FC (GBFC) to observe their preparations for todays FA Cup, 1st Qualifying Round match against Slimbridge A.F.C. (AFCS).

The smiling hand shaker is in fact Geoff, the club's Webmaster and the man sporting the blazer is his father-in-law Norman, who is the club Secretary, somewhere in the ground is his wife who is the treasurer and turnstile operator, a real family affair. All four of us stand in the sunshine, and quickly start to chat about the day ahead, and the first topic of conversation is the remarkable venue.

“It’s a little above our station” says Geoff, GBFC play in the Southern Counties East Football League but Princes Park, is the home of National League South side Dartford FC, a fair few steps higher, he is quick to point out though, “we pay enough to squat here”. In 2013 GBFC started the ground share, after leaving their home of over 70 years at the end of the 2008/09 season, and have been sofa surfing ever since.

There has been some local press about the game today, so they are hopeful for a good turnout, a regular league game would have anywhere between 50 - 100 spectators, but a combination of the FA Cup, being a Sunday and a special price deal for Dartford fans, should mean numbers are higher than normal. Norman is banking on the ultimate fact, that “people just want to see a game” and quite right he is.

“All that I know most surely about morality and obligations I owe to football.” the famous words of French Nobel prize winner and philosopher Albert Camus, are written above the door of the tunnel, as we
make our way into the bowels of the ground. Geoff has left us to our own devices, giving us the chance to explore.

We are the first people in the ground, and stand pitchside taking it in, Princes Park continues to surprise us, and the more we see, the more I wonder that it must be a one of a kind. “Never seen a wooden stadium before” says Tom, marvelling at the beams holding up the roof. Home to Dartford FC since late 2006, it has been described as “one of the most ecologically sound ever built”. Some of it’s features are quite unique, like the fact the pitch has been sunk below ground level to prevent noise and light pollution, the grass we saw outside, growing on the roof, is not bad house keeping, but what is called a “living roof” to help with air purification, along with solar panels, it really is a marvel!

Considering no-one else is here, it would seem rude not to have a quick sit on the home bench, and get the players perspective, and as Tom wanders off, perhaps to get a close up picture of the roof tall wooden sculpture of a man, like an Ent from Lord Of The Rings, who is totally out of place, but then also completely in keeping with the apparent eco ethos of the club.

I take up a seat just to the side of the home dugout, and from my pitchside location, start to take some notes, only to be interrupted by someone walking across the pitch, occasionally treading down divots. A comment Tom made when we first walked in rattles around my head “something quite eerie about an empty stadium“, I can’t work out if eerie is the right word, but whatever it is, it feels very special sitting here in near silence, before all the mayhem of the game.

Walking back down the tunnel, past the medics trolley, covered in all sorts of gadgets, we hear what sounds like a cult in ritual, instead it’s the home dressing room going a through a pre match exercise which involves a lot of clapping. With so few people about it’s hard not to take the chance to pose for a picture in front of the backdrop you see the managers being interviewed in front of on ‘Match Of The Day’, covered in the league and club sponsors.

We bump into Geoff, who is kind enough to offer us a drink, and leads us to the bar, which he says will also be the “make shift boardroom for the day” the distinction between bar and board room is made by two folding screens, which look like they have been borrowed from someone’s house, stretched out across the room, dividing it in two. The referee and his team sit around a small table, still in their suits, quietly talking amongst themselves.

Considering what a nice afternoon it is, we break free of the corporate shackles of the top table, and sit outside, mulling over our plan of attack for the rest of the day. Once again Geoff appears bearing gifts, a match day programme, “they will be like gold dust now the coach (AFCS) has arrived, they have brought a good amount”.

The quiet of our pre match drink, has now been shattered by the music coming from the home dressing room, but no one is in there to be deafened by it, the teams are now warming up.

“Everything we did on Tuesday night was for fucking today, don’t spunk it up the wall”, are the instructions of one of the two almost identical, stocky short wearing, every other word is a swear word coaches taking the GBFC squad through a high tempo possession game.

AFCS on the other hand amble out the tunnel in dribs and drabs, not quite showing the same energy as GBFC, who are tearing around their small section of the pitch, trying to win the ball off each other, accompanied by the drill sergeant encouragement on offer from their coaches “hunt in packs”, “work your fucking tits off”.

“Starting 11 with with me” shouts one of the coaches, quick to do what he says, they make their way over to him, leaving the remaining players to chat and kick a few balls around amongst themselves. While this is all going on AFCS on the other hand take a very relaxed warm up, a little more sedate if you like.

To the side of one of the goals the GBFC keeper is put through his paces. He stands sideways, only turning face on when instructed by one of the two men taking shots at him. These are no normal shots, these are shots the immortal words of Alan Partridge could be attributed, “he has a foot like a traction engine”. The spectators standing just behind him, have their lives in their own hands, because when a stray shot flies into the stand, it pings off anything in its way, occasionally drawing a raised hand of apology from the keeper. One shot is so colossal, it destroys one of the the advertising boards, sending small bits of white plastic like shrapnel into the air.

Tom’s hangover from a friend's previous nights Birthday Party, means his need for football ground food is even more heightened than usual, “time for a pie”. His choice of flavour is Balti, he also has a present for me, a small piece of shrapnel, a keepsake from the day.

Geoff who has been non stop since we arrived, fills us in on a little bit of news about today's opponents, explaining that they have only brought 3 subs, even though the FA Cup allows 5, “low on numbers or did they not fancy the journey?”, and what a journey it is, over a 300 mile round trip.

AFCS are clapped off the pitch by their fans “come on boys” and we follow them down the tunnel, with about 10 minutes to kick-off, waiting for both teams to re-emerge.

The home dressing room is a lot louder, music is playing, and we can hear through the door the occasional shout over the music “HELP EACH OTHER BOYS!”. Every so often the door is opened, and we see players hugging each other, geeing each other up. AFCS’s on the other hand is whisper quiet in.

When we have been in similar situations at other games, the linesman have near had to kick the door down to get the teams out, as the players savour every second of the protection the changing room offers, before the game starts, but no battering ram needed here to get their attention. Just one assistant tamely knocking on the away dressing room door, and both teams appear almost simultaneously.

GBFC look relaxed, as they are checked for jewellery, some of them even singing along with the music, still playing behind them, only their keeper who is a little slow, needs a nudge to hurry up.

“THIS IS PRINCES PARK” is written above where both teams line up in the tunnel. Its relatively dimly
lit, and there is a small slope leading upwards, it is very much a light at the end of the tunnel. The referee takes the lead, his assistants at the rear, and I’m a few steps behind. I feel we are very lucky to be given the chance to do the things we have done, I know its not walking out at Old Trafford or the Nou Camp, but it really is a great feeling following the players out, your eyes having to quickly adjust to the bright sun, and before you know it you are pitchside, and the players are lining up and shaking hands.

The voice over the tannoy reverberates around the stand, in fact he shouts so loud, the speakers slightly distort, COME ON THE BORO!” A small group of travelling fans reply, “come on the swans” but the man with the microphone has the upper hand.

There is a step difference the two teams, so when GBFC get off to a flyer, the chance of a bit of an upset seems on the cards. First when they hit the post 3 minutes in, and then the same player grabs the first goal of the match. Fists are pumped heartily on the home bench, and the away manager has to get to work on his team, “let’s wake up boys!”

Standing in the mouth of the tunnel I get to see some of the dark arts of football at play. When a clearance goes over the stand, the GBFC manager looks around the dugout for a ball, and kicks one on the pitch. “They can’t play with that”, says one of his assistants. “I know, it’s a bit of time wasting” replies the Gaffa.

AFCS manager in no uncertain terms let's his team know what’s what, their performance so far is very poor, they are just not in the game, “we need to get going”.

25 minutes in and totally against the run of play AFCS get back in the game, after an own goal. They had not had a sniff up to that point, and understandably the home manager is annoyed his team have let the opposition back in the match.

The own goal has transformed AFCS, they are like a team reborn, and grab two goals in quick succession, taking them from one goal behind to three ahead in what seems like a heartbeat. AFCS’s manager offers the same advice almost every time the team get the ball anywhere near the box, without fail he says a single word “deliver”, and until now they had failed to do so, but this time a sweet cross is met flush on the head, and it sails past the GBFC keeper, lovely goal.

GBFC’s coaches hands are now permanently glued to his head, the place is in shock, after the perfect start, it’s quickly gone south, heads are dropping “let’s regroup lads”. His opposite number must be relieved beyond belief, and wants his team to keep this up “more workman now”.

Between AFCS 2nd and 3rd goals GBFC are given a golden chance to grab a second, the freest of free headers, is put wide at the back post, the bench are astonished, but try and keep positive, “next one”.

The first half collapse of GBFC and the resurrection of AFCS is complete when a daft tackle in the box, results in a penalty, the home manager is rubbing the bridge of his nose, as the referee points to the spot.

Despite a late rally from the home team, they can’t grab a goal, and their coach is not happy, “it’s just hit and hope”, “IT’S NOT GOOD ENOUGH!”

I get myself back down the tunnel as both teams make their way back in for a orange segment, they are soon followed by a couple of away supporters, who I think speak for almost everyone in attendance “the way that started, I didn’t see that happening”

Geoff remains chipper, and hits the nail on the head “first 20 minutes you didn't know what step each team was from, but the own goal changed the whole thing”.

GBFC’s manager and coaches are out early, he must have done his talking, and left them to think about it, they are followed out by AFCS players. One of the linesman, walks at normal pace to the edge of the pitch, and all of sudden goes into full T1000 mode, running at full pelt to the other side.

Once again the man with the microphone tries his best to lift what has been quite a muted crowd. There are a fair few people here, scattered around, but never really making much of a noise “let’s get behind the boro this second half, COME ON THE BORO” he shouts so loud, it brings the previous night into focus for Tom, “my headaches back”.

Up front for GBFC they have what you might call a “unit” not quite a “beast”, but almost. He is strong,
not very mobile, what some might call an “old fashioned English centre forward”, but holds up the ball expertly, wins every ball in the air pumped in his direction, and has a mean, hard shot. His name is Gary Alexander, who once played for Millwall, West Ham and AFC Wimbledon to name a few , and not long after the break scores a wonderful free kick to get GBFC back in the game, after starting the half much like the first, on the front foot and in control.

The free kick is not a curler, as Tom puts it “it’s a great angle” for a hammered shot that bypasses the wall, and leaves the AFCS keeper at 6’s and 7’s unable to deal with the sheer ferociousness of it. He had tipped a similar effort around the post before, but this one was unstoppable.

“Get the fucking ball” screams someone from the bench, no time for celebrating.

For the next 30 mins or so the underdogs go hammer and tongs at AFCS, trying to get the equalizer, and this wakes the crowd up “COME ON BORO”. The coach perhaps asking a bit of his team, suggests a “back heel would of scored”, when a player with his back to goal can’t turn to shoot.

“Unlucky boys, we go again”.

And that they do, a curling shot is just saved and another free header from 2 yards out can’t be converted.

“It’s coming”.

The early steam since the goal has started to disappear, and with 10 minutes to go, there are a few tired legs out there, and the pace has slowed down considerably.

In Alexander they have a player who is perhaps in the twilight of his career, but clearly still cares. This was displayed perfectly in the last few moments of the game, when he has a chance almost identical to the free kick he has already scored. He places the ball on the ground, turns, says a few words to himself, looking to the heavens, grabbing at the club badge on his shirt.

It’s another fine effort, but no glory for him today, no story for the grandkids, the AFCS keeper gets his fingers to a real rocket of a shot, and tips it over.

“Everything boys!” is the the request of the GBFC coach, like an officer in the final throws of a battle.

There are a few half chances, and what seems like a considerable amount of extra time, AFCS are doing a good job of running into the corners. The two home coaches stand side by side, hands locked and resting on the top of their heads, and despite all the will in the world from the sidelines “come on lads, big winner” it’s not meant to be this year, and the away team will progress to the next round.

The small band of travelling fans, make the most noise of the day, hugging each other, then hugging and applauding the players who come over to celebrate with them, their long trip here was not in vain.

In the boardroom its sandwiches and sausage rolls galore, someone even produces a bottle of champagne. Speaking to the AFCS President, as he tucks into a few things on a paper plate, he is clear the FA Cup is all about the adventure and hard graft “we know we will never win, but you get to see new places, set ups like this”, “we are about the battle, and that’s what we did today”.

GBFC Chairman, Perry, is gracious in defeat, but I can tell he thinks it's an opportunity missed today “that 15 minutes in the first half was suicidal”, but his sentiment is the same as the other clubs we have visited in the competition so far “pick up the money and see how far we can go”. In fact the previous season's cup run turned into something he called their “nemesis” after the fixture congestion put them 7 or 8 games behind.

Sitting on the train home, well I was sitting, Tom was lying, his exploits of the birthday party, had finally won, and after a person flashed me the top of his cock and pubes. I mulled over the day.

It must be awful being forced to play away from the area your club is associated with, the place its history is formed. In the hands of Perry, it sounds like there is a long term plan in place, a world away from the “right here, right now” attitude of so many clubs and owners. He spoke of “no pressure” on the management, which must be music to the ears of the fans, as stability is key, instead of playing manager musical chairs. “5 year plan to be in the conference, to be independant. The facilities are great here, but we should be back in the borough soon”.

Congratulations to the Swans who march on to the next round, commiserations to our fantastic hosts, you put up a great fight. If you get a chance to to visit Princes Park to see GBFC or Dartford I would highly recommend it, I’m not sure you would not have seen anything quite like it before.

For all of our photographs from the match, click HERE

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The Girl Who Does The Chips Isn’t Here - AFC Croydon Athletic Vs Fisher FC, Southern Counties East League, Mayfield Stadium (09/09/15)

After a yomp up Streatham High Street in search of a cash machine, seeing a woman spit on another woman pushing a pram, finally finding a cash point, but then being held up in traffic because of the police dealing with the pre mentioned gobbing, and then seeing two cash points next to the train station we got off at in the first place, this evening has been quite eventful already, but it’s a perfect night for a game, clear and crisp, so all is quickly forgotten as we sit on the top deck of the bus, on our way to a new ground.

As with most games, we hop off the bus in another nondescript suburb, solely relying on Google maps to take us the right way, with no obvious sign of a football club, just kids bombing up and down the streets on bikes, enjoying the last hours of daylight.

It’s not until we see a brown sign pointing down a un-tarmaced, unlit road, that we vaguely think we are in the right neck of the woods. The “road” also seems to be the local point for the eco conscious fly tippers, so we weave past old mattresses, computers and some things it is probably just better not asking what it is.

Next to a paddock with horses in, we finally come across a sign, like something from a horror movie, pointing the innocent college summer breakers to “Camp: going to cut your head off” finally affirming we are where we are meant to be, and relieving Toms notion I had done some duff research, “WELCOME TO CROYDON ATHLETIC FOOTBALL CLUB”.

The sign has seen better days, but the long thin arrow points us further up the path, in for a penny in for a pound I say, so on we go.

The ground itself is somewhat secluded, surrounded by high trees, so we hear the players warming up before we see anything. Past the Ryman League signs, alluding to the club's lofty past, and through the turnstile, “The Charlie Bennett Gate”, which itself is a simple breeze block construction, but the mechanism is clearly much older, the chap on the gate, seems to think they had come from Southampton, we get our first look at the Mayfield Stadium, and bare witness to the formidable glare of the floodlights, they are dazzling bright, this is the home of AFC Croydon Athletic (AFC), “The Rams”, of the Southern Counties East Football League.

First impressions are very good, in what is a compact ground, certainly one of the better standard ones we have visited, although perhaps needing a little lick of paint, it feels like a good setting for the night ahead. Our first port of call is to find the clubs Chairman, Paul who has kindly agreed to impart some of his considerable knowledge on the club upon us, and after asking the man at the gate the best place to find him he suggests the clubhouse.

Around the back of the main all seater stand, painted from top to bottom in the maroon of the clubs colours, past a metal staircase, that looks like a fire escape, is in fact what leads to a slightly unceremonious looking door with a “Director's Box” sign on it, Tom’s spider senses kick into action “I can smell onions!”.

The clubhouse is the beating heart of any club, and AFC is no different, a well stocked bar decorated with pennants from previous cup fixtures, and taking pride of place dead centre is a large silver cup. Each table has a linen tablecloth and a small dance floor, for when the room is used for someone’s 12th birthday or 60th wedding anniversary. Paul is behind the bar, in shirt and club tie, and welcomes us with a big handshake.

Having arrived at the game a little later than we had wanted, we don’t have much of a chance to chat with Paul about the club, as we are both interested to hear about the club’s history, considering the club was only formed in 2012, by far the youngest club we have seen in action, and it’s not until I received a considerable email a few days later that I realise quite what a soap opera the life of this young club has been. Tom though has had time to scout out the food on offer, and is impressed “hot dogs, that’s a new one”.

When an email starts with “Prison... Cricket... News of the World... Suicide... Danish Takeover/collapse... Prison”, you know you are in for an interesting read, and I was not wrong. What unfolded over the next couple of pages had more scandals, and intrigue than Jackie Collins novel. Perhaps most intriguingly the involvement of one of the main protagonists in the Pakistani cricket betting scandal revealed by the News Of the Word. As well as the clubhouse being burnt to the ground, and the land amongst other things being used as a traveler encampment. The fact there is a club and team to come and see at all is remarkable.

Paul also points out that “on 6th February 2012 a gathering of supporters that I chaired decided to form a new club, AFC Croydon Athletic (2012) Limited. It is a company limited by guarantee. The old club remained in existence and therefore the new club is not a reformation of the old and has no link with the old other than the supporters themselves. The new club's history began on 6th February 2012.”

We take a seat in the front row of the stand, not long after a player clutching his kitbag races past us and into the changing rooms, a little late to say the least, considering both teams are on the pitch. Tonight’s opposition are Fisher FC (FFC) of Bermondsey. AFC’s warm up is disrupted by an injury to a player, and after making sure he is ok, talk quickly turns to changing the starting line up.

Once the players make their way into the changing room, connected to the clubhouse behind us in the stand, the turnaround is quick, and in no time at all both teams line up, ready to go, AFC in an all maroon number, FFC in a fetching black and white striped jersey. Players from each side occasionally offering their own advice to their teams mates, “lively, guys”.

FFC are clapped on by a small but noisy contingent of fans, noticeably by two tall chaps dressed all in black who have the look of undertakers about them “Come on Fisher”. One of them, sounding like a broken record, occasionally just says “come on the fish” not particularly loudly, or aimed at anyone in particular, just happy in his own little world. An equally sized, but not so noisy group of AFC fans reply, “come on you Rams”.

The undertakers and their chums make their way around the pitch, and take up position opposite us, not far from the dugouts, which resemble Anderson Shelters. They are quick to make what is a considerable turnout aware of their presence, “Fisher, fisher, fisher, fisher, fisher”, banging on the metal roof of the standing terrace.

Shortly after kick-off a man carrying a Quality Street tin, and wearing a club scarf entices us with the chance of a “£25 prize” if we buy a ticket for the 50/50 raffle, and once we buy one, he is quick to pounce on people just arriving, with the same alluring offer.

“We all follow the fisher, over land and sea” “there is only one fishers FC”. FFC’s early non stop support, is accompanied by their teams early dominance, noticeably the searing pace of their forward players. An early good save from the AFC keeper keeps FFC at bay for now, as a goal seems likely from every attack.

The silver haired lady from the food hatch, has popped out for a ciggie, a chance to watch the game, still wearing her apron, and is more than happy to offer her opinion on proceedings “handball, ref!”.

“It’s only a matter of time” says Tom as the FFC onslaught continues, and the home fans behind us feel their teams display is only helping FFC “we are giving them too much time on the ball”. It’s been one way traffic from the get go, and with 20 minutes on the clock, AFC have not even registered a shot on goal. Although it’s one of the largest turnout for a mid week match, it’s not the loudest, the FFC fans however are doing enough singing for everyone, occasionally the small group of home fans behind the goal FFC are attacking will every so often let out a shout “come on Croydon”, to be fair so far their team has not given them much to shout about.

Something you quickly notice at non-league grounds, is the dilemma a hefty, high clearance, can cause. As the stands are not as big, the Mayfield Stadium is only surrounded by a low wall, with some tatty nets at each end of the pitch, which have seen better days, and are ineffectual against a Peter Kay type “have it” clearence. It is therefore down to someone to go and retrieve the ball, tonight it is the responsibility of the 3 or 4 youth players sitting behind us. When the first said clearance occurs, the group behind get into a “it’s not me” back and forth, until one gives in, and goes in search of the lost ball.

The player injured in the warm up, emerges, hopping with only one shoe on, its awkward to watch him move around without a crutch, and to add insult to injury his phone pops out of his pocket and crashes to the ground, it’s not his day today. He also makes his life harder than it has to be, hopping all the way to other end of the stand, the opposite end of the changing room, to sit down

“Come on you Rams”

“I’m going on a walkabout, then its burgers and chips time” are the immortal words of my co blogger, as he fetches his other lense from his camera bag, and disappears into the night.

Thanks to a touch of good luck, and when I say the goal is so against the run of play, the expression has never been so relevant in the history of football, AFC go 1 - 0 up. A not very good corner arrives at the foot of an AFC player near the front post, who hooks a “shot” towards the back post, the tameness of it means the FFC defender should not have an issue clearing it, but he misjudges the ball, it bounces in front of him, hits him on the thigh and into the back of the net, own goal, he almost stamps his feet like a toddler, beyond annoyed at what happened. AFC dont care, they are somehow ahead, and run off towards the bench in celebration.

“We are Croydon, super Croydon, no one likes us”

Since the goal, it’s like a new team have miraculously appeared, AFC go in search of a 2nd, a good shot from outside the box, is just pushed wide by the FFC keeper. Their search for a second is not a long one as they score again in slightly dubious circumstances. Not an own goal this time, but what looks like some help from the linesman. The goal results from another high looping hooked shot from the outside of the box, and looks like only ending up in the FFC keepers hands, only for a FFC player who looks miles offside, standing alone in the box, to nod it over the keeper, 2 - 0. Paul who has forgone his bar duties to catch some of the game, is sitting next to me and can’t believe it was given “he had to be offside”.

I think it’s fair to say the home supporters, are surprised to say the least they are 2 - 0 ahead. The small group of AFC fans are happy, and break into song again “2 - 0 to the Croydon boys” And that is how the half ends, much to the annoyance of the FFC players and staff who look pissed off as they leave the pitch.

Along with what has been an engrossing game on the pitch, perhaps more interestingly has been the person in the AFC tracksuit, perhaps an injured player, leaning against the railing a few feet away from us. He has lived out every kick, header and pass as the game has unfolded. Annoyed at a stray pass and ecstatic at the goal, as if he was playing in the game himself.

Most of the stand make their way to the clubhouse at half time, Tom like every good Arsenal fan, beats the rush and goes slightly before the final whistle to get in line for the food. By the time I get in there the queue is considerable, and the choice of music has me slightly confused, the slow ballads of Elton John would not be my pick for half time entertainment.

Another raffle, another occasion lady luck is not on my side, “648, the winning ticket is 648”. The noise of the rattling sweet tin had me glued to the draw, but when I knew the £25 was not ours, my dreams were dashed for another evening.

Tom seems to have been standing in the same place in the queue, not moving an inch, and by the time he does make it over to our table, grasping a burger with a different size top to bottom, he is slightly exasperated “she will be there all night, doing one burger at a time”. He does though tell me about the chip situation that he was advised about, which leads to another sentence for the non-league gem pile “I wasn’t going to do chips tonight, the girl who does the chips isn’t here!”.

FFC are out well early, are in a team huddle which goes on for an eternity, and once two of their coaches tip toe across the pitch with a cup of tea in hand, the second half in under way.

The small group of AFC fans have stayed put, now behind the goal they are attacking, the FFC fans have moved, now both at opposing ends of the pitch. And although they are behind, they continue to out sing the the home side.

The visitors take off in the 2nd half from where they started in the 1st. It’s a credit to them, you would not know they are behind, and are quick to push AFC all the way back into their own half. A succession of 3 or 4 songs in a row come from the unwaivable FFC support, still banging the roof of the stand “Can you hear the Croydon sing”, “it’s just like 7 oaks” “shall we sing a song for you”.

“Well they’re having a nice time” says Tom.

“I’ve got skinny jeans on” proclaims one of the youth players, who have returned to their seats well into the half, with yellow polystyrene trays full of food. Restricted by his fashion choice, he is unable to climb over the seats, and has to go the long way round. Tracksuit man, has not moved, and continues to flinch and move with every pass and cross, becoming increasingly twitchy as AFC are forced further and further back, and 15 minutes into the half they have not had a shot.

AFC fans finally get a short song going, only for the FFC to sarcastically applaud their first effort of the half.

An optimistic shout goes out from one AFC player to the rest  “come on boys let’s have a winner”, and finally a great solo run from a team mate looks like grabbing the 3rd, only for a tame shot, not doing justice to his previous efforts.

Is danger money included or at the very least are his chips free? is the question I ask myself, as the same youth player goes off in search of a lost ball, this time leaving his friends doubled up in laughter, as he scales a ladder leaning against the roof of one of the terraces, and like a well trained circus performer, he performs a daredevil walk across the roof, arms stretched out wide for balance.

AFC are riding their luck with 10 minutes to go, it looks well within the realm of possibility if FFC get a goal, they could go on to win it. They hit the post, and a free kick from the edge of the box is just pushed wide, but the footballing Gods are smiling on AFC tonight, as they manage to grab a 3rd in the last minutes of the half. A high aimless ball in the general direction of the FFC box, after a ineffectual AFC corner, is flicked on and finds a FFC player perfectly placed on the edge of the area as the FFC defence rush the opposite way leaving him all alone to control the ball, take advantage of the indecisive FFC keeper, who doesn't know if he is coming or going, and coolly lob it over him for 3 - 0.

“ARE YOU MILLWALL IN DISGUISE” is probably the loudest cheer from the home fans, directed at the visitors, as the final whistle goes. Regardless of defeat the FFC fans are happy to continue singing “We love you fisher we do”.

Although they won, the AFC number 2 who has not had the best day at the office, marches off the pitch alone, followed by the rest of the team, who are in much better spirits and are happy to pose for a couple of pics for us.

The FFC team are getting the full Phil Brown serivce, heads are low as they sit on the pitch getting a talking to, and once they start making their way back inside I overhear one of them say to another “we are going to get hammered!”

Tom goes on the pitch, to grab a few pictures of the stragglers, and a member of the FFC staff comments that he is amazed he can, considering the lights. It would seem that it is not only us who have noticed how strong they are, but in fact more at one end than the other, there is a dark and bright end if you like.

I pop back into the clubhouse to thank Paul, who is back behind the bar, and get another monster handshake. I ask if AFC will be playing in the upcoming FA Cup fixtures, “sadly not, we went out first round, probably our worst performance of the season, along with this one”.

The now pitch black lane back to the main road, is a completely different animal, with only the headlights of a few cars creeping along it, to light the way. We order an Uber who arrives at the opposite end, doesn't fancy driving down, and cancels on us, thankfully the next attempt to book one, is successful and he gets us to the station sharpish.

AFC are another fine example of a fan owned club who powered by their own passion have resurrected their team, not allowing the miss-dealings of others to ruin what is important to them. If you are going to a night game take a torch and some sun glasses, that would be my only advice, other than that make sure you get down to The Mayfield Stadium, it is well worth the visit.

For all of our photographs from the match, click HERE 

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Riddled With Cockney - Wingate & Finchley FC Vs Tonbridge Angels FC, Ryman Premier League, Harry Abrahams Stadium (05/09/15)

This afternoon was a bit of last minute decision, as we could not find a fixture on Sunday, and I was supposed to be shopping for furniture for my new flat, but a late start to the day by the other member of my household, put that to the sword, so the only conclusion was a Saturday afternoon at the Harry Abrahams Stadium, home of Wingate & Finchley FC (WF), the first non league team we visited, back where it all began.

Today saw 3rd Vs 4th in the Ryman Premier, with the visitors Tonbridge Angels FC (TA) the opposition. The team in the words of Paul Lerman a WF board member, who was such a fantastic host back in January, are “flying”, in fact a few teams have got off to a strong start, flexing their muscles early on.

Considering we only decided to come to the game gone 14:00, and once certain people got ready, we arrived at the match with about 15 minutes to kick off. Just enough time to grab a cup of tea, the milk, sugar and spoons laid out on a table, allowing you to make it to your own taste.

Our scientific tea making is interrupted by the rattling of the blue cage used by the players to get from the changing room to the pitch,  I can only imagine that it’s required to prevent all the baying fans pelting the away team with coins or flares, it extends from the beautiful blue and white art deco stand, which dominates the ground.

As the, according to my girlfriend, dishy referee strolls up the tunnel, gripping a ball in one hand, I slip past the person manning the cage to stand between the dugouts, and manage to get a few picture of the teams lining up, jostling, shoulder to shoulder, waiting to walk out. Following up the rear is the dapper looking WF Manager, not any old Manager, but the Manager Of The Month, according to the voice over the tannoy.

“Kiss of death!” shouts a TA fan, but she is unable to piss on his parade, and for a moment he looks very chuffed at his achievement. The “support” from the TA fan is just the tip of the iceberg, and the beginning of the very vocal travelling contingent.

What was once a dreaded week for me, the international break, a footballing desert, and even more so now after falling out of love with watching England play, especially against San Marino, but since discovering a universe outside the Premiership, it is no more, the show still goes on, illustrated by what is a great turn out by both sets of supporters, and as the teams change ends after the toss, the TA fans migrate to behind the goal their team is attacking.

The first half is a relatively turgid affair, both teams looking dangerous-ish, getting off to a quick start, but guilty of giving away possession. Both teams threaten in their own way, WF pass the ball to feet, exchange passes around the edge of the box, and get into good positions. TA look great from out wide, and look close to scoring every time the ball is crossed into the area. Neither though look like they will make the break though, and at times it turns into a bit of lump it from end to end competition. A highlight is the long haired, alice band wearing TA number 10, who is distributing the ball well, and looks a little notch above the rest.

“Come on Angels” is perhaps the nicest chant you will ever hear at a football match, and is quite a juxtaposition to their burly following, who at any opportunity give anyone they can, the referee in particular, some grief. The WF keeper must have tinnitus by halftime. Every time the man in charge makes a call against TA he sends them into near hysterics, “how much are they paying you!?!”

13 minutes on the clock, my £1 golden goal ticket is now defunct, I could have been rich if someone had just scored 1 minute earlier, I rip it up into confetti, and toss it into the air.

The WF captain is getting exasperated by his team, “we are just giving it back to them” and demands more from them “TEMPO LADS!”. Their early performance, has also brought the manager down from the stand, to take up position in the technical area, ticking off one player “I tell you to swap, you don’t just swap”, the player in question assumes his manager has amnesia, and intimates he thought he had told him to. The main stand is a fair distance from the pitch, maybe he misunderstood the hand signals.

TA’s best chance of the half, is the result of a good corner, and the resulting scramble, can’t provide a goal, much to the annoyance of their fans behind the goal. WF go close to grabbing a goal not long after, but instead of shooting the number 11 is unselfish, passes square, giving the keeper time to close him down and save, forcing a corner.

Before kick off, I had noticed a man in cycling shorts wandering around the ground with a bucket, but just put it down to one of those odd things you sometimes see. It was however made clear that he was here for a very good cause, raising money for charity. Cycling from TA’s home ground to each of their away matches this season, I was happy to donate, but he gave us a little incentive,  “the more you give the more your team score, it’s true! Last match Tonbridge scored 7!”

I’m lucky enough to bare witness to two pieces of “football speak”, sentences that would be defunct and ridiculous outside the confinements of a football pitch, but somehow seem relatively normal and sane when spoken at a match. The first was just before half time, courtesy of the WF manager, and was so wonderfully profound “be careful we don’t go blind when we squeeze”

I have noticed the word or expression “squeeze” is a very popular in non league football, I don’t think I have heard another word more.

The same young man from the turnstile who sold me my golden goal tickets, convinces me to part with another £1, perhaps the half time raffle will make me rich instead.

As the TA manager with his scouring pad voice, has had enough of his players whinging, and puts them straight, “stop moaning, get on with it” the familiar rattle of the cage means the half time whistle is any minute.

The break is relatively uneventful, other than sitting on a discarded chip and not winning anything on the raffle, now I’m £2 down, we do though walk around to the opposite side of the ground to check out the awesome flags of the home supporters “COME ON YOUR BLUES”, “RIDDLED WITH COCKNEY” and my favourite, one that was here the first time we came, and was what we nearly named the blog, written across a red London Transport sign “MORE FANS THAN FLAGS”.


We stand under the the Jack Fisk stand, opposite the still lovely main stand, if architecture and football
are your things, old stands with lots of character WF has to be top of your list, it is a thing of beauty. Far in the distance Alexandra Palace, is visible on what is a turing into a nice clear almost Autumn afternoon.

There are two definites in the first 15 minutes of the new half, all the pressure is going one way, TA are looking better and better from wide positions, their corners must bring a goal at some point, and the noise from the TA fans, not so much singing or chanting, except for the odd shout of football sweetes chant, but just chit chat/banter/verbal, call it what you will, it doesn’t stop.

Three TA players make a meal of a free kick in a good position, neither of them knowing what to do, and it all ends in a bit of a flop “congratulations on that one from the training ground” shouts a WF fan.

Regardless of the level, someone will always be checking the scores from around the league, working out how things will look if the results stay the same, come a quarter to five, and going through a multiple of permutations like some sort of Rainman, the chap next to us gives his friends a constant update “Bognor 0, Enfield 1, SHIT!”

Whenever the home side play their game, they look to threaten, but there has been a distinct lack of that in the 2nd half, and as someone said to me after, you have to commend TA for forcing them to play their way, because they are dominating in the air, WF can’t get close, and the pressure is about to pay off, with a little help from a deflection. TA’s number 10 latches onto a loose ball in the box and his team go ahead, resulting in a big cheer from the TA fans behind the goal. They almost go ahead by two, the ball squirming under the WF keeper, rolling towards goal, but he manages to get hands on the ball, and prevent the goal.

The WF fans near us are getting annoyed at their team’s style of play. “That’s a stupid ball” one fan shouts after the team gives up possession again. An attempted cross field diagonal pass, that doesn't come off he expresses his annoyance to a fellow fan “they keep playing the Hollywood pass”.

Today’s second gem heard at a football match, comes from a WF fan. He has been getting increasingly annoyed to say the least as his perceived ease that a certain TA player has been going to ground, and in a moment of sheer genius, I pray to the football Gods it was a moment of pure adlib, because that would make it even better, he shouted these immortal words with such gusto, totally disgusted at the ungentlemanly conduct of the player “you must have a cauliflower arse”. Regardless of anything else, this alone made it worth coming today.

It’s almost 16:45 and the points are only looking like they are going back to Kent today. The WF captain is becoming increasingly red faced and frustrated, when he has the ball at his feet just shy of the halfway line, no one from his team is very forthcoming in looking to drive on, and he is a bit fed up “ANYONE WANT IT!?!?”

A first for me today, was a brief conversation with the linesman, during the game, he looked like a smiling Hedghood Syvalin family toy. It comes after one player calls another a “woman” and my girlfriend says how stupid that was. He is standing right in front of us, looks over his shoulder and agrees with her. I pose him the question has anyone ever been sent off for being sexist? People have been sent off for lots of other ‘isms, but how about this one, is there even a rule in place?

As the final whistle goes, I spy Paul standing arms crossed on the touchline between the dug outs, and the TA players walk over to their supporters and offer the ever noisy fans a round of applause, “Well done reds”. As the migration back to Tonbridge beings, I overhear an away fan rub one last bit of salt into the wound of the WF Manager “that your lucky suit gaffa?”

I will try not to repeat word for word, the end of the blog I wrote the first time we visited, because my opinion has not changed, if anything it has improved. WF is such a cracking club, run by great people, with one of my favourite stands. Todays match will go down in the not so great pile, but I’m sure it’s just a blip, because when they did do there thing, they looked great going forward, and always looked solid at the back. If a team ever deserved to keep on “flying” in fact soaring, it’s Wingate & Finchley FC.

For all of our photographs from the match, click HERE

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