Listen To Geoffrey - Edgware Town FC Vs Ampthill Town FC, Spartan South Midlands League One, Silver Jubilee Park (02/01/16)

Hello 2016, hello non stop rain, hello endless Tweets about postponed games. Thankfully our match has stuck two fingers up at Mother Nature and shouted in her face “you will not win!”, because Edgware Town FC (ET) have a 3G pitch. You could drop an ocean on it, and once you have swept all the starfish away, you would still be able to play, in the immortal words of Wayne Campbell “GAME ON!”

Tom’s timing is immaculate, I notice a flat cap wearing figure appear from the gloom, at a bus stop en route. Once aboard it takes him a minute to realise that I'm sitting about a foot away, or he is ignoring me, we exchange pleasantries about how annoying our families were at Christmas, how much cheese we ate, and what PS4 game we received that allows us to waste endless hours collecting bobbins or fancy hair brushes.

Off the bus, and a short walk later, a large green notice board at the entrance to a very soggy park lets us know we are on the right track. Not too far in the distance, past the waterlogged fields, and miserable looking dog walkers, four thin floodlights stretch up into the sky, too narrow to even cast a shadow, they are beacon in the ever worsening weather.

Not put off by the burnt out car just past the entrance, a homemade sign written in black marker pen, stretched across a fence next to an intriguing small red brick turnstile tells us we have arrived “Silver Jubilee Park”. I had seen it online abbreviated to SJP, I’m sure the club would like it made clear, as would I, that the abbreviation is in no way infringing on the copyright of ‘Sex In The City’ actress, and wife of Inspector Gadget, Sarah Jessica Parker. No-one wants a Victoria Beckham, Peterborough United FC situation on their hands.

From Inside his cosy, dry turnstile, Chris greets us in his woolly hat. A first year club board member, and newly appointed women's team manager, he is more than happy to venture into the drizzle to excitedly point out works and developments underway, all across the ground.

I think it's fair to say the ground is a little sparse, for now, but you can see that is all about to change. The clubhouse and changing rooms are elevated along one side of the pitch, tacked on end is the main and only seating area. A small green covered terrace sits at the top of a slope behind one goal, with only a low hedge separating you from the surrounding park and picturesque tree covered green hill, that rolls off into the distance.

The warmth of the clubhouse is much appreciated, and except for a few ET fans in their green and white scarves by the bar at one end of the Viking Longhall we are first to arrive. Two things are clearly king here: darts and dancing. There are six darts boards, four on one wall, two on another, and a large wooden dance floor, that takes up the majority of the floor space, and shines some light on the sign on the way in “dancers this way”. The Dundee derby is playing on a large screen at the opposite end of the room, as we take a seat on one of the tables covering the centre of the room, stopping Tom from breaking out a few moves he highlights the obvious “they like their darts”. We can hear the music playing in the changing rooms through the wall, like a neighbour having a party.

“Happy New Year” says the man behind the bar, which is three quarters optics and beer pumps and one quarter tea room, snack bar and club shop. Mugs, scarves, programmes and old pictures fill every available inch of space. The bulging, cling film wrapped rolls take pride of place, stickers written in biro sit on top of them, letting you know what’s inside, it’s just a cup of tea for now, but I have a feeling that we will be back.

Tom is on weather watch, every so often peering over my shoulder out the window behind me “still raining”. The ham salad rolls on the bar proved too tempting, and he is quick to grab us one each, producing a bag of crisps from his rucksack to go along with them. In hunt of a programme I nip back to the ET corner, and meet the club chairman, and former Port Vale FC player Daz.

A tall Northerner, he is beyond modest when I compliment him on their fantastic season so far, “yeah doing alright” he says in a mannered Staffordshire accent. One loss in the league, three in all competitions, a goal difference of +45, score lines such as 6 - 3, 12 - 3 and 9 - 2 twice, I think can most definitely be described as a lot better than “alright”. Perhaps somewhat the perfectionist he tells me of their “100% away record” but he is a little perturbed when he talks about their home form “lost all our points here” he says, pointing outside. That is five points by the way, one draw and one defeat, hardly relegation form.

Back at our table, it’s not long before the inevitable, its raffle time. Curiously Tom gets involved, perhaps the chance of a bit of Kit Kat money has tempted him to the dark side. It’s not your usual set up, it’s a scratchcard the likes of which we have only seen once before at Wadham Lodge FC. Pick your team and if it appears under the silver panel, you’re the winner. Arsenal are taken much to Tom’s annoyance, so he opts for Wolves, Spurs are not even on it, so inspired buy the game on the TV, I go for Celtic.

Patiently waiting, while we deliberate what team to pick, is club committee member Geoffrey, who tells us that the raffle is a big help in raising funds. By his own admission he has never had any interest or “involvement” with football before, but as a recent retiree, he needed something to fill the void. Even though new to the ‘Beautiful Game’ he seems to have got to grips very quickly with the importance of grassroots football. He then encapsulates its necessity, in two effortless sentences, he sums it up so perfectly that I wonder if there is any need to go on, his words will probably be on t-shirts some day, children of the future will ask, when they are watching the PC World International Sky Plus Yellow Tie League One “why did we not listen to Geoffrey?!”

“It’s like a tree, you need the roots. If you don’t keep the roots going, the tree doesn't grow”.

Daz joins us “what’s up?” he asks, I’m now armed with my notebook, and he is more than happy to tell us in more depth about a club with a dark recent past, but with a much, much brighter future.

In 2008 due to the loss of their ground ET’s original incarnation went under, and was reformed in 2014, all due to what seemed to be a flippant comment between friends. “Why don’t we start our own club, so we don’t get fired” said Daz to the now owner, who happened to own the rights to the ET name. Always interested to know what drives people to start a club, it is a well documented headache, what is their plan? “Promotion back to the Ryman Premier and take the club back to where it was”.

£250,000 has been spent on the ground to get it up to a category C standard, which will eventually be big enough for nearly 2,000 spectators. A much higher standard than they require he admits, they get about an average turnout of 80, but they will be ground sharing with Hendon FC of the Ryman Premier League, it’s a perfect partnership. “God send, the 3G” he says as the rain continues, so many clubs at this level I’m sure are envious of it, many away games have been canceled, and a fixture backlog is growing.

“Hard work at this level, but it’s rewarding”

The local community, “lots of local schools use the pitches for free” and attracting new fans is high on the agenda. With a large catchment area, and not a huge amount of competition, only Barnet FC whose prices for a League Two side some might deem a little steep, what better than a local affordable club.

He introduces us to the match day secretary “I do all the hard work, then he takes over so I can relax and have a few pints”.

There feels like a lot going on at ET this afternoon, and it’s not long until we we bump into a familiar face Deryll David the sharpest, youngest referee in the land, who recently made a video with our friends at Pitch Talk. Imagine a dash of James Bond, mixed with the cool kid from your secondary school, he looks well turned out in his suit, and is at ET because his game had been called off. Referees are a bit of a theme, and why the boardroom is out of bounds, the match officials are being assessed and as Daz put it, gesturing to the men in dark suits “we just leave them to it”.

“It’s easing” says Tom, the rain has gone from cats and dogs to a downpour, as he returns to the noisy clubhouse after taking some pictures of the ground ,“some flags out” he tells me, hanging from the back of the covered terrace.

The low slung roof of the main stand and it’s pillars are reminiscent in a very small way of the back of the west stand at Highbury, and make for a slightly obscured view, but Tom is quite right when he says “we will stay dry unless the roof collapses”. Opposite us on the far touchline, someone is “really struggling with that tent” as Tom puts it. The removable roofs of the slightly squiffy dugouts, are getting caught in the wind, a two man job proving almost impossible for the poor soul who drew that short straw. Tom does wonder if something is afoot, you hear stories of clubs making the visiting team’s life as hard as possible, no hot water, smaller changing rooms or in this case a roof “do you think the away team get one?”.

The visitors Ampthill Town FC (ATFC), are oblivious to the shenanigans, and are finishing their warm up just in front of us. The coach can maybe sense a bit of anxiety amongst the players “very quiet today, let’s get the talking going” he says, and attempts to inject a bit of confidence in them “no reason we can’t get 3 points”. One player slips off the edge of the pitch, looking angrily at where he lost his footing, clutching himself, wincing. The coach ushers the team inside “lets go, lets go, lets go” reminding the players there is no-one to clear up after them “make sure you take water bottles and tops in”..

“Ted, you will be able to give up work” shouts one fan over to the man who has just been told he has won the raffle, although not bitter, Tom is perhaps a little sore to say the least considering the winning team was Arsenal.

The King starts to play as the team’s walk out, I love an eclectic choice of entrance music. One ET fan is still full of the New Year spirit and sings along making his way to his seat “it’s the wonder, the wonder of EDGWARE!”. The music is also a cue for the people still inside to make their way outside, there is now a noticeable amount of other football scarves on show Boreham Wood FC and Hendon FC whose games were abandoned.

“Stop cuddling and get on with the game” shouts the singer “hate that huddle” he announces. The voice over the tannoy is a bit more genteel, “hope you all enjoy the game”.

ET get off to a flyer, scoring after four minutes, and don’t look back, “come on you wares” shouts a supporter. Tom thinks the celebration is a little muted, the players perhaps have a feeling they will be getting a hatfull.

Despite Tom’s slight objections, “the rains picked up” we move after the goal, in search of a better vantage point, and join the few who are braving the elements, standing behind the goal, only once we have squeezed past the club photographer under his humongous fishing umbrella, next to the stairs from the changing room down to the pitch. A few people with their own more sensibly sized brollies stand pitchside.

Toms mind is wandering, perhaps not fully recovered from his East End barrow boy themed New Years party “that pot noodle sounded nice”.

Fifteen minutes gone, 2 - 0 the green machine keeps rolling on. One ATFC coach is understandably not best pleased “too easy” he bellows. For a moment, both our attentions are taken away from the celebrations, as what I can only describe as scene from ‘The Birds’ is playing out, a mass of gulls, and smaller darker birds clearly angered by the ATFC defending fill the sky.

ATFC get their first shot on target after about twenty minutes, and even though it’s pretty tame, the fact it was allowed to happen does not best please what is a tough crowd to please round here, “come on Edgware” he says like a disappointed parent.

Just shy of thirty minutes gone ET get their third, a goal one player tells the scorer was “superb” another that it was “mustard”. “They might look like Brazil, but they don’t play like it” is Tom’s opinion on a pretty torrid thirty minutes for ATFC.

“Come on Edgware”

“What you having at half time?” I ask Tom, “a pot noodle with a hot dog sticking out”. However, before he can get stuck into that, ET have a goal chalked off for offside, but they have no reason to worry, they are making chance after chance, it could be in double figures already. When they do get a fourth just before pot noodle time, Tom describes it perfectly “he went through everyone”, the player rounds the keeper and scores, it finishes off a dominant, rain soaked half.

“Well done boys”

A large Geoff Shreeves holds the attention of most people, as he shouts in that way he does, about what looks like a very dull first half in the Premiership. “I love a pot noodle” says Tom, the fiend, I'm not sure how you can it fucking stinks. It’s space age contents stew away and every so often he peels back its tinfoil lid, only to close it back up, because it's not quite ready.

The heads of the referee, followed by the players bob past the small window of a door next to big Geoff, and we make our way outside, the steward on the gate, that lets the players onto the pitch, shares a joke with one “you actually going to start playing?” This half we are joined by a lot more people, ET are attacking this end now, with the shelter it makes for a much more inviting proposition.

More fans means more songs, and the group from Boreham Wood FC, who we recognise from our recent visit, join in a few “we’re green, we’re white, we’re bloody dynamite”.

“Rains back” says Tom, I’m not sure it ever went away, but it’s now difficult to see anything that is not illuminated by the floodlights, except for the Griswold’s house the other side of the park or a Temple, with its golden spires perched on the hill in the distance.

I’m not sure if one fan has been working on this song, slaving away like a creative type, surrounded by scrunched up balls of paper, or has come up with it on the hoof, nonetheless it’s quite impressive “we’re not Real Madrid, we’re not FC Barcelona, we’re Edgware Town and Matty is our owner”.

ET are in complete control, and the game has been a bit of a procession since half time, they make chances, but as one fan puts it “we’re just going through the motions”, like when a burst of pace down the right, results in a good ball across the box, there is not one ET player there to meet in, no player is really busting a gut, much to the annoyance of one screaming fan “why is no-one in the box!?!”

“Got a bottle of Vodka in there” says a fan to the ATFC keeper while he takes a drink “4 - 0 at halftime, you need a drink son”.

A goal from ATFC, a great flicked back header, brings what just seems like a counting the minutes to home time exercise, to life. ET’s players are furious, and argue amongst themselves, as one fan puts it it’s only a “consolation goal”, but a clean sheet always makes for a better result.

“Come on Edgware, come on Edgware”

“Can you hear the Ampthill sing?” sing the group near us, and although there is no response, you can most definitely hear the green and white spirited horn one fan has produced from his bag, giving it a blast every time the ATFC keeper takes a goal kick.

“He comes from Italy, and wears Versace”

The home team players continue to grumble with each other they are being sloppy, “Jesus, boys” shouts one towards his teammates. With about thirty five minutes of the second half gone ET get their fifth goal, a shot from the edge of the box fizzes into the back of the net, and the referee might as well blow the whistle now.

Very little of note happens in the remaining minutes of the half. We do marvel at the fact four people are huddled under the mega umbrella, and I wonder if you have to pay Council Tax on it, it’s so huge. A mass exodus of two fans means they are serenaded by those who are staying for the final whistle “is there a fire drill, is there a fire drill”. There is a chance in extra time for the ET number 11 to make it six, only to hit the post from a yard out, leaving everyone, no more than him, a little baffled.

The saturated ET players are clapped off “come on you ‘wares” and Tom almost gets as muddy as them, as we make own way down the grass verge just in front of where we had been standing, and he almost go arse over tit, I’m fine however, thank God for Doctor Martins!

Things are looking very rosy for ET, so many pieces of the jigsaw seem to be falling into place, just at the right time and it’s quite remarkable so soon after its rebirth. If you fancy some darts, a dance, a pot noodle or some Elvis, ET is the place to be.

For all our photographs from the match, click HERE

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It’s Like Barbados Here - Staines Town FC Vs Farnborough FC, Ryman Premier League, Wheatsheaf Park (29/12/15)

“Sun’s out….been out all day...it’s like Barbados here, plus we have the best pitch in the league” was the reply from one Staines Town FC (ST) fan on Twitter when I enquired about tonight's home game against Farnborough FC (FFC), making sure it had not fallen fowl of the bad weather, as one game we were considering, had earlier in the day.

The resounding response, thoughts of short sleeve shirts, drinks with small umbrellas and a jet sky or two, gave me the energy to wade through the Terry's chocolate orange boxes and HBO box sets that litter my living room floor post Christmas, look past the wind and drizzle outside my window, and head to Waterloo to meet Tom, for our last game of 2015.

Tom gleefully shows off his new camera bag, with enough compartments, pockets and waterproof sections, to ensure he will never be unprepared again going into the New Year. Such is its Swiss Army knife qualities that the 30 minute or so trip to Staines station whistled by, making sure though not to make the same mistake as Tom had and nearly miss our stop, after his beer and Star Wars trilogy fuelled trip to Devon to see his family on Christmas eve.

“I’m here to use the gym” says the driver of the car pulling up, to a security guard apparently manning what we think is the entrance to the ground, he reassures us it is, and Tom is not wrong when he says “this is a bit swanky” as we walk the shrub lined drive.

At first it's not clear where it is, there are no familiar sights, no towering flood lights, but there is a smell, a smell that my basset hound companion could lock onto anywhere, in any conditions “the burger van’s open”.

‘Welcome to Wheatsheaf Park’ is written high on a wall in blue on a yellow background, it would also seem from the sign just below that it is also the home of Chelsea FC Ladies team. We both exchange a look, but are both quick to remember we are here with neutral heads on, no Spurs or Arsenal allegiances tonight, it would also explain the slightly comical “ONE DI MATTEO” sticker at the station.

Once past the turnstile, paying the woman with her rolls of different coloured tickets hanging from the wall, it's hard not to marvel at what is a pristine looking pitch. I’m guessing that having one of the top ladies football teams ground sharing with you, means a little bit more money is pumped into the pitch, than your average Ryman Premier League club, and it really looks like a cracking surface, in fact the whole setup from the outside at least, looks like one of the best we have seen.

Not long in and Tom is paying a visit to the portacabin Jenga which is the club shop, painted in the club’s colours, and with two very inviting homemade signs on the door “Football Manager sold here” and “grab some sweets”. However, it is neither of these that tempt Tom, but a new addition to the pin collection, to which the display of has become somewhat of a conundrum since the new bag, but he is happy it’s not “black and white and round” like so many of the others.

There is not a cloud in the sky, it’s cool and crisp and my shirt and jumper combination is already woefully inadequate. We pass a group of blazer wearing official looking types talking quietly amongst themselves at the mouth of the blue, vinyl extendable tunnel, as I find a seat in the empty main stand, as Tom goes off doing what he does.

It’s a short climb up some metal steps, to the blue seated stand, some of them bearing a sticker “Chelsea Ladies reserved” and I do my best to avoid them, I don’t want to get my jumper dirty. Wheatsheaf Park is simple, compact and immaculately lit, a small grey concrete fence encircles the whole pitch. Opposite me, behind the two dugouts is a single storey covered terrace, which goes almost the full length of the pitch with “Welcome to Staines Town” written across the front, behind each goal is a small narrow strip for people to stand.

“You’re keen” says a man in a club tie clutching some programmes, making his way to the boardroom, situated high above the pitch behind large windows, at the very back of the stand. Me, or ‘Billy No mates’ sits patiently, like a doting wife at a steam engine convention, sitting in the front row watching Tom, as we does a lap of the ground, waiting for him to get on the home stretch so we can find the bar.

In order to get a programme as they didn’t have any on the turnstile on the way in, I drop into the club
shop, shun the sweets, and hand over my £2.50, for the new bright yellow addition to my collection. As I leave the two women in there continue their conversation about New Year “we get a curry in, if we see in the New Year, we see in the New Year” all said in the air of someone like myself, who is not a fan of the must have fun attitude adopted by so many on the 31st.

Through a door in the side of the main stand, the club’s crest painted on the wall at the foot of the stairs, we make our way to the Thames Suite. It feels almost like a wedding reception is about to begin. Large round function tables, dim lights, and a pink glow from illuminated frosted glass behind the bar at the other end of the room, make me wonder when the disco is about to start, and it’s only when I notice the large projected screen, and various TV’s showing football league highlights, I realise that unless it’s a ‘FL72’ themed wedding, there will be no Lady Gaga tonight. As Tom visits the bar, I cast an eye over the various football shirts, QPR, Blackpool, Millwall, and one England rugby shirt that hang framed around the room.

As one man stands pumping pound coins into the single fruit machine next to the covered pool table up against the wall, Tom subtly finishes half a baguette that has emerged from one of the many sections of his new backpack. While chowing down, he peruses the programme every so often stopping, turning it my way, to share what he has found.

• A whole page picture of club patron and TV Astrologer Russell Grant.

• A one day free membership to the attached gym.

• A picture of a scantily clad woman advertising a local lingerie shop.

“Not a bad turn out” says Tom as the bar slowly fills up with big jackets and wooly hats. One of those people coming in, wearing the same blue and yellow scarf he had on when we first met him is Keith, who runs the clubs Twitter account and who kindly hooked us up with tickets for the ST game at Leyton Orient FC in the FA Cup 1st Round. He is also wearing the same big smile he had then too and kindly offers us a drink, after giving us both a big handshake.

Although not our first time seeing ST play, it is our first visit to Wheatsheaf Park, and Keith is quick to fill us in. Things have not really been ideal since we last met at the beginning of November, ST are currently on a five game losing streak, not that FFC are faring much better. He says they “have not won an away game in 2015”. He explains the team have been playing “good football” but have been “sucker punched” on more than one occasion. I ask if the cup run has had a negative effect on league performance, an unnecessary distraction, but he does not think that’s the case, “we have been on good cup runs before”.

Keith explains a little more about the club’s set up, and that the owners are a large electrical company who do the flood lights at various clubs, including Chelsea and this explains the excellent flood lights we both commented on to each other when first arriving. Light quality is a bit of a bugbear, for Tom in particular when taking pictures at night games. Some grounds we have visited have little less than a torch tied to a broom handle, so tonight makes a pleasant change.

He also explains that during Sheffield United FC’s season long dalliance in the top flight, and with having to pay so many visits to London throughout the season, they purchased the facilities from ST to use as a base, only to get relegated, as quickly as they got promoted, and ended up selling it back.

Keith mid chat points out a bit of a local hero, “that's the girl who ran on the pitch at Leyton”. To say she “ran” I think is a bit of an understatement, she flew, I’m not sure her feet touched the ground. Going from the away end to the halfway line and back, before the stewards could blink an eye, and thanks to some fellow fans she was bundled off the pitch, and out the ground, before anyone could get their hands on her. “They say she has the foulest mouth going” explains Keith laughing, “if you get any quotes, make sure you spell them correctly”.

We are briefly interrupted, by the man selling 50/50 raffle tickets, Tom is already rolling his eyes, “mugs game” he tells me, but of course I hand over my £2.

Outside the crowd has increased, most of them milling around the tea bar and the club shop, one end of which has now opened, and one of the New Year talkers is selling programmes. Whilst in the bar Tom had popped off for a quick Vape, and on returning commented that the “wind is picking up” and it really was whirling around, making it feel even colder, perhaps its being so close to the River Thames, close enough Keith told us, that the ground flooded back in 2014.

‘Blue, blue, electric blue’ by Bowie is playing, as the players finish warming up, and the teams start making their way back into the shelter of the changing room. Tom once again comments on the amount of people here, “this could be one of our biggest turnouts”, although it should not be a big surprise, considering the turnout at Brisbane Road, they clearly have a solid fanbase, home and away.

“Welcome to Wheatsheaf Park, and this Crimbo limbo fixture” says the voice over the tannoy. He then goes on to give a brutally honest assessment of both teams league positions, not your usual fluffy, children’s TV presenter positivity, this guy only deals in hard facts. ST find themselves 18th and FCC 21st, “both at the wrong end of the table” he explains, he also reminds everyone, although I’m sure it’s not entirely necessary of the fact that both teams were relegated from the Conference South last season. Not perhaps how I would go about rallying the troops, but maybe it’s a bit of reverse psychology.

As both teams are read out, there is another Chelsea reference, as the same entrance music they use, ‘Liquidator’ by Harry J Allstars starts to play, and a loud blast of the referee's whistle, from down the blue tunnel, sparks the stewards into life, “way hey”, another whistles over to get the attention of the “mascot” who is kicking a ball around on the pitch.

The fact that the extendable tunnel, does not quite meet the edge of the pitch, means one steward in a trilby, and one in a flat cap, hold back the tide of fans, allowing for both teams to cross the small strip of concrete between tunnel and pitch unscathed. The ST captain does his best to undo the work of the club announcers sombre mood and gets his team in the right frame of mind “come on boys”.

“Come on yellows”

Small pockets of fans surround the pitch, but the majority are like us, sitting in the main stand, or are just in front next to the pitch. “Come on the Swans” says a fan quietly, as the lights in the stand go out just before kick off, both of us look at each other not sure if it’s a mistake.

“Come on guys” shout various players from both teams, as we get underway.

FFC apply all the early pressure, and their keeper is vocal in letting his teammates know “great start whites”, an early shot from just outside the six yard box, and two resulting corners, mean it is all a bit nervy amongst the home fans.

Although the bulk of them are sitting around us, the nosiest are standing behind the away goal, their flags hanging from the fence behind, one a St George's Cross with “Staines Town FC Pride Of Middlesex” written on it, the other, with a little bit of help from the zoom on Tom’s camera reads “Football Was Not Invented In 1992”. I get the feeling they are the same bunch we sat amongst at Orient, their non stop singing despite the team's cup exit and 6 - 1 loss, was phenomenal.

A low drawn out chant of “yellow”, prompts the man in front to use the number one cliche from the big book of football cliches: Staines Town FC edition, when he refers to them as the “Staines massive”. I managed to write our previous blog without a mention to “my Julie”, “aight” or other such early 2000’s comedy catchphrases, I’m not going to start now, so will leave that one well alone.

“Late one, must of been delivering the mail” is the slightly odd comment the person in front of us makes under his breath, when he has to move to let in a late arrival to his aisle.

“Everywhere we go”

Fifteen minutes gone, and as Toms says, “a bit out of the blue” ST grab a goal. A cross from the left is glanced in off the head of the number 9, who kisses the badge on his shirt, as he celebrates. There is a palpable relief, but still a level of nervousness, “park the bus” shouts one fan. The desire to remain solid is clearly front and centre, it would be bad luck to once again be “sucker punched”. Not that the noisy few need much reason to sing, but the goal means the volume has gone up “yellow, yellow, yellow”.

Since the goal, ST have got in their stride, the main point of attack coming from the gaggle of nippy, small players gobbling up the flick ons, and knock downs of the number 9, especially the number 10 who is tireless, dogged and is covering every inch of the pitch, Tom’s description of him is perfect a “pitbull”.

Although ST are on top, particularly down the wings, where they seem to have free reign, they are sometimes a bit guilty of overplaying, or are unable to keep up with the speed merchants on the flanks. On more than one occasion however, they show flashes of a real lack of composure, and make life much harder for themselves, like a misplaced passback, which results in a needless corner that thankfully FFC can’t capitalise on.

Half time is nearly upon us, and of course Tom has one thing on his mind “I’m hungry”.

The game has gone a little flat, ST’s post goal confidence has waned a little, and FFC are perhaps a fraction on top, but its nominal.

With only a few minutes left until the break ST are awarded a free kick on the left, almost from the same position the ball was delivered from for their first goal. The ball is crossed in, it takes a nick off two players competing at the front post, hits an FFC player on the edge of the six yard box, and falls to the feet of number 9 to poke home from close range, his momentum taking him to the back of the net, where he celebrates with the fans behind the goal, “yellow, yellow, yellow”.

I always find the music played at football matches interesting, as little excuse is needed to play a song of one kind or another nowadays: an entrance song, halftime song, fulltime song, and in the case of ST a goal song by Body Rockers - ‘I Like The Way You Move”.

“Game over” says Tom, and although there is still forty five minutes left to play, FFC must be feeling pretty low right now, and with their away record, they can’t be very hopeful.

The voice over the tannoy has certainly perked up “2 - 0 to the Swans” he announces, as the team’s walk in, and the lights turn on overhead like the interval at the theatre, but instead of tiny pots of ice cream, we (Tom) goes in search of something a little more substantial.

‘Swans Tea Bar ’is doing a roaring trade. The hatch in a wall decorated with blue and gold tinsel, and an unfortunate miniature Christmas tree, that does a nose dive off the counter, much to the annoyance of one of the women serving tea and burgers, “2nd time today” she huffs. I have been sent to grab a place in the considerable queue, as Tom pops to the toilet, he is a bit concerned on his return such is the demand for something warm, because it’s so damn cold, “is there gonna be anything left?”

As if we had anything to worry about, the tea and burgers are dispensed with the highest efficiency, non league tea urns are plumbed into some nationwide, central reservoir, that is the renewable energy we should all be paying attention to, it’s warm sweet restorative powers do a job on me, and I’m ready for the second half.

It’s about now that I notice the results of the raffle scrawled on a white board, near where we came in. We didn’t win, but I’m ok, I have a mechanism to deal with loosing now.

Tom is still chowing down on his burger, my cup of tea is balancing precariously on the low concrete wall, as we take up our new position behind the FFC goal, for the remainder of the match, which is not underway for long before the FFC keeper is involved in a heavy clash with a ST player, and stays down, no rolling around, you can tell he is hurt.

The flags and fans have swapped ends as well, and are less than sympathetic with the downed man, who after a bit of treatment is up and good to go. One FFC player tries to fill the silence during the thumb twiddling of the stoppage “come on borough” The second half is a little flat, but the wings are still proving fruitful for ST, although one of the few times FFB do manage an attack the ST keepers pulls off a good one on one save.

“Oh West London is wonderful”

A little bit of fisty cuffs boils up after a heavy FFC challenge, but quickly simmers down, it does however get a another song out of the group near us “yellow, yellow, yellow”.

With just over twenty minutes gone ST should have put the result beyond doubt, but a free header ends up hitting the net high behind the goal to catch stray balls, instead of going in. Fans and players alike are left asking each other “how?”

“Everywhere we go”

It’s now FFC’s turn to help the home team get a third goal, when a defender makes a sliding block at the back post after a low cross, which dings off the post and goes out for a corner. “You lucky bugger” says the person next to us, and by the look on the FFC players face he knows that oh too well. Shortly after there is a big shout for an ST penalty, mainly from the fans behind the goal, more than anyone else, the referee waves it away, one supporter is convinced “Clattenburg would of given it”.

“We’re Ryman League and we’re having a laugh”

Whenever FFC do venture forward, they inevitably lose the ball and ST are quick to counter, the number 9 has not stopped, he wants his hat-trick, and when a simple side foot finish presents itself, he scuffs it wide, “Coxie” remonstrates one fan, but not for long as a new song quickly start’s “Cox will tear you apart again”.

“Just like watching Brazil”

We make our way round to the tunnel moments before the the final whistle, the flat cap wearing steward is doing quite a loud running commentary from the sidelines “that’s ours” he proclaims when the ball goes into touch. One fan gives an FFC player a piece of his mind when he takes a throw in from the wrong place “naughty boy” he says like a character from a Carry On film.

A considerable crowd has formed around the tunnel as the players walk off, the number 9 is clapped off, and lets out a loud “get in” towards the applauding crowd. Jubilant fanfare music is playing over the tannoy, but the ever singing group offer their own song to the away team “going down, going down, going down” a passing FFC fan on her way out mutters to a person in her group “good thing we are going down, don’t want to come back here again”.

“I’m the one who ran on the pitch” says one of the singers, who are in high spirits, and are happy to pose for a picture for us, before they head off to celebrate. “You are good luck” she tells us, “well not last time” I reply, considering they lost 6 - 1. Her reply is emphatic “no way, we had a great day, that was our cup final!”

What a warm welcome we received, what brilliant fans, the ST supporters have got it right “Non League Soul Not For Sale”.

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The Oxfam Cup - Tottenham Hotspur FC Vs AS Monaco FC, Europa League, White Hart Lane (10/12/15)

“I’m off to White Hart Lane, to see Tottenham in the Oxfam Cup” says the long haired, hat wearing, Ray Mears extra in front of me, as I get on the bus from work. Recent trips to the N17 area of North London, have been to visit the totally awesome Haringey Borough FC. A team at the opposite end of the football spectrum to Tottenham Hotspur FC (THFC), and one I’m sure many fans have passed, just like I had, but have never been in, but you really should I cannot sing their praises enough.

Tonight however will be my first visit of the season, to a place I first visited back in 1996. I subsequently went on to become a season ticket holder, but am now reduced to visits thanks only to the good graces of friends, Christmas and Birthday presents, or when tickets are at a reduced price, like tonight’s last group game of the Europa League. Already qualified, but with the group still to be won, the prize of avoiding the Champions League dropouts, for now at least, is still on offer. Standing between THFC and the chance to miss the likes of Valencia CF or FC Porto in the next round, are the visitors from the car park, the Principality team of AS Monaco FC (AS).

Coming out of Seven Sisters station, my night nearly comes to a premature end, when I'm almost run over by a man on a hoverboard, who is courteous enough to shout at me to inform me of his imminent arrival, expecting all pedestrians in his way to step to one side, because his floating sedan chair is coming through.

Not normally making my way to games this way, I forget about the circus that is catching a bus around here, the combination of rush hour and swelled numbers because of the game, has sent one driver into near meltdown, telling people to get off, get on, trapping a few people in the doors as he goes, causing a tailback of five or six buses long.

I’m relieved to hear the next stop is “Tottenham Sports Centre”, the short bus ride has been spent cheek to jowl, and once off it’s nostalgia overload. We have been to a lot of football over the last year, visited a few biggish grounds, but the vast majority have been non-league. The grandeur and the sheer amount of people, the rows of police vans, and horse mounted coppers, that all comes with a top flight fixture, are almost a shock.

The generators of the tarpaulin roofed stalls hum away, illuminating their eclectic mix of tat, pointy foam fingers, flags, scarves with new summer singing Son Heung-min’s face on or the much discussed ‘half-and-half’, one batch has a bit of a typo, “SUPERSPUR”.

Steam rises from the hotplates of the various burgers vans. “Follow the smell of the onions” says a man to a child whose hand he's holding as they cross the High Road. Small groups of people already committed to dinner standing up are huddled around, slightly hunched over, digging into God only knows.

Tom has conveniently had to “work late” this evening, his Arsenal-ness perhaps making him prefer to slave away, rather than go to a THFC game. Tonight then will now be the continued adventures of ‘One Man And His Fiance…….’, and with some time to kill before her arrival, I pay a visit to the official club tat shop, with its slightly more permanent roof. Inside it’s hard to make your way down the aisles for people considering ‘cockerel cufflinks’ or a ‘Spurs cat bowl’, my head is turned for a second by the Christmas baubles, but refrain, wondering if I would even be able to take them in the ground, as they would make a pretty nifty missile.

The section selling Ledley King’s book ‘King’ makes me stop, and I bow my head in respect to the omnipotent honeycombed kneed one, posing on the front cover, hand on chin, deep in thought. Seeing him always reminds me of the the impression my other half does of me, screaming his name like a ‘One Directioner’, from when I watched his striding, effortless all too short playing career, making that tackle against Arjen Robben, “LEDLEY!!!!”

A low rumble, quickly turns into a certified racket as a group of AS fans, maybe 30 strong, dance, sing, shout and wave flags, as they make their way to the South stand. Snaking through police fans, the nearby officers stay static, their low number, and good nature, mean it's not really worth turning their heads to acknowledge.

One of the pre mentioned friends, who gives me first dibs on spare tickets, and the very same person I stood through the agony and ecstasy of the 3 - 2 win at the Emirates in 2010, a season ticket holder himself, Matthew is meeting me pre game for a catch up. Our usual haunt, the Haringey Irish Centre, seems too far away, and considering it's a school night, a cup of tea and a wall to lean on will suffice.

Although Tottenham High Road is in a major state of change, perhaps the biggest since White Hart Lane was built, there are a few surviving landmarks, but some have been lost in the wake of progress. Gone in their own mysterious, smoke shrouded way are the small family businesses, gone is the red brick Salvation Army building, where the band would play at Christmas, saddest of all though, gone is the gate on Bill Nicholson Way. The Stonehenge of N17, the immovable Valentino’s is still there, as is, still nestled on the corner of Park Lane, Jacks Cafe.

Such are its ‘Shire’ like dimensions, a thick blanket of steam hugs the ceiling, and conscious I’m not far from touching it with my head. It almost has it’s own micro climate, and has gone from December cold outside, to Manaus hot inside. The man behind the counter pretty much tells us we are having “takeaway” as we only order a cuppa, and not a large plate, of whatever the other people are eating in the long narrow cafe.

Much like the AS fans arriving earlier and making just as much noise, but only smaller and younger, two single file rows of hand holding children arrive, watched over by nervous looking high viz waistcoat wearing adults, making sure not to lose one. Matthew is quite right in saying it's “brave taking kids to a football match for a school trip”, but it beats the Science museum for the 49th time.

Rain is now steadily falling, and when Rachel finally arrives, I’m ready to go in, but not before she tells us both about the guys on her tube journey trying to get a Pochettino song going to the tune of ‘supercalafragalisticexpialadoshus’, from Mary Poppins. “Mauricio Pochettino, he has a bit of whisky in his morning cappuccino, and he’s better than Mourinho, dum dilly dee, dum dilly da”.
We say goodbye to Matthew, and take the short walk to the 1950’s sized turnstile, it’s a bit of a squeeze and my mind does briefly flit to thoughts of the Fire Brigade and the jaws of life, but we are in, just. Beyond there is nothing of much note, just white walls and a few kiosks. We go in search of the blue round sign suspended above each small flight of yellow steps to their respective blocks, and quickly find ours, “36”.

The one thing that sticks in my mind the most about my first match, was that walk up the stairs, at the top beyond the barriers and stewards, you see the brilliantly bright green pristine pitch, the blue and white seats, the columns of the East stand, all the features that were then so new, but now all wonderfully familiar.

The AS keeper warms up in the goal in front of us, and seems to be letting in more than he is keeping out, the Park Lane make their opinion known “you're not very good, you're not very good”.

A large Europa League emblem covers the the centre circle, the continuous rain has pooled on top of it making the jobs of the people who have to lift it up and shimer it that little bit harder, I imagine. Their que to do so is the beginning of the montage of all montages played just before kick off, footage of glory days past, voiced over by Roger Lloyd-Pack, Trigger from ‘Only Fools & Horses, “we are about playing with style, we are Tottenham Hotspur”.

Not content with one stirring video, a second shortly follows, this one is less Jimmy Greaves, and a lot more Harry Kane. At one point a player featuring in it has a Terminator style eye not in an unacceptable red, but a much more agreeable shade of blue.

As the teams are read out, “Hugo, Hugo, Hugo” Rachel is happy to hear that “Son is playing” she has turned into quite a fan. THFC are all in white, and as the players set themselves, handshakes and coin tosses over, there is a brief exchange between the small contingent of AS fans, who are out numbered by stewards and mostly all standing in the first few rows of their block to our left, and the THFC fans here are part of the 1882 movement, standing to our right.

Started by the Fighting Cock Podcast @LoveTheShirt, the 1882 ethos of ‘Love The Shirt’ rings true with many fans, who have grown weary of the diminishing atmosphere, the lack of singing, not only giving their support for the first team, but all levels of the club. The blocks they occupy for games are always quick to sell out, even watching at home, you notice the rise in decibels when they are present.

Normally the tireless job of one steward to tell a few 100 if not thousands people to “sit down”, the usual instruction is conspicuous in its absence, and without it, the whole of the South Stand around us is on its feet. A roar goes up on the whistle “COME ON YOU SPURS”, “COME ON YOUR LILYWHITES” and the singing from 1882 starts, “everywhere we go”.

The corresponding fixture, in the near empty Stade Louis II stadium, saw THFC go ahead, only to be pegged back by a late goal for a 1 - 1 draw. Early on it seems unlikely to be a similar result, THFC are creating chances with ease, and after just 2 minutes Lamela scores “Yiddo, Yiddo, Yiddo, Yiddo” My view is from the aisle, and not my seat, as I let a late comer into our row, only for him to be back again before the players have stopped celebrating because he was in the wrong seat.

“It’s going to finish 1 - 0 now” says one fan to another, walking to their seats. The early goal not inspiring thoughts in him of a goal fest, but that he has seen all he is going to see, and it will be 88 minutes of sideways passing, luckily for us all, that could not be further from the truth.

Hands are raised, fingers begin to wiggle, and my favourite chant begins “Oh when the Spurs go marching in” but not quite to my liking. I think its best, when it starts slow, painfully slow, treacle slow, building up as it goes, drawing more and more people in, until it's a wall of noise. When it's sung in full flow, there is nothing quite like it, it will bring a tear to the eye of any football romantics like me.

Lamela strikes again, this time with a little help from the AS keeper, the fans again quick to offer their assessment of his performance “dodgy keeper”, the Argentine's shot is not particularly fierce, but the keeper lets the ball go under him. A Father and his small Son high-five in front of us, he is forced to stand on the seats, watching between the heads in front of him.

One fan close by celebrates the second goal by waving his fist and mouthing swear words at the handful of away fans. Unjustifiable anger distorts his face, he has the look of someone readying himself for war, and looks close to bursting a blood vessel or three, he might want to consider a prescription of ‘chill pills’.

It's not only the substitutes warming up, the fifth official standing on the goal line, goes through a routine of squats and jumps, and when Dele Alli jogs our way, he is serenaded with “oh Dele Alli, oh Dele Alli, knees bent, arms stretched, rah, rah, rah” Some other players are demanded to wave, most oblige, Nacer Chadli is a little more hesitant, but eventually caves in.

Despite their number and the on field display the AS fans sing, even trying a ‘Poznan’ for a brief moment. One topless fan, and one in a pink bucket hat, stand at the front, taking turns trying to whip up the crowd.

On 35 minutes the hat-trick is complete, an interception in midfield, and pass into the run of the forward, sees him bury it from just inside the box “Everywhere you go, always take Lamela with you” to the tune of the Crowded House hit, rings out from block 35.

Behind us our THFC very own Beavis and Butthead, whose topic of conversation range from exactly where is Monaco, how prepared one of them is now for a pitch invasion, because his new phone has a selfie setting, but most damning of all is a question one posed to the other about a friend “does he like coming to Tottenham anymore, or does he like watching it at home?”. SIGH!

The elongated number one on the jumbotron, which looks like a seven, signals the amount of extra time that has been added on, to what has been a routine but enjoyable first 45.

Normally people take the break to stretch their legs, after being sat for nearly an hour, but the fact most have been standing, means the opposite occurs. Instead though of being able to use the break in play to discuss the intricacy of the 4-2-3-1 or the value of a ‘False 9’, a scene plays out in front of us, between the Son and Father who celebrated the first goal together, that is enough to make you want to curl up in a ball and cry.

It would seem Daddy’s Highland Spring water bottle, had a bit more in it than your finest Scottish spring juice, and by halftime he is wrecked. We have all seen people a little worse for wear, I once saw a man be sick in a bush on the way to Craven Cottage on Boxing Day, as his family watched on, but this fella was in charge of a child. Perhaps slightly more worryingly he had started to become a bit handsy with women around him, in particular a young blond woman, whose hair he found particularly fascinating.

Perhaps saddest of all was watching his Son, trying to tell him to rein it in, not a sight you ever want to see, the position of responsibility thrust upon him, because Daddy can't hold his shit together. Such were the concerns of one Mum, there with her own family, and who had been forced to move seats, because of his advances, the stewards are eventually called over, and the man and his Son are removed from the ground, thankfully with no resistance.

The tune of ‘McNamara's Band’ playing clears my mind slightly, as I try and forget the horror of half time as the team's reappear and Lloris approaches,“Hugo, Hugo, Hugo”. Someone near us makes a blunt, but accurate assessment of AS “they are shit now, I’m told they were a very good team last year” just proving when all the money is pulled out, as quickly as it's put in, and what a deflating effect it can have on a team.

THFC have eased off to say the least, although when Rachel asks “have we switched off a bit this half” they almost score, but on 61 minutes it's not a huge surprise when AS grab a goal. When the away fans celebrate, “Monaco, Monaco, Monaco” the fans around us are quick to reply “we forgot that you were here”. It's always an anxious time for the typical THFC fan flying with a 3 goal lead, conceding to a lesser opposition and conjuring up thoughts of Manchester City FC in the FA Cup in 2004, letting a 3 goal lead slip and not until the final whistle blows, will everyone be able to relax.
In the home end the high pitched voice of one child, is the font of chants “what do we think of West Ham?” the fans reply “SHIT”. He is encouraged when someone shouts to him “give us a song little man” and Rachel quite rightly asks me “do we have children as Capos?”

“Can't take them, can't defend them” is one person's analysis of THFC at corners, after AS look close on a couple of occasions of taking advantage of this, but on 85 minutes Tom Carroll cements the three points. Dancing through the box, for a moment embodying the soul of Ricky Villa, he pokes home a truly lovely goal, Villa departs, but was with him long enough that he has scored the the best goal of the night, “Yiddo, Yiddo, Yiddo”.

4 -1, game over.

Walking to the bus stop, the rain has not relented, I notice an Arsenal FC sticker on a lamp post, and can’t believe it’s there. Also for the first I see the glowing white monolith that is Lilywhite House, towering above all around it, the clubs new administration building, looking like the headquarters of Marvel super villain.


Change’s will continue, and Christ a lot has changed, in the short time since my last visit, and a lot more will before THFC are playing in the ‘Lidl Arena’ or ‘Miss Selfridge Stadium’, along with the NFL’s newest franchise the ‘London Beefeaters’, when we will swapping the crossbar for field goals, and a bit of ‘gridiron’ action.  I’m not even sure how many more visits I will get before the familiar is no more, and like so many others we will all have to start again, when we move house.

Is it the bricks and mortar that make a home? Is it the memories made there? Or is it the people who live in it? The move is inevitable, we will have to wait and see, a lot will happen between now and then, players and managers will come and go, seasons will start and finish, games will be won and lost, but one thing is for sure, there will never be anywhere quite like White Hart Lane.

 

For all our photographs from the match, click HERE

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Raffle Players Anonymous - Welling United FC Vs Carlisle United FC, FA Cup 2nd Round, Park View Road (06/12/15)

The tail end of a storm named after a 90’s sitcom buffers me a little as I make the walk to the tube, I can't really complain though, if the morning news is anything to go by. The underground is far from my favourite mode of transport, but early on a Sunday morning it's a little less commuters shouting “can you move down please” and a little more the dishevelled husks of revellers rolling home from the night before, or the devastated faces of those people who have to work on a Sunday. I’m not a religious person, but Sundays are for roasts, that old film you have already seen 100 times and Italian football, not for having to help quench the constant thirst for retail therapy.

Tom is making his own way, so it's a solo mission from North to South, and it's not long until I’m missing out on the front seat of the driverless DLR (Docklands Light Railway) , but I’m quickly above ground, and the chap who did get the front seat, is having a whale of a time. Admittedly it’s not the most picturesque of days, but the unique perspective the DLR gives of vastly contrasting parts of London, from the high shimmering towers of Canary Wharf to the Tate and Lyle factory looming over rows of terraced houses on its doorstep, is enough to keep me captivated until I disembark at the last stop on the line, Woolwich Arsenal.

Once the all important coffee is bought, I find Tom and we climb aboard our bus, we only have a 20 or so minute journey to today's ground. We are back on the Wembley trail, it’s the 2nd round, and as the non-league numbers dwindle, for the first time, we will see a team we have already watched in the competition this season

The opinion of most people who were at Mill Field in the 4th qualifying round, was that Welling United FC (WU) are lucky to still be in the cup. Only a late goal saved their blushes, after Grays Athletic FC had chance after chance, but could not capitalise, only to convincingly win 4 - 0 in the replay.

Our bus ride is unremarkable, except for one curiosity, which leaves us both scratching our heads. Behind one bus stop, in front of a bungalow/funeral directors, is a row of gravestones, of different styles and designs. Not your usual garden decor, I’m more of an ornamental pond man myself, but I’m sure you get what people on the Apprentice would call ‘footfall’ and not a lot else is going on in the crazy paving garden, so why not display your wares. It was one headstone in particular that caught our eye, like a tacky advert for double glazing, written in gold across black marble “this memorial £399.90”.

The very regal sounding ‘Guy Earl Of Warwick’ is where we disembark, only this is a busy high road, with a couple of car dealerships and a jellied eel shop, surely not enough room for a football club one step below the football league. We have been surprised a few times in the last year, of grounds secluded by houses or a supermarket, but wedging in a football club here would be a minor miracle, but blessed be on the 6th day god built Park View Road where WU have been playing since 1977, I guess long before Wrangler jeeps and about the same time that someone last enjoyed a jellied eel.

The winged horse of WU welcomes you through the turnstiles, but not before the away team, Carlisle United FC (CU) are filmed getting off the coach, as the BBC & BT Sport continue their considerable coverage. This also gives Tom enough time to add a very snazzy pin to his collection to go along with the WU one, he now gets a small silver replica FA Cup and he is beyond delighted.

CU are a team who have every right to moan about the weather, considering their ground Brunton Park is under about 6 foot of water, Desmond Ambrose storm has hit Cumbria hard in the last 24 hours. The grey skies, and a few spots of rain are relatively tropical in comparison to what they and their fans have left behind, at silly o'clock this morning to get here for a 14:00 kick off.

Once inside the ground, the sanctuary of the fantastically named ‘Wings Bar’, which conjures up visions of a venue in a 70’s disco film, is sought out quickly, considering today we are standing on the uncovered, bare concrete steps of the terrace behind the goal, and kickoff is over an hour away.

Like a moth to a flame I’m drawn in by the signed football shaped tractor beam, sitting on top of a box of Quality Street flanked by a bottle of Pinot Grigio and whisky. I have handed over £2 to the woman behind the white patio table, with the prize’s expertly displayed in front of her, and only the clunk of it hitting the bottom of the bucket, collecting for the Cumbria flood fund, do I realise what I have done. Tom has seen enough, and walks off, I take some relief that it’s going to very good cause, but will have to attend ‘raffle players anonymous’ next week, I really feel like I have let my sponsor down.

It’s hard to ignore the club shop on the way to the bar, the door propped open, and a man clad head to toe in all things WU, sitting in front of a large St George’s cross with WUFC written across it. The shop itself is not a lot bigger than your average garden shed, you could probably stand arms outstretched and touch each wall, but what it lacks in space it makes up for in character. Every inch of the wall and ceiling is covered in old shirts and flags, a large part of the room is devoted to football programmes old and new, from different teams, and it’s a wrench to not indulge in a few purchases. I have one meeting to go to already next week, I don't need to go to ‘programme hoarders anonymous’ as well.

Wings bar is already bustling as we walk through the glazed, dark brown, double doors, and into a cosy TV lined room, with a choice of the previous days match between Stoke City FC Vs Man City FC or a live offering from Serie A. Wherever there isn’t a TV, there is some kind of sports memorabilia, the dark red walls are barely visible, not just football though, someone round here is a boxing fan. When I finally find a seat, after marveling as the Playstation set up on one of the TV’s I have Muhammad Ali and Carl Froch looking at me from behind a frame.

Sitting next to the doors we came in through, I get a cold breeze up my back, with the constant stream of people coming in. Behind us it’s hard to not notice the tin foil marvel, the home crafted masterpiece FA Cup, leant up against the window, in one corner of the room. What makes this one a bit special, is that it has wings,Tom comments on the quality of its construction “it's well made, they are normally all floppy”.

“We can beat Chelsea” says one fan only half joking to a friend on the phone discussing the possibilities of the next rounds draw, as we make our way to find our spot for the game. The lack of cover, and the drizzle means Tom is a little down beat “this could get miserable”.

Standing at the back of the terrace, the constant noise of traffic, being at eye level with people on the top deck of the bus, is a first and with nearby shops almost on top of the ground, means people are able to stand on a fire escape and take some pictures. From what I’m sure is normally a plumb spot to watch the game, high behind the goal, is today slightly obscured by the scaffolding that has been erected with a camera on top. It’s operator making his way up, as the teams come out to warm up to a bit of U2, the same U2 song that plagued us all, for those few sad seasons that ITV had the football highlights, and it sends a shiver down my spine every time I hear it.

There are plenty of kids in scarves, most of them taking the opportunity to have a picture taken pitch side, with about 30 minutes to kick off Tom rightly says “it’s filling up nicely”. We are joined by our FA Cup stalkers @AcrossParkBlog who are continuing their own cup odyssey, this will be their 4th time seeing WU, as they follow the winner from each round. Who better then to get the low down on the home team from, “Welling are ruthlessly efficient”, and thinking back on the performance at Grays, that was exactly what they did, an undistinguished display, but got the job done when required.

The one occasion I don’t bring a umbrella we need one, and every time I open my notebook, the pages get a bit soggy, I’m always nervous of doing a Steve Mcclaren impression, and Tom confirms that I could look a little “wally with the brolly”.

A voice booms over the tannoy, welcoming all in attendance, and starts to read out the team sheet, the gap between names, makes it sound more like a memorial than the lineup, and is in stark contrast to the WU warm up, where the whole team stands in a row on the edge of the pitch, doing what I can only describe as a dance hall move, not quite a Bogle, but a lot of hip swiveling going on.

The TV tower is causing a few issues for some people's view, people take turns standing in one place, having a look, not liking what they see, moving a foot to one side, taking another look, and deciding that small shift in position, gives them the ideal view of the match.

With kickoff just over 15 minutes away, WU finished the warm up with shooting practice, in the goal right in front of us, and in turn have the whole crowd entertained. The proximity of some pricey cars, and shop fronts, means a WU coach has taken up position in the street behind us, ready to try and prevent any damage. He is called into action on a few occasions, as his team’s accuracy is well off, even the high net can’t catch the ball, and he is sent scrambling trying to stop an accident, or a bill for someone’s window. Every time a shot is high, a huge cheer goes up, and the crowd turn in anticipation, the largest cheer is probably when a nearby police van is about to get whacked, only to be saved by the branches of a nearby tree.

‘We will rock you’ by Queen plays around the ground, and all eyes are fixed on the main stand. Its mix of wooden and plastic seats are all nearly full, and under the corrugated metal roof, between the two dugouts, a camera films, which not long ago had been doing a interview on the pitch and now waits as we all are for the teams to come out.

Queen is quickly replaced by ‘Live and let die’ by none other than Wings, PERFECT! When the teams are read out this time the home team players get a warm reception, the away team get booo’s.

Within a minute from the off, CU get a chance from a cross whipped in from the left, “reds settle” shouts someone from the bench, “wake up Welling, for fucks sake” bemoans a fan near us. What follows is a one sided game between two teams, a league apart, it is quite apparent the chance of any cup upset, is zero.

“United, united, united, united” sing the CU fans who are here in great numbers, standing opposite the main stand, almost filling the smaller, more modern looking one. A few flags hang from the back of it, and one has been draped over the advertising boards pitchside.

At the opposite end of the ground is an identical terrace full of what would seem the noisier of the fans, and they respond to the CU singing “we are wings, we are wings, we are wings”. Occasionally a car goes along behind us, beeping its horn, one person has wound down the window shouting “come on Welling!”

The initial nerves of the first 15 minutes or so, are slowly subsiding, the WU number 20 in central midfield is holding things together admirably, and seems the main fulcrum of the side, but his team mates are guilty of giving the ball away far too easily. On about 18 minutes CU go 1-0 up, and there is no looking back. A simple through ball between the defence, the scorer out muscles one WU player in the box enough to get away a slightly scuffed shot past the keeper.

CU’s scorer runs along the touchline, high fiving the traveling fans, “oh we love you Carlisle we do, oh Carlisle we love you”. They are almost treated to a quick second goal, not long after the restart, the WU bench are livid, the team is slow and sloppy and sitting back far too much “up, up, up” shouts a coach.

“Come on Welling, come on Welling”

Mid conversation, Tom interrupts me and lifts his camera to his eye, the tin foil creation count hits two, this time in the front row of the main stand “oh another FA Cup is out”.

With 30 mins gone both WU players and fans shout for a penalty, Toms opinion is that it “would of been harsh”.

CU double their lead just before half time. A cross is cleared off the WU line, and the resulting corner goes the long way round to getting in the back of the net. The first ball in is well defended, the ball bobbling around is poorly punched to the edge of the box, where a CU player hits a low shot, that the keeper makes up for the iffy punch with a low save, the loose ball once again falls to a CU player whose shot goes in off a teammate.

“Oh when the blues go marching in”

The WU players and fans alike are all convinced that the last touch was off a hand, and remonstrate with the referee, as the CU players celebrate, he stands pointing to the centre circle, shaking his head, with a large smug look on his face.

His half time whistle is followed by a chorus of “boooos”. CU’s fans are understandably happy, at their team’s test book performance “United, United, United, United”.

Tom has headed off before the final whistle, I’m left alone, hanging on tenterhooks, waiting for the raffle numbers to be announced, “£336 has so far been raised for the Cumbria flood fund”. I hold my ticket, the signed ball first prize will not be mine, the second prize bottle of Scotch will not be mine. The 3rd prize “white ticket 296, 297, 298, 299, 300”.

I take a second, staring at the ticket in my hand, and as the voice on the tannoy reads the numbers out again, I realise we have done it, not the first prize admittedly, BUT WE WON SOMETHING IN A RAFFLE, but I’m on my own, Tom has gone to the toilet, I refrain from hugging and celebrating with strangers, and wait for his return.

“I can’t believe you have won” he says, like I would joke about a thing like that, but you can tell he is relieved, my dry spell is over, and I have that winning air about me. There is a bottle of Pinot Grigio with my name on, all I have to do is collect it from the club shop, but that means making my way through the hoards, which Tom just explained was not the easiest, but full of endeavor and pioneer spirit, I set off.

The second place winner is a CU fan, and is equally happy to be getting his hands on his winnings, a bottle of Bells, only to be told, because it’s glass, he can’t take it into the ground, and the same goes with me, we will both be back at full time. Nothing however can dampen my spirits, I swagger back to Tom, I move through the crowd like something from the Matrix.

“Welcome the Wings” says the voice over the tannoy, speaking over ‘Eye of the tiger’ playing as the players come out. Despite the motivational music, and the upbeat voice, there is a distinct lack of enthusiasm around the ground.

Conversations around us cover a broad spectrum, the game itself is doing little to hold people’s attention. One man starts to sing ‘Matchstalk Men and Matchstalk Cats and Dogs’ by Brian and Michael, others talk about how odd it is to be segregated, and not being able to swap ends, as they usually would, and a group that have appeared for the second half, standing at the foot of the scaffolding, are very vocal, easily antagonised, and are directing it at either the bench or their number 10. “He will get the sack Faz” bellows one of the them, “change it now, change it while we are still in it” adds another.

The first real thing the home fans have to celebrate is not a goal, but their keeper preventing one. At the far end a CU player goes down under a challenge, and the referee points to the spot. Saving low to his left the man in goal does his best to make sure WU still have the slenderest of chances of getting something out of the game.

When WU do have their own shout for a penalty the referee declines. A long ball is expertly controlled on the player’s chest, once in the box, his touch looks to have fooled two players shadowing him, leaving just the keeper to beat. One of the two players sent the wrong way with the clever touch, looks as one man put it to have “taken his fucking legs away” but the man in black had other ideas.

WU number 10 eventually goes off, and not to the bench but straight down the tunnel, much to the satisfaction of the nearby group “shit, shit, shit, shit”, and not long after start singing “burger in the goal, burger in the goal”. Not being sure if someone has hiked their lunch in disgust, on in their opinion someone is a little rotund.

Although WU have looked a lot more spirited in the 2nd half, you get the feeling that perhaps CU have taken the foot off the gas a little. All signs of a comeback diminish when another tackle in the WU box, results in another penalty, and a red card, the player who is sent off takes an age, and when he is finally off the pitch, the CU penalty taker dispatches the spot kick top left, no chance of a save this time.

“Deh, deh, deh, deh, deh Carlisle”

It’s become very gloomy at Park View Road, the clouds have rolled in, the floodlights are on, and the fans continue to give their opinion to the management “very negative”.

On about 70mins WU get a 4th. A ball across the box from the right, is pushed out into the centre of the box by the keeper, to be side footed in by a CU player on the penalty spot.

“What a load of rubbish”

“Deh, deh, deh fucking useless”

One fan is a little more optimistic “we’re going to win 5 - 4”

“I hope that camera ain’t got sound” says Tom, as the swearing is turned to constant, and someone has had enough, and chucks a “toilet roll on the pitch, toilet roll on the pitch”, but even the noisy gang have gone quiet now, much like the rest of the ground, except for the CU fans who are jubilant “Wembley, Wembley”. The only time the home fans stir, is when they ironically jeer a decision that goes their way, they all feel a little hard done by today.

“We nearly scored, we nearly scored” says someone a little high pitched, and as Tom puts it “how did that not go in?!?!” A free kick from the left, sails over the back peddling CU keeper, who can’t get near it, and is only saved by the inside of the post, the ball bounces down, along the goal line, and is cleared.

A 5th and final goal for CU, this time the ball is passed tamely across the box, there is little effort to clear it by the now leggy defence, and the CU attacker tucks it in from close range. “We are not very good” someone even attempts to start a slow hand clap, but it never gets off the ground. It’s almost 6, but it hits the post and I’m sure most people like me were convinced it was going in.

“BOOOOOOOOO” on the final whistle, the biggest round of applause is from the home fans,towards the away fans, “well traveled”, and how right they are, God only knows what a state peoples houses and livelihoods are in because of the weather, and they still schlep 300 plus miles to watch the game, very commendable.

Before we leave, but not forgetting to pick up a fine 2014 vintage Pinot, the tin foil cup count hits a record 3, a young girl in a woolly hat, has one with red and white ribbons on the handles.

Once on the bus home there is a long queue of traffic disappearing up the high road in front of us, visible through the steamed up windows of the top deck, Tom takes up his seat like the cool kid he is on the back row, and tells me “wake me up, when we get there”.

 

 

For all our photographs from the match, click HERE

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