Back On The Burgers - Ware FC Vs Bowers & Pitsea FC, Bostik League North, Wodson Park (24/10/17)

“Back on the burgers” are Tom’s first words getting into the car, as he not only confirms he is in better shape than he was on our last outing but inadvertently names this week's blog before even having said hello.

Heading North tonight, our stop start journey along swollen rush hour filled roads takes Tom on a trip down memory lane. Driving through East Finchley and then Muswell Hill, he noticeably lights up. The green trees and smog-less skies, a welcome change to the IPA drenched dystopia he has voluntarily moved to in East London, all in his quest to be ‘cool’.

Once in leafy Hertfordshire in the low crisp light of an early October night, it makes the supposed aforementioned leafy parts of North London, look like they are pretending.

It’s not totally apparent that we have arrived in the correct place, when we pull into another leisure centre expecting to find a football ground. The long skinny blue gate, with WFC for Ware FC (WFC) written in even thinner white metal struts gives us an inkling that we are where we are supposed to be, but other than the gate and the man tending to it in a high viz jacket, there are very few signs of life.

Not long out of the car, looking for the way in, we are soon set upon in the nicest of ways by a short and softly spoken man in a long black WFC jacket. Tapping on the initials on his chest, BS for Bill Spink WFC’s Secretary, he welcomes us to Wodson Park.

Bill doesn't beat around the bush and we are subjected to a whirlwind breakdown of the clubs current fortunes, “lots of first teamers out injured” he explains as the reason for their less than glowing recent run of form, but he’s quick to tell us the “kids” deputising for the “first teamers” did “well” and that two of their recent missing numbers are “back tonight”.

With a little bit of a nod and a wink he suggests we keep an eye out for one of their players in particular, one with a European pedigree, who scored against “Anderlecht” in the “Champions League” he explains. Having yet seemingly not taken a breath, we are both impressed by Bill's machine gun delivery and the fact we might be seeing a player of such stature.

Bill moves on from WFC’s on field dilemmas, peeking up at us from the brim of his New York Red Bull cap, and fills us in a bit about WFC as a club. It’s “ family run” he tells us, between him and his “five daughters” who are spread out throughout the club in different roles, from the treasurer to the tea bar.

WFC’s opponents tonight might just be the club we’ve crossed paths with the most these last three years, Bowers & Pitsea FC (BP). Arriving not long after us, it's hard to miss the large outstretched hand of the clubs goalkeeping coach, Wayne. Ever positive and happy to chat, with arms crossed he tells me he is “confident” they’ll be heading back to Essex with three points, as long as they do all the “basics right” they should get a “result” he adds.

Much like Bill did, talking in almost hushed tones, he points down the the long tunnel at the players milling about on the pitch at the other end, and singles out a player worth paying extra attention to tonight, BP’s keeper, who he tells us he has what it takes to “go far”.

I’m parched, a drink is in order, we’ve not stopped gassing to one person or another since arriving and Tom is clearly back to his best returning from the bar with two pints of Coke and some “Mini Cheddars”, nice to see he's got his appetite back.

The large function room with the bar in, is half bathed in light, half in darkness. The dance floor at the far end, the other side of the half drawn partitions although a bit gloomy, still seems like a more than adequate place for some of the local kids to use as a makeshift playground. The lit side, with its small bar decorated with the club crest that’s seen better days, it’s covered pool and fussball tables and walls adorned with ever so slightly wonky pictures and club memorabilia is fairly empty, except for us and one lady with a pint who looks to be playing Candy Crush on her tablet, however all this is about to change.

Enter stage left a hyper member of the WFC staff in club polo shirt, who is excitable to say the least, even more so than the kids charging around on the parquet dance floor or the one perched behind the bar who has to be kept being told not to pull any pints.

“Lively” he says in response to questions of “how was Madrid?”. A fellow Spurs fan he tells the small crowd gathering around him that he had to “keep pinching” himself, having just watched Tottenham go toe to toe with the European Champions, and leaving the Bernabeu with a well earned point.

Maybe it's a Hertfordshire thing, or a Ware thing, but he also much like Bill doesn't seem to need to take a breath. With an ever growing audience he reels off his thoughts on selling Kyle Walker, informing all that are listening that if Spurs won the league he’d “spend two weeks in Thailand” and goes into quite graphic detail about the intimate act he would be happy to perform if it meant Spurs re-signed Gareth Bale.

The glare of the floodlights coming through the double doors and the faint sound of Natalie Imbruglia is my cue to go in search of a programme, leaving the Spurs debate now in full flow, which has moved onto the pros and cons of selling Luka Modric, where one lady makes her position very clear on the Croatian midfielder, let's just say she’s not a fan.

A small laminated sign pinned to a fence alludes to a 50/50, but when I enquire with the women on the turnstiles, they have a feeling that it might not be happening tonight and I’d have to ask the “lady
behind the bar”. I retrace my steps, on reaching the bar I'm disappointed to hear there will be no 50/50, the notice is a little out of date. Perhaps sensing my abject disappointment, the lady behind the bar has an alternative “can do you a scratch card?” she offers.

As she rummages high up on a shelf, searching for a while, I get the feeling this isn't a regular occurrence. I’m overwhelmed with the excitement of being able to possibly win “£20” according to the slightly dusty card she has finally found, but in equal measure I feel a bit pathetic, this infliction of mine is getting out of hand.

It was only ever going to be Tottenham and Arsenal I picked from the list of teams, the pen I’ve been given only half works, I’m offered a different one, but I’ve come prepared, soon producing my own from the deep pocket of my coat and just about manage to scribble our names in the small boxes. “The joy” says Tom sarcastically, as I hand over my money, transaction complete, fingers tightly crossed, will tonight be the night?

Sitting in one of the blue seats of the main stand, noticing the odd white one, which I put down to a bit of non league recycling there is not much to say about Wodson Park. Surrounded by fading autumn trees, there is a covered terrace on the opposite side and little else. Either side of the main stand, the two dugouts are Stourbridge FC apart, they are closer to the corner flags, than each other. I’m not sure if its normal, or just for the pleasure of the paying public tonight, but the overpowering smell of Deep Heat, emanating from the changing rooms in the bowels of the stand, is so powerful, I get a bit of a head rush.

Coming down from my eucalyptus high, I’m soon aware of many familiar BP faces, particularly Darren, BP’s fixer and all round top bloke, he joins me in the stand, perching on one of the small steps next to me.

“What's the team?” he asks a fellow BP supporter, “same as Saturday?” he asks again before they can reply, they confirm that is the case, and he seems satisfied, “do the job”. By the sounds of it BP putting out the same team two games in a row is just short of a minor miracle at the moment, due to the “injuries, injuries, injuries” that have blighted them the last “month or so”, he tells me. Darren who knows a thing or two about football pitches explains the one at WFC is a real “leveller” and looking at the the state of the undulating centre line, it's anything but level.

Music, much like what Toms eats and my gambling are a pretty common theme throughout our blogs and for once it's nice to be able to share with others who subscribe to my theory on what music a club plays says about it and the choices of the DJ sets. “Better music than our place” says Darren as the Beatles start to play, and it has not been lost on me so far tonight the eclectic but more than acceptable playlist.

“Can't stand we run out to Robbie Williams” says one member of the BP group, visibly appalled by the clubs choice of walk out music. His face contorted with disgust at the mere mention of the “Steps” greatest hits album which reared its head at a recent home match, “fucking tragedy”.

A fare few pie and chips are flying out the tea bar hatch, but non yet in Tom's direction. BP are warming up now in their very agreeable pink bibs and Darren asks a late arrival for their prediction for tonight, “what you reckon Joe?”, “take another scrappy 1 - 0” he replies, I can assure you Joe you're gonna get a lot more than that.

Straight off the ‘Best Music for Dads to drive to' CD, Art for Art's Sake by 10cc starts to play, as the players make their way in and the BP manager Rob Small addresses the many tracksuit clad BP payers, that he doesn't have at his disposal tonight, “a lot of talent in this stand” he says before disappearing down the scrap heap challenge creation of a tunnel.

Seven Nation army by the White Stripes is certainly a step up on “the fat dancer from Take That” to quote Noel Gallagher, as entry music. “Come on Bowers” shouts a fan, just before we are all deafened by the PA welcoming us to “Wodson Park”.

“No excuses” shouts Rob Small with the game only seconds old, “set your tone” he says to the players, standing alone on the edge of the box, having just told the BP kit man leaning against the railing just behind him, half jokingly half not “not to talk to him”. Something I’ve learnt from our time in Rob’s presence, he is never anything but focused on the job at hand.

The first ten minutes certainly do set the scene for what might be the most extraordinary forty five minutes of football either of us have ever seen. BP have an early shout for a penalty declined, then go close with a half volley “should of scored that” says Tom as the chance goes begging. “Come on Bowers” yells a supporters from behind the WFC goal that is living a bit of a charmed life.

It certainly won't be the most memorable of goals tonight, and somewhat against the run of play, it's the home team who take the lead. Assisted by the face of their number 10, who stops a full blooded clearance with his mush from close range without even flinching. Tom christening him a “beast”, he unwittingly sets up a teammate in the box, who at the second attempt, his first having been stopped by the BP keepers boat race, he pokes home, putting WFC in the lead.

In the next four minutes between WFC going ahead, and BP equalising in equally scrappy fashion, the game continues to show signs of being an absolute barnstormer. “This games got goals in it” says Tom, moments before our second of the night, but not before we are treated to a masterful pirouette by the WFC number 10 who beautifully pivots one footed on the ball to evade his marker, the BP keeper going full Nuear, rushing off his goal line to chest the ball down and start an attack from the back. I notice that the odd white seats in the main stand are not random but spell out WFC and the pre match words of Bill seem like an ominous premonition, the likes of which are normally dished out by long haired ladies in the Sheriff of Nottinghams dungeon “we'll score early, then lose the game”.

BP are relentless, a constant threat, Rob Small at some points emulating the great Ossie Ardiles, by adopting the infrequently used tactic of one at the back, and nine in attack, they flood forwards onto a hapless looking WFC defence at every opportunity, with always three or four players in the box, ready to receive the ball. Tom hits the nail on the head, “Bowers play like they wanna go home at half time”.

Not for the first time tonight WFC’s keeper is required to pull off a quite excellent save to prevent BP going further ahead, but there is very little he can do a few minutes later, with twenty two minutes gone. The surging run of BP's number 9 goes unabated by the WFC defence and hes allowed to pick his spot and then curl a low shot into the bottom corner from the edge of the box, and well out of the reach of the man in the WFC goal.

Tom so delighted by BP’s second lets out an audible whimper, like a Victorian lady who just saw a shin. The more robust gents behind the goal let out a much more masculine “come on Bowers” . While the WFC team argue among themselves, BP complete their ascension to the top, and with a poetic coincidence not far in the distance we are treated to some fireworks, filling up the night sky, set off I'm sure to signal and celebrate BP’s turnaround and unrelenting attacks.

Before we go any further I need you to join me, I need you to travel back to 2002 and the World Cup
quarter final in Shizuoka, England Vs Brazil. If I remember correctly I was still in my dressing gown, as I was for most of that tournament due to the time difference, when England crashed out in the year we were going to to do it right, thanks to a free kick from a certain toothy long haired Barcelona player. The debate afterwards was not is the pony tailed gooner goalkeeper who was prone to such gaffs, Nayam, at fault, but did Ronaldinho mean it? Was it a cross miss judged by the man in goal or was it a spectacular set piece from a player at the heights of his powers?

Fast forward now to a cold October night in Hertfordshire, thankfully I’m not in my dressing gown, a similar debate breaks out, did he mean it? I think we’ve just witnessed what might already be our goal of the season, only ten games gone, Tom agrees it was a very fine goal, but is not convinced however that it was his intention.

From all of thirty five to forty yards the BP number 4 has creamed in the most audacious free kick straight into the top corner. Five keepers on form were not getting close to it, you have to ask yourself was one of the nearby fireworks attached to the ball?

I’m not sure who are more shocked the fans behind the goal, each one letting out a “woohoo” arms in

the air, having just witnessed something a bit special or the scorer who is soon mobbed by his teammates on the pitch, and by those in the stand in a big red and white bundle. The final congratulation is from his manager, who runs along the touchline, for a handshake and a hug.

“All fucking dayyyyyy” screams one BP player as WFC attempt a shot directly from the restart, that fails to catch out the keeper. As if this game wasn't loopy enough already, if that had gone in, Tom and I’s brains might have just squirted out our ears like melting cheese.

There seems little chance of this game slowing down, swinging back and forth from end to end WFC almost get back into the game straight away with a stunning volley but it's just off target. I’m not sure how the man in charge is able to keep up, at one point the BP players have to be reminded by Rob Small that “you're arguing, we’re playing” as they remonstrate with the man in charge, with the game still going on around them.

“Bowers relax” instructs Rob Small who, who might just be the politest manager in football, finishing most of his barked orders with a “thank you”. WFC are certainly seeing plenty of possession they're not out of this by any stretch even though they’re two goals behind, Rob has to caution his players that they need to “focus on being better without the ball”.

With ten left to play of the half, BP send a thunderbolt just off target, that crashes off the mental fence behind the goal, causing a couple of the small group watching on to jump. There was a part of me that thought tonight was going to be a little dull, but when BP are involved, that is very rarely the case. Their own manager even wants them to embrace the less glamorous sides of the game, “enjoy defending” he tells his players.

WFC go close in the final five minutes of the half, there is then a brief stoppage when the BP keeper has to hop the fence around the pitch to retrieve the ball so we can play on. In their number 10 the home side have a player who is noticeably a notch or two above his teammates. “Lovely touch” says Tom as he delicately flicks the ball to a teammate, unfortunately for him, the rest of his team just don't seem up to it.

There are the occasional flickers from WFC of what Tom suggests might be the “greatest comeback of all time”, but for once even I have to admit that's a little dramatic, not sure were getting treated to an Istanbul 2005 tonight. It’s more likely going to be a case of BP running “away with it”, which he points out is certainly a possibility too. BP are far from one dimensional, and seem to have many different ways to hurt you. In the dying moments of the half, they force two quite spectacular saves from the WFC keeper. “He did it again” gasps Tom when it seemed a goal was the only outcome.

“Well played Bowers” cheer the fans clapping their team off for a well earned orange slice. I need a rest having just watched the most frantic and all consuming half of football we've ever seen, so slump down on the back row of the terrace to compose myself. Tom is off in search of food, and for some reason “hopes” the tea bar has got “something left” I’m not sure why, it's not exactly busy here tonight.

For Tom the “foods not as exciting as the football” and a little dear in his learned opinion, £5.20 a little steep for burger and chips.

WFC are out well early, “they don't look happy” says Tom who reckons they have been given a “rollicking”. One player does his best to motivate his teammates “liven up Ware” but it's a tad half arsed, when BP make their way out, one players roaring “come on Bowers, come on”, is a little more convincing.

“I’m back” announces Tom, who watched the opening moments of the new half seated on the terrace steps behind me finishing his dinner, watching BP as I did come flying out of the traps. “Great start” he adds as BP continue to pile on the pressure. The away side hit the bar early on, after a vital touch from the WFC keeper who despite conceding three is on track to be their man of the match. “Wake up” screams a WFC player as a BP header flies just wide and their goal again is living on borrowed time.

BP clearly have plenty of goals in them, however WFC are showing a modicum more composure. They almost catch BP cold, when their concentration slips for a moment. “Watch the short one!” shouts the BP player, as WFC line up to take a corner, no-one takes notice of the players foresight, and WFC do just that, play the corner short, and almost grab a goal.

“Starting to rain” grimaces Tom with the palm of his hand turned skywards as a single spot of rain falls from the clear black sky, but who has time to worry about that, BP have just had a goal bound shot blocked and then their bench has “ringside seats” as Tom puts it to a hefty tackle right in front of them, things are getting heated.

Along with the WFC number 10 and the man in goal, their number 4 has also impressed. Playing the “Makelele” role as Tom puts it, at times is “bossing it” single handedly putting out numerous BP fires at once, trying desperately hard to hold it together, but one man can only do so much.

“Jesus Christ we just had a free kick” says the forlorn WFC player, hands over his face, walking away from the scene of BP’s fourth. Only moments before his team were considering their own set piece from a dangerous potion, but now find themselves even further behind.

A minute later WFC’s number 4 is booked, as frustrations start to boil over and another BP player looks to be on the injury list, limping off. The game as Tom puts it is getting a little “cynical” and one BP player looks very lucky to still being on the pitch as he just seemed to straight up kick one of the opposition.

“First of the half?” asks Tom with half an hour of the second forty five gone, following WFC off target attempt.

Tom continues to give every player a top flight equivalent, “hes like Xavi” he labels the WFC number 10 who admittedly has flair and a range of passing but as demonstrated “can't take a free kick”. In a good position, his attempt is poor and it's straight into the keepers arms.

BP continue to be so dominant like “a well oiled machine” says Tom and they continue to “enjoy defending”. WFC do graze the BP crossbar late on, thanks to a quite brilliant cross field pass from “Xavi” that started the attack, and Tom tells me he “told” me, quite how much like the diminutive Spaniard the WFC player was. The away team almost make it five, players are telling each other to “finish” but the arse of the keeper stops it rolling over the line.

As Tom puts it, it's somewhat of an “unsavoury” end to the game, as an almighty “bust up” as he calls it involving most of the players from both sides breaks out, marring what until now has been a cracker of a match. The BP fans tell the players to “get him out of there” one of their players in particular seems a little hot headed and needs extracting from the situation, another supporter reminds them they’re “4-1 up” and there really is no need for all this silliness. One fan asks for calm, and for his team to “see this game out please”.

Despite the referee having had words with those involved, dishing out yellows to the main protagonists the nonsense rumbles on, and again he is forced to intervene. Not long after and perhaps for “something he said” Tom reckons, WFC number 7 is shown a straight red, we truly have seen it all now.

What feels like well, well into injury time, WFC grab a consolation second goal, a towering header,
that is received with muted applause. The tunnel being extended is normally a good sign that the end
of the match is imminent, however its been pulled out a while now, and the game feels like it's never going to end.

Rob Small instructs the players to thank the travelling fans, when the whistle is finally blown on what has been an eventful evening to say the least, but not before both he and Wayne have shaken hands with the WFC keeper, who after the the BP with the wonder foot, has been the stand out performer, with some outstanding stops or "Match of the Day save of the season shit” as Tom so eloquently put it. The few away supporters meet the players at the side of the pitch and there is an exchange of high fives and thank yous.

On our way to the car, I pop into the bar, and its hard to miss the many solemn faces. With hopes of a win on the scratch card, only to be told it was “Middelsborough” under the small silver square, leaving I probably look as jolly as the WFC fans drinking their sorrows away.

"Don't really like blue, but I like their kit" says Tom about WFC's two tone kit, a striped number of navy and sky, when summarising tonight's epic clash on the drive home, his 'Spark's Final Thought' if you like. For once the kit of either team is low down my list of things to get excited about. Although the second half failed to quite live up to the first, you would have to have been close to super human to have been able to keep that up for a whole ninety minutes, over all we were genuinely treated to one of the most thrilling, entertaining, insert adjective here, games we've ever seen, it quite literally had everything.

Wayne was at least half right, it was certainly worth keeping an eye on a goal keeper tonight, but it wasn't BP's. The man between the sticks for WFC was outstanding, a diamond in the rough, I suspect Wayne's prediction that BP's keeper will "go far" could quite also easily apply to the WFC number 1. If it hadn't been for him it could have been a cricket score.

Almost home, I still can't decide what was more worrying: The fact I nearly fell over retrieving a ball, how much I now have a complete irrational hatred of Middlesbrough, because it was they who denied me £20 quid or the Nostradamus ability of Bill, whose prediction of tonight's outcome was so accurate, its almost scary. It's always the quite ones.

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#StormBrian - Wimborne Town FC Vs Swindon Supermarine FC, Evo-Stik Southern League West, Cuthbury (21/10/17)

The name Brian is not one that instantly strikes fear into the hearts of men, I may be wrong, but I can't think of any great tyrant, villain or bastard who was called Brian. However, put the word ‘storm’ before it, add a ‘#’ into the mix, well you've got yourself a whole other kettle of fish. This is because the name usually reserved for the assistant regional manager of a local DIY chain or the shouty guy from Flash Gordon, now has the power to fell trees, rip off roofs and even kill.

“Here it comes” says Tom, flitting between the app on his phone that's forecasting “25 mile an hour” winds where we're heading today, and weather watch. Unable to make up her mind during most of our two hour drive to Dorset, Mother Nature just spends it on an ever changing wind, rain, blue sky cycle.

Pre leaving to collect Tom, I had also been somewhat glued to my phone, waiting for an update from todays club about an impending pitch inspection, an update that never came before I was due to leave, so decided to risk a wasted morning in the car and head off anyway, but remembered to pack a coat.

When Tom then informs me of an “amber weather warning” I feel like our chances of seeing a game are becoming less and less unlikely.

Normally quite the worry wart, Tom is extra fragile today, due to some “dodgy ham” he had from a less than clean eatery near his work, and without spelling it out like he did, let's just say he’s not been in the best shape the last twenty four hours, and as he keeps reminding me, he's not yet fully recovered.

I wonder if we’re being a bit soft, when we see a road side stall selling giant, fair ground sized teddy bears from a tarpaulin covered pitch next to quite a busy dual carriageway, as a considerable amount of rain falls. If they’re still open, then we don't have much to worry about, do we? However, climbing out of the car at the Cuthbury home of Wimborne Town FC (WT) I’m soon engulfed by my jacket caught in the wind like a large black sail, Tom for the first and certainly not for the last time today almost loses his hat, and I conclude that the teddy bear merchants were crazy and Tom’s app is not far off the mark.

The narrow, autumn leaf covered lane leading to Cuthbury is picturesque, and the stylised outline of a man kicking a football in our second black and white striped kit in as many games, lets us know we are in the right place, despite the instructions of my impertinent Sat Nav to keep on going.

At the end of the long thin car park, stands what looks like a small cottage, with a black and white gabled roof, hanging baskets, well stocked plant pots and a small black door with brass letterbox. Once I’ve slain my coat, the small house from Hobbiton seems like the ideal place to find some shelter from Brian and his almighty gusts.

It’s not long after arrival that our early start and long drive is vindicated. Confirmation from the WT Twitter account that the game is going ahead, the blackboard on the front of the clubhouse mentioning a meat raffle, and the generous handshake and reception from the man in the West Ham cap with a WT badge on it, “welcome to Wimborne”. He also confirms the game is “on” and we can start to enjoy ourselves.

Beyond its Middle Earth facade the clubhouse opens up into a decent sized space, its obligatory non league clubhouse dance floor is currently occupied by two girls playing pool on it, while the Celtic game plays on the TV. Behind the bar with the magpie soft toy, the WT shirts that features the aforementioned tea-leaf bird on its crest, a man makes us each a much needed hot drink.

Our cuppa is given to us in a standard cardboard cup, the sugar is delivered in an old Cornish ice cream tub, however how the milk arrives is on a different level. Each handed our own individual china jug, it's apparent they do things a little differently around here, very fancy. Taking a seat on one of the tables that encircle the dance floor, the kids still playing pool, people watching on like it's the Crucible, Tom is very impressed by what we've seen so far, “nice” he says nodding, between mouthfuls of cheese and onion crisps.

The clubhouse is filling up quickly, and that familiar non league feeling of it being a bit like in Cheers is almost instant. Every new arrival once they've managed to defeat the main door pinned closed by wind gets a “hello”, “alright” or a "hey". One player arrives and is swiftly offered a “pint” but declines, the same player is one who recently turned out for the England C team. A steward asks him if he got to “keep the top?” and before the player can respond, the steward rattles off the name of a well known auction website, “eBay, eBay, eBay, eBay”.

“Windy out there” says an ever so slightly dishevelled arrival, who's been bashed about a bit by Brian, this prompts Tom to ask if I think today will be our “windiest ever game?”.

I find you very rarely go to a non league match without hearing something a little different, but the question “got any rope?” is certainly challenging for top spot, in the ‘odd things heard at football’ table. Only half hearing the conversation that followed, I think it’s for securing a part of one of the grounds stands. Once pitchside the comfort of china milk jugs and crisps are a distant memory, Brian is in full flow, he has no intention of letting up, we might need a bit more than rope.

One corner flag has been fully displaced, lying horizontal on the pitch, a row of nearby trees look positively drunk, leaning at a very dubious angle. Talking to the club secretary Peter, clutching his clipboard, it’s clear he's had a stressful morning to say the least.

“It's been awful” he says, thankfully the pitch passed inspection, the referee having told him he's “never seen it so good”. I ask him if the wind gets taken into account when deciding if the game goes ahead or not, he says it’s now in the hands of the match day officials, but at least it's keeping the “rain
away”. I’m sure with one hundred and one other things to do, Peter adds that he's sure it going to be an “interesting game”.

Battling to be heard over the rain, wind and the already mind numbing noise of a loose rope on one of the nets behind the goal that prevents the ball going into someone's back garden, that's clanging against the metal upright, producing a constant chime, a voice comes over the PA “testing 1, 2, 3”.

Cuthbury is compact, at points walking around the pitch the path and grass merge, but it has all the charm of a well kept non league ground, with the added bonus of a super view of rolling Dorset hills behind one goal. A long terrace with Wimborne Town FC written along its back wall in large white letters, is decorated with an impressive collection of flags of different shapes and sizes. It’s a real mix, some big, some small, some look a bit more homemade than others. The only one that doesn't quite work, and I know it’s black and white, but the Ying Yang flag, is a little tenuous.

Between the dugouts and not something we’ve ever seen before, is a sizeable manual score board, “Wimborne Town 0 v Visitors 0” opposite the changing rooms are neatly contained in a small red brick bungalow, but due to the grounds dimensions, there is no place for a roll out tunnel or extendable one, just two small steps and you're on the pitch.

The recently arrived opponents of WT today, Swindon Supermarine FC (SS) are soon on the pitch. “Can you play football in this, and they said yes” asks one player to himself out loud, as he kicks the ball in the air, and watches Brian take control of it. Another does the same, and watches on as its blown backwards, ending up behind him, “that's windy”. Tom suggests that it “might be a case of trying to keep the ball on the ground” today.

“Testing, testing, testing” say a couple of different voices one after the other as the PA is put through its paces once more, anything to distract me from the clanking noise of the nets behind the goal, which is a constant.

The weather continues to be changeable, wind, rain, sun, wind, rain, sun, but at least Tom’s visit to the loo was memorable, not the loo bit, but more what he saw on his way back, a “pirate” apparently.

Except for his crisps, Tom is hesitant to eat anything else today. Not any kind of reflection on WT, more because of the after effects of the “dodgy ham” so when we see the smart outdoor grill and BBQ in its black and white striped hut, that doesn't look like there is much chance it's going to get fired up today, he is not totally distraught.

“Here we go” says Tom tentatively as we are treated to some music. Always a good test of what a club is made of, the music they play, so far Tom is happy “like it”. The next song causes a momentary, intense and almost violent flashback, when Insomnia by Faithless starts to play. We share a knowing glance and are teleported to hazy smoke filled days in Tom's room in our youth and then the summer of 2002 standing on the hill overlooking the Pyramid stage at Glastonbury.

As if it were a sign, the introduction of a bit of nostalgic 90’s dance music, sees the sun giving its best effort so far to break through the clouds, sending down thick shards of light over the surrounding countryside like something biblical is about to happen and out of the corner of my eye I see a man in chequered chef trousers, making his way into the BBQ hut to fire up the grill.

Not far from the BBQ and the busy chef is the club shop, a brown shed, that's yet to open. After inquiring when it will, it all depends if “the lady shows up”.

I don't think a single player from either side comes out for the warm up, and doesn't give the look of ‘bloody hell’ to at least one other person. A passing elderly SS fan making her way to her seat is worried she's about to get “blown to pieces”. A group of teenage WT fans don't have any such concerns, signed programmes in hand and fuelled by too much Fanta, they're tearing about, already in the mood “Wimborne, Wimborne”.

I thought the china milk jugs were swanky, the brushed aluminium BBQ pretty plush, but they are positively Poundland in comparison to the single most regal voice I’ve ever heard, other than the Queen herself, that comes over the PA. Clearly the voices before were just her lackeys doing her dirty work, royalty don't do such menial tasks. I cannot stress enough to you, I think we are in the presence of a bonafide member of the Royal Family. Sitting behind the mic in a small cupboard, I'm sure with crown and septa in hand, after reading out a bit of housekeeping, she informs us it’s time for “the line ups”. When she’s finished, I’m half expecting some fanfare or a twenty one gun salute.

Plenty of people are moving about in the moments leading up to kick off, filing along the slender pathways that surround the pitch. Two drums wait patiently with no apparent owner, not yet committing to an end until after the coin toss. With a drink in hand I think I spot Tom’s pirate, unless there is more than one person here today with a Tricorn hat, however I don't think he's a pirate at all but a town crier or maybe a British soldier from the American War of Independence in his crimson coat and gold braiding.

Many of the long wooden benches perched on top of stacks of breeze blocks are near to full in the main stand, one seat that isn't is the wicker chair that straddles one front bench reserved for a former player. Peters suggestion that he doesn't think there is “going to be much of a crowd” today, seems unfounded. Storm Brian will not win.

“Come on Marine” shouts one of the SS players, forced to mill about pitch side. With no tunnel, an untidy mass of men forms until the referee who Tom thinks looks like “Santi Cazorla” leads them out. Despite the best efforts of the White Stripes and their much overused Seven Nation Army, the many people who are here are muted to say the least.

I can confirm that kick off certainly happened, but I didn't see it, I’m focused on the distant cry of “50/50”. After many enquires of where to get my tickets, and many assurances that the guy will make himself known, I can finally hand over my £2 to the seller's assistant, who takes my money and puts it into what looks like the bucket for a squeegee mop.

Both drums are soon in action, not far from us in front of the wall of flags that is offering some protection from Brian, however the roof is definitely lifting on occasion, which is a little disconcerting. Hammering out the beat on his drum slung around his neck, in his grey beanie and WT scarf the ring leaders energy is not matched by the dull thud of his instrument, but this doesn't seem to deter him, “Wimborne, Wimborne”.

Between the 50/50 and watching the Wimborne Massive go through their repertoire of songs, “I’m Wimborne till I die”, “super Wimborne Town”, SS have a penalty appeal turned down, then go close with a chance that they put just wide.

“He’s coming for you, he’s coming for you, Toby Holmes, he’s coming for you” sing the fans behind
the goal, who've just watched with only eight minutes gone their number 9 put them ahead, who then takes full advantage of the slick surface and celebrates with a knee slide.

Nudging me Tom points out that the “boards changed already” the both of us having hoped we'd be able to watch it flick from 0 to 1, but whatever house elf they have to do it, did it as quick as a flash. However, we have bigger things to worry about, “that flood lights wobbling” points out a concerned Tom.

The stature of the referee has not been lost on the WT fans either who are now singing “hi, ho, hi, ho” but don't tease the man in charge for long and are soon taking inspiration from Poland via the Etihad, and are trying to get a “Poznan” going, but there aren't many takers. Not discouraged one iota, they just move on to the next song “sunny, sunny Wimborne” trust me it's not, and one person has decided to hoist a black and white flag on a home made flag pole that is almost bent double, before they change tack again and are singing about a magpie taking a “shit” on local rivals Poole Town FC.

On twenty minutes the WT keeper as Tom puts it is “caught out by the wind” he very, very nearly does a Mile Svilar, replicating the unfortunate goal from the recent Champions League tie between Benfica and Manchester United. Almost completely in his goal, he just about manages to keep the ball the right side of the line.

Seemingly everyone gets a go at leading the crowd at WT, this time it’s not the drummer but a small child banging a drum on the floor, that starts the next chant “Wimborne, Wimborne”. On the pitch and SS continue to insist on crossing the ball from out wide, but with Brian around it’s just not working, “what the fuck was that?” asks Tom on the thirty minute mark when an SS free kick almost ends up in the next town, no thanks to blooming you know who.

Thanks to “Trigger” in goal, WT five minutes later are still in the lead, after a truly excellent save, as SS register the first meaningful attempt on goal since their one in the opening minutes of the match. They are in fact offering very little going forward, their dedication to crossing the ball into the box is really stifling them.

“Sunny, sunny Wimborne” sing the fans once more, with the rain and wind at it’s worst, but in keeping with the well established pattern today it’s soon gone, and a big rainbow appears. “At least the sun's out now” says Tom, like it’s some kind of condolence at the end of what has been a relatively poor half of football.

Bringing up the rear, the rest of his group having left him to lug the percussion section alone to the other end of the pitch, we finally get to meet the reason we are here today, Luke or the “twat with the drum” as he calls himself. His enthusiasm and clear dedication is the kind that will never be dampened by a little bit of rain or wind, be it Brian or Beelzebub that prefixes that particular weather front affecting the area, Luke is there, according to one fan in the clubhouse he only missed one game home and away last season.

Tom is going to test his delicate insides, not from the black and white trouser wearing chef, but from the tea room, but not before he's got himself a pin from the club shop. Its hatch now open, the woman inside is dishing out enamel badges from old takeaway containers. As much as I like a bit of football tat, I can’t be tempted by the half black half white ‘football supporters wig’ or the WT thermos cup, that someone tells us are on “special offer” like a host on QVC and are only “£1”.

“Full fat, half fat?” asks the woman behind the gingham covered table, who has just handed Tom a sausage roll, and wants to know what strength Coke he wants. There is no sign of the 50/50 results on the chalkboard above the turnstiles, so we join the second half end switch and now with no shelter from Brian, we instantly feel his full force.

The sun now low on the horizon combined with the constant wind, means it’s genuinely hard to make out what's going on, on the pitch, we're required to stand almost side on, half squinting, so as to not be blinded. Tom's sausage roll goes down well, “flaky” he describes it, so flaky in fact standing downwind of him I’m showered in pastry. There is no apology, just sniggering.

In our new spot, we are treated again to the splendid view behind the opposite stand. We are also subjected to forty five minutes of the clang, clang, clang of the nets behind us.

I don't hear my Coke crash against the floor, or the pint of the person next to me, but we both have the same look on our faces. The spilt liquid swirling around our feet having been bitch slapped to the floor by Brian. Tom’s tea has survived, but he spends the rest of the match with his hand half cupped around it, to prevent it from meeting the same fate as my Coke.

“Why didn't he shoot?” asks Tom ten minutes into the new half, when instead of trying himself the WT attacker squares the ball across the six yard box, and its mopped up by the SS defence. Who are just about doing enough for now, to stop WT going any further ahead.

The wind is playing its part more and more as the minutes tick past, affecting the game and in particular how effective SS are able to be going forward. They still try the long ball, seemingly committed to a tactic that Brian is making completely ineffective. It’s as if they can't see the trees which continue to sway and bend, the corner flags which spend more time on their side then upright or the long grey beard of the town crier, which has been parted down the middle and blown over his shoulders like a hair stole.

I put it down to the adverse conditions, as to the reason why the first quarter of the second half was so dull. Quite out of the blue, there is a brief and sudden flurry of chances, not in keeping with the snooze fest of the previous fifteen. A WT shot is deflected just over, and then their keeper makes a crucial save which gets the biggest cheer of the day since the goal and a song from the fans led by the drum “we've got big Gerrard in our goal”.

SS almost equalise, this time the cross is a low fizzing one, instead of high and lofted, but the player coming in at the back post just can't meet it. WT have started to use the wind to their advantage, a goal kick flies from one box to the other and almost catches out the SS keeper “Jesus” says Tom, who reckons they should start taking more “long shots”, with an assist from Brian, you could probably score from anywhere.

The wind is not only effecting the match, but people's style, “love how the keepers developed a quiff, he didn't start with that” says Tom in his professional capacity as the official Beautiful Game barber, about the SS keeper whose unintentionally channelling a bit of Mark Lamarr.

I’m not sure who's more disappointed following WT’s second goal on 76 minutes. The SS player lying face down in the mud who scored the own goal, or us because no-one has changed the scoreboard that still reads 1 - 0. The ring of the town criers bell cuts through the deafening whoosh of the wind as does the sound of the once again animated main stand.

SS are in disarray since going further behind, WT curl a shot just over the bar, and then a volleyed attempt is just off target, not not long after.

The fans in the main stand and in particular one person with a very high pitched voice, who let's out a piercing “no, no, no, no” when SS have one of their increasingly infrequent attacks, are becoming increasingly lively as the game goes on. The Massive who've not been anything but energetic since kick off, are still loyal to the drum, letting out a long drawn out “Wimborne, Wimborne”. Some have climbed the small white wall behind the goal and are holding on to the stanchions, before a man in a high viz waistcoat turns up, and they scamper down.

The honour of ringing the bell is given to the small boy perched lawfully on the wall next to the pirate/town crier/person who participated in the Siege of Yorktown, to signal WT’s 87th minute third. The increased lead fails again to bring about a change to the scoreboard which is now two goals behind, but has confirmed to the home fans that “we’re gonna win the league”.

WT almost bag a fourth in the “three minutes of added time” her highness has informed us of, expectant faces pushed up against the window of the clubhouse and peering out of the club shop look on as it goes down as another near miss. On the final whistle the Empress of Wimborne thanks the fans for their “support” and says “ladies and gentleman” in such a way I don't think I will ever hear said quite like that ever again. It's was literally dripping with ermine.

“Wimborne Town, Wimborne Town” sing the fans, some players respond with that above the head clapping only footballers do. The manager gets plenty of the plaudits as the team walks off, from the small crowd at the mouth of non league's smallest ‘tunnel’, “well done Matty”. One supporter gets a high five from one of the departing players and is beyond chuffed, “I'll never wash my hand again”.

The sun's finally out for more than just a brief visit, the winds still up, and Peter doesn't look much happier than he did pre-match, despite the three points. With perhaps a more level head than the younger fans, his age and experience giving him a bit more perspective,  he gives us his opinion of the match, “to be quite honest they played better football at times” he says about SS, but adds that WT “took” their “chances”, he is also sure to heap praise on the keeper who as he rightly points out made “two good saves at the right time”.

Having heard nothing about the 50/50 or seen an update on the chalkboard, I ask Peter if it was claimed “I think so” he tells me. “Then you didn't win it” adds Tom brutally, fed up watching me week in week out punish myself.

With a definite spring in his step, walking around the pitch alone towards the wall of flags to take them down for another day, Luke is cheerily and loudly singing to himself, “we’re on our way”.

Much of the crowd that Peter didn't think was going to be in attendance now fill the bar. I briefly
pop into replace my downed Coke for the drive home and with a slight hint of deja vu get an equally generous "goodbye" from the man in the West Ham cap as I did a hello a few hours previously.

Having almost "nearly" lost his hat for the umpteenth time, Tom is eager to get in the car, but not before he points out the "party" happening in the nearby WT changing room. With music blaring some of the players are singing along, some just letting out the occasional "wooo".

Weather aside, watching a woman loose a fight with an umbrella and a man refusing an invitation to climb the gantry without a "safety chain" and kudos the the man who did, who was no spring chicken and a braver man than me, he had more things to worry about loosing his hat, our visit to WT was extremely enjoyable.

Excellent facilities, a wonderful welcome, a good sausage roll and a cheap wig if you want one, not to forget the thermos for only £1, get them while you can, but more importantly, Luke and his Massive and all the fans who defied Brian and his wicked ways.

We leave Dorset with the overwhelming feeling of community and that feeling that only non league football can produce coursing though our veins, and with thoughts of starting a Crowdfunder for a new drum for Luke, who for his efforts, deserves much better.

For all of our photographs from the match, click HERE

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Easy This Managing Lark - Tilbury FC Vs Cheshunt FC, Bostik League North, Chadfields (10/10/17)

My part time job as Tom’s personal chauffeur takes me to some of London's lesser known corners. On this occasion I pass a mural of Mark Noble that wouldn't look out of place on the side of a Belfast house and the bronze effigies of Hurst, Peters and Wilson holding Moore aloft, Jules Rimet and all on the same corner some might remember where the Manchester United bus got bottled on its arrival at the nearby Boleyn Ground, for its very last match.

Having arrived early, yes I do have the capability of turning up on time, I wait for my companion. The honk of my car horn fails to get his attention when I see him, he swivels his head so he certainly heard it, however it's not until I do it again, in combination with some manic hand waving of children's television presenter levels, does he realise it’s me, and not as he tells me once getting in, someone harassing the nearby woman and her baby.

There is a brief moment of silence following his suggestion that he mistook me for some kind of pest, but also because I think he still has a house to view, which in fact he’s already done. Both waiting for the other, there is a long pause before he tells me “we can go” and we're off, yes you guessed to …………………….. ESSEX

The ever so slightly out of place white windmill in the field next to the slip road pulling off the A13 might just be for the next few hours the most picturesque thing we see. The early evening sunset, with it’s many shades of orange, yellow and red is certainly helping, but the rest of Tilbury we have seen up until now is, well let's just say it's not quite picture postcard stuff.

If industrial landscapes are your thing, container ships and cranes are your idea of scenic then it’s well worth a visit. If you don't fall into that category though, then this particular part of Essex on the mouth of the Thames estuary, and still very much a thriving port, is maybe not for you.

The grey breeze block wall with TFC built into it with black breeze blocks, is the only giveaway we have arrived at Chadfields, home of Tilbury FC (TFC). The single barking dog behind the big black gates of the nearby travelers site, only adds to the slight feeling of desolation that has begun to creep over me, the further off the motorway we traveled.

With it’s all black shutters firmly locked, almost looking like it’s been abandoned, the clubhouse from the outside at least, I wouldn't say looks neglected, but maybe it's just seen better days.

When all of a sudden the shutters sputter to life, emitting an almighty screech then a slow rumble as they retract, they reveal windows, through which and past the net curtains we can see signs of life. Until now it had been Tom and I, the faint sound of Gangsters Paradise in the distance and next doors dog. The twinkle of the fruit machines, and the large face of some member of the Sky Sports news team being projected on to the wall, is comforting to say the least.

Inside, the mock tudor look intrigues me, but it’s black beams and white walls match the black and white kit of TFC so they work. Hanging on them, some a little skewiff, are the faded pictures of the clubs past teams. Above the bar pinned to the wall is club merchandise for sale, neon spiked notices inform you of the prices, but the lighting is very low, edging on the side of dingy, and I can't make out how much anything costs. Next to them the clubs trophies, cups and awards clutter a small wooden shelf.

“Game of pool” asks Tom, pointing to the table, next to the fruit machines. I’d much rather play foosball, but I’m too busy earwigging on the conversation being had by the small group sitting at the bar, talking about the recent departure of the TFC manager. “Did you apply?” asks one already sitting on a tall stool next to a new arrival. Another late comer asks them all “any news on the manager?” but doesn't get much of a reply.

John in his green military style jacket, collar turned up in preparation for what is going to be a breezy night, is pretty honest about TFC’s current run of form “dismal” he calls it. Inconsistency is their biggest weakness, in their case not from “game to game” but from “half to half”.

“Team selection baffled us all” he explains about some of the managers choices. An ex club captain who John tells us is “such a nice man” who despite the chairman's best efforts to “talk him out” of his decision following their defeat and exit from the FA Trophy in their previous match, that was it, he was done, he walked. However John does feel that he slightly “deserted” them. It was a young and inexperienced team he’d built, with no member of his defence older than 18 or 19, John felt he should've stuck with them a bit longer.

The Ultras of Italy might not be something you would associate with a non league football club in the South East of England, but when John tells us they had a “sit down with the players”, it all feels a little Curva Nord.

Although we didn't talk, we have been in John's presence before, in another clubhouse. Where he and his merry band had somewhat taken over, singing at half time, and getting a few less than impressed glances, and in some cases a little bit more, from the locals. TFC normally take “30 to 40” away he explains, but he thinks they'll be lucky to get “half a dozen” here tonight making any kind of “atmosphere”.

Only living a stone's throw from Chadfields it was in fact a team a little further afield that he has supported most of his life. Seduced like so many were at that time by the likes of Best, Charlton and Law, he was a Manchester United fan and season ticket holder at old Trafford for “40 years”

Now though it's about “brilliant” non league football, he says lighting up, “I love this now” he tells us. The freedom of not constantly being told “what to do and where to go” that stifles the Premier League appeals to him.

Before returning to the bar, John tells us to keep an eye out for one TFC fan who will be here tonight, Mavis, someone who is still traveling away at the grand old age of 84. Who made the trip up to Notts County, when TFC played them in the FA Cup in 1948. This dip into the clubs history sparks his own stream of nostalgia. He goes on to tell us about his own FA Cup adventure with the club at Stoke. A “football special from Tilbury” his reminiscences borrowing my rose tinted football glasses just for a moment, before handing them back, “those days are long gone” he adds, with a visible drop of his shoulders.

As John put it Chadfields is held together by the odd “four by two”, it's heyday a while ago now, but this doesn't mean there is any less pride in their little corner of the football world. A woman organises and polishes the outside of the Tea Bar, its hatch having just been thrown open for business, all to the sound of Chaka Khan.

No 50/50 tonight, but there is a raffle, tickets are secured from the big chap in the TFC hoody by the turnstile. “Bottle of wine” or a “box of chocolates” are the prizes, he tells me looking back over his shoulder at the brown laminated topped table under what looks like a perspex bike shelter

The grounds main feature is the two storey stand/changing room combo, set back from the the pitch,
which are joined by a caged tunnel, above which a sign reads “Home of the Dockers”. With the sun all but set, you can make out the twinkling red lights that top the cranes at the nearby dock, over the roof of the the single storey red brick stand opposite.

In one corner John and his crew have hung their flags, both quite sizable, one reads Tilbury FC with no great surprise a black and white back ground, the other an equally large St George's Cross with The Dockers on it, just in front of them the TFC team are going through their warm up.

Ain't No Stopping Us Now, by McFadden & Whitehead seems like the ideal song to motivate a team who are not on the best of runs, good subconscious inspiration for the match to come. Evelyn Champagne King then follows, having made her way down from the West Midlands, and she's still going on about someone making her “love come down”.

Standing pitch side, Tom receives a healthy boost to his ego, after he deftly stroked a loose pass back to the beckoning player, “you’re in” he said.

I’m not sure if it's John’s trip down memory lane, something triggered by watching the players of both teams going through their pre match drills or by Toms invite to play tonight, but he decides to share with me a fond memory from yesteryear, and his all too short career as our school's goal keeper. He recounts it with all the authority of one of the great story tellers of history, like a modern day Homer. “They called on me” he tells me, after the first team keeper was a no show, and his performance was so notable, he was asked to play again. Unfortunately for him when he did, he conceded eight and never played for them “again”.

“Come on boys” shouts one of the TFC players over Mr Brightside by the Killers playing over the PA. The arrival of TFC’s opponent's Cheshunt FC (CFC) means there are a few bits of kit porn on show. Not so much the shiny sky blue number of the away team or the pastel yellow TFC keeper’s kit, but the always fashionable, a total classic, every boy should have one for those nights when you just don't know what to wear, the black and white striped home kit. I love a black and white striped kit. There must also be a very honorable mention for the CFC checkered purple goalkeepers jersey, very stylish indeed.

“Tilbury let's get going” orders one player slightly prematurely pre coin toss, because before we get started the teams are required to swap ends. Watching all this from ground level, I have that unmistakable feeling of people being behind me. I turn to spot a pair of beady eyes, peering out across the pitch, having climbed the stairs to the first floor stand, for an elevated view of the first half.

The importance of the match and the situation that the team finds itself in is not lost on one TFC player, “big point to prove” he informs his teammates, as the game gets underway. “Come on boys, come on” shouts another “hunt it down” he demands.

People are still arriving after the whistle, and they will have to find somewhere else to stand, because we’re both very comfortable, “ohh I like this barrier” says Tom, about the one surrounding the pitch, that is at a very forgiving height for a good non league lean.

“Oh hello” coo’s Tom as a TFC cross is swiped at by a CFC defender in the six yard box, who misses it completely, but lucky for him the keeper with the terrifying voice, in his excellent purple kit is behind him to mop up, and prevent any more embarrassment. “Come on Tilbury” shouts one of John and the gang on the far side of the pitch, as the match swings from end to end, first CFC are attacking then TFC.

There are numerous requests from the TFC crowd to their players to “have a dig”, seemingly very eager to comply they do just that, but nine times out of ten the result is wild and well off target. “Like a shot” comments Tom as another one sails wide. They have a little more luck with a cut back into the box, but no one is there to finish and a ball over the top that the forward just can't latch on to.

Tom though has other concerns, not the fact that a Peter Kay'esq ‘Have It’ clearance has just cleared the stand and landed in someone's back garden and as he puts it they now have a “trophy” of the night, but the fact that he has not “seen anybody eat” and he's “hungry” because he didn't have any “lunch”, and yes people, he might have to eat “early”.

Much like one of the great detectives of the small screen Columbo, Jessica Fletcher or Bergerac he has been doing some discreet investigations, and the fact they've “got sauces out” on a table in front of the tea bar, leads him to have some hope.

According to Tom you can't “slip over then nearly pop it in the top corner” but that's exactly what one CFC player does, picking himself up, and nearly bagging an absolute stunner. “Fuck off” shouts Tom as the pastel yellow wearer is forced into a good save, receiving a round of applause from the fans and we see our first real solid chance of the night, after each team's hat full of almosts and off targets.

On the half hour mark all of the home side's early composure seems to have evaporated, and it all gets a bit headless chicken, CFC’s number 9 & 10 and their bulldozer or “pitbull” ways as Tom describes them are literally shoving people off the ball at will, winning it back and setting up the CFC attacks, as the tide starts to turn in the away team's favour.

“We’ve switched off” moans a TFC player as their keeper pushes another CFC effort wide.

The match descends somewhat into a who can shout the loudest competition, the play itself is scrappy and lacking in any real quality. “Switch the play” instructs the CFC keeper to the outfield players, his voice continuing to be of some concern, “fucking scary” says Tom, it really is, it's almost like a roar than a regular human voice.

TFC almost take the lead with a spectacular attempt of Van Basten proportions, it’s so good, the player attempting it hurts himself in the process, with his volley from a reasonably tight angle flying just over. The injury summons a sudden and deathly hush over the ground as the player is seen to. He is soon back up again and is fine, and just as if someone pressed play on the crowd, all the noise is back and the game is once again underway.

It’s then CFC’s turn to go close once more, “I thought that was bursting the net” says Tom as an almighty banger of a shot is once again just off the mark.

“Love that!” shouts an excited TFC fan as bang on half time they take the lead. The scorer looked to be totally crowded out, surrounded in the box, with his back to goal somehow he manages to turn like
a London taxi cab, and with little or no back lift, pokes in his top corner shot.

“Easy this managing lark” suggests a fan to the TFC staff leaving the pitch for the break.

There is no announcement of the winning raffle numbers, just a small chalkboard to check between the turnstile and the tea bar. Before I've even reached it I know I won't be walking away with a box of Roses tonight, Tom makes sure to rub it in just how close I was “off by one number”.

Tom disappears to see if his earlier findings were correct, and the sign of sauce is a TFC Bat Signal for a burger and chips. One TFC fan, an older man in a flat cap was certainly impressed by the effort that put his team ahead, “fucking good goal that”, he also reckons the scorer should be getting a considerable pay rise “give that man an extra £1”.

“You don't know how good this is” says Tom, joining me on the step of the terrace, to tuck into his food, which before he takes his second bite, he can’t stop himself, reiterating to me my raffle near miss once again “one number!”

CFC start the second half as they mean to go on, some wicked feet and the attacker has skipped past his defender, only for his ball into the box, to not be anywhere near as good as twinkle toes and the chance to equalise goes begging.

Back and forth the game goes, TFC go close, “ohhhh” go the crowd, as a free header goes tantalisingly close, “well done Dockers”. Tom gives me the honour of re-joining me, dinner complete. “That was amazing” he says in that glutinous, just finished too much Sunday lunch way that people do when they've gorged a little, next step would be to take your trousers off and sit on the sofa.

The away team are showing all the early signs of a team angered by conceding so late on in the first half, after having a few opportunities themselves to go ahead. They are certainly on top in the opening exchanges, stinging the TFC keeper's palms once more with a fierce shot. Standing now just in front of John, it’s hard to miss Mavis who is just as vocal as the rest, “come on you Dockers”

“Turn and face the ball” she shouts, being of about the same proportions as Yoda, but much, much louder. I’m pretty sure she joins in with every song, as the small group, become more and more animated. “Hard to believe it's not Scholes” they sing as the TFC number 9 spearheads a counter attack straight from a CFC corner. “Life ain't fair when you're born with ginger hair” they sing next about the same player, one of them post song ponders “fancy having a Scholes song and then that”.

Twenty minutes gone and one CFC player earns himself a yellow card after a BIG tackle from the Scottish referee, Tom telling me that “all referees should be Scottish”, CFC frustrations are quickly coming to the surface. Once again they test the home keeper, who's forced to concede a corner, that prompts another rendition of “come on you Dockers”.

TFC continue to drop deeper, and deeper, one fans tip that they “keep it tight”, is a sensible one, but inviting the CFC attacks on to them feels like a dangerous game to me. The Jedi reckons Tilbury were “let off”, as CFC go close for the umpteenth time.

“You don't get nothing for that” says John after a CFC player crashes an almighty long range shot off the crossbar, well out of reach of the keeper. “Come on you Ambers” sings a CFC supporter for the first time, the first and only sign so far tonight of the presence of any away fans.

The many missed chances, hitting the woodwork, the player being poleaxed by a ball straight in the nuts or from point blank range missing what looked like a simple tap in, might be a good clue, as Tom puts it, that it “might not be” CFC’s “day”.

“Don't fall for that” says the CFC number 9 to the referee, as he awards a foul against the visitors. Number 9 feeling that there is a spot of theatrics going on from the downed TFC player. “Why don't you fuck off” shouts a TFC fan to the number 9, who then says something back. “I'll wait for you outside” replies not one of the burly Essex types, but the smallest of them, and the oldest by a long way, who then goes a bit Harry Enfield after challenging the man maybe a quarter of her age, “you're a very rude young man”.

One CFC player insures his team mates a goal “will come” they must just “keep the ball”, and he’s not far off, as they go close once again, but they just can’t capitalize. “How much do we want this?” asks a TFC player to his teammates, after CFC again craft another chance they don’t take, I’m loosing count. The away bench are screaming at the player who had done all the hard work, but can't finish, they could be well out of sight even if they’d only taken half of their chances.

“How many opportunities?” ask the TFC keeper of his teammates, who must take a huge amount of credit for the score still being 1 - 0, to a team in front of him who seem willing to give CFC as many goes as possible to score. The fans watching on, as their team hang on by the skin of their teeth can only sing and hope “come on you Dockers, come on you Dockers”.

TFC almost score with their first foray into the other teams box in what feels like an age, buts it’s deflected just over. However, there is no time for the fans to dwell on their own near miss, as they now have to watch again as they almost concede. One on one with the keeper, the man in goal does well to keep them at bay, but in doing so there is an almighty coming together with the CFC forward. For the second and last time of the night, the few away fans that are actually present, remind us they are in attendance “come on you Ambers”.

Five minutes of extra time to play, five minutes for TFC to hold on, five minutes for CFC to score a goal their efforts thoroughly deserve. Wanting to help those five minutes pass as quickly as possible, the TFC keeper makes sure to ask the referee and his assistant if he is OK to take his goal kick, offering them both a thumbs up, then waiting patiently for an acknowledgment that he is OK to go ahead.

“Fight for it Tilbury” insists a fan, as the never ending CFC onslaught continues. “You’ve been conned there says a TFC player when CFC are awarded a free kick just outside the box, for the second time tonight the referees gullibility is brought into question. Lining up the ball, making sure the valve is pointing in the right way, checking the wind directions, consulting with team mates all seems a bit daft, when you just end up taking a limp shot straight at the keeper. Mavis is less than impressed “should've had a shot” she says sarcastically.

CFC’s last chance of the night just about sums up their evening, they are doing all the right things, but when it comes to crunch time, they just can't convert. “All fucking day” says a nearby TFC fan somewhat overly confidently as for the countless time tonight the keeper saves a goal bound shot, this time with his feet, and there simply isn't enough time left for CFC to try again.

“Hello, hello, we are the Tilbury boys” sing the fans on the final whistle, one TFC coach pumps his fist towards them, and lets out an uncontrollable “wehhey”, one CFC player lies prone on the pitch hands over his face, unable to believe they got nothing from tonight. Both fans and players applaud each other, a mix of relief they held on, and belief that this might be the start of the end of their current slump.

"Forgot how it feels to win" says TFC club secretary Stephen, having to speak up slightly as the team have just put on their victory song in the nearby changing room, some even singing along, "not heard this in a while" he adds with a rye smile. Johns assessment of the teams current inconsistencies couldn't have been more prophetic, very rarely have we seen a team put in two such differing displays, from one half to another.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder they say, and yes TFC is not the most eye catching of grounds, with the most cutting edge facilities, but they also say beauty is only skin deep, and if you look under the surface you will find a core of supporters and volunteers, who are just itching for their club to thrive again. At the moment it all just feels like its seen happier days, a bit of a hangover from better times and recent fortunes means there is a bit of grey cloud hanging over them at the moment, but they clearly have the people there to shoo that away, Mavis alone could do it on her own I'm sure. They just need that spark on the pitch, to get them going.

Talking of Mavis, I have my own run in with her on the way to the loo, when she tells me because I'm a "big bloke" she wouldn't want a fight with me, but bets she could "run faster than me".

I briefly deliberate with myself while washing my hands if I would in fact lose a foot race to an octogenarian, but I can't stop thinking about some food for thought Tom served me off the back of my most recent raffle failure, "how much have you spent on those?".

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Dirty Santa's - Brentwood Town FC Vs South Park FC, FA Trophy Preliminary Round, The Arena (07/10/17)

“Should I bring an umbrella?” asks Tom, climbing into the car, with no obvious sign of rain. Not for the first time I explain that having a brolly anywhere within one mile of a football match, post 2007 will only conjure visions of Steve McClaren, whose decision that night at Wembley, effectively means no one will ever be able to stay dry at a match again.

Anyway we're late, well I’m late picking Tom up. I want to blame it on the baby, but FIFA 18 has to take some responsibility, as does the woman going down the Holloway Road at twelve miles an hour, who was then replaced by a huge yellow digger, that was going even slower.

I don't like to be rushed, I get all of a dither when I’m rushed, and time is ticking. The traffic heading east isn't improving my mood much, my eyes probably lingering that little too long on the clock and off the road.

The amount of time we spend on this particular stretch of motorway, heading away from the capital, yes you guessed into Essex, you would think I would be able to get around blind folded, but alas no, and as I deviate from the magenta path laid out on the Sat Nav, I add another fifteen minutes to our journey, SIGH.

“I did wonder why you turned her down” adds the back seat driver, telling me he can't understand why I have turned down the audible instructions of the digital lady perched on my dashboard. It’s because she’s so tedious, and do you know what, you're not helping with comments like that mate, so keep your opinions to yourself, I’m feeling fragile.

Entering the borough of Brentwood, I inform Tom that it's the home of a certain nightclub, which he expresses his desire to visit at least once in his life. I’m not sure why. I’m so beyond clubbing, I don't think they would even let me in the queue, let alone the front door.

The cherry on the top of the cake, vis-a-vis increasingly worsening mood, is our brush with death. My thirty three years flashing before my eyes, as what I think is a conker or perhaps an acorn, ricochets off the windscreen. It’s all a bit of a blur, we got through it, somehow, all I remember is screaming “I WANT TO GO HOME”.

It might be my confused state, having just stood shoulder to shoulder with the grim reaper, but I drive right past the entrance to today's ground. Again it's not completely my fault, the entrance to The Arena, home of Brentwood Town FC (BT) where we are spending Non League Day this year, is actually that of a leisure centre. The hand car wash is more obvious than the football club, but I shouldn't be surprised, have I learned nothing these last three years? A non league ground can be anywhere.

“Funny little place” says Tom once through the single turnstile, now able to see what's on the other side of the blue metal gate with “Welcome To Brentwood Town Football club” on it. He is particularity intrigued by the couple of armless yellow mannequins, mutilated silhouettes of people dotted around the pitch, the kind players bend free kicks round during their warm up.

The Arena, which I think sounds very Mad Max, somewhere Tina Turner would pitch wonders from the wastelands of a post apocalyptic universe against each other, which might explain the limbless chaps on the pitch, is far from post apocalyptic looking, just your usual hodge podge of non league fixtures and fitting.

Behind one goal is nothing, then behind the other you have the choice of a large covered terrace that Liam the clubs Twitter handler informs us is “affectionately known as the bell end”, because of the presence of a bell and not because of anything smutty. Next door to it is a small seated stand, that looks like something borrowed from Badminton Horse Trials.

The clubhouse, which has the look of a slightly aging Swiss holiday chalet, is all wood by the looks of it, with its bar set back from the pitch and seats out front. Some of which on closer inspection are more like red leather thrones, and are in fact from Highbury according to the faded stickers on the underside. Liam tells us one of the club staff works for Arsenal, so that would make sense. Gotta admire non leagues resourcefulness and ability to recycle.

Just like the sign outside, the one stenciled on the narrow corridor outside the changing rooms, that I spot through the extremely narrow tunnel, it’s about one Tom wide, or the one above the bar, Liam welcomes us to the club, in his flat cap and short sleeve shirt which shows off his extensive tattoos, which he tells us laughing, keep him out the boardroom at away games.

Non league day is quickly the topic of discussion, between handshakes and hello’s that he’s dishing out to the BT players heading off for their warm up. Although for us having Essex on our door step, with it’s never ending amount of clubs to visit is a benefit, for clubs like BT it means lots of competition for bums on seats. He tells us they do so much to try and “entice” people to come, handing out free tickets to local schools is one of them, but it's the “Dads” they want, because they are ultimately the ones who are going to spend some money.

Usually coinciding with the first round of the FA Trophy, Non League Day can be a bit of a mixed blessing, mainly because FA regulations mean you can't augment the price of admission, as lots of other clubs will do today to as he puts it to “entice” people to come.

They’re damned if they do, and damned if they don't by the sounds of it. One common non league initiative is to offer season ticket holders of League clubs not playing today because it's the international break, half price entry, but that can rub up the regulars who are paying full price the wrong way.

He is though ultimately positive, with the “size” of Brentwood, there is “potential” he tells us.

Where as some clubs will really see a lot more clicks of the turnstiles today than normal, Liam doesn't think that's going to be the case for BT. Also having checked their opponents attendance so far this season he tells us it's “unusual” for a club to have “less” than them, so he's not expecting many South Park FC (SP) fans today either.

Liam's story is a familiar one, local, but not a BT fan man and boy as they say, instead a disillusioned ex season ticket holder at West Ham, who as he puts it has “fallen out of love” going to see them, especially since the move to the London Stadium. Not only was he fed up of having to watch with “binoculars” but also the experience his young children was having was not a good one. When your daughter has come home crying, some things are bigger than your team, and you have to reevaluate.

Offer his kids the chance to go and see the Hammers “not interested”, offer them a Saturday at The Arena, they bite his hand off. Not as he explains do they actually watch the match, they’re much more interested having their own one behind one goal on a patch of grass, but win or lose, they'll always be waiting for the players at full time for a high five.

“Normally win, normally win” says Jessica, Liam's daughter confidently clutching her bag of pick and mix, which is about as big as her.

Lastly he tells us that the ground is going to be a little sparser than normal today, normally there are a few flags hanging around the pitch, unfortunately the “well refreshed” person responsible for them on a recent away day, has lost them and now they are doing a “whip round” to replace them.

Once more we are offered a “warm Brentwood welcome” this time by the slightly stern sounding person on the PA. If you could imagine the voice doing a public address warning, which is calm, but with a hint of urgency informing you of an impending natural disaster, he's your man. It’s not to say he’s not enthusiastic or cold, but his delivery is very authoritative. “Enjoy the game” is how he concludes, having read out the teams, I’m not sure if it’s a suggestion or an order.

The appearance of the teams from the blue PVC tunnel catches me out a little, our late arrival has not allowed me the usual time to settle, to get the lay of the land, so I’m caught somewhat on the hop.

As the teams prepare for kick off, the visitors will be be getting us underway, there is plenty of pre match encouragement, forceful clapping and inspirational two word statements blurted out by both sets of players. With the game only seconds old, one BT player demands of his team mates, “get me that ball back”. Another just shouts “up, up, up” I don't think in reference to the heart melting Pixar film, nonetheless, Non League Day is GO!

With the home team attacking towards the small pocket of fans behind the goal, it's not long until they are celebrating. "Great header" cackles one clapping supporter, it looked like an own goal to me, but they all count. The bulk of the plaudits are aimed not at the scorer, but at the BT number 2 whose well delivered cross resulted in the home team going ahead.

Tom informs me he’s “hungry”, having arrived late he was unable to grab anything prematch. He is though a little cautious, “what weird meat we enjoying this week, partridge?” he asks me churlishly after our dabble into faggots at Stourbridge. Today he is free to order whatever he wants. Which I’m sure he will, but he’ll have to wait until half time now.

SP or the “Christmas team” as Tom has christened them, on account of their all red with a hint of green kit, are pinned back, on the ropes and looking like they are going to ship a hat full today. “Liver” is how one player bizarrely abbreviates 'deliver' when he tells the full back who crossed for the first goal, to whip one in. BT go close to a second, a towering header flying just over. “Dangerous” says Tom about the constant BT attacks.

“Got to do a lot better than this” pleads one of the “Christmas team”. After it’s only thanks to the face of their keeper, that they have not gone further behind. “Unlucky blues”, “well played wood” shout the fans.

Just over quarter of an hour gone and it seems like a nailed on second, “Izzy” the zippy BT number 17, has just slotted the ball past the SP keeper from an angle. We all watch on in slow motion as it rolls goal wards, the keeper helpless, some fans already celebrating "yesssss" but instead of going into the back of the net, it hits the foot of the post, and rebounds perfectly into the arms of the man in goal, “unlucky Izzy”.

The BT captain who bares a resemblance to “Stephen Ireland” just a bit shorter, according to Tom, is marshaling the midfield. I reckon he is a bit more Cambiaso than the main protagonist of 'Granny-gate'. Stout and robust he tackles like another son of Cork, Roy Keane, he's not afraid to put himself about, and his distribution isn't half bad either. “Unlucky blue” shouts a fan, following a pass from the captain that results in another BT chance, that's just over. Which triggers one of the BT substitutes to scamper off to get the wayward shot, and you thought you were just chilling on the bench today, and for one fan to lift his arms up above his head, awarding the field goal, like an NFL referee

“What delights are on the menu?” ponders Tom, halftime getting ever closer. Ever since our trip to the West Midlans, he seems to have lost his confidence in the food on offer. Although he explains a “plus of going up north, outside the M25” is that “gravy” will be “involved” with whatever you order.  His keen nose has already detected the whiff of fried onions, which he informs me “smelt good”, and he is very excited when he sees someone pass with a “double trouble” a two patty burger.

Almost thirty minutes in, and SP are offered a lifeline back into the game, thanks to the “dodgy” BT keeper, as one nearby fan put it, after a bit of a flap at a cross results in a scramble and a deflected shot, that goes just wide of the post. “He did not look comfortable” says Tom, one fan can't bare to look, turning his back on the action, “ohhhh”. The man in goal redeems himself not long after, after his goal kick goes directly through one of the small windows of the SP dugout, “good shot!” says one supporters laughing, “hole in one”, adds Tom.

2 - 0, it's not a spectacular goal, BT's number 17 sliding in on his bum to prod home, and is soon back up on his feet he soaring off arms out by his side like an aeroplane. Much better is the celebration of one fan, who momentarily embodies the spirit of ‘The Nature Boy’ Ric Flair, “WOOOOO” he says just like the white haired WWE Hall of Famer.

Cruising with a two goal lead, some fans want “more”, and that might be a good idea. Despite looking pretty well out of it, SP have their moments and with ten minutes of the half to go, they counter following a BT attack. A single player goes on a “wonder run” as Tom puts it, almost single handedly pulling a goal back. Riding tackles he makes it almost the whole length of the pitch, before setting up a team mate, whose shot is saved.

Once again the keeper is applauded, not for his eagle eyed accuracy, but for the fine save that prevents the SP halving their deficit.

BT craft another chance to further their lead, but continue to be wasteful in front of goal, “power not placement” suggests Tom, as one player blasts wide, instead of showing a bit more finesse. However on the stroke of half time Ric Flair is back, as they add a third.

The glory almost goes to my favorite player of the game so far, the marauding BT full back number 2 with his half shaved head. The SP keeper does well to get a hand to his shot, but can't hang onto it, Johnny on the spot, BT's tall forward number 9, is on hand to scoop home, who then gets the first song of the day “Brentwood loves you more than you will know”.

“You guys don't want a season ticket do you?” asks a buoyant Liam, on his way to the clubhouse, our
presence he seems to think is like one of those saluting golden Chinese cats.

At the back of the cramped but lively clubhouse, Tom secures himself a burger from the kitchen not a lot bigger than my car, which is somewhat tardis like, as somehow it's got two people in it.

“Hot” he says, talking that way people do when they have taken a bite of something that is far too hot to eat, and are forced to juggle it around their mouth with their tongue, gob wide open, steam visibly coming out, desperately trying to avoid an injury. Once he’s recovered, he informs me it’s “cooked” and it’s “good” if not a little “charred” I tell him you call that “caramelized”.

“Welcome back onto the pitch our players, Brentwood Town” says Mr Serious on the microphone. Not sure if it’s a veiled jibe at the away team, or he's just forgotten, but there is a definite and considerable pause until he welcomes back the “opposition” onto the field.

Everyone is full of beans, Tom is full of a burger, in the small horse show stand, “three well taken goals, three well crafted goals” is one happy fans assessment of his teams first half, another thinks BT should be “six up”.

Jessica gets the half underway with a few rings of the bell that hangs from the roof of the covered terrace, a half of football with a conclusion, that let's say, we didn't see coming.

“Switch on Brentwood” screams Liam, agitated at the home team's sloppy start, SP are far more sprightly. BT’s number 17 gets his half off to a less than auspicious start, although to be fair to him it’s not his fault he got a “fucking karate kick” in the face, and gets no foul given in his favour. “You bent ref?” asks the fan next to me with the Marshal Mathers hair, who descends further and further into a dark place as the game plays out.

3 - 1, SP are rewarded for their energetic start. Awarded a penalty, after a player is hauled down in the box, the spot kick is dispatched, and there is not a moment of celebration, as the players rush back to their half. “Here we go” says one supporter, with that tone of ‘I've seen this all before’. “Get your heads up, we're winning this” calls out someone, reminding the players of their significant lead, who are playing like they're the ones three nil down, “come on, wake up”

Two minutes later! “Fucking hell”, it’s now 3 - 2, “we could be 7 - 0” says Eminem, who can't comprehend what is happening. “What is it with us and 3 - 0” mulls over one of the group behind the goal.

Less than two minutes later! “Their bench got him sent off” suggests a fan, as BT’s number two makes his way back to the changing room, up the narrow blue tunnel, no one really having any idea why he got the red.

In the space of about three or maybe four minutes BT have conceded two and had a man sent off. Someone has angered the football Gods, who were smiling on them so favourably in the first half.

“Come on referee” shrieks, the 8 Mile star next to me who can't believe the big lunge on their keeper, whose flat on his back for a moment, but soon recovered, has gone unpunished.

Unbelievably BT don't register their first meaningful attack until nearly twenty five minutes of the second half gone. It’s like a different eleven were welcomed onto the pitch after the break, than the one who had to all intense purposes, put this game out of sight in the first forty five. One fan reiterates this anomaly, “how can you play like that the first half, and like this the second”. It’s SP now doing all the tricks and flicks, who also look like a completely different side, however BT are going some way by handing this game to them on a plate.

“Come on Brentwood, these lot are dog shit”. The manager's reply to his team's dismal second half performance is the introduction of a unit, their number ten who in no uncertain terms has been sent on with one job to do, “hold up the ball” . With his arrival and with “twenty to go”, BT are still in it, just.

Tom is now fully committed to the home team's cause, letting out a considerable “ohhhh” as SP flash a header just wide. “Come on Brentwood, lift yourselves” demands one member of the ever increasingly disappointed group around us, who have seen near to no action this end.

The home supporters instructions to their players is for their team to run the clock down, at every opportunity. “Take your time lad” suggests one to a player being replaced, when they are awarded a free kick deep in their half, they emphasise there is no rush to take it, “time, time” repeats one.

SP’s manager rooted to the edge of this area, sleeves of his shirt rolled up, looking a bit like a exasperated deputy head master, watches his team go close again. Liam is getting increasingly hoarse, as his language gets increasingly blue.

Five to go, and the BT keeper is looking shaky, “I get nervous every time they get a corner” mutters a fan.

That was it, that was the chance to rescue what has truly been a game of two halves. The cut back is near perfect, a foot outside the six yard box, all he has to is get his shot on target, but he blazes over, “fucks sake”. I don't think there is a single person who doesn't have their head in their hands. “Only bit of football we’ve played second half” says my neighbour quite rightly. It was well worked, but the finish was wild.

3 - 3, one minute of the game remaining. Murmurs that the keeper should have done better, the ball did seem to go right through his hands, are quick to bubble to the surface. "Talk about frustrating" says one fan with what might be the understatement of the season, another thinks they've “given it to them!” one hopes that it’s SP’s turn to “fall apart, now they're back in the game” with five minutes of extra time to play, and judging by the previous ninety, anything is possible.

The game boils over in added time, and there's a brief outbreak of rutting, which the referee soon gets to grips with, dishing out a couple of yellow cards. “Ref you're a disgrace” howls one fan, who apparently does not agree with his handling of the situation. Another suggests his willingness to blow his whistle, is because he's "probably got a book coming out".

SP almost polish off BT, completing the perfect non league day for them, with three back to back chances in the dying minutes, “come on” shouts the increasingly sweaty deputy head, whose team have done him proud, but can't complete the ‘Miracle at The Arena”. Their final shot is inches over, “should've buried that” says a pragmatic and in equal measure relieved home fan.

It’s mixed emotions on the final whistle, “fuck off” says one fan to no one in particular, Liam offers some encouragement, “heads up lads, we ain’t lost”, one says the kind of thing a parent says to a child, “could of been worse”. There are also differing opinions on the SP fight back, who look dead on their feet, sprawled out on the pitch, I’m sure they're getting a more positive pep talk than the one they got at half time. “Fair play to them” says one supporter, someone else is less generous “we gave it to them, poor side”.

I don’t think it could ever be said BT don’t care, they might have just thrown away a three goal lead, but I don’t think that is down to not giving a shit. As they walk the line of fans behind the barrier, they are all visibly drained and dejected, they shake the hands of the supporters, who in turn wish them luck in the replay.

"Maddest three minutes ever" says Liam, still upbeat, but I reckon wishing he had never offered us those season tickets.

For what was only our second Non League Day, I leave asking myself is it always like this? Six goals, one red card, a warm welcome, Ric Flair, Eminem, Tom burning his mouth and calling SP "dirty Santa's" when they get a bit physical. However, thinking back over the last three years Tom always says odd things, he always burns his mouth, I don't think we've left somewhere thinking, 'God them lot were horrible', we normally see plenty of goals at least one celebrity look-a-like and its not uncommon to see the card of cards brandished on a regular basis, non league football is like this every day of the season.

Non league is for life, not just for non league day.

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