2012-13 Uncovered: Wednesday 29th August - Gone Green So Takeley Or Leave It

   I'd had a rotten night.  This convalescing and recovering is going far, far slower than I had imagined.  A snail with asthma had made more progress than me.  No sleep whatsoever.  This wasn't the first time in the past few days either. 

   Brian had said he had to knock Bowers v Basildon on the head.  That's not really playing the game, putting family first, and all that.  This country.  Anyway, there was a choice still.  I could try resting during the day and see if I was up to the train and longish wander to the Len Salmon Stadium later. 

   Or there was the ridiculous ESPN FA Cup game, where Budweiser are sponsoring Wembley FC, and in return are forcing them to have a retired manager as a consultant and washed up ex-pro's in their ranks.  Talk about dragging the cup's reputation into the gutter. 

   From thereon in though the day got better.  In through my letterbox came the Rovers season card.  It was obvious to me, once I'd seen the name on it, that the admin staff at the club hadn't followed the career of Rik Mayall in his early years.

   Then came the second surprise.  A call from a buddy up to some mischief.  He'd cried off work for a week, with a somewhat improbable tale, and wanted to get out and see something different from the everyday South Essex match.  Bethnal Green United were up against Takeley at the Mile End Stadium.  Did I fancy it?  Well, no, but it was the best option available.  I was also asked to be sworn to secrecy in case he got into trouble next week.  So no problem, Dave Lewis of Basildon, Argos won't know a thing about it.

   We sauntered down the A13, and when we got near Limehouse Tunnel, the helicopters flew past, and we could see the guns on top of the tower blocks.  Now, either the Met got advance information that someone from Vange was venturing into East London, or the Paralympics were starting.  I was hoping for the former.  It would've given us a clear run through this poxy traffic.

   That's another thing, sat navs.  You put in the address, the right postcode, and your put up with that automated yank voice because you know at least you're going to get there.  Now, my vague memory told me that Mile End Stadium was the other side of the Fenchurch Street line when you come off Commercial Road.  We leave it to sat nav woman.  We end up in a housing estate where even police dogs walk in twos.  Sat-navs?  Wanking piss poor piece of shite more like.

   We get in the ground just as the sides kick off.  It's the first leg of an Essex Senior League Cup tie.  For ESL standards, it's not a bad midweek crowd, between 40 and 50.  Both sides are relative newcomers to the league, and both have spent the past few years in the top half and competing in cup finals.  It's all well and good, but well, Bethnal Green is East London and Takeley is Hertfordshire.  It's a bit of a misnomer now, the Essex Senior League, when only 7 of the 19 clubs are in Essex.  Perhaps the Waifs & Strays League would be more appropriate.

   The stand is fairly cavernous and on the other side of the stadium is an Ikea masquerading as a leisure centre.  Once you get used to the binoculars and the City Airport departures every 13 seconds, it's okay, especially the view behind one goal when Canary Wharf lights up.

   The game is, as you would expect, a decent one.  Apart from the yells of "Trip 'im up!" and "F*****g 'it 'im!" from some players, there's a good deal of skill on show.  The visitors take the lead early on, but are pegged back after around half an hour.  Dave and I are pleased enough we've found a good game to see.  All it needs now is a non-league oddball and the night will be complete.

   At that point, an unlikely hero appears.  Not before our eyes but our ears.  Behind us there's been some excited chatter throughout the game.  I just presumed it was among the mean looking lads behind us, so mean that they looked like bouncers for the Rizzle Kicks or refugees from the Double Deckers.

   I look around, to see why someone is so excited with somebody retrieving the ball from the athletics track.  There's a commentary box.  In there is a lad with a Southend United sweatshirt on.  He is standing up, banging on the desk, commentating on every single second, turning a quiet night at Bethnal Green into a potential Champions League group decider.  When he gets so very excited, his voice becomes a cross between a Bee Gee and a Scissor Sister.  Or Martin McGuiness on helium.

   The match is now irrelevant to almost the entire crowd now.  We're not looking at the game, we're watching him, following his every word.  For one night he has become the Jesus of Mile End.  Takeley go 2-1 ahead midway through the second half and it's greeted as if someones shat in his underpants drawer.  He's distraught, but still has time to shout out the radio station's name he's commentating for.  I tune into it.  Not a word from that station about the game's progress.

   He's harmless, though, and thoroughly enjoying himself.  So are the crowd.  We're a kindly sort.  We're not laughing at him, we're laughing at the spectacle he's creating.  We're all loving the unrelenting enthusiasm he's putting into it, the thumping of the desk, the jumping, the high pitch squeal.  All for a football game that everyone on the planet bar those present couldn't give a stuff about. 


    I for one hope he had some sort of recording or dictating machine he was shouting into.  Not just for the reassurance that he wasn't as mental as he first appeared, but also for the undeniable fact that people would pay good money to hear him.  He should go into business with that.  We chat to him afterwards and he says he does this at Bethnal Green, Redbridge and Romford games.  I really do hope he had recording euipment, as he had no radio bits, and that the radio station does play some of what he does.  The world needs people like him.  Or at least football does.

   The game finishes 2-1 to Takeley.  We wander all, fully satisfied from another evening of non-league irreverence.  At that point the Bethnal Green keeper angrily storms past us, still in his kit, and into the car park towards a much more menacing looking group of lads than the Rizzles behind us earlier.  They're right in front of our car.

   For a moment, we fear the worst.  Forget about the fight breaking out, sod that, but what if their bones are crushed on the car?  We have to get home.  Thankfully, the people of Mile End have far higher levels of intelligence than the average Vange resident.  Dave's paranoia dissipates as the goalie and mini-mob trudge away, car intact.

   Olympic opening ceremony?  Champions League?  League Cup?  Pah.  Sorry, rest of the world, but tonight, you missed out.  Big time.  For Jesus of Mile End, he did talk amongst us.

   Bethnal Green United 1,  Takeley 2

  

2012-13 Uncovered: Monday 27th August - A Boreham Drop Of Claret

   Public transport is a bugger at bank holidays but I had it sorted.  Train to Benfleet, bus to Thames Road.  Concord Rangers were taking on Kingstonian.  Let's face it, who wouldn't go to that?

   Me.  Brian called at 11.  I say call, it was more a wake-up alarm.  Still in bed.  It's what happens when you're convalescing.  Your body goes out of sync.  I wasn't doing much but still didn't nod off until 4am.  I guess that's why Prisoner Cell Block H was put on at that time.  It certainly wasn't for entertainment.

   I digress.  Chelmsford City were playing away at Boreham Wood in the Conference South.  It was Brian's 400th ground.  Presumably of the season so far.  Did I want a lift?  What sort of question is that?  Was the Pope in the Hitler Youth?

   Off we went, with Eileen, and who today were the devil kids.  The journey to Meadow Park was filled with screaming, giggling, and getting out of their child seats.  It was exactly like being at a One Direction concert.  Except the noise was better.

   I wouldn't say I have a soft spot for Chelmsford City, but I've always had a look to see how they've got on.  They see themselves as Essex's premiere non-league side, and not without good reason.  I still remember when they were next to the county cricket ground. 

   The occasional Saturday, it'd be a morning and early afternoon watching John Lever and Graham Gooch and the like, then pop next door for City's Southern Premier League game or friendly.  I remember one chant clearly.  "We've got the biggest willy in the league."  I hope they were referring to how tall one of the Clarets players were.  They were a good side and got healthy crowds.

   The devil kids were still conspiring to blow up the Eastenders studio or something so Brian and I hot-footed it to the club shop.  A veritable treasure trove.  Last season's shirts for a fiver.  Old books for a pounds.  Scottish programmes for 20p.  I had a tenner on me but could quite easily have spent a hundred quid.  Perhaps I will do next time.

   Whatever happens on the pitch, I thought, it doesn't matter, the day is already a tremendous one.  Which is just as well.  Meadow Park is well appointed, plenty of seats and terracing, the weather was holding up okay, the queue at the burger bar wasn't too long.  Everything was set up for one of those games you remember years down the line.

   It might have been set up for it, but, quite frankly, it was bloody awful.  Two teams that still looked undercooked.  The pace and feel of the game was very much like a pre-season friendly.  You expect a bit more for your £12 than that.  Chelmsford huffed and puffed, but it took their left winger a good 40 minutes before he realised he was actually allowed to cross a ball rather than run into a Boreham Wood defender and lose the ball.

   The Clarets had a decent following, I'd have said around half the ground.  I'd have also said they deserved better, too, but the supporters standing next to me took away the privilege.  The Boreham keeper had fluorescent green on his boots. "You've no right to wear them, keeper," growled one.  Consistently.  Even though every other player had similar boots.  And even though he was wearing shades in the overcast afternoon, with less hair than me, and a chav polo shirt even though he was in his 40's.

   In our bordeom, Brian and I were reading through our new acquisitions.  I was now the proud owner of Martin Tyler's encyclopedia of everything about the world ever 1978, and seasoned pro Craig Easton would soon be the recipient of an Airdrieonians programme from the Skol Cup.  I can't think why people call me odd.  Though I do understand why they call me other things.

   The non-event continued into the second half.  Brian and I were discussing the different flavours of Revels or something and then we heard something.  We looked up.  Bundle!  Handbags!  I've no idea what went on.  Except that Anthony Cook was taking an early bath, shoving the coach out of the way, and swearing at the crowd.  Chortle.  At last something was happening.

   But that was it.  Corners continued to be kicked directly into the hands of keepers.  Passes unerringly going way above players heads and into touch.  But at least the devil kids had settled down.  And their game of football with some local kids down the side of the stand was far more entertaining.

   Full time came as blessed relief.  Chelmsford City will look upon this, being the away side, and down to 10 men for a while, as a good point.  It was.  But my, what an awful way to get it.  The people who paid a decent wedge to get in really deserved a lot better, despite my earlier observations.  Both teams will play a lot better this season and get beaten.  In fact, if either bothered with actually trying to play they may have won.

   It doesn't matter though.  Awful games like this make the good ones all the more worthwhile.  And that treasure trove of a club shop?  I'd watch a month of games like that just be left there alone for a couple of hours. 

   Or maybe with the club shop girl too.  But I digress.  Ahem ....

   Boreham Wood 0,  Chelmsford City 0

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 25th August - Watersports And Punch-Ups

   One of my favourite days of the year.  Challenge Cup Final day. 

   When I was a kid and not at the match, it was a simple choice on Saturday afternoons.  World of Sport and wrestling.  Grandstand and rugby league.  Call me unfashionable, but I thought then, and still do, that wrestling was crap.  Oh, people drone on about how great Dickie Davies, On The Ball and Big Daddy v Giant Haystacks was.

   They, of course, were wrong.  Frank Bough was a Sunderland fan so I was always kept bang up to date with how they were doing.  And instead of the fixed, fake, blubbery bouncing bodies that ITV tried to pass off as sporting entertainment, the Beeb had Eddie Waring freezing his nads off at Widnes, or Barrow, or Wakefield Trinity.  None of it was camp acting in tights.  This was real.  Tough sportsmen playing a tough game.  Teeth were an optional extra.  Rugby league, and the teleprinter, was king.

   Once a year, the whole nation would join me.  Wembley would be filled to the rafters with these funny northern people, to a man overly cheerful and chirpy, joining in all the communal singing a full hour before kick-off.  This was like the FA Cup Final.  Except that this was fun, whilst its football counterpart was always serious and nervy, whether you supported one of the teams or not.  I loved it.  I still do.

   Last year, I took Chipper to his first final, and we were lucky enough to see one of the greatest tries ever scored, when Wigan's Sam Tomkins took the ball from his own try line and promptly went up the other end to score under the posts.  Their unwitting victims that day were Leeds Rhinos.  They were back again today.  Third final in a row.  Fifth final this century.  And lost the lot so far.

   Standing in their way?  The very team Chipper and I saw completely demolished last Friday over at the Stoop.  True, Warrington Wolves had rested some (but by no means all) of their players.  True, they had also beaten Leeds in the final two years ago.  But still ... a 62-18 hammering from the worst team in the league.  How the hell do you bounce back from that?

   Joining Chipper and I today was older bro Chas and his mate Rob, a Belfast native, now living in London, who met Chas when working in Glasgow.  It's safe to say he's truly British.  Like all Northern Irish people, he's good company, although you can't understand a word they say. 

   What I did gather, though, was the novel way of how he dealt with the vexed problem of the Old Firm.  People would pick up on the accent straight away.  It'd go something like
   'What are you, Celtic or Rangers?'
   'Can't stand either of them'
   'But if you had to choose, Celtic or Rangers?'
   'Neither, they're both crap.'
   'What?'
   'They're both crap.  And you know something, I have a gun on me.'

   People tended to believe his last answer, taking into account the Ulster brogue it was said in, and left well alone.  He could've avoided all of that and just said Partick Thistle.  Though they would've laughed at him.

   We get to our seats just before Abide With Me starts.  I don't know about you, but as far as traditional songs go, this is the worst dirge you could ever think of to get any sort of atmosphere or sense of occasion going.  Terrible, dreary crud.

   I must say, though, the singer, Lorna or Laura something, she was something else.  They should've just let her stand on the centre spot in her tight, lacy, short blue dress and do nothing else for 10 minutes.  Then again, 30 seconds normally does me.

   We're ostensibly in the Leeds end but, as ever, rival supporters are sitting together in large clumps.  It doesn't matter anyway as both sides colours are white, blue and yellow.  Plenty of pink away shirts though, the ones Leeds are playing in.  Yorkshiremen in touch with their feminine side?  Hmmmmm ...

   They weren't in touch with Warrington early on though.  6-0 down after just a few minutes.  The game isn't great but its absorbing.  Which is just as well as the heavens open.  I've never seen a downpour like it.  For about 20 minutes it was like trying to watch the game with cataracts.  Which, if you're a Villa fan, is perhaps preferable.

   At half time, Leeds have controlled the game, but find themselves 12-10 behind.  The end is eerily quiet.  You just get the feeling that the Leeds fans don't believe, that they think they're going to lose.  They are not happy bunnies.

   They're even more unhappy soon after the break.  The pinkie Rhinos appear to have taken the lead after a horrifyingly brutal- but fair - tackle on the poor Warrington lad.  In the process of going over the line, though, the ref spotted a knock-on.  No try. 

   A minute or so later, it seems as if a Wolves player knocked on just over the halfway line.  The ref says no.  The Leeds fans boo and are outraged.  Video playback proves the ref right.  Again.

   At that point it seems the fight has gone from the Yorkshire side.  Warrington score three tries in a matter of minutes and go 29-10 up.  The Wire are coasting to another Cup triumph, Leeds on their way to a third final defeat on the trot.

   Soon after, we hear that roar.  It's unmistakable to anyone who's ever seen trouble at a sporting venue.  There's no chant and it's a lull in play.  Chipper and I look down to the lower tier.  A group of Leeds fans are showing more fight than their players, with the Wire supporters standing their ground.  They haven't much choice.  They're surrounded.

   It dies down after a while but then about 5 minutes later, it flares up about 10 yards from Chipper and I.  It's the stereotypical thug.  Cropped hair.  Shirt one size too small to try to show off what he obviously thinks is a good physique.  It's not.  There's an angry look on his face as he tries to land punch after punch. 

   The intended victim again stands his ground and eventually a bigger, less drunk, and more intimidating supporter breaks it up.  "You're not a prick, but you're acting like one.  Try to hit him again, I don't care if you're my mate, I'll deck ya."  I'm impressed at him, putting common sense and a bit of human decency before loyalty to a drunken friend.

   The match fizzles out.  The Leeds end empties well before the final whistle, and as they were the majority of a 79,000 crowd, the Warrington celebrations looked rather underwhelming.  But at least the sun has come out.

   We have a quick drink afterwards, and as we head towards Wembley Park station, yet another fight breaks out.  For a sport that has such a deserved reputation for friendliness and enjoyment, it's a depressing ending to what should have been a great occasion. 

   It was a good day, no doubt about it, Chipper and I had plenty of moments to enjoy and put in the memory bank.  Challenge Cup Final day is meant to be great, though, even if the match itself isn't, and some pissheads from Leeds, who probably just came down for a drink and a fight, took the gloss of it. 

   Still, 3 cup final defeats on the trot.  Karma, little boys, karma.  It's a bitch.  Especially at Wembley.

   Leeds Rhinos 14,  Warrington Wolves 35 
  

2012-13 Uncovered: Thursday 23rd August - Heavy Hearted In Europe

  Albert Kidd.  One day we will bump into each other.  And one day I will poke the laxatives that's on the end of my brolly tip into your blood steam.

   There, I've said it.  I'm not even going to begin to explain what that's all about.  Google it.  Suffice to say any Hearts fan will concur.

   Before Ross County left the comfy confines of the Highland League, I had a Scottish team to support, just as most people in England that go to non-league match in England follow a league side.  My Uncle Davie, who first took me to County, supported Hearts.  So, therefore, did I.

   It's a curious and undeniably fabulous anomaly, Scottish football.  A moderately sized nation in terms of territory, it's population is tiny, around an eighth of the size of England.  And when half of them support one or the other of Glasgow's Bigot Brothers, crowds and resources elsewhere are always thin on the ground.

   Yet that's what makes Hearts all the more endearing.  To make up for it they indulge in quirkiness that would make Pauline Quirk look particularly unquirky.  Although nothing could be done about the rest of her.

   And so it is that Hearts can win nothing after going 8 months unbeaten in all competitions.  That they can sack a manager who had won 12 league games out of 12, and replace him with a man whose last football job ended after a visit from the police.  That some of their supporters push their own armchair seats into Tynecastle.  That the first kick they get in a cup final is after conceding the first goal in less than 30 seconds.  That they can also sack the man who was the architect of this evening's occasion.

   Paulo Sergio, with his hands tied firmly behind his back by Chairman Romanov's purse strings, got Hearts into Europe with an unforgettable 5-1 humiliation of deadly rivals Hibs in the Salt'n'Sauce Scottish Cup Final.  Within a month he was gone.  As was half the squad, let alone side, that became Jam Tart immortals, including the iconic Rudi Skacel, who signed off with 2 goals on that glorious afternoon.

   It didn't matter one bit.  Tynecastle is one of those grounds where the home fans can get to any team.  It only holds around 18,000 and the seats are so close to the pitch you can take out a centre half's eye with a well aimed Haribo.  Don't think I haven't done that either.  The stadium retains all the noise, too, so that a crowd of 9,000 can ... well, sound like a crowd of 9,000 shouting very loud.  But you get my drift.

   Liverpool were in Auld Reekie, and after Chipper and I witnessed last year's humiliation by Spurs, I guess they were pretty confident.  Now, I know this is supposed to be a blog of games and places I've been to, but I'm making an exception here.  My heart and soul was in Edinburgh tonight.  Only the body turned on ITV4 and drank unhealthily scary amounts of Irn Bru.

   I tried to get tickets but didn't have enough 'loyalty points'.  How patronising does that sound?  You've been going to watch a side for 35 yards only for some snot nose with a computer to work out just what a great fan you are.  Just tell me that locals who've been to more games than me get one ahead of me.  But 'not enough loyalty points'?  F*** off.

   In a strange way, I wasn't envying those who were lucky enough to be at Gorgie tonight.  They were going off their heads, a really intoxicating and terrifying atmosphere.  But to be there, you probably wouldn't appreciate just how electric and intimidating it was. 

   It wasn't so much the 'Glorious Hearts' song that boomed out, but the mix of twirling maroon scarves and continual indechiperable roar.  The scouse supporters were subdued, the ITV presenters taken aback.  Did nobody tell them just how fantastic Tynecastle is before?  Whatever happened on the pitch, it was a special night.

   The bonus was that Hearts really did themselves proud on the pitch too.  Templeton and Novikovas clearly had Liverpool rattled early on.  Paterson?  Never heard of him until now.  He was causing all sorts of problems in the second half.  The English lad, though he hates the fact he is, Andrew Driver, came bed-wettingly close.

   In typical Hearts fashion, though, only they could score the single goal of the match but still lose.  Poor Webster.  It was a cracking low centre late on.  He couldn't do much about getting out of the way of it.  Not that it mattered.  The decibels increased further.  Hearts were proud of their team.  Loud and proud.

   I've always been of the opinion that the result is less important than the occasion itself.  Tonight was a case in point.  The Heart of Midlothian players ensured it was an unexpectedly competitive Europa League cup tie.  The Heart of Midlothian supporters made it a special, special event. 

   Tynecastle on a European night.  You might score more goals than the home team, but you just can't beat it.

   Heart of Midlothian 0,  Liverpool 1

2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 21st August - Stones, Rocks And A Hard Place To Find

   Sometimes, following a team can be tough.  You have to report on them rather than want to.  Happy if they do well but forgotten about the moment you leave the ground.  No rhyme or reason for it, you just don't feel right when they're the team you're covering.

   At other times, though, clubs get under your skin and get to your heart.  You shouldn't openly support any team you're supposedly being impartial about but you just can't help yourself.  East Thurrock United certainly fall into this category.

   Chipper and I first covered them a couple of seasons ago, when Ilford visited Rookery Hill.  We loved it straight away.  It just felt right.  A nice, out of the way ground, the way the side seemed to stick to their footballing style, whatever the score was, and just a sense of fun that prevailed.  It felt as if enjoying yourself there was more important than winning, even though they were battling at the top of Ryman One North.

   Happily, the Rocks had mixed that with unprecedented success.  Once we'd started covering their games, East Thurrock won 25 out of 29 games, storming to the title.  Then last year, a glorious FA Cup run, culminating with Sky Sports News Mick Lowes and I sharing coverage for a waiting nation.  On top of that came a League Cup final appearance at Staines, where Football Manager '12 was on sale for the unlikely price of a fiver.  And also a club record points haul in the Ryman Premier.  It was fantastic to follow them.

   I liked the boss John Coventry immediately.  You can tell when people are genuinely decent people from the first few seconds, and he is.  Knows his football, and seems to give the players the right mix of discipline and respect.  I never say too much at games - it may sound daft for a radio reporter but I like to keep out of the way and let others get on with it - but he always has a handshake, a wry grin, and a convivial word for me.

   His dry wit also gave me one of the brightest moments of last season.  He sits in the press box in the first half, leaving the equally likable Jay Devereaux in the dugout, and gives his boys a shout every now and again.  Against Horsham, the BBC Sussex reporter turned round after one such shout, and asked sarcastically "Are you one of the coaches then?"  To which came the instant reply "No, I'm the manager, sometimes I'm even allowed to talk to them."  Bosh.  Sent to Coventry.  I can still see the look of uneasy embarrassment on that reporter's face.  Much like the Horsham keeper later on.

   But I digress.  Tonight the Rocks were playing the Stones.  At the Manor.  In the Vale.  It sounded more like a mountaineering holiday in Wales.  Wealdstone were a few miles from home and there were rumblings of discontent.  Another move, sharing with Barnet, was on the agenda.  They were a little less than gruntled.

   We arrived at Grosvenor Vale after a nightmare trek.  We knew we were close, could see bits of green, but no floodlights.  We walk by a turning but it's a dead end and no sign of any life, let along footballing life.  About two miles later, we're back.  This times cars and people are going down the road.  It still looks almost derelict but this time we see movement of gates, hi viz jackets.

   He get to the press box first.  One of the local media guys turns up five minutes later, and just stands and stares at us.  We've clearly taken his usual spot but he doesn't say anything, just glares, then slowly plugs in his laptop.  My netbook?  Pah.  A battery's all I need.

   At that moment, the heavens open, and you could hardly see 10 yards in front of you.  There's a bit of a spark.  Clearly water and laptop plugs do not mix.  Chortle.

   Chipper and I knew it'd be a tough one.  Wealdstone have always been a decent side, and they had the league's leading scorer last season, Richard Jolley, with an eye-popping 43 goals.  Blimey o blummen Reilly. 

   The match starts off with the hosts laying siege to the East Thurrock goal.  In a rare break, though, Kris Newby cops a bad 'un.  The media guy we upset earlier, complains about the booking the culprit rightly receives.  "If they're gonna book players for tackles like that, it'll end up turning into basketball."  My reply is Covoesque in its dryness.  "I would suggest that a couple of studs in the knee is not exactly a new thing to be booked for."  The other Wealdstone press man chortles. 

   Back on the pitch, the Rocks have the next quarter of an hour, then the ball is back in the East Thurrock penalty area.  Just as it looks like the safety of half time is going to be made, up pops Richard Jolley to put the Stones deservedly 1 up.  Bugger.

   I say on air that there's still 45 minutes, and all is not lost, but I fear it is.  Wealdstone are good.  They pound the Rocks goal for the first 20 minutes after the break.  The result isn't in doubt, it's just a matter of how many East Thurrock lose by.

   Then it happens.  From nothing, Sam Collins breaks on the left, gets inside the area, and smacks the ball against the woodwork.  Sam Higgins and Reiss Gilbey both follow up with on-target shots that rebound off Stones defenders, who look like startled rabbits caught in headlights.  'An attack?  From East Thurrock?  What do we do now?'  What they do is stand around like dicks and let the ball be hoisted into the area again.  Kris Newby is unmarked and lobs it over the keeper.  Somehow it's 1-1.

   It's at moments like this that it's a giveaway.  That East Thurrock United have won a place in my heart.  Instead of trying to take a pic, or typing away online updates, or even, God forbid, commentate, I stand up, arms in the air, and shout "Go on Kris!  YESSSSSSSSSS!"  The 410 locals are bemused.  The two visitors, Chipper and I, celebrate, then get back to what we're supposed to be doing.  Whilst giggling at the unfairness of it.

   And for the rest of the game, the tide has turned.  Wealdstone look knackered, out of steam in the rain.  The Rocks have that extra spring in their step and running around as if it's the first minute.  Shots are either superbly saved by the host keeper or go centimetres past the post.  It's all East Thurrock right up until the final whistle.  Wealdstone are hanging on grimly, reduced to booting the ball anywhere.  But they do.

   1-1 is, in the end, a fair result.  The Wealdstone media guys shake our hands, wish us a safe journey home, and say they were glad to get the point in the end.  I always said they were good chaps.  We return to Ruislip Manor tube station, via an off licence.  It takes us less than 10 minutes to get to the station.  And about 7 miles less walking.  Yes, I did say walking.

   A point as the Rocks eventually ground down the Stones.  That'll do for me.  Blimey, I could even make it as a headline hustler.  Though perhaps only for the Daily Sport.  Meanwhile, Thorpe Park is up on the horizon the following morning.  A day filled with Chipper and his mate making themselves sick on roller-coasters, with me looking at women wandering by, whilst not trying to make it too obvious to 'Er Indoors.

   I'd rather be back at Grosvenor Vale though.

   Wealdstone 1,  East Thurrock United 1 

  

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 18th August - You'll Find It In The Direct 'Ricay

   'First day of the season'.  The papers and telly were full of it.  You must be joking.  Being going for over a month now.  I'm already feeling like a seasoned campaigner.  And the Euros on the back of that and it doesn't feel like there's been a break at all. 

   Mind you, seeing England play was a welcome break from watching football.  Settling for penalties in the pre-match kick-around against Italy made me yearn for the silky skills of Billericay.

   That last comment wasn't entirely ironic.  Yes, they are direct, and yes, the two worst games I saw last season involved them and Hornchurch.  But hey, the two promoted sides were that pair.  And with the likes of Harrison Chatting in their ranks, 'Ricay weren't exactly averse to playing some eye-pleasing stuff.

   It's just that if you have the likes of Chris Wild and Rob Swaine in the side, so strong and so good in the air, it would be daft not to play to your strengths.  And when you're chasing promotion, it's results first, sexy football second.  Winning the Ryman Premier title and promotion to the Conference South gave them one giant orgasm anyway.

   So, on this historic day, Town's first at Conference South level, Chipper and I turned up at New Lodge to relay the fun for the waiting masses.  Or mass, depending if the one listener was Catholic or not. 

   Speaking of which, if there is a God, he must be one.  Another injury time Celtic equaliser.  But still, Ross County unbeaten for over a year in the league.  Perhaps He's Presbyterian.  A sobering thought if Gordon Brown is made in His image.

   I digress.  A roaring hot day and through the gates.  You can tell it's big league stuff.  I had to write my name and everything on a proper form.  Last year it was "I'm from the radio" "Fine, in you go."  Still, the gateman was a cheery as ever, as well as the programme fella.  I think it's because they were anticipating an easy win.

   Their opponents were having a slightly less easy time of it than the now defunct Rangers.  Truro City were sharing a season ticket with Southend United at the High Court for some cosy chats with HMRC.  Other creditors were knocking on the door, just as unpaid players were trying to open it to get out of there.  If gong to football was a gas, then someone's farted on Cornwall.

   The teams came out to what I thought was a surprisingly low crowd.  I know it's the summer holidays and that, but as it was a historic day in the club's history, I thought more would make the effort.  There were 1,100 there for a game last Boxing Day.  The sparseness of the terrace and seats told its own story.  402.

   It included a handful of visiting supporters, who had made the long trek north-eastwards.  Beer bellies and being shirtless don't mix with blokes at the football.  Particularly when they have bigger tits than Jodie Marsh.

   There was a reassuring familiarity to it all, though.  The home supporters quickly onto the linesman's and ref's backs over perceived wrong decisions.  And a goal from a corner.  After a lot of faffing and stuff, it comes in on the left, and Chris Wild heads home.  The only reason Rob Swaine didn't get it was he was sitting up with us, still injured.

   Billericay take control, create chances, both from set pieces and neat open play, but Truro miss the easiest chance.  Home keeper Jay Larkins kicks the ball straight to their forward, who unmarked somehow misses from inside the area.  Chortle.

   The game's not up to much cop but Billericay's winning.  Yep, that familiar feeling again.

   But then it all changes.  A few minutes in, Truro attack on the right, a centre comes in, Chris Wild scuffs his clearance, and he becomes the Conference South's leading scorer by equalising for the Cornishmen.  2 goals for Wild.  1-1.

   It gets worse.  A Town free kick, there's a bit of pushing and shoving in the area.  The ref warns them.  It carries on after the kick goes harmlessly wide, and Jay May needlessly gets involved with the Truro defender, who obviously goes down quicker than Natasha Giggs in a players lounge.  Sent off.  Down to 10 men, in searing heat, against a side whose equalised and have their tails up.  Oops.

   I mention on the radio that there only looks like one winner but that Billericay made a habit of winning against the odds last season with players sent off.  I can still feel the splinters up my backside from the fence I was sitting on at the time.

   Truro come forward, some ridiculous defending, an easy chance, and some ridiculous shooting.  Still 1-1.  As the minutes tick by, Truro players go down and stay down for some innocuous knocks me with mocks by the home fans.  All I needed was a stereotypical joke about Cornwall and smocks and it would've been some super alliteration.

   As it happens, there was a super, spiffing, fizzing finish.  A break down the left, in comes a low centre, and an easy tap-in from six yards.  But for who?  Surely you can tell, seeing as the goal came from decent play?  Well, no you can't.  The Town fans go wild.  Truro players sink to their knees.

   It was cruel.  But that's football.  Oh, so familiar.  Oh, so nice.  Give it to me baby, the PA was blaring out.  They gave it to us alright.  Eventually.  A slow burner on the hottest day of the year.

   Billericay Town 2,  Truro City 1   

  

2012-13 Uncovered: Friday 17th August - Broncos, I, Erm, Well, Bloody Hell!

   It wasn't looking good.  Warrington Wolves were in town.  Warming up for their Challenge Cup Final.  Beaten Wigan and St. Helens in the past fortnight.  And a win over the Broncos would propel them to the top of the Super League.

   Chipper and I didn't care.  Friday night in London.  Trips to the Twickenham Stoop were always fun.  Via HMV, Soccerscene and the chip shop, of course.  And as for the Broncos, they were either jaw droppingly awful or unbelievably good.  No in between.  It's just so much fun going to see the Broncos.

   Just after we stroll in we're accosted by the Big Soup woman.  If we fill in some form we can win some crappy prize of tickets for a game we already have tickets for.  I point this out to be told "You can sell the tickets you have."  Yep, those £1 tickets will fetch a fortune on the black market.  But I didn't mind.  Her norks were fantastic.  And I still have a tin of Vegetable and Sausage on the living room floor.  Yes, that is a euphemism, too, but I do.

   The atmosphere is a thousand times better than the visit from the Shameless mob, and par for the course at just about any Super League game.  There are home and away sections, but supporters mingle freely about.  Tonight, with the crowd barely over 2,000 and the Wolves fans a decent lot, the away section was dispensed with completely.  A nice, relaxed, warm summer evening in London.  There have been worse days out, even with inevitable Broncos defeat awaiting us.

   Except no.  From the off, London are right on their game.  Well, not their game, about a thousand notches above their normal game.  6-0 up after the first set of six and the Sky cameras ignoring the match and concentrating on the roving Phoenix reporter.

   Sometimes, it's all about the timing.  I'm about to file a report when Broncos attack and, bingo, a try is commentated upon.  I may not have been as unbiased as perhaps I should've.  "Get in there" is not in the neutral vernacular.  Chipper is amazed as I am.  And a couple of thousand others.

   We expect a Wolves fightback.  "Warrie, Warrie, Warrie, Warrie Warrington" was the quaint chant from their supporters.  They did.  But not without the Broncos striking back,  24-18 at half time.

   What we didn't expect was the second half.  Annihilation.  Not of the Broncos.  But by the Broncos.  Six London tries.  Six conversions.  38 unanswered points against a side bidding to go top.  What the f*** is going on?  Sure, Warrington may have been 'resting' some players for the cup final, but the likes of Morley and Ratchford aren't exactly going to be missing at Wembley next week.

   Best part of the second half?  With London 44-18, Chipper says "All I want now is for the Broncos to get fif ..."  He didn't even finish the sentence.  Right in front of us, Luke Dorn makes another interception.  The Sky cameras pick up on me raising my arms in triumph even though he has another 70 yards to run.  I point Joe in the direction of the disappearing Bronco, scampering towards the try line.  "There you are."  We both laugh and celebrate.

   The Broncos fans don't know what to do more, clap, cheer, or laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.  62-18.  62??!!  6 points from 22 matches.  Now 6 points out of the last three.  The last time London won 3 games on the trot, the team coach was ambushed on the A1.  By Dick Turpin.  Whatever Tony Rea's got, he's given it to the players.  And they in turn gave it to Warrington.  There's a lot of points being spread about.  And love.

  All I can say is .... Jesus Christ.  To paraphrase Alex Ferguson, London Broncos - bloody hell.

   London Broncos 62,  Warrington Wolves 18

  

2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 14th August - Buzzed Off At Burroughs

   It was match day and still nothing from the club.  I'd handed the money over while Southend Manor were turning over Tilbury, but still no season ticket confirmation.  Or season ticket.  Or anything.

   It hadn't been a tough choice.  Those times where either there wasn't a midweek match for Phoenix, or simply being too knackered to travel far, Rovers were easy to get to.  More importantly, Brian would give me a lift. 

   He turned up with Ed in tow and both looked fairly chuffed with things when I chucked Brian's Broncos ball (try saying that after a few pints) through the window.  He feared Broncos wouldn't be about much longer so wanted a souvenir.  Can't get much better than one of the balls they used to demolish Salford.

   Anyway, tonight I was the opposition.  My team were visiting Great Wakering Rovers.  I thought it may take a miracle to beat them.  But then, it was a miracle Basildon United were there at all.  Having resigned from the ESL in March, it seemed like the end of the road. 

   But, by hook or by crook, debts had been sorted, and the Bees were back in business with a new manager.  Who then resigned when he couldn't train on the pitch when he wanted so they got an old one.

   I still remember the first game I saw Basildon United play fondly.  An Essex Senior Cup tie against Heybridge Swifts.  Settled with just 90 seconds left thanks to a thumping volley from what seemed like 400 yards.  But hey, 1974 was big on overdoing it.  I was hooked.

   Which was a bloody shame, because 38 years later, all that I had to show for it was seeing a couple of losing FA Vase quarter finals, Tony Currie sliding into me, and years of gloomy afternoons and evenings in dim and dingy surroundings.  Living in Vange, though, that was luxury for me.

   I didn't have high hopes.  John Higley knew the ESL inside out, but the Bees had such a catastrophic 2011-12, avoiding bottom place was the only thing I hoped for this time round.

   Brian, Ed, Nick (a young lad, foolishly being led astray by grumpy middle aged boys) and I got to the turnstiles.  Apparently season ticket numbers were on the gate and you just gave them your secret number.  My was a secret alright.  I didn't bloody know it.  Fortunately, there was a solution.  I just said I had a season ticket.  I was let through without a murmur.  Maybe my face is more honest looking than I am.

   It was good to see Richard Mann there.  A funny guy.  You have to have a sense of humour to do as much for the Bees as he has done.  There was a semblance of away support too.  Double figures, a figure that failed to be reached at the odd home game last season.  A mean looking physio too.  He looked as if he'd break your legs if you went down injured. 

   We settled down for the game.  And so did the Bees.  Certainly having the better of it, and Bertie Brayley (a man who's had more clubs than a Canadian on a seal hunt) missing a glorious chance, shooting against the keeper and stumbling over when clean through.  The teams went off with plenty to think about for the hosts, especially some of the crowd when that physio started having 'words' with them.

   It started that way in the second.  That George Akpele was obviously a decent player but the left back was obviously blowing out of his backside already.  I looked around, and some of the other Bees players were doing likewise.  I started to fear the worse.

  But hey, guess what?  Yep, the bastards ran out of steam.  Crash.  Rovers piled forward, chased a lost cause at the bye line, then clump.  Foul.  Penalty.  Jimmy Webb.  1-0 to Rovers.  I might be a season ticket holder (with the invisible secret number) but still - you bastards.

   Bang.  Five minutes to go and a shot from fully 25 yards into the top corner.  2-0.   Wallop.  The last minute and a shot from 22 yards.  Top corner again.  Again.  3-0.  Life isn't fair, especially for Basildon United.  And especially tonight.  Instead of applauding, all I could do was say "f*** me."  Churlish I know but you can't be a football supporter unless you are.

   We filed off home.  Brian, Ed and Nick were happy with the goals, happy with the points, and happy with the level of performances.  Both teams had played better than some Ryman League sides we saw last term. 

   Me?  I was just happy there was a Basildon United to watch.  And disappointed those bastard Rovers beat them

   Great Wakering Rovers 3,  Basildon United 0.

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 11th August - Leiston Said, Soonest Mended

   At long last.  With fate (or more precisely a change of venue, a dodgy rail line, rain, and a radio station happy to scrap it's flagship sports show just before the Olympics) conspiring against it happening, the familiar surroundings of Blunts Wall Road came into view.

   I was always a Basildon United fan, mind, and in the 70's there was certainly a bit of rivalry.  With 'Ricay off on their Vase glory runs, the Bees had the temerity to win the Essex Senior League on New Lodge turf.  My first pitch invasion, no less, resplendent with cola flavoured Spangles and tank top in German national flag colours.  I was deeply unfashionable even then.

   Despite that, as a kid, you always wanted your local sides to do well, much as I wanted all English sides to do well in European competition (apart from Leeds, but well, f*** 'em, that's what everyone else thought too).  I thrilled to Billericay's Wembley wins and march up the leagues.

   I still do now.  Conference South just a week away.  Rubbing shoulders with the odd professional club.  One step from the highest echelon of the non-league game.  Yeah, go on 'Ricay.

   Perhaps it was all those thoughts that were overloading my circuits as the Blues and visitors Leiston took to the pitch in front of a sparse crowd.  I began to file my pre-match preview and then tried to attach my dictation thingy to my netbook.  It was then I found I had brought the wrong USB thingy.  Oops.  Live updates online only it is, then.

   Leiston were good.  Although it was a shadow Billericay side, there were definitely players on that pitch who would be involved the following weekend.  The visitors raced through the Ryman One North last season and it showed.  In the second half especially, they took Billericay apart.

   The hosts done well to come from behind twice in the first half.  But Leiston were lethal, with pace and accuracy going forward.  They won 4-2 and it was altogether more comfortable than the scoreline suggested.

   A good run-out, I thought.  It'd wake up a few people, for sure, and Craig Edwards is a man known for not exactly being backwards in coming forwards when it came to kicking players arses if need be.  A wake-up call was how I described it.  Though 'crap in the second half' may have been more succinct if a lot less diplomatic.

   Anyhow, travelling home on the train, I looked gloomily at my MP3 dictating thingy, cursing myself that I'd taken the wrong lead.  It was then that I had my second moment of 'oh f***'.  I then remembered that it didn't need a lead, that it already had a USB thingy in it that you just slid out and in. 

   Passengers on the train between Rayleigh and Southend gave a wide berth to this guy on his own, with a bag, cursing out of the window.  Billericay, as it turned out, wasn't the only ones today that needed a wake-up call before the season started.  So did the person writing this, the stupid arse.

   Billericay Town 2,  Leiston 4

2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 7th August - No Chance Of Getting Rocks Off

   'Er indoors wasn't happy.  Chipper and I looked at the friendlies for clubs in the Phoenix FM area.  Billericay were at home.  Brentwood were just down the road at Canvey.  East Thurrock United, meanwhile, were on a grinding trip around the M25 at Potters Bar.  It would be stupid to go to that one .... "Yes.  Let's go."  Good lad.

   It was 'er indoors with the motor though.  I had the flimsiest of pretexts.  "It's a live online match so I've got to go."  She was going to miss Eastenders and instead would be watching a meaningless friendly of a sport she doesn't really give a monkey's about.  I know how to treat a woman.

   We get there in plenty of time, despite slightly going into Enfield rather than Potters Bar.  I like the mix of trees and housing.  It puts me in mind of Clachnacuddin.  Except without the slashed car tyres and reams of ex-Rangers fans crying their eyes out.

   But seven quid?  Even though the Rocks are Ryman Premier, a bit much for a pre-season friendly.  It's reflected in the low turnout.  Maybe Ian Beale was a better option after all.

   But then again, the Rocks did so much last season.  An epic FA Cup run, ending in front of the nation's tv cameras, Sky Sports News, a thousand locals, and me on the mic.  On top of that, a League Cup Final slot came their way, though the less said about that the better.  Perhaps the hosts thought they'd be a draw?  Hmmmm ....

   The Rocks come out in their new away kit of black and white stripes.  Thin stripes, more Juventus than Newcastle  - it's what I tell myself anyway.  They look sharp, passing and moving well.  The home keeper is in inspired form.  All the while, 'er indoors is playing on her phone.

   Then the inevitable happens.  Potters Bar go 2-0 from their first three shots.  Simon Peddie unleashes an expletive that Phil Mitchell would have heard.  Chipper and I laugh.  it's just the way things are.  90,000 at Wembley one week, getting your arse kicked by Potters Bar the next.  That's life, not just football.

   The Rocks keep playing, though, and just before the hour, Chipper goes for a piss, with the Rocks just 2-1 down thanks to a penalty.  He returns.  I tell him "You haven't missed much.  It's 3-2." ...  "Did we go 3-1 down or was it 2-2?" ... "No, we're winning 3-2 now."  He looks to the sky, laughs, and almost swears.


   Potters Bar come right back in it, equalise, get it disallowed by the lino, but then gets re-awarded by the ref.  3-3.  Something I may have slightly missed in my updates.  It's all irrelevant in any case when East Thurrock grab a late fourth.

   The teams go off the same way they came on.  To indifferent silence from a small crowd.  I have a quick word with John Coventry in the car park.  You often hear people saying 'oh, so-and-so's a great guy' in football, when all it is, is people blowing smoke up each others backsides. 

   John, though, is a genuinely decent bloke.  Thoroughly grounded, always has time for everyone, and a nice line in dry wit.  It's a pity I'm not like that but there you are.

   And so we headed home, completing an evening of utter pointlessness.  No Eastenders for 'Er indoors.  No six-a-sides for Chipper.  And all for a glorified training session, for which I forked out £24 for the privilege, including bus stop squares.

   Good innit.

   Potters Bar Town 3 (or maybe 2, but probably 3),  East Thurrock United 4

  

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 4th August - Buck Off Back To Salford

  
   Super League Saturday for Phoenix FM.  Groan.  Another 80 minutes for Chipper and I to endure, as the London Broncos calamitous season continues to unravel.

   Performances had improved, results hadn't.  That was the Tony Rea Effect so far.  Those play-off days seemed a lifetime ago.  The Challenge Cup Final appearance seemed to have been in another century.  Well, it was, but that's hardly the point.

   A point was something the Broncos hadn't won for months.  The next team for us to roll over to was Salford City Reds.  A famous name from the past, with a brand spanking new stadium and big plans.  Their off-field progress hadn't been matched on, but they still had a shout of the play-offs.  Another grisly afternoon at the Stoop was in prospect, made even more gloomy in the midst of unparallelled British success in the Olympics at just about everything.

   It started poorly even before we got to the ground.  A group of Salford fans obviously couldn't handle their drink and were wandering towards the ground not so much singing, but tunelessly shouting.  Their facial hair and unusually aggressive demeanour for rugby league supporters put me in mind of a Spice Girls press conference.  This was going to be worse than normal.

   And so it proved in the first half.  An early Broncos interception by Amari Caro and try under the posts gave false hope.  Six tries later, and London were on the wrong end of a 28-6 gubbing at half time.  Salford didn't have to break sweat for any of them either.  I filed the report through to Dave, kindly describing Broncos as appalling. 

   The Salford supporters had been dreadful.  Not content with seeing their team win easily, a minority of them regaled the Stoop to a series of obnoxious chanting throughout the first 40 minutes.  It wasn't so much offensive to me as tedious.  I'd heard every little teenage wannabe hoolie singing similar crap at football grounds up and down Britain. 

   I could see, though, that the Broncos supporters, with their kids who never bother with the round ball game, were trying to calm some clearly intimidated and upset kids.  This afternoon, for one reason or another, was going to be worse than I anticipated.  Chipper, to his credit, laughed at the Shameless family in the away section and at the Broncos ineptitude.  Good lad.  I think I was right in summing things up like this, though, to the studio.

   "I'm afraid, Dave, we've got another 40 minutes to endure."

   It was getting worse, too, as the second half was underway.  Those pissheads, who were proving that Shameless was actually a fly-on-the-wall documentary, decided to sit right in with the Broncos supporters and near the two dugouts.  Security?  They just huddled together and hoped things wouldn't get out of hand.  I feared they would.

   And that's exactly what happened.  Except on the pitch.  Craig Gower gathered the ball, and though he appeared to fumble a little over the line, the ref gave the try.  The Shameless mob gave ironic applause.  But then a few minutes after that, Salford can't deal with a high ball and Tony Clubb goes into the corner.  16-28.  Respectability.

   The Shameless mob are getting twitchy and start to taunt the Broncos supporters menacingly.  At long last, security do their work.  One gobby woman, arms flailing and f-words akimbo, is told "Sit down, shut up."  When a colleague tries to give it the big 'I am', he's patronised with a 'Don't even think about it, son.'

   As we go into the last 15 minutes, and Broncos continue to pressurise, and the Shameless mob get more lairy, you begin to think 'If we could just score here now.'  I curse hope.  I cannot stand it.  Hope kills me time after time.

   But then it happens. Kieran Dixon.  I want your babies.  22-28.  Game on.  The sparse Broncos support are now up for it.  The Shameless mob shut up without being told.  Shamelessly shitting themselves now.

   Salford kick off, and you can see the fear in them, they want to be anywhere except the Stoop.  London come straight back at them, at Chris Bailey dives in on the left.  26-28.  Chipper and I look at each other.  "They're gone Dad, they've gone!"  He's bang on.  The City Reds might be still leading, but they are on the pitch in spirit only.

  Inevitably, there's another Broncos try.  Did I just say inevitably and Broncos scoring?  But's that's how it was.  Michael Robertson was the man.  30-28.  1,400 souls making the noise of 140,000 foghorns by now.  London in command, Salford in disarray.  The Shameless mob?  They angrily chastise their own side and are told to pipe down.

   Will Lovell gets another, then Will Dorm.  Only the full time hooter prevented further humiliation of the visitors.  40-28.  Forget six golds at the Olympics, this was the sports story of the day, the unlikeliest and most exciting and enthralling of comebacks I've ever seen - and against a team whose supporters included a contingent of scum.  Fan-fucking-tastic.

   Even the Salford players tired of the Shameless mob, with Shane Long right showing them the finger.  Their humiliation was complete, sitting amongst the supporters they mocked, even intimidated, and who now were giving them a taste of their own medicine.  Wankers, the lot of them.  Have a bit of that you c***s.

  As I filed the full time report for Dave in the studio, I simply laughed.  What else could I do? "I did say we've got another 40 minutes to endure", I admitted live on air, then followed up with "This is less believable than a coalition promise."  Never a truer word spoken.

   Even more amusing.  Chipper laughs at this obese, 50-something drunk from the Shameless mob.  "And what are you laughing at?", he growled.  Chipper just laughs again.  Then an amazing statement from the Shameless man, showing his own self-awareness -

  "You can give it but you can't take it." and he walks forward menacingly.

  "What?" was Chipper's response, still smiling.

    I've finished up with radio duties and I chime in.  "Don't worry, if he comes up here, I'll punch his f***ing lights out."

   The drunk backtracks, and as he walks-cum-staggers away he again says "You can give it but you can't take it."  A perfect end to a perfect hour.  It's made my day and perhaps my year, that second half.

   It's days like this, and reactions like that, which make me think that sometimes, just sometimes, there is such a thing as karma.  And occasionally works pretty bloody quick too.

   London Broncos 40,  Salford City Reds 28

2012-13 Uncovered: Thursday 2nd August - Blimey, That Was Quick!

  
   It's funny how things turn round so quickly.  Five days previously I had suspected a pincer movement and a season of turmoil at Southend Manor.  Yet the very next game, it's just so different.

  On the way in, I could see Southend United were playing Southend Cricket Club in a 20twenty game.  We used to call them evening matches when I played, but there you are, that's progress.  There was a distinct lack of action which I put down to a drinks break, especially as I could see one lad just lazing on the grass.

  
   Ooh, I was groyne-grabbingly wrong.  Blues player Elliot Benyon misfielded and copped a fairly pacy cricket ball right between his bails.  Apparently, his shout of "Arrrrrggggghhhh!  Me b*****ks!" was the loudest heard since Essex bowlers heard their captain had won the toss and put Australia in to bat in 1948.  I shouldn't laugh.  Chortle.

     I was joined this night by Ed and his lad.  He'd raised similar eyebrows at the cost but at least I'd had a customary bit of chat this time round now John was on the gate.  Those little things do make a difference.  Women will believe it one day, too, if we keep saying it.

 

   The performance was much, much better.  More than 3 or 4 passes put together, some pace and passing along the floor rather than through the air and a cracking goal or two.  All against one of Ryman One North's better teams last season.

   And yep, I did see it for a change, even though I was sitting from seats that had been earmarked for 'club officials' in future.  The view was obscured by the metal grilling of the players tunnel.  Not just a bit but around half the pitch.  No problem for me, though, as I spend most of any game missing it one way or another.

      Brian and the mob made it for the second half.  Stan had decided he would add the optional 'a' to his name tonight and led his dad on a tour of Southchurch Park.  He had a quick lesson in laconic humour, though, when he started jumping up and down in front of me.  "Do you know you're the reason I want a vasectomy?"  Dads - feel free to use that the next time your kids are pissing you off.

 
   Much better overall.  Decent performance, decent result, and no mentions of Chairman Steve.  He's a good man, and it's a difficult task following such a well loved chairman Bob.

   Happily, it's looking like I could be wrong after all.  Hurrah!

   Southend Manor 2,  Tilbury 0  (well, i think it was, anyway).
  

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 28th July - Ill Manored In Southchurch

   With the Olympics getting into full flow, Chipper was off to see Team GB on the Sunday, so that was obviously going to be the come-down, the methadone after the intoxicating Southend Manor had brushed aside Woodstock Sports.

   The Manor will always have a place in my heart, after doing the PA at Southchurch Park every once in a while for the past three years and Chipper being part of one of their title winning youth teams.  It's not every club that comes out to the strains of "Hearts, Hearts, Glorious Hearts".  And not every club would let me do that.  Or any other club, come to that.

   It was another gloriously hot day.  All this moaning about an awful summer?  Pah, selective memories, that's all it is.  Although the weather was good, as soon as Chipper and I got there, well, you could tell there was something not quite right.

   Previous chairman Bob had gone out in a blaze of glory after Manor's epic FA Cup run and runners-up spot in the ESL.  The new incumbent, Steve, another decent lad, obviously would a slightly different way of doing things and, hmmmm, you could feel some people weren't quite used to it.

   We were taken aback at the gate.  Instead of the usual chat and banter, the guy on the gate said simply "Oh good, two paying punters."  Chipper and I exchanged glances.  The £12 we were charged made it cheaper for us to see a Football League side last week.  I don't begrudge giving a single penny to any non-league side (Bowers aside, maybe, but that's only because I'm petty) but, that much for a friendly between two Step 5 sides?  Hmmmm.  Again.

      The first face we saw was Colin, Chipper's coach for a couple of years.  He's always good for a chat and a nice line in dry wit.  His assessment of the squad was withering.  "They won't do much this year."  Despite not a cloud in the sky, you could feel the gloom.

   The game was awful, comfortably the poorest of all the pre-season friendlies.  The squad, still with most of the players that had been part of their famous Cup last term, could hardly string two passes together.  Aimless punts up in the air and aggressive tackles were the order of the day.  It was horrible to watch, like 22 Jodie Marshes on laxatives.

   Next to us, too, was one of the old guard of tireless volunteers.  He regaled us with exactly what the new chairman was doing wrong and the rumbles of discontent it was causing.  It was a tough afternoon.

     
   At half time, one of the coaching staff comes over, beaming.  He's a good lad, the sort that will help anyone out, so when he said "We played some good stuff there" I didn't want to be cruel.  Well, obviously cruel.  I replied "You wouldn't have looked out of place there yourself, mate."  Chipper grinned.

   To make it more difficult, this was meant to be being covered on the radio.  We were reduced instead to letting the listeners knowing what the score was and instead talking about other sports.  Or, well, anything.  At least Manor won.  And they still sold Irn Bru at the bar, so Steve is obviously getting the main things right.

   To top it all off, Chipper is invited for a training session for the Under 18's, turns up, and is met with an empty clubhouse after it was cancelled without him being told.  Of course, it was unintentional, but it's just another of those things that seem to go wrong when a club begins to slide.

   I hope I'm wrong.

   Southend Manor 3,  Woodstock Sports 1