2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 29th September - Between The Rocks And A Comfortable Place

   It had been a good start to the weekend.  Tickets had come through for the England match in a couple of weeks.  Then confirmation I've got first dibs when Brazil come to town in February.  Oh yes.  Then found a city centre hotel for the trip to Sunderland for a pittance.  Can't go wrong with Travelodge.  Comfy bed.  Somewhere to wash.  That'll do me.  

   Then the real bonus.  When Chipper and I are up in Edinburgh for the Hearts game next month, England have conveniently arranged a rugby league test match against the Jockonese the next day.  Sometimes things just go your way.

   Been looking forward to this day for a while as well.  Out of all the teams I've covered for the radio the past few seasons, of all the places I'd been to, for me Rookery Hill and East Thurrock United is 'home'.

   The first game we covered there, East Thurrock United were in a bit of a rut.  Despite being dominated early on, the Rocks had somehow forced themselves into a 2-1 lead against Ilford.  Then in injury, their striker was given an open goal from inside the six yard box to snatch an equaliser.  Somehow, he hit it over the bar.  The Rocks won.  Then won 74 of the next 84 points on offer to them and won the title at a canter. 

   Then last season.  An unforgettable FA Cup run, culminating in 1,200 people turning up, including ITV and Sky, for their 1st Round match.  Me and Mick Lowes, buddies now.  He's a Sunderland fan to boot.  Then dumping Welling United out of the FA Trophy.  A Ryman League Cup Final appearance.  

   And then Chipper and I bore witness to a couple of pensioners from Tooting & Mitcham trying to start a fight.  Which I may or may not have provoked by referring to them live on air as Statler and Waldorf and describing in great pleasure the Rocks winning goal being offside. 

   Yep, Rookery Hill is a place where anything can happen.  And does.  Where Covo comes and sits with you in the first half.  Where there's real Northern warmth and hospitality, despite the club being firmly entrenched in the South East.  The club is full of good people from top to bottom.  It's good to be there.

   Hastings were in town, or in village, today, for an FA Trophy tie.  Solid, unspectacular, make things difficult, that was my experience of their visits to Essex.  This might be a long afternoon.  Still, the day never fails to throw up something.  Getting the train into Basildon, a lad gets on at Southend.

   He puts his Gucci sunglasses into a plastic box, undoes a screw top on a bottle of Rose, and starts swigging from the bottle.  He's on his way to an all-day street party in Shoreditch with 9 rave DJ's.  He's off his tits already.  Not with alcohol either.  It's a good start to the afternoon already.

   We get to our accustomed position at Rookery Hill.  The ledge is good, I can put all my gumph on it.  As for watching the game, both goals are obscured by giant metal girders holding up the roof.  But that's the way I like it.  Character and charm.  And, after all, I'm actually capable of moving my head from side to side on occasion. 

   The game kicks off, with club secretary Neil berating his kids, urging them to be quiet during the game.  His kids are fine, as it goes, well behaved despite their exuberance, but other kids fannying around can get on your wick.  They certainly do his.  Chortle.  I shouldn't laugh, with him having 1,001 things to do on match days, but I do.  As does Jenny, mind, the club's queen of twitter and ringing through scores and stuff.

   The Rocks are right on their game and Hastings are woeful, absolutely woeful.  They don't close down space, they're second to every loose ball, they don't try to tackle. Put a white shirt on them and you'd swear you were watching England in a World Cup game.

   Kye Ruel opens the scoring just after 10 minutes and by the midway point of the first half, Hakeem Araba had made it 2-0.  He's another character, Hakeem.  Played at Dagenham.  A lovely, polite, guy, but has the physique and look of an MMA athlete.  Left the Rocks a while back to further his career in Tunisia.  Two days after he arrived, the Arab Spring Revolution started. On second thoughts, Corringham seemed a safer place to be after all, albeit via Bromley.  But only just, mind.

   It's much the same in the second half.  The visitors are shittier than a bag of manure that's been shat on by a rhino with the shits.  Hakeem grabs another, Sam Higgins gets in on the act, and then they take their foot off the pedal.  FA Cup match next week.  No need to exert themselves.  

   The only real action after that is Neil demanding to know what kid kicked a ball against the back of the stand and almost on the pitch.  That and the sight of Hastings fans leaving well before full time.  I don't blame them.

   We get the train home, happy with the win, and even happier to be back at our football 'home'.  Rookery Hill never lets us down, we always, always have a great afternoon.  As we take our seats, opposite us is a wino.  She's pissed out of her head, unconscious, surrounded by bags, with her head slumped on a table.

   We chortle.  We take pics.  We listen intently as she mumbles in her stupor.  The decent thing to do would be to ask if she knows where she's going.  The thing we do, however, is to continue giggling.  

   At last, the Bay.  We head off home, happy with the day in so many ways.  We get in and switch on the tv.  The first thing that comes on is the play-offs.  St. Helens v Warrington.  

   Sometimes, just sometimes, life is good.  Damn good.

   East Thurrock United 4,  Hastings United 0

2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 25th September - The Frozen Nads Are Coming

   It had been a good start to the week.  New series of Gary Tank Commander.  And he made a Welshman look a complete twat.  You can't go wrong with that.  And World Peas.

   Looking good today as well.  Despite it p...ersistently raining, it wasn't never quite heavy enough to worry about tonight's derby match being postponed.  Maybe I should have gone to Brentwood's FA Cup replay.  But living 25 miles from Brentwood and Maldon being not within 5 miles of a rail station meant my chances of a lift or making it by public transport were about as remote as chief whip being invited to a Policeman's Ball.

   No, it was Southchurch Park again tonight.  Since pre-season, Southend Manor had done as I'd originally feared.  A somewhat inauspicious start to their Essex Senior League campaign, falling quickly towards the bottom, and an ignominious FA Cup exit and Leiston.  Even so, I was hopeful of their chances tonight.

   Great Wakering Rovers, after their flying start, had their feet firmly planted back on earth.  Three wins on the trot, followed by a succession of wins and defeats, and fallen away to thee defeats and a draw in their last four matches.  Adjusting to life at Step 5 had been much harder than anticipated.

   Not as hard as the wind blowing through.  It seemed as if the weather couldn't be arsed with autumn and was going straight through to one of those cold, clear, windy winter evenings.  To warm myself and Ed, Bri, Eileen, Nick and Lee up, I'd been thinking up some poor taste one-liners.  Seeing the news about a 15 year old schoolgirl running off with her 30 year old maths teacher, all I could think of was to say "Well, something doesn't add up."

   It was good to see the Manor players, including a few that had tried to seek their fame and fortune elsewhere but came back, the lure of Southchurch Park being too much.  I can't help it but every time I see them I have to rip the piss somehow.   

   It was Sealsy this time.  He could easily play at another level - of football, not that boyband that wanted to get freaky with you with whipped cream and stuff - but it didn't stop me.  I try not to but I can't help it.  Still, they always take it in good heart.

   New chairman Steve and his predecessor Bob were also in good form.  If only their side were as well.  I had my misgivings in the summer, that seemed to have come to fruition so far, but with derby games it doesn't mean a thing.  A derby game with two sides in poor form usually means, well, bad tempered toot.  A cracker it wasn't going to be.

   At least there was a decent crowd, comfortably into three figures, with around 200 nads having been shrivelled to the size of raisins.  It even attracted the attention of either a local tramp or a contestant for Crap Non League Clothes.  You do get them, don't you.

   The game goes to form.  A goal is scored and I'm not bothering to watch it, chatting with Nick, and his updates on the Eastern European women he plays handball with, which I presumed was a euphemism, and James to the right of me fresh from a trip to Eire.  And also the Republic of Ireland.  It was Rovers who scored it.  That I deduced from Manor kicking off again.

   I put my phone onto video mode, just to show the cracking view I have of proceedings, with wire mesh and a coconut shy of blokes hairless heads in front.  Just as well I did.  Manor equalise.  It might be the only goal I see, though it probably won't be the last goal of the match.

   

   That's certainly the case.  Manor have their tails up and pour forward.  Louis comes out of the Rovers goal    but the ball is taken past him.  The ball is passed across the face of goal.  It looks a certain tap-in.  Looks it. That's all though.  What happens is a Rovers defender brilliantly clearing off the line.  They then break upfield and Jimmy Webb hammers one into the roof of the net.  2-1 to Rovers at the break.

   Elsewhere, Brentwood are losing in the FA Cup.  That's good for me.  If they're out, I can justify covering a Rovers game so I can get home for the Grand League Final that day.  West Ham are getting beat.  Chortle.  Sunderland and Hearts are winning.  Good.  The rest can fu .... well, they do what they like for all I care.

   Southend Manor continue to attack in the second half.  They're helped in no small way by Gary Paterson.  He's a big lad.  About half the size of me.  But he's quick and has an eye for goal.  He gets the ball about 40 yards from goal.  There's no danger but then suddenly a run, a low shot from 20 yards, and bang, it's 2-2.  Considering Southend United have had the likes of Drewe Broughton and Michael Ricketts in their ranks, it's baffling nobody's taken a punt on Pato.

   The hosts continue to pile forward.  For a change, the killer ball into the box is being supplied in abundance, it's just the finishing that's awry or some decent defending.  Louis in the Rovers goal has to make two outstanding saves from Pato, one an outstanding curling effort from outside the area.  It's almost enough to forget that my testes have disappeared.

   To Rovers relief, and to the crowd I suspect, whatever the result, the final whistle blows and they escape with a draw.  Five games without a win now, even if the last two have been draws.  Good performance from Manor, but as Bob says as the teams come off, the result doesn't do them much good either.  Nobody's really happy.  Apart from that maths teacher.  

   It's a good night elsewhere.  Sunderland win comfortably.  Hearts do too.  There's drama up at Maldon & Tiptree.  Brentwood Town turn it round, force penalties after a 1-1 draw, and go through 9-8 on penalties.  Abs Thompson then spoils the night by punching one of the losing players and runs off.  It means, though, that there will be no Grand Final for me.  Bollocks.  Instead, it'll be chasing that FA Cup dream again.

   I check the other results to find out who Brentwood Town have to play in the next round.  It's a team in Reigate.  South Park.  Oh my God, they killed my Grand Final plans.  You bastards.  

   Southend Manor 2,  Great Wakering Rovers 2

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 22nd September -The Road To Royston Vasey

   It hadn't been the best couple of days.  Southend United, the local rag confirmed, were on the brink financially.  Again.  You didn't have to be in the know to realise that the club's number, whilst not up, was having its numbers bought from B&Q to nail up.  Possibly to a coffin.  Still, it wasn't great to read it.

   I in turn had been snappy with anyone who'd been in contact with me.  A mixture of the same old aches and the same old bad dreams, a side effect of the meds, plus the added bonus of not even passing blood, but blood passing out of my groinal area of its own accord, had left me distinctly underwhelmed.  

   I don't begrudge having poor health, but I'm just one of those grumps.  Something like that can set me off, yet if I feel friends or family are smothering me, I get even more cantankerous.  Hey, girls, I'm such a catch!

   It was with blessed relief that today came around.  The FA Cup.  Ever since the formation of the Premier League, it's been pretty much downgraded but them putting out scratch or shadow teams.  Having both semi finals at Wembley, too, purely so the FA can make more money, has been damaging, and the endless buggering about so that the latter rounds are spread over 4 days, has been dreadful.  And don't get me started about the one replay rule.

   Now, though, while the odious, money driven TV moguls and media pay no attention to it, it truly is the FA Cup.  Saturday afternoon.  Two teams.  Lose, you're out.  The only people who care at this stage are the players, the club volunteers, the supporters.  The very people that the sport should be all about.  Bloody fantastic.

   This was the first live treatment on the radio for Brentwood Town today.  Standing in their way were Maldon & Tiptree, which sounds like a master and butler adventure book written 200 years ago.  

   Their goalkeeping coach tried to flog me life assurance the other day.  On facebook.  On instant messenger.  Not only slightly unprofessional, and almost desperate, but not in the greatest of taste.  He was soon unfriended that day, I can tell you.  Ooh, I'm so butch.

   On the train were what can only be described as, well, something twattish.  You know when you see grown adults wearing replica shirts and you think "No, give it up, mate"?  Well, West Ham were at home today.  Their supporters getting on the train, well, hideous.  Garish claret and blue on middle aged bodies do not mix.  

   A hoodie, say, in one of the team colours and club emblem, that looks fine.  The odd sports jacket looks good.  But this ... awful.  No doubt about it, West Ham are the worst offenders for ill-fitting and worse looking shirts.  

   It might be a mental thing, though, because a couple of them were looking around, trying to see what people were looking at them.  A sort of 'Hey everyone, look at me, I'm going to football, I'm such a great fan' thing.  Just like people who wave match programmes about on the train afterwards or put in in their hip pocket, for the sole reason of it being seen by others.  Or, in other words, twats.

   I digress.  The first thing I notice when I get to the Arena is the three piece suite behind the goal.  One of those days.  I get to the press box.  On the halfway line.  Superb.  With the view of the rest of the pitch obscured by fencing and wooden posts.  Definitely going to be one of those days.  

   As it happens, I like peering around inanimate objects at the game.  When I was a season ticket holder at Roots Hall, the opposition usually played against them.

   Anyhow, I get all set up.  Then news comes through.  One match official had cried off last night.  The replacement, somehow, thought it was a 4pm kick-off.  The match is delayed.  Yep, one of those days.

   Eventually, the game kicks off about 25 minutes late.  And, of course, they may as well have not bothered. Both teams are playing like it's a park kick around.  It wasn't awful, it wasn't bad tempered.  It just wasn't anything.  The most animated person was the home team's physical conditioner.  A funny guy, loud but gives and takes banter in a really good spirit.  Criticising then praising the ref every other minute.

   Both teams go close.  When Maldon & Tiptree miss a free header from inside the six yard box, I berate their player.  The guy just in front of me turns round and smiles.  "That's my son," he says.  I don't even blink.  "Well, he owes you a pint for that one", came my reply.  He laughs.  Phew.

   Then in a three minute spell, both teams score decent goals, well placed shots from just inside the area.  The visiting scorer is Michael Toner.  Yep, his dad is the one sitting next to me.  "You'll have to buy him a pint now", was all I could say.

   The surrealness continues in the second half.  Long phases of nothing followed by sudden flurries of handbags.  This game is just like that daytime soap, Doctors.  It's on, but nobody's really watching or paying any attention.  The ref, eventually fed up with the lack of reality to it all, then decides to send off a random player, just to spice things up.  There's no anger or swearing from anyone.  Just a 'What?'.  Too weird, this.

   Eventually, at 5.15, it finishes.  Replay on a Tuesday.  Not for me though.  Probably.  A real pain to get to by public transport.  Maldon not having a train station doesn't help either, mind.  Somehow, earning a replay against a side it'll be impossible for me to get to fits in with the day.  It may as well be in Royston Vasey.

   I pack up, and pop into the station studio for brief synopsis of the match.  Which somehow turns into a slagging of Sevco Rangers.  I can't think how.  Dave's always good value for a chat, and with a couple of guests in, the time flies by.  In contrast to the three days worth of afternoon everyone has gone through at the Arena.

   I get to Shenfield station waiting for the train home.  Waiting are some West Ham fans, who must have been thrilled to smash Sunderland by the massive score of 1-1.  One lad is walking around, literally waving his programme in the air.  Another has a man-bag.  But, of course, he has his programme in his hip pocket..

   I laugh to myself.  I may be a grump, I may get people looking over at me.  But I'm not a football wanker.  Not just yet anyway.

   Brentwood Town 1,  Maldon & Tiptree 1  

2012-13 Uncovered: Wednesday 19th September - Back To The Future Via Cricklefield

   It had been a good day.  In the post came the train tickets for a couple of football excursions.  Chipper and I were booked up for Hearts next month.  From the Bay to the Haymarket, £77 each there and back.  Can't argue with that. 

   Then in November, a trip up to the Stadium of Light.  They tried to charge £130 return from the Bay to Sunderland.  But Kings Cross to Sunderland? £35 return.  Yep, thirty five quid.  Bung on the cost of a couple of single tickets to and from the Bay and you're looking at a saving of 75 beer tokens.  That'll pay for the match ticket and overnight hotel.  Sorted.

   That's the thing about the seasoned football traveller.  We're very handy for non football uses too.  Ask us what the best deals are on the plane or train, and if we don't know it already, we'll find it in less than 10 minutes on the interweb superhighway net. 

   Don't ask how, we just know these things. And automobiles.  We eat road atlases.  It's probably why I hate sat-nav's so much.  Who needs them when you have the football traveller's brain on board?

   Tonight's shindig didn't take much working out.  Get my backside onto the London bound platform at the Bay.  Train to Seven Kings.  A five minute wander down the road.  That'll do me.  It's also the opportunity to revisit the place where this season false started in the middle of the summer.  I was back at Cricklefield Stadium and this time there really was a game on.

   Although the trip was simple enough, there was still a problem.  Not with the trains.  But people.  Off at Upminster get the shuttle to Romford.  At the top of the stairs, I see a mother struggling up them with a pram.  A fella had helped her carry it up, so I done the decent thing and waited.  Behind me a commuter walked to my side as if to walk past, saw the pram coming up, then shuffled behind me. 

   For five seconds.  Then decided not to wait, walking around me, forcing the mother and helper to stopped as he barged by.  I was my usual charming self.  I shouted "What a prick." down to him.  The mother thanked me for waiting.  It was no problem.  The problem, though, is selfish twats like him.  He made a point of getting out of the carriage when I walked in to his.  Wanker.

   I digress.  Ilford.  Another great name from the past fallen on lean times.  I always remember seeing their name in the Sunday papers as a kid, when they showed just the Northern and Southern Premier league tables.  Since then they'd fallen down as far as the ESL and had settled in Ryman One North, only escaping relegation back once or twice thanks to ground grading issues or other clubs going tits up.

   Their opponents tonight were one of those ambitious, go-ahead clubs, than enthuse positive attributes, so by definition bug the hell out of you.  AFC Sudbury came into being just before the turn of the millennium, and in doing so wiped well out over a century of history from two others clubs, merging to form a super-club. 

   So super that they'd got as high as Ilford had achieved for decades.  I know I'm being unfair, but bollocks, that's why grumps like me are grumps.  Stubborn preconceptions rule.

   Chipper and I's aborted trip in July showed the ground to be surrounded by a building site.  This time it had all been cleared up.  It was now the Isaac Newton Building.  I didn't see any apples.  I would have complained about it but I doubt anyone would understand the gravity of my point.

   As ever, though, I was still lost trying to find the turnstiles.  Graveyard, yes, big sports centre and running track in the distance, yes.  But how the hell do you get in?  I keep forgetting.  Keep wandering straight down that unlit little road and there's a tiny turnstile.  It's great though. 

   The guy on the gate is the complete opposite of the robot suits at Harlow.  Straggly hair, denim jacket, shorts, and a Rangers Sevco fan.  He asks me if I've been here before just to make sure I know where the bar is.  Different class.  Proper non-league, that is.  The epitome of what's good with the game.

   I take my seat and I see it all.  My future.  To my left are a collection of grey haired and blue rinsed pensioners.  Nearer to me are single fellas, a bit older than me, studying their programmes or phones studiously.  I never read programmes until going home but I'm already with them on the playing with my gadgets.  I've been doing that since 12.

   I give thought of walking around the athletics track, perhaps taking a pic of the main stand from the opposite side.  But I then see this loan fella.  A minute or two ago he was sitting near me.  Now he's wandering off on his own, doing the thing I was thinking off.  Then it hits me. 

   I'm not a groundhopper.  But I soon will be.  I'm already thinking like one.  I've seen the future and I don't like it.  I stay where I am.  I tell myself I'm here for a night away from the telly rather than visiting a ground.  But I'm less convincing than a Nick Clegg pledge.

   Thankfully, the teams come out to stir me from my reverie. Soon Ilford are on the back foot.  The regulars are used to it, and have a gallows humour about football in general.  The Hammers insipid display at the weekend is discussed.  One old fella behind me says to the Sevco fan "I've got a half season ticket at West Ham."  "You get to see 10 matches a season?"  "No, it means I can leave at half time."

   Sure enough, AFC Sudbury take the lead, to polite applause from the admittedly agreeable away following.  I spend my time taking in the oddballs that non-league attracts.  In front of me there's a bloke not just taking vid clips, but taking a video of the entire game.  Another bloke on the terrace looks around at everyone all the time.  I've seen the future and he has hair like the professor from Back To The Future.  I feel at home.  Sadly.

   Half time comes and goes, and the visitors continue to press, thwarted by their own poor finishing, and all the ruts and dust on the bumpy pitch.  Tricky Trev would have a field day talking about a bit of a bobbler.  Or a Cricklefield day.  You can see it coming.  Then it does.

   A rare break forward from Ilford, and a mistimed tackle near the left hand edge of the penalty area.  For the first time, the delivery is excellent, curling wickedly, putting the Sudbury defenders on the back foot.  There's an Ilford head on the ball and suddenly, from absolutely nothing, it's 1-1.

  

   The Suffolk side try to show their punch and go forward relentlessly.  They know there's two dropped points at stake.  Crosses into the area come in, headers at goal, blocked shots.  The Ilford keeper makes a fabulous save just a minute after the equaliser, parrying a shot onto the post and out.  Which makes up for the rest of his performance.

   Very fittingly, a black cat starts to roam around at the back of the athletics track, behind the Ilford goal.  Behind pussykins, equally fitting bearing in mind Ilford's nickname, is a fox.  And in the crowd there's a female Sudbury supporter.  At least I think it's female.  Howling like a banshee as the near misses pile up.

   Somehow, Ilford hold on.  It feels like a win for them, against a side that gubbed them 5-0 just three weeks ago in the FA Cup.  For AFC Sudbury, though, they trudge off, patently not believing they didn't win.  Nor can anyone, really, but there's that wry chuckle of people who have seen it all before.

   The journey home is quiet, with no arseholes blocking other people's passages.  Or getting in the way on stairs.  Going to Cricklefield is always good for the soul.  It's just seeing the future laid before me that wasn't. 

   Ilford's, though, will be a lot perkier if they keep riding their luck like that.  So long as they can stop that fox getting to that black cat.

   Ilford 1,  AFC Sudbury 1

2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 18th September - Aim High But Harlow

   It was easy enough to get to by the road.  The A414 is a handy road.  I've known some people get from the other side of Basildon to Harlow in under half an hour.

   It was a pity I was going by train though.  Barkingside last night was a piece of pi ... piece of cake.  Harlow?  Hmmmm, now that's taking the pi ... taking the biscuit.  The route was similar but the time taken was about an hour's difference.

   I wouldn't have gone but it was an FA Trophy replay, with one of the station's local teams involved.  Brentwood Town hadn't exactly been flourishing since their ESL title win a few years back, but they've going along quite nicely.  The few times I'd seen them the past couple of seasons they looked a decent side.

   Harlow Town, on the other hand, seemed to have delusions of grandeur.  I remembered as a kid they'd knocked out Southend United, and then Leicester City, with a young Gary Lineker in their line-up, in a remarkable FA Cup run, ended by a seven goal thriller at a Watford side then enjoying the greatest time in their history.

   Since then, nothing, but in the non league press, there would be regular spouting about their potential, their rightful place, etc.  On a trip to Burroughs Park last season, their supporters were the most boorish and ill mannered that had been encountered in non-league for some time.  It didn't augur well.

   Perhaps it was me, though.  During the day I picked up a bit of a temperature, my left knee started to ache a bit again, and I felt light headily nauseous.  Then again, Loose Women always did have that effect on me.  That and a strong desire to shoot the TV screen.  I don't wish ill on any of them, though, even if they make me ill.  Just a permanent, irritating, discomforting rash will do.

   I digress.  The train from London to Harlow was rammed, absolutely rammed, with people sitting in the luggage racks.  It was like the commuter special to New Delhi.  Or the last number 5 bus to Felmores.  In the middle of it all, this poor lad was trying to drag a refreshments trolley through it all.  His mouth was uttering "Anything to eat, drink?", but his face was saying "F*** this for a game of soldiers." Chortle.

   I get to Harlow Town.  Of course, no taxis.  It's a trudge to the ground then.  A long one.  Up and down the odd hill or two.  Past the rugby club, the cricket club, the golf club.  Nice and leafy, and three female joggers go past.  As ever, only one of them's a looker, but that's enough for me.  My spirits lift.  My legs barely work though.  Up another hill, now it's the less leafier edge of an industrial estate.  Yep, I'm here.

   The ground is one of those newer ones.  Nicely appointed but totally characterless.  Neat and tidy, grey bricked, with dark green fencing.  I head up to the main entrance.  I've already e-mailed through my details.  I'm met by a couple of stern looking people, in blazer and tie - one of them's a bloke as well.  They take down my name, address, inside leg measurements.  It's almost as if I'm in MoD premises.

   I said I'll find my own way to the press box, which is usually a bench in front of your seat.  After all, that's all you really need.  But no, I have to wait until they get the key for the 'media area'.  I smile and look skywards.  They take me past more people in suits, through a door and there it is.  A bench.  Which I would've got to quicker if I'd just wandered into the seats of the stand.

   I set up and Brentwood's secretary, Ray, comes over.  He chats about this and that, and laughs when he says he'd be in trouble for not wearing a tie tonight.  I know there's plenty of good people that support and help out at every club in non-league circles.  At Harlow Town, though, these people are sadly overshadowed by a few who seem to think the world revolves around them.

   In my preview, I'd said that the first game at the Arena had been 'a cracker by all accounts'.  I may have been economical with the truth.  Or cracker as in stale cream cracker.  I look at the view my 'media area' bench gives me.  The metal bar is very nice, as far as metal bars go, but completely obscuring one goal isn't its greatest virtue.  I look on gloomily at what appears to be a grisly evening in store.

   Not for the first time, and probably not for the millionth time, I'm wrong.  The game starts off with Harlow Town's front two of Jeff Hammond and Tony Jacobs looking really good.  Visiting keeper Elliott Justham is forced to make a couple of outstanding saves and defender Sam West brilliantly clears another shot off the line.

   It looks like it could be a long night for Brentwood, but then Sherwin Stanley and Steve Butterworth combine on the right, get inside the area, a simple pass across the six yard box, and Danny Dafter has a simple tap-in.  With their first meaningful attack, they score.  After the hosts, with half a dozen meaningful attempts, get nothing.  That's football, guys.

   The newspaper and twitter guy next to me, presumably looking at it from the home side's perspective, keeps making the mistake of asking me which players have done what.  Chortle.  He smiles, but I can see the frustration in his face after the 7th "I don't know" or "I wasn't watching." 

   It may seem odd, seeing as I'm there to make sure people who aren't there know what's going on, but taking pics and vid clips, updating a website and twitter feed, then recording and uploading audio reports, leaves little time to see what's going on.  For every minute I see, I probably miss two.  The trick is seeing the important minutes.  As for watching, rather than seeing, being able to take in the ebb and flow?  Forget it.

   Anyway, I digress.  The hosts have obviously assumed that, if I'm not from Harlow or there to report on Harlow, I must be rooting for the opposition.  Wrong.  I'm there to cover them.  It doesn't stop one of the suited men, though, to walk behind my back, and talk loudly to the newspaper guy, at the precise moment I'm recording the half time summary.  It's deliberate and ignorant but, as I don't care too much who actually wins, fails miserably.

   Do you believe in karma?  I'm scepticl but open to is existence.  Like the Loch Ness Monster or Gareth Gates.  Anyway, it seemed to do its stuff in the second half.  What happened was complete humiliation for Harlow Town.  The first thing I see once it's started is Alex Read shooting the ball nicely into the hosts net.  2-0 to Brentwood Town.

   The Hawks attack but you can see in their body language, the way their heads have dropped, that they stopped believing.  Abs Thompson comes on for Brentwood.  The first thing he does is outpace the defence, shoot and force a corner.  From that, Danny Dafter grabs his second and Brentwood's third.

   Tempers start to fray.  Some dodgy tackles start flying in from both sides.  Those Harlow supporters who made themselves so unpopular at Great Wakering last season show themselves up again, a group of them in the opposite stand, swearing and gesticulating like kiddies on a school bus.  Sherwin Stanley promptly eases past the home defence.  4-0 to Brentwood.  This is fun.

   The final whistle is blown, to absolute silence from the home fans.  Who can blame them?  I go to file my full time summary.  As soon as I start to do that the lights are switched off entirely.  The 'media area' door behind me is shut and locked.  It is clearly another petty action, designed to irritate, fuelled by their team being gubbed.  I laugh and carry on regardless.  Unbelievable, Jeff.

   The journey home is uncomfortable.  Not because of the evening's proceedings.  It's those early signs of being a bit under the weather has manifested itself with stomach cramps.  I look for the loos at the station.  Locked.  I sit, clenched as a vice, waiting for the train.  I pigeon step onto it, seeking out the carriage with the toilet. 

   Out of order.  So am I.  Something bad could happen here as the train heads past Stratford.  I can't hold on any longer.  I open the toilet door.  There's no flush.  I whisper apologies to nobody, but in spsirt to the cleaner entrusted with clearing what is about to happen.  It's not good.  But given the choice of that, or all over myself and train seats, it had to be done.  Getting older and less healthy is no fun. For cleaners especially.

   I get to the Bay just before 1am, over three hours after the game finished.  A journey that'd take less than a third of that in the car.  I'm exhausted, I'm unwell, and in dire need of a shower.  I'm also not competing in the FA Trophy.  At least that's something Harlow Town and I have in common.

   Karma.  Just like a good wank.  You can't beat it.  You can have that one on me, Dalai Lama.  Quote, that is .....

   Harlow Town 0,  Brentwood Town 4

2012-13 Uncovered: Monday 17th September - Always Look On The Oakside Of Life

   It had to be done.  For no other reason than I didn't want to stay in and watch the telly. 

   It's very rare that I choose to go to a game on my own.  It's the social aspect of the match I like, chatting to mates, burping over the hot drinks, and occasionally glancing at the 22 idiots arsing around on the pitch.  When I am on my todd, it's almost always because of radio duties, so I'm kept occupied throughout.

   Tonight, though, was different.  I didn't want to waste a warm late summer's evening.  I knew that come winter time, with my dodgy bodily parts, midweek games will have to be down to bare essentials of if the radio need someone there or my mate has a big warm car and that.  But now, I could just put on the usual 17XL polo shirt and head out, leaving the shite TV to itself.

   And the cause of today's solo effort?  The excitement of an exciting Essex Senior Cup clash between the Barkingside Exciters and Bowers & Pitsea Excited.  Although I may be bigging it up a little.  Then again, if ESPN can pass off Liverpool as free flowing entertainers, which they've tried in the past fortnight, then my ironic hype probably has more reality to it.

   Thinking of reality, lovely to see the Man. U Supporters Trust claiming that the "It's never your fault, always the victim" chants at their game the other day had nothing to do with the findings of the Hillsborough Report. 

   Disgusting behaviour from a tiny, tiny minority at Old Trafford has now been compounded exponentially by the disgusting denial from their supporters club.  Can't think why I drifted into non-league.  Have fun at Anfield this week, chaps, and leave being human to the rest of us.

   I digress.  After their customary shaky start, Bowers had put together a nice little run.  Barkingside, meanwhile, had been consistently good from the off.  The last time they were this consistent was about five years ago. 

   They looked title bound was bottom club Basildon United showed up, with a squad of just 11, one of which was unfit and unable to run.  Barkingside won, but only thanks to 2 late goals.  Their confidence evaporated, despite the win, and in the end lost the title on the last day of the season.  They hadn't recovered since.

   Oakside itself has always been one of my favourite grounds.  Easy to get to, a good clubhouse, nice looking women in the burger bar, and a main stand that shakes every time a Central line tube trundles past.  But mainly for the women.

   As luck would have it, Rob was there. Or Damon as he's known, to nobody else except me, on account of his greying locks being similar to Damon Hill's in the late 90's and early 00's.  Being one of the Essex FA chaps, he had his reporters notepad and camera at the ready.  I enjoyed the contrast, me just here for the fun of it for a change, whilst my buddy was the one working.

   We didn't have much time to watch before Rob was scribbling and clicking away.  A high ball into the area, the keeper can't deal with it, and perennial goal poacher Calvin Poku gets his head to it on the bounce and bundles it home.

   It's just as well he scored then, because he then spent the rest of the first half being the playground goal hanger.  The lino's flag was up and down more times than a quiet night in with Imogen Thomas.  I liked the cur of the lino's jib too.  "You're crap, lino", moaned one Bowers player after another obvious offside, to which came the response "I'd look at your own crappiness first before having a go at me."  Touche.  And top man.

     

   Even the Bowers coaching staff cottoned on, shouting at their forward line "You're just being f*****g lazy c***s.", much to the amusement of everyone.  He was spot on, though, and a minute before half time, Bowers were made to pay for their forwards wastefulness when Reece Cosson equalised.

   If truth be told, the match wasn't great, and we were relieved that if it was still level at full time, it was straight to penalties.  Up to the hour mark and beyond, and still not much to warm the cockles of the heart, or even the winkles.  Then, from nothing, Jamie Clarke got free on the left inside the area, and finished nicely.  2-1 to Bowers.

   But not for long.  Barkingside kick off, play a nice move down the right, at the bottom of the slope, Reece Cosson is free inside the area, and shoots home smartly despite the keeper clattering into him.  Liquid football and it's a proper game on at 2-2.

  

   From thereon in it was a superb spectacle.  The thing about extra time is that it makes players frightened of making mistakes in the last 20 minutes or so, and is often awful to watch.  But none of the players, except perhaps the keepers, want penalties, so both teams go for the winner.  Barkingside hit the post, but then in the dying seconds Bowers' second scorer Jamie Clarke, having rounded the goalkeeper, with no defenders near him, missed an open goal from 10 yards.  Chortle.

   And so to penalties.  All of them were well taken.  What was made even better was the supporters behind the goal.  "Caaaaaaam ouhnnnn  Barrrrrrrrrkingsiiiiiiiiide" was shouted out, followed by "Sssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh".  It put me in mind of the Crucible.  I joined in. with "Go on Ronnie, go on Jimmy."  One Barkingside player hits the crossbar.  The Bowers keeper Michael Doyle has a chance to win it.  Oops.  Off the post.

   He redeems himself a couple of kicks later with the first save of the shoot-out.  Reece Brandon steps up and takes it like a pro.  6-5 to Bowers.  Their players run 10 yards towards the match winner, then decide they can't be arsed and instead shake hands with their beaten opponents.  One of the coaches, Wayne, looks even happier than before kick-off, when he was stuffing a burger down pretty sharpish.

   Rob and I scuttle off into the night.  He points out that the two sides are meeting up next Monday, too.  Did I fancy it?  Hmmm, well, there's only so much excitement I can take.  As David Beckham might say, you know, Monday night tv, is terribly under-rated, you know .....

   Barkingside 2,  Bowers & Pitsea 2  (Bowers & Pitsea win 6-5 on penalties)

  

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 15th September - Stained Away

   It had started well.  There will still tickets for Royal Engineers v Wanderers at The Oval.  For 2012 read 1872.  You have to, don't you?  A chance to see the the first ever FA Cup Final re-enacted.  With any luck, Christian Dailly will get a game with the club where he made his debut.

   It was the four of us booked up for that who were in the Mystery Machine today.  Ed, Bri, Chipper and I.  Eileen was there, though I suspect mainly to look after toddler Olly.  Quite right too. 

   Today's mystery?  Fu ...for crying out loud, how the hell did it take 3 hours to get from Southend to Staines.  That's what's known as a rhetorical question.  M25.  Sat nav.  Say no more.  I'm going to say more though.  Bloody bastard stupid shitting M25.  And that poxy sat-nav, complete with nauseating automated speech.  They make towie girls sound like Joan Bakewell.  And the way it unerringly sent us into traffic jam after traffic jam, it's just as f*****g thick.

   It did give us plenty of time, though, to hear a tedious 0-0 draw at Carrow Road on the road.  Big Sam's Total Football fits in so well at the West Ham Academy.  Although possibly a military academy now.  We also had the chance to google on our phones for Kate Middleton's assets stripped bare.  All I can say is that it reminded me that it's fried eggs for breakfast tomorrow.

   I digress.  Billericay had been decent at home, poor away.  Staines Town, who they were visiting, were good at home, poor away.  It pointed to a home win.  I also pointed out that the last time I was here the away team won.  Okay, technically both sides were away teams, as it was a cup final, but that's just nit-picking.

   Wheatsheaf Park is a decent Conference South ground.  One huge covered stand, a covered enclosure, and both ends open.  Chipper got a burger.  Small but nice, and a good bun, well worth the £2.50.  But forgetting about Kate, the burger was alright as well.  The programme had the most ridiculous photo of Greg Oates in it, partly because it was more blurry than Tony Adams eyesight whilst driving, and partly because it wasn't actually Greg Oates.

   The sun was a scorcher today.  Which was just as well, because the vast majority of the first half was a real pisser.  I'd seen more life at a Euthanasia disco night.  After three hours on the road to Hell, it looked as if it was going to be 90 minutes of Beelzebub's balls thrown in for good measure.

   Thankfully, 'Ricay perk up.  Unlike Kate but I digress.  The normal threats from set pieces, then Alex Osborn puts the Essex visitors ahead with a low shot just inside the area.  It's looking good.  Billericay create chance after chance.  It seems just a case of how many.  Until David Wheeler is in space 22 yards out.  Staines first meaningful shot, right on half time, and somehow they're level.

   Stevo in Super League last night he was surprised but that nothing surprises him.  Daft as it sounds, it summed it up perfectly.  I could hear a couple of 'Ricay fans in front of me, murmuring "I might have bloody known it."

   Staines came into more on the second half, but still Billericay controlled.  About 13 million corners on the right, all finding the head of Rob Swaine or Chris Wild.  All just wide, over, or cleared off the line.  At the midway point in the second half you could see it happening.  A home break and Billericay wondering how they got beat.

   Everyone's perspectives change though.  Nathan Green charges in for a ball in the six yard box and clatters into Staines keeper Jack Taylor and defender Sam Bates.  Just one of those things, nobody's appealing, even though the ref has given Staines a free kick.  Except Sam Bates hasn't got up.

   We wait.  And wait.  And wait.  5 minutes pass.  Then more.  A stretcher is called for.  Then a neck brace.  Wheatsheaf Park falls silent.  Football really doesn't matter too much.  Everyone is looking over at the six yard box, hoping for some kind of conscious movement. 

   Sam is stretchered off to a waiting ambulance, with the obligatory huge round of applause from both sets of supporters.  Suddenly my moans about getting there, and my radio equipment going tits up (unlike Ka ... no, I won't finish that thought) are pretty insignificant, when you see something like that.  Fingers crossed the lad is okay.

   Play resumes but it's pretty muted both on and off the pitch.  'Ricay are still pressing, and looking dangerous at set pieces, Staines still showing a bit of menace on the break, but it's meandering away to a draw.  It seems like the decent thing for everyone bearing in mind that injury.

   Don't you believe it, though.  Players still want to win.  'Ricay win another corner.  This time Rob Swaine doesn't bother using his head.  It hits his shoulder instead.  This time it does the trick.  2-1 to 'Ricay.  Despite the 11 minutes of injury time, and Dale Brightly being called on to make a decent save, it's all very comfortable.

   11 days ago, we were all wondering if the New Lodge lads were up to the Conference South, after letting slip a two goal lead in the last five minutes.  Now after this win, they're up to 8th.  I guess Craig Edwards was having a wry smile.  Supporters?  Press?  What the f*** do they know?

   All I know is that the trip home was a damn sight quicker with the sat nav turned off.  We might have had to travel 18 junctions on the M25 instead of 12, but it was a damn sight quicker.  As we went home, a trip to see emerging promotion challengers Southend United at League 2 leaders was being planned. 

   Then I saw the FA Trophy results.  With all due respect to Brentwood  - oh bollocks.  Tuesday night replay in Harlow.  You could've done the decent thing and let yourselves get beat than have to go there.  Still, football is football, however grim the place is.

   Happily, Sam Bates was released from hospital, allowed to go home.  If that bloody sat-nav was on, he'd have got home quicker too.  But still, an away win, 8th in the table.  If crap traffic means away wins, whose gonna worry about that? 

   With that in mind, roll on Tuesday.

   Staines Town 1,  Billericay Town 2

2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 11th September - A Wakering Up Call

   The storm clouds were gathering.  Not just above Burroughs Park either.  After coming out of the traps quicker than Ben Johnson on speed - well, on more speed, then - Rovers had hit the wall.  Defeats at Sawbo and Bethnal Green had put a doubt or two into Trenks' squad after all that pre-season and early season optimism.

   Not that I was worried or bothered too much.  There was a game on, and Brian and Ed were picking me up at the Bay.  Which may or may not be a euphemism.  Anyway, that was all that mattered.  Turmoil or tranquillity, I didn't care either way.  Out at the match with the Jolly Boys.  It happily meant an evening away from repeats on Gold, England boring the watching millions to sleep, or Andy Murray's gurning face.

   Perennial ESL title challengers Enfield 1893 were the next side to test the Great Wakering mettle.  I guess 1893 refers to the number of games they'll have to play before making it to the Ryman.  In each of their five previous seasons, they've either been champions, and denied promotion due to ground grading when Enfield Town nicked their main stand (you shouldn't, but ... chortle), or they've fallen agonisingly short thanks to ridiculous results, such as a 0-0 draw at bottom side Basildon United in their first season (this time, without any guilt ... chortle).

   I remember their first season or two well.  Among their supporters who was taller lying down than he was standing up, with a mouth bluer than a Chubby Brown convention, in a voice that made a passing whale broody.  At Southend Manor, he continually berated the ref and JJ, which perhaps was no bad thing.  With Enfield ahead and looking comfortable, his gob was tempting fate.  Manor then pissed on it by equalising.  Some of the 1893 contingent tried to punch him in the mouth after that, but fell in, and were used as a tasty snack to get him through to his full time bargain bucket.

   I digress.  Tonight's game was a Gordon Brasted Trophy game, one of these competitions that keeps the season ticking over in midweek.  In honour of the late Burnham Ramblers club official, it contrasts nicely with the two-legged League Cup, this being a straight knock-out, with the final usually over Easter at Leslie Field.  Which, contrary to nobody's opinion whatsoever, isn't some old posh English actor's back garden.

   Rovers had made a few changes in their line-up, including a youth player.  The 1893 side included, so the team sheet said, someone called Hughes.  No other first or last name.  Oh yes.  Perhaps he was one of those X Factor rejects who lived a Walter Mitty world where he was up there with Elvis, Jesus or Cheryl.  Or maybe a Gladiator like Wolf, Jet or Nightshade.  I was disappointed to find it was a typo.  His first name was Neil.  It probably still is too.  No long haired hippy version either.  Bah.

   As far as the game went, Wakering started off badly, then fell away completely.  Enfield 1893 were organised, play simple football like passing to each other, and soon had the game by the scruff of the neck.  Even before the first 20 minutes were up, we were indulging in important issues of the day.  Have Argentina played at Wembley since 1980.  Luckily enough, I remembered the 2-2 draw in 1991.  Not for the game, but for getting pissed in the West End afterwards, and nearly burning my flat down when I decided that oven cooked after 12 pints was the best way to make a bedtime snack.

   By the time we'd got round to Argentina's current claim to the Falklands, to which one rather nice looking and articulate twitterer had made the mistake of bringing common sense into the chat, and trying to buy an Andy Cameron single on EBay, Rovers were 2-0 down.  I done well tonight.  I did actually see one of them, a lob that Louis got a hand to but couldn't keep out.

   Rovers weren't the only team faring badly.  England were losing to Ukraine, although on ITV1+1 it was still 0-0, Scotland were experiencing their normal humiliation, this time against the might of Macedonia, and Wales were getting gubbed in Serbia.  At least Northern Ireland were ensuring British pride was intact, avoiding defeat against a massively strong Luxembourg.

   The second half was a bit better.  Rovers sent on some of their more senior players to shore things up a bit but Enfield were still very comfortable.  So were we, as another weekend trip was planned.  On top of that, we all realised Brazil 2014, with or without British representation, was on the horizon.  The master plan was outlined.  Four of us, on web cams, giving our own uniquely unique observations on it all, before, during and after games - and cans.  Get Neil from Bethnal Green in as commentator, and the next World Cup is going to be the best yet.

   In amidst it all, 1893 got another.  Wow, what a goal.  Remember that one Frank Worthington got for Bolton that was goal of the season, over his head and volleyed on?  Well, I have no idea if it was like that, as I wasn't watching, of course, but everyone seemed extremely impressed with it. 

   We scuttled off soon afterwards, into the clubhouse, just in time to see England's penalty and Steven Gerrard's red card.  No prizes for guessing which one of those the people watching enjoyed seeing more.  Chortle.  I guess they'll be lighting candles, holding hands, and singing 'Justice for the Stevie G' all across Merseyside right now.

   All in all, a terrible Rovers display, but a spiffing night out.  That'll do for me.  After all, turmoil is more fun than tranquillity.

   Great Wakering Rovers 0,  Enfield 1893 3

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 8th September - A Life In The Day Of A Club Gone Gaga

   The contrast was unmistakable.  Over in Moldova, England supporters were in the shiny new white shirts that they saved up to buy at £15 a pop at Sports Direct.  They were standing, because they were hard core, and nobody told them what to do.  Their arms were folded, their voices absent, their faces sullen.  Football supporting at such a level is obviously a serious business.

   Chipper and I switched over to Sky Sports.  Old rivals Wigan and St. Helen's were going at it hammer and tongs.  Both sets of fans also had their shirts on, turning the DW Stadium into what looked like a giant tube of toothpaste.  All the supporters were sat.  Yet the noise that emanated around the pitch was deafening at times.  Everyone was enjoying themselves despite their deadly rivalry.

   It's little wonder that, given a choice between a Premier or Football League game or a Super League match, Chipper and I take the old Northern Union game every time.

   Today was no exception.  How could it be?  The Broncos had a personality so split not even Zsa Zsa Gabor could find time to marry them all.  Sometimes it depended on how they felt on the day.  Often it depended on how they felt at any given time during the match.  It's that promise, though, of something unbelievable happening, that keeps you coming back.

   That.  And the chip shop.  And the sweet shop that sells Max crisps and Irn Bru.  It's possibly Chipper's favourite area on the planet.  The stadium's nice enough, and never so crowded as you can't move around a bit.  The match stewards always have time for a chat rather than a word.  For a grump like me it's bang on.  The only thing I have to moan about are the team.

   Even they won't let me do that though.  3 wins out of 4, and that defeat away at the same St. Helen's side who beat table topping Wigan.  New coach confirms he is staying, the only coach that took Broncos to the play-offs.  It's all looking far too rosy.  It's all cued up for the opposition to spoil the day.

   Hull KR were in play-off contention right up until their home derby defeat to Hull.  I blame their club crest, which says "Pride of East Hull."  Talk about setting your standards low.  If they had North, South or even a bit of West Hull to go with it, they would probably have won easily.  They slipped and slid out of the play-off frame since then.  All that was at stake today was their cherished pride.

   As it was, I was wondering if they were the pride of Hessle, a suburb of Hull.  Going up there for a Southend United game once, we walked by a pub in Hessle.  In the window of the door a message was stuck up.  "No football colours.  No away fans.  No Southerners."  Of course we went in.  And of course it was a dive.  The coach was stoned on the way back.  If I lived in Hessle, I would be too.  Permanently, if possible.

   I digress.  Wandering from Twickenham station to the Stoop, we couldn't help but notice the pink and black Lady Gaga scarves on sale.  The red white and pink Union Jack I almost bought.  Almost but not quite.  So, she's appearing at a rugby stadium.  She's got balls, I'll give her that.  Probably oval shaped to boot as well.

   There's a good contingent of people who've made the long trip from East Yorkshire, especially in view of the fact it was a 1pm kick-off and they had nothing to play for.  It made those 102 Salford fans, Shameless mob included, look even more ridiculous than they had on the day, although for them, it must have felt like a bad romance when their beloved City Reds collapsed.

   For half an hour it doesn't go to plan at all.  Broncos are 24-0 up and playing as though they are destined for a Grand Final.  It's all too much for me to comprehend.  But then ... ah, that's better.  Terrible defending.  Two tries conceded in a few minutes.  At half time Hull KR are right back in it and have their tails up.  I'm in comfortably uncomfortable territory.  Not knowing what the hell's going on, despite my poker face.

   The radio report is a great one.  Chipper is in fine form, talking about a half of two halves and then a half of two seasons.  Hey, this is a Broncos world we live in, that's just the way it is.  They were born that way.

   The second half is unrelenting.  More to-ing and fro-ing and a to-and-fro thingy.  First Broncos looked to have made the game safe with a try and Rovers down to 12 men, then the Pride side hit back with a couple of tries.  Broncos score, they score.  It carries on all through the second half.  Finally, Broncos get 48-36 up in the 75th minute.  Anticipating the win, I'm on the telephone to the station.

   I don't know I bother doing that.  I may as well have called the Paparazzi for all the sense it made, calling a Broncos game early.  One poor back pass, one great run, and it's 48-42.  The crowd, noisy throughout, are now on their feet.  Just like England fans last night, except today everyone is actually making a noise and supporting their team.  The fans here love their team.  It's a love game.

   Hull KR try to run the last play from their own line but, in the end, in the roaring sun as well as a roaring crowd, they just can't manage the comeback we all now presumed would happen.  For two sides that had absolutely nothing to play for 48-42 and sixteen tries was pretty extraordinary.  But then, this is Broncos we're talking about.  4 wins out of 5.  Carry on like this next season and we're on the edge of glory.

   We wind our way back to the station.  The full time report had almost become a lecture, it took so long.  Chipper again summarised in 10 words what I'd need a thousand to.  "It was like whole seasons of games had come together."  I tell you what Chipper, between you and I we have this radio lark sorted.

   As we walk by the Gaga crowd are making their way to Twickers.  There were some seriously frumpy people going by, with not a single smile between them.  Bleached hair and sunglasses abound, though, along with short black skirts and arses bigger than mine.  It seemed that this Lady Gaga watching was a serious business.  Put a cheap and nasty Sports Direct white shirt on them and you'd say they were England fans.  Why couldn't they just enjoy themselves, just chill, just laugh, just dance?

   A 90 point thriller and more puns than the punnet section of Mr. Pun's punnetarium.  Just another normal day in the life of the Broncos.  Should I end today, without one more pun?  No.  After all, if I didn't, I'd be a Judas.

   London Broncos 48,  Hull KR 42 

2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 4th September - All Disquiet On The Western Road

   It'd seemed like ages since I was last at Billericay Town but in reality it was just a couple of weeks or so.  They'd just played a fair few games.  Unfortunately for them, they had just picked up a single point since Chipper and I had last turned up at New Lodge.

   He was out playing for his own side tonight, though, so once again the person who actually watched the game for me when I was there (and I mean for me, rather than with me) would be absent.  As it's for radio, it'd mean me watching, at best, around 20 minutes.  The rest of the time is spent typing live updates, recording audio reports, taking pics, and keeping the twits informed.

   It's not uncommon for me, mind, to not watch a lot of the game.  Chipper and I once went to an England friendly and saw less than 5 minutes of it.  For some reason there were some junk mail on every seat, of paper aeroplane making size. 

   To make sure it didn't come off the seat, they attached elastic bands around them.  We spent the entire game bombarding the cameramen behind the goal with planes and rubber band missiles.  Mostly me.

   Even when there's no real distractions, and I'm not reporting or anything, I end up after about 5 minutes gassing away to a few mates about the important issues of the day.  Things like Joey Barton joining Marseille  - does it mean a new series of An Idiot Abroad will be made?  Or if Jodie Marsh asked you out, would you be too scared to say no now.  Proper stuff.

   Anyway, I digress.  After their opening day win, Billericay had picked up just a point since then.  It wasn't quite as bad as it sounded, with 3 of the 4 games since then being played away, but still, you want to nip a winless streak in the bud.  Although I've never seen a streak have a bud in it - and I was there when Erica Roe blocked out the light at Twickenham with her massive conversions.

   I'm digressing again.  Standing in their way tonight were Tonbridge Angels, the old stamping ground of Roy Hodgson and Malcolm 'Superdrunk' Macdonald - although, rather fittingly, they were just Tonbridge then.  Not exactly an angel was Supermac.  There was a phase too, where the answer to the question 'What is taken to the FA Cup Final every year but never used?' wasn't the losing team's ribbons, but Malcolm Macdonald.  Chortle.

   Digress number 3.  Ah well.  Anyway, where were we?  Yes, yes, I remember.  Billericay, yes.  Bus, train, cab from the Bay.  Usually I wander down Western Road from the station to the ground.  It takes a while but it's due to me just dawdling.  Still a little warm, though, and the last time Chipper and I toiled, heaving like pigs after a date with Jodie Marsh.  Cab it was.

   Gagging for a drink so I hot tail it to the tea bar.  I'm interested by their lovely, professionally designed sign, informing all that they do the best chips in the world.  I wouldn't know about that or argue, but Chipper swears by their bacon rolls.  I, though, swear at my own bulk and get a couple of cans of diet coke from the cheery serving girls.

   Getting myself set up, in the Quid Stand, I saw a reason where, if I was a particularly fan of 'Ricay, my loyalties could have changed.  Wandering by was this gorgeous slim, dark haired, tan skinned, smiling beauty, resplendent in Tonbridge shirt. 

   My eyes didn't pop out of my head so much as explode.  Sorry guys - and girls, she could certainly appeal to plenty of women, too - she's obviously spoken for, what with having her family with her.  It was a pleasure to enjoy the view though for those few fleeting seconds.  I anticipated that would be the highlight of the night.

   Not for the first time, though, I was about as far wrong as it was possible to get.  From first minute to last, something was going on.  Take the kick-off.  'Ricay lose the ball, Angels come forward, earn a free kick on the left hand edge of the area.  It's low and fast in delivery.  A diving header.  Goal for Tonbridge.  Just 89 seconds in.

   The play doesn't let up, which means I see hardly any of it.  I type, I record, and all the while the crowd around me shouts.  I have to rely on my perception of how loud the spectators are shouting as to when to look up. 

   I cut it fine a few minutes later.  Another roar.  I look up and see a 'Ricay forward clash with Angels keeper.  The ball goes into the net.  For a second there's silence.  Then everyone sees the ref run towards the halfway line.  Goal!

   Billericay now take control but Tonbridge almost take the lead, chipping the keeper, only to see it cleared off the line.  A Town corner results in about 5 shots at goal in 10 seconds that either hit a defender, the keeper, or the crossbar.  Eventually, five minutes before the break, Rob Swaine gives the home side the lead with the inevitable header from a corner.

   The thing to notice about the hosts is that, although there's not the Swansealona passing, and that they do indeed play to their strengths at set pieces and throw-ins, they also have plenty of players who go on mazy dribbles.  Sam Lechmere, Duran Reynolds and new left back Joe Anderson all had a run or two.

   It was good to watch and on the hour it looked all over.  Glenn Poole has obviously been watching Julian Dicks videos for his penalties.  Bang.  3-1.  That should be it.  Lots of sweary words coming from the away fans.  There's either a few virgins in amongst the Angels support.  Or they're hen-pecked.  Either way, it's Angels with dirty mouths.  Very rude.  Chortle.

   It isn't over, of course.  Why would it be when I think it is?  The Angels throw their subs on and it starts to make a difference.  It still looks like 'Ricay will see things out.  3-1 getting on towards the last 5 minutes.  But then in comes a rash challenge.  Penalty.  3-2.  Game on.

   You still think, despite that, that Town will see things out, that they have the know-how and experience to make sure they keep the points.  I expect a frenzy, but the pace is a lot slower.  I start to write up the full time summary, commenting on the valuable 3 points, just as the fourth official indicates 3 minutes of injury time.

   I've finished writing it up and have my hand over the send button, waiting for the whistle.  I start to daydream.  Or nightdream.  Whatever.  Anyway, I hear a shout.  I look to my left.  A centre has come into the 'Ricay box.  No worries.  Plenty of defenders.  Except none of them get the ball.  In comes the shot.  Wallop.  3-3.

   'You batards', I think.  Not because of the late equaliser, but I have to hastily re-type the full time summary.  The Angels players and supporters are delirious with their comeback.  Rightly so.  They hung on in there and took their chances.  A real smash and grab.  The home support and players slope off.  It feels like a defeat. 

   Even I'm a bit downbeat.  Despite what others say about the team, or the manager, the club itself is run now by a lot of good people.  You know the types, properly decent sorts, that treat you well not because of any special reason, but because it's just the way they are.  In short, the total opposite of a cynical, grumpy so-and-so like me.

   I try the wander back up Western Road.  It's a cool night, so I try to quicken the pace, just to prove to myself that the walk isn't that long.  Yet again, and much to my disquiet, I'm wrong.  It's far longer than I realised.  It's like route 66.  And mostly uphill.  I'm more puffed out than a Sugar Puff on puff by the time I reach the station.

  Train and taxi back to the Bay.  It was a proper thriller with a sting in the tail.  But right now, the epilogue and bed awaits.  I'll sleep well now.  Perhaps the only time I get something right all night.

   Billericay Town 3,  Tonbridge Angels 3