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 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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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
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