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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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