2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 30th October - Rambling And Struggling On

   After all the wonders of the weekend in Auld Reekie, that old bugger Karma has kicked in again.

   I thought it was bad enough having poor health yourself but at least you have a modicum of control.  When it's those closest to you, though, and they're hundreds of miles away, a feeling of worry and helplessness envelopes you.  

   The next few weeks are going to be hard for some around me.  I simply have to be there for them so I can see long hours time spent on train carriages or airline seats in the next few weeks making sure I am.

   Before the 'Groyney's Florence Nightingale Tour' kicks in, though, as ever, one more game, more to take my mind off things for just a short while.  I'd previously sorted out a trip to Dover, covering Billericay Town for the radio. 

   But after one longish journey home the day before, and another in the offing tomorrow, I was simply too knackered for a longish trek to an evening kick-off - and would perhaps be too far away should something happen elsewhere.

   Luckily, Southend United came to the rescue.  It was Essex Senior Cup night and in-form Burnham Ramblers were in town.  5th in the ESL, with games in hand on all those above them, and a thumping 5-0 win at Bethnal Green recently, Ramblers were on a roll.  Without regular league action, the Shrimpers reserves were in for a tough night.

   For Bri, Alfie and I, it had been tough from the start.  A couple of turnstiles open.  Which can't be operated with a steward's card.  That doesn't work.  And, of course, one turnstile for adults only, and one for kids only.  Taking 10 minutes to admit three people sums up how Southend United are being run fairly succinctly at the moment.

   Taking my seat after the conviviality of a drink in the Far Post, I spy a referee's assessor queueing for a burger.  He glares at me but says nothing.  It stems back from last year, when he was amongst the officials that gave one team a goal kick.  It was actually a goal for the other side and hit the back of the net.  He didn't like that being pointed out at the time one iota.

   He continues to glare and not say anything, but frankly, I couldn't give a toss.  If he tries to say something smart or derogatory, I'll simply smack him.  I'm in no mood for having to deal with grown men that sulk.  Or who can't see a ball hitting the back of the net.

   I take my seat.  I say take it, I mean I take my standing position in the back row of the seats.  The only stand open tonight, the East, is an old, wooden, uncomfortable place to be sat, with the leg room of an amputated bluebottle.  I'm by no means the only one forced into that.  It seems everyone over 5 foot 6 are either standing at the back or hanging on for as long as possible before sitting.

   Next to me, in the East Blacks, are a healthy contingent from Burnham-on-Crouch, and a fair few more dotted around the other open sections.  Very commendable.  Except that the Ramblers average crowd numbers less than 50. 

   Even allowing for family and friends travelling to see their fella playing on a league ground, it leaves a lot who don't support Ramblers at all, really.  If they got up off their backsides and went to Leslie Field a bit more often, maybe Ramblers could sustain a Ryman League side rather than occasional trips to Football League reserve teams being their big moment.

   I know that, so far, this has been a fairly grumpy review of the night.  Believe it or not, though, I actually enjoyed being out and at the game.  Especially when play started.  Within 30 seconds, Ramblers strove forward down the right, unchallenged, and Charlie Kirby whacks it in comfortably from the edge of the six yard box. 

   Before the visiting supporters celebrations have died down, Southend United go forward themselves, and loanee Jonson Clarke-Harris equalises.  Not that I saw it, mind.  Of course.  But three minutes in and already 1-1.  Game on.  Properly.

   Soon after, there's a free kick, and David Phillips puts the home side in front.  Was I watching?  Yeah, rightio.  Ramblers reply is swift and effective.  An obvious foul, a penalty, slotted away with no bother at all.  Midway through the first half and it's 2-2.

 

   I've picked a good 'un tonight.  Especially in view of the news coming through that Billericay Town's match at Dover Athletic has been abandoned due to floodlight failure.  I look skywards for a brief second.  Karma has saved me a longish trip ahead of the longer ones in the pipeline.

   Both teams go off to generous applause.  We check up the other results.  Brentwood beating Lewes in the FA Trophy.  Blimey.  Celtic are cruising in the League Cup.  And in the English version, Arsenal are being humiliated at Reading.  Chortle.

   The second half wears on, fairly evenly balanced, and Southend keeper Daniel Bentley is forced into a couple of decent saves.  The Burnham fans to my left have been loud and supportive up until now but are now becoming cocky. 

   One hefty guy shouts loudly about their being no pies, burgers or hot dogs at half time.  It's just as well judging by his size.  Their shouts of support are now becoming shouts of abuse directed towards the opposition.  There's a fine line between banter and being a pain in the arse and they have crossed it.

   As has the referee.  It's noticeable that any remotely 50/50 decisions, and maybe some 40/60, are being given in favour of the side in red shirts.  A Southend player commits an innocuous foul, way out on the touchline, just inside the Burnham half.  The ref simply couldn't wait to brandish his yellow card.  The home dugout are understandably upset.  A terrible officiating performance, bordering on bias.

   Add all this together, and from looking forward to just seeing a decent game, I've now swapped over.  I'm willing Southend to win this and don't care how.  With time ticking by, penalties loom.  No extra time tonight.  This is me at a game, though, so I stand back and chill in the chill, safe in the knowledge that something out of the ordinary will still happen.

   It comes from someone who has a point to prove.  Johnson Clarke-Harris is at Roots Hall on loan, he wants to show that he's worthy of a first team place anywhere.  The ball reaches him over 30 yards out.  He shoots with a mix of power and precision.  Or maybe it was a lucky wallop.  Whatever it was, keeper Jack Parr hasn't a chance.  3-2 to Southend. 

   Ramblers throw the kitchen sink at Southend.  Daniel Bentley is forced into a wonderful save in injury time to deny the equaliser.  A corner.  One last throw of the dice for Burnham.  The keeper pushes up.  The corner hits the far post.  The header goes in.  It looks a certain goal.

   But Daniel Bentley again somehow keeps the ball out.  Ramblers are now in trouble as Southend surge forward and then switch flanks.  Jack Paxman approaches the Burnham penalty area and puts it into an empty net.  That's what you call a counter attack.  Game over.

   Soon, the final whistle goes.  Despite the sluggish start, despite the terrible refereeing, the Southend kids have come through.  A tough test it did indeed prove to be.  Burnham Ramblers did themselves proud tonight.  I hope the team push on for the ESL title and the supporters who turned up tonight actually support their team in greater numbers at Leslie Field.  They deserve it.

   We make our way out an onwards to home.  Bri falls into conversation with that referee's assessor.  It's clear that there's a marked difference of opinion.  Mistakes, the assessor says, have to be put into context with age, which is true enough.  But to say he had an excellent game was ridiculous. 

   Refs will only stop making mistakes if they're pointed out to them in a clear, calm, concise manner.  If, however, they are simply being given praise, and errors written off, as it looks like it may happen tonight, then the problem is clear.  It's not the refs.  It's the people that assess them.

   We head off back to the Bay and put the radio on.  Good night for cup upsets.  Brentwood are through in the FA Trophy.  Wigan are in trouble against Bradford.  Arsenal have pulled it back to 4-3, then amazingly, rescue it at 4-4, seconds after the commentator had virtually sacked Wenger. 

   Some Arsenal players throw their shirts to the crowd, not realising there's extra time, and have to ask for them back.  Disproving the myth that they're not thick.  Chortle.

   As for me, I was just pleased for the evening out.  After all, none of us know what's around the corner.

   Southend United 4,  Burnham Ramblers 2  

2012-13 Uncovered: Sunday 28th October - The Magic Of Meggetland

   The Sunday papers were at their ridiculous pro-County best again.  Celtic had lost at home to Kilmarnock for the first time in 57 years.  The SPL title was now genuinely a four way fight.  But the back page headlines, and front pages of the supplements?  No, not even Hearts salvaging a draw.  But County being denied a win and a pic of Richard Brittain.  Chortle.

   There's a definite pro-County conspiracy in the media.  Chipper and I have noticed it down the years.  The evening highlights of Dundee United's Scottish Cup win over County led to discussion of which County goal in the semi-final was best.  They'd been on live on tv and hitting the headlines in the papers constantly ever since.  And I haven't even mentioned Rob MacLean or the weather girl.

   Media domination from Dingwall aside, today was going to be different.  The England Knights were up against the Scotland Bravehearts, which sounded more like a script from Family Guy.  Up for grabs was the European rugby league Championship.  It may have sounded like a walkover but the hosts had won 5 out of the 11 matches played against each other.  The Auld Enemy brought out the best in the Scots.

   There was a healthy London Broncos contingent too.  Kieran Dixon and Dan Sarginson were starters for England, whilst the Scotland bench included a Broncos coach.  Watching it all would be Broncos head coach and miracle worker Tony Rea.  Plus Chipper and I.

   First of all we had to find the ground.  The name alone made the entire trip worthwhile.  Meggetland.  I could see Cammy saying to Gary Tank Commnder "Just imagine it, VIP's, comfy seats, kings for the day, Meggetland."  You just have to go.  Meggetland.  Fantastic.

   Tracking the place down was problematic at best.  The one bus that supposedly went to Meggetland didn't run on a Sunday.  Or a Saturday, either, which I'd suggest were the two days when most sport is played.  Was this place just a myth?  We bought two elixirs of life, glass bottles of Bru, and pondered our next move.

   I, in the back of my mind, though the place name of Colinton had cropped up in Meggetland folklore so we jumped on a bus in that direction.  All I said was to look for something far out at a place that looked remotely like it had rugby posts.  Or big neon signs that shouted "Welcome To Meggetland." though that was more in hope than expectation.

   As time ticked by, the only rugby posts that came into view were at the ultra posh and brainy Heriot Watt uni.  You needed a suit and tie just to look at the railings there.  On the bus chuntered, where it was going, nobody knew.  Well, not us.  The magical mystery Meggetland tour was on and as mysterious as a very mysterious thingy.

   Then I saw it.  The Kilted Pig.  It was a sign.  Of the pub.  Beyond that were vaguely rugby post shaped thingies so I chanced my arm.  I asked the bus driver if Meggetland was round here.  His face was blanker than a genuine expenses form in an MP's office.

   We wandered in the vague direction of where I thought I'd seen the posts.  By the roadside, we spotted the Boat Club lock-up.  That'll come in handy around these parts.  Then Chipper spotted it.  A road sign.  North Meggetland.  We were almost there.

   Behind that was a bridge over nothing.  "That's Meggetland Bridge", chortled Chipper.  We walked over it, and saw the sign confirming it.  Meggetland Bridge, rising over nothing.  The magic had already started.

   And then, we rubbed our eyes, and smiled, were we really there?  Yes, we were.  "Welcome to Meggetland Sports Pavilion" it proudly said.  Right alongside it was a bold 'No Entry' sign.  Well, why wouldn't there be one?  The magic had started and we hadn't even got in.

   I spied a price thing at the turnstile that gave students a discount.  Chipper duly got his card out and showed it to the gateman.  Whose eyes literally crossed as he checked it.  I started listening out for banjo tunes and wondered if I was going to be told I'd squeal like a piggy.  

  In the end, I just told him Chipper was a student in England, and as we still owned Scotland he's eligible.  That went down well.  The gateman snarled as he took our cash, the rest of his body catching up his eyes' crossness.  Chortle.

   The wonderment continued.  We sat in a stand that kept neither the wind and the rain out.  Directly above the England subs bench.  Which was just literally a bench nailed down to concrete flooring.  In front of us a pipe band blared tunelessly with the drummer seemingly believing he was in Riverdance.

   To our right sat the Broncos coach Tony Rea.  To our left, two Warrington fans, a team we hammered, that this blog faithfully recorded.  As did my phone, which somehow played out the full time report from that game loudly.  Could it get any more surreal?  Yes.  The Scotland fans sang the English national anthem as lustily as their own, without a single boo.  The Magic of Meggetland was striking hard.

   As were Scotland.  6-0 up in a matter of minutes.  I looked down at the subs bench for their reaction.  Doodling on a notepad and sending tweets and text messages was their response.  This was beyond the odd.  I check my Bru to make sure it wasn't accidentally laced with LSD.  Or if it wasn't perhaps it should be.

   England, however, take control, and bring a semblance of sanity to proceedings.  Dan Sarginson helps himself to a couple of tries and by half time England are well in control, 28-12 ahead.  In front of a crowd, with the European title at stake, that numbered around 150.  Just one of those days.  Again.

   The half time entertainment consisted of a pipe band blare that nobody liked, either Scots, half a dozen English, or lone Aussie in the stand.  That and the Edinburgh Eagles mascot, Eddie, walking around, flapping his wings disconsolately.  So would I, though, if I had to be nearer to that pipe band.

   When the noise stopped the band were greeted with a very polite but very stony silence.  The band stood there expectantly yet still no applause.  The silence was broken.  By the band leader, who bawled at the crowd for having the temerity to not clap their awful racket.  "Promise you'll leave and everyone will clap" came my shouted response.  Chortles from around that stand.  That old Meggetland Magic.

   The second half was much the same as the first.  Scotland battled well, had one or two canny players, but England were simply too good.  Kieran Dixon put on the afterburners for one try.  When he was subbed I commented to Chipper on what a good game he had.  "Thank you", he replied, and sat on the bench.  I'd forgotten the bench was just below us.

   In fact, the only real Scotland menace was by the England bench.  Some parents couldn't be bothered to use the spectator exits to find the toilets and instead just strolled down the side of the pitch, with their little kiddywinks in tow, whilst the subs were trying to warm up.  The coach looked up at me and shook his head, wide eyed with how unreal the day was.

   As with most rugby league games, there was try after try.  62-24 it finished in England's favour, who were presented with the trophy for becoming European champions.  No fireworks at Meggetland.  Just a giant cushion to lean on for the team celebration pics.  Champions Meggetland style.  Chipper and I decide to join in and wander onto the pitch.

   Tony Rea was there, chatting away to his two Broncos champions.  We simply have to walk over and have a chat.  Tony is such a nice guy.  Laid back, mildly spoken, up for a bit of banter like most Aussies.  Dan Sarginson hears the Essex twang and asks "Have you come up all that way just for this?"  Well, wouldn't anyone do that for a day out at Meggetland?

   They looked decidedly impressed.  Kieran Dixon shakes Chipper's hand and thanks him for turning up.  This is gone beyond even the realms of Meggetland now.  The players are now supporting the supporters.  We leave them to their chat and celebrations.  I get the feeling with those three at London Broncos, something my just be stirring at the Stoop next season.  Top guys, all of them.

   It's been another remarkable day out but now it's time to head for the hotel.  No burger van in Meggetland so we are both parched and hungry.  No worries though.  Adjoining the funeral directors is, of course, a Tesco.  That's for some reason selling Bru, Mars bars, and Walkers crisps at half price.  Just too far beyond the realms of belief now.

   We make our way back to the hotel, plenty of time for a meal and Sportscene.  We watch Celtic get tonked off Kilmarnock.  Rob Maclean gets the chat rolling.  About how well Ross County have settled in the SPL.  A Dundee United player chips in when County chat starts to fade.  This is not 'just one of those days', I now realise.  In Scotland, this is 'just how it is'.

   And I love it to bits.

   Scotland 24,  England 62

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 27th October - Home Is Where My Hearts Is - Or County

   After the tumult of last Tuesday, this time it's a homecoming.

   Tynecastle is where I feel truly 'home'.  It's where I feel most comfortable watching football.  It's where I feel I belong.  Today, though, is a big problem.

   Ross County are my team.  For decade upon decade, way before Dingwallians ever thought of the Scottish League, let alone SPL, I made my way to Victoria Park, to Clach, Thistle and Caley, to Lossiemouth and Deveronvale, supporting my local club in the Highland League.

   It's something very familiar to English football fans.  Thousands upon thousand support or help out their local club but follow a 'league' club too.  It was the same with me.  Hearts my 'league' side, County my local club, and supported both thanks to no conflict of interest.

   But today it's the SPL.  It's Hearts alright.  It's Tynecastle, superb.  But Ross County are the opposition.  Oh, bloody hell, what's going on?

   Quite a lot, as it goes.  County have slowly, but surely, worked their way from the bottom of the Highland League, and onwards through the Scottish League.  A long stay of consolidation in the First Division, then relegation, quick promotion, then Derek Adams.  Since then, a Scottish Cup Final, promotion to the SPL, unbeaten league run for over a year and a perfectly comfortable start to life in the top tier.

   For Hearts, it seems as if 50 years of history have been wrapped up into the past 5 months.  The ecstasy of the Day Of Destiny and that 5-1 win in the Salt'n'Sauce Final.  Followed by the departure of the manager, Rudi Skacel and half the cup winning side.  Then an epic Europa League confrontation at Anfield.  Followed by the scorer on that unforgettable night, David Templeton, leaving sharpish for Sevco and Berwick away.

   Leading up to today.  The club, in their wisdom, are making shares available, to a value of just over £1.7m.  Which they promised will be spent of developing the youth set-up.  Except that, well, they have a high court hearing for a potential tax bill.  Of just over £1.7m.  Do the board of directors really think anyone, let alone football supporters, are that stupid?

   Considering the backdrop of apparent mayhem, everything was calm, almost tranquil, as we got off the bus at Gorgie.  People just went about their business, to the pub or the ticket office, with that normal wry grin, borne of the knowledge that every day is a new and exciting world in Jamboland.  Even if the excitement is normally that adrenaline rush you get preparing you for a car crash.

   Chipper and I took our seats in the Gorgie End not knowing who we'd support or how we'd react at the goal.  Chipper had caught the Hearts bug about four seasons ago.  A game where Aberdeen attempted to launch Christian Nade into space and both managers scrapping with each other.  

   With some superb goals and a throw-in that never even made it across the line put in for good measure, he was hooked.  Since then we'd both gone semi-regularly to both Hearts and Ross County games across Scotland, safe in the knowledge that, cup ties apart, their paths will never cross.  Except now ... oh bugger.

   We looked across the ground.  It's the definition of compact.  We were literally less than our body height away from the Gorgie End goal.  The seats are steep giving the impression of the crowd on top of the pitch, almost leaning over.  

   Three modern, decent looking stands and one old, wood and corrugated iron main stand, keeping its old charm and sense of history.  A 17,400 capacity makes sure that with one end given to away fans, the rest of Tynecastle looks full, even with today's 12,000 crowd.  You cannot help but love the place, especially when the dulcet tones of Hector Nicol hits the Edinburgh skyline.

   If the day couldn't get any more disconcerting, both teams are playing in their away kit.  It's as if both sides realise the conflict tearing Chipper and I inside, and don't want to be seen or noticed playing out the game.  If we'd wanted that, though, being at a football match that wasn't a football match, we'd have gone to Stoke v Sunderland.

   Instead of cheering on either attack, I find myself shouting for both defences.  Mostly, though, at the other end, as Hearts press forward constantly.  But then there's a County break and ex Jambo Gary Glen is through on goal.  His first shot is saved but is parried out.  It looks a certain goal but he misses terribly.  I don't say anything but stare at Glen.  Or did I glare?  I felt the slightest twang of frustration there.  Maybe I'm more of a Staggie.

   Hearts resume the attack and just before the break, a great through ball from Zuliakis lets in Novikovas, and he slots home.  Chipper celebrates as is it's his favourite player.  I just sit there.  So now I know.  It is County in my blood more than Hearts.  I think.

   The second half begins in similar vein to the first.  Then a rare County break.  There's bodies on the floor going for the ball, trying to reach the ball as it goes out of play.  A goal kick.  Except no.  The ref seems to be pointing for something else.  Must be a free kick then.  But no.  Penalty for the Staggies.  Nobody seems to know why, including the players.  The impressive Richard Brittain hammers it home.  1-1.

   Neither of us gets out of our seats.  But we both clench our fists and shout "Yes!".  No reaction from anyone around us in the Gorgie End.  They've picked up already that our hearts are with both sides, not just Hearts.  So Chipper is genuinely divided whereas I'm leaning towards County.

   It's more even now.  Ian Vigurs is getting a grip on the midfield.  I'm now back to cheering for both defences rather than either forward line.  1-1 would do me as, I suspect, it would the hundreds of Staggies in the away end.  Where I may or may not should've been.  But hey, I feel at home in the Gorgie End.  This is my place, whatever teams are on the pitch today.

   The crowd are becoming more frustrated at the ref and lino's, who have made 1 or 2 errors.  None of the mistakes have any bearing on the game, or even stop the flow of it too much.  But you know what it's like, you're pegged back against a side you should be out of sight against, there's that feeling that something bad will happen, and you take it out on anything that goes wrong.

   Then something bad does happen.  For Hearts.  A fine through ball from Vigurs, Stuart Kettlewell is free inside the area, and in a carbon copy of the opening goal, he smacks it low and inside the far post.  2-1 to County.  Again Chipper and I raise fists and shout momentarily but aren't out of our seats.  

   I'm feeling pleased but more torn.  I don't want Hearts to lose this but this would be an epic away win for County.  Their only other away win this season was at Dundee, so that doesn't really count.  This would be a hell of a result.  Interested, as well, to see Chipper celebrating with me.  Perhaps he's more Staggie than I thought.

   Now, this is where the Tynecastle crowd really are a different breed.  Only a handful of Hearts supporters actually trying organised chanting, those sitting closest to the away end.  The rest just shout at times of anticipation or frustration.  No chanting or booing.  Just one colossal roar one way or the other. 

   Sometimes the roar of frustration keeps going and turns into one of encouragement and it rolls down from the stands onto the pitch, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.  This happens as a free kick sails harmlessly over the bar.  The Jambo supporters are highly miffed the score, but seem to realise it's not Hearts being awful, that it's just how it goes sometimes, and start to back their team.  I'm warming to them.

   As normal time turns to injury time, most around me have given up, and the visiting Staggies start to sing in celebration.  I smile, and say to the guy next to me, an old man with a nervous twitch, not to worry.  He doesn't know what I know.  That sometimes it's just the way it's meant to be.  I've seen it happen three times in the past week.  In just two games.

   There's a desperate last ball into the box.  It's only half cleared.  To John Sutton.  He's falling over.  But as he does so, he gets a great connection with the ball.  It rockets low and into the left hand corner of the net.  2-2 and the crowd are up on their feet.

   Including me, my arm raised, shouting "Yes!" as loudly as I have all afternoon.  Chipper does likewise.  On the pitch, the County players stand with hands on hips, looking choked.  Hearts players are running back to the centre circle with the ball.  They sense a winner.  They're wrong though.  Before it's even placed on the halfway line the ref blows for full time.

   Chipper and I are delighted, as are the rest of the home crowd.  Both teams go off to generous applause.  The result for us is perfect.  A draw, our favourite players scoring them, and the excitement of an injury time equaliser again.  It's been another fine game on another fine day in the fair city of Edinburgh.  

   We wander out of Tyencastle towards Dalry Road and the bus back to the hotel.  As we do so, I somehow feel as one with the thousands flooding Gorgie Road and heading off to their nearby homes.  It's as if I was born to be with them, that it's what I should be doing at every game.  It feels somehow right.  Except for most part of the game I was willing on County.

   I don't dwell on it too much.  Edinburgh is too great a city to waste thinking about things.  The weekend, and Auld Reekie, belongs to us.  Whoever we support.

   Heart of Midlothian 2,  Ross County 2   

2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 23rd October - The Greatest

   I'm trying to think of words that can in any way, shape or form convey what happened this evening.  After all, it's just a simple FA Cup replay between two sides not exactly on the global football radar.  But I can't.

   There are rare occasions in your life where things, places, situations, events defy description.  It can be anything from the mundane like why couldn't you see your keys when they on the table all the time, through to to one of those deep discussions about time and space, right up to something you witness that you don't believe happened even though you saw it.

   Rookery Hill tonight was one of those latter occasions.  Sitting here now, I just do not believe what I've seen, heard, even been a small part of.

   Chipper and I know what East Thurrock United are like.  Every since the first time we covered them on the radio we were gripped.  Covo's sides never fail to come up with something for us.  On the bus to the ground, we thought we knew what to expect.  Something remarkable, a moment in the game, that will leave us talking for a while.  

   What a foolish notion, to think we had an inkling of what the Rocks would provide us with.

   Chelmsford City supporters arrived, with the notion from many that Saturday was the Rocks chance, and it had gone.  They seemed a bit too over-confident, bearing in mind they were outplayed for long spells at Melbourne Park and conceded a gut-wrenching injury time equaliser.  We'll see.

   It took all of 44 seconds to see, too.  By that time Sam Higgins' shot had flashed across the face of goal in the dry but misty air, supporters packed around the tiny ground.  Oh, and his second shot had gone in.  City, like the fog these past few days, didn't clear, and paid the price.

   Despite being on radio duties, Chipper and I had no pretence of impartiality.  We were up on our feet, arms raised, shouting.  Surrounded by the Chelmsford City board of directors and supporters, vastly outnumbering the home fans, and in the middle of a press box that didn't move an inch out of our seats, we stood out like sore thumbs.

   From then on, you could just feel it in the air.  This wasn't about the next round, this wasn't about a big pay day, this wasn't about Colchester United at home next.  This was about now, this was about tonight, this was about winning.  Sport, football, the FA Cup in its purest form.  

   The crowd were sucked into it all.  Chants from both sets of fans were laced with tension.  Everyone just willed, wanted, almost needed that goal, that win.  Agony and ecstasy rolled into one.  Market a feeling like this on the drug scene and you'd be a billionaire overnight.

   Chelmsford City were stung into action and pounded the Rocks for the rest of the first half.  Their answer to Peter Crouch, Rob Edmans, was causing untold problems, and Anthony Cook on the wing was supplying cross after cross.  

   It was attack against defence.  Scrambles in the goalmouth, shots just wide, or off the crossbar, but inevitably, goal action.  Edmans equalises - but only after a goalie slip-up.  Despite the territory and possession disadvantage, East Thurrock defended as if they'd give their first-born for the cause.

   Half time was reached with the score somehow at 1-1.  How the hell did that happen?  If I'd been the Clarets boss, I'd be worried that such dominance hadn't paid any dividend at all yet.  If they don't score early in the second half, the Rocks could nick this.  Nobody in the ground knew what to expect.  This is, after all, East Thurrock United.

   Then, of course, City do score early in the second half.  Cook cross, Edmans tap-in, and the huge travelling support celebrate with relief as much as joy.  They can relax now.  2-1 up and so much on top they can't possibly let this one go.

   Yeah, right.  East Thurrock has nothing to lose now.  Chelmsford suddenly begin to tire.  Hakeem Araba becomes more menacing by the minute.  He puts the same amount of effort and running in the last minute as he does the first, whereas the opposition are visibly starting to run out of steam.

   Rob Edmans has to go off for City, just as Sam Collins comes on for the hosts.  I wonder, just wonder ... A corner evades everyone and flashes past the far post.  Then Hakeem's header from another is inch perfect, but is somehow beaten away by City keeper Stuart Searle.  We can see it coming.  They know it.  We know it.  Somehow, at some point, this will turn.  We just know it.

     As the minutes run down toward seconds, the voices rise in the crowd.  The intensity is staggering.  Here it comes though.  The moment it turns.  A centre into the Chelmsford box, a quite blatant handball to relieve the pressure.  East Thurrock fans shout and celebrate the penalty to follow.

   Except no.  The ref has somehow waved play on.  No, this can't be right.  This isn't in the script.  I look at the stopwatch.  Five minutes left.  I breathe easier.  No, too early for 'the moment'.  Something's going to happen.

   And so, into injury time.  Deep into it.  The Clarets supporters behind the goal are celebrating a rocky but safely negotiated passage to the next round.  Or so they think.  Hakeem has other ideas.  Another ball to him on the edge of the area.  He sees a team mate in space.  He cushions the ball down.  Perfect.  Right on cue for a run and shot.  It had to be Sam Collins.  It had to be the sub.

 
   Bang.  Goal.  2-2.  Lightning strikes twice.  Pandemonium.  Some City directors by me bury their heads in their hands.  They can't believe what they're seeing.  I'm too busy shouting and celebrating with Chipper to see how the players are reacting.  All I can see are Claret shirts with hands on hips.  One or two are squatting down.  They can't believe it.  This is East Thurrock United though.  I can.

   Extra time.  No chanting from the crowd, just a colossal roar whenever one team nears a penalty area.  It's almost tribal, but without the menace of violence.  Pure will to win is driving everyone on.  I say to Chipper that Chelmsford look out on their feet.  Sam Higgins tests the theory with a shot in the area.  It somehow goes through Searle's body.  3-2.  Unreal.

   I then also said that's not the winning goal.  Chipper said it's going to penalties.  The away fans around us aren't so sure, all they can see is their side behind and out of steam.  But we're beginning to get a grip of this unreality at Planet Rookery Hill.  A few minutes later, a Cook cross, and Jamie Slabber slots it away inside the area.  3-3.  You cam smell the relief around us.

   Into the last stretch.  City hang on, then with less than five to go, win a corner on the right.  It simply had to be, didn't it.  There had to be yet another FA Cup story to it.  Max Cornhill.  A former Rocks favourite.  He helped them to the North title.  He even scored that equaliser on Saturday.  Now he's netted with his head at the right end.  The Chelmsford fans go delirious.  They think, finally, they've won it.

 
   They should know better, really.  One director says "Normally, one up with a minute to go, you'd say you were safe.  But ...."  He trails off and smiles, betraying the agony he somehow, from the pit of his stomach, knows awaits him.

  And here it comes.  Reiss Gilbey has tormented his opponents all night on either side of the pitch.  He crosses from the left as we go into extra time injury time.  There's a man free at the far post.  He, and the cross, are perfectly placed.  The keeper and defence are all over the shop.  This is it.  Kris Newby heads home.  The Moment Mk. II

  Yea ..... what?  I don't believe it.  This is not the Rocks way.  Kris has somehow headed over the bar from almost underneath it.  I freeze.  Maybe my spidey senses have over-tingled tonight on adrenaline.  Perhaps I believe in the unexpected a bit too much to be credible.  Or sane.

   I sit, as the seconds tick by, with surely the ref about to blow before another Rocks attack can form.  It's been a fantastic effort from both sides, a tumultuous, incredible journey through a night in Corringham.  But that's it.

   I look up and see the Rocks desperately dribbling around the edge of the area, but now there's no way through.  The game is up.  Back to resorting to one last hoof.  If they even have long enough to have a shot.  I look at the ref.  He's looking intently towards the penalty area, whistle to mouth.  The moment before the bullet is fired.  I look away.

  To see Kris Newby.  He takes a swing.  25 yards.  It's high.  It's fierce.  It's in the back of that Chelmsford City net.

   Rookery Hill erupts.  I can't stand it much longer, my heart can't take it.  Even the press box are up on their feet to pay tribute to this tale of the extraordinary.  The Rocks players run around the goal, going berserk with the supporters.  To my right, City directors slump, heads in hands yet again.

   Sure enough, the ref blows for full time.  The crowd rises as one.  Both teams have put on the most incredible FA Cup tie I have ever seen at any level.  Every single person is applauding both teams, not their own.  

   They know that they've witnessed something truly beyond the realms of fantasy.  Eight goals, two home equalisers in injury time.  Makes Saturday's four goals and one injury time equaliser blockbuster look like an episode of The Archers.

   There was, of course, going to be yet another twist to this in extra time.  I was hoping that Jamie Riley, like that guy in The Magnificent Seven, was going to redeem himself and be the hero.  No, don't be stupid.  I was half expecting that, i couldn't possibly be right.

   No.  The story was Kris Newby.  The man whose free kick on Saturday caused that 98th minute equaliser.  The man whose own 121st minute equaliser gave us this penalty shoot-out.  The only man to miss a penalty.  It agonisingly sailed over the bar.  Nobody else misses.  Anthony Cook.  What a game he's had.  He bangs away the winner.

   The City players run over and celebrate right in front of Chipper and I.  We smile and applaud, heartbroken, but truly appreciative of Chelmsford's own remarkable powers of resilience to come through that.  In the centre circle, Covo has got the squad in a huddle.  

   Meanwhile, nobody in the crowd is leaving.  Every single person is applauding or cheering.  Nobody actually wants to go either.  If we could, we would stay here the rest of our lives.  It's been that sort of night.  

   I catch the attention of Clarets boss Glenn Pennyfather.  He immediately shakes my hand, and says that was simply unbelievable.  A master of understatement.  I wish his side well and tell him that Colchester won't fancy it one bit.  They won't either.

   At the door of the players entrance is Covo and Jay.  John looks absolutely heartbroken.  I try to tell him that everyone will remember tonight for the rest of their lives, that it's the game everyone will talk about, not the result, but you can see, almost feel his pain.  I say something similar to Jay.  Somehow, giving them a handshake doesn't seem right.  Both teams deserve the FA Cup itself for a night like this.

   Once we begin to make our reluctant way home, Chipper, of course, says the wisest thing of the entire evening.  "We should give up football now.  There will never be another game as good as that."

   There won't.  It was, quite simply, the greatest.

   East Thurrock United 4,  Chelmsford City 4

   (aet.  2-2 at 90 minutes.  Chelmsford City win 5-3 on penalties)

2012-13 Uncovered: Monday 22nd October - Sudding Well Lost In The Fog

   It had been a nice, relaxing Sunday, after the colossal rush of that FA Cup tie.  Hearts v Motherwell, settled by a run and shot from Danny Grainger.  I knew a Danny Grainger where I worked years ago.  He was heftier than me and was caught on cctv shagging the floor manageress in the car park.  Though presumably not in a car itself as she was heftier than him.

   I digress.  Still time to take in the last 20 minutes of the Wear-Tyne derby.  All Sunderland and Demba Ba scores a late own goal equaliser for them.  Chortle.  I guess Demba saw the 'Invest In Africa' slogans on the front of the Sunderland shirts, and thought he could also do his bit for other deprived, backward, Third World areas.  He donated a goal to Wearside.

   Tonight's little in the flesh treat, though, was another trip to the very edge of Greater London.  Aveley had been on a decent spell the past few weeks, including putting five past East Thurrock United reserves in the Ryman League Cup seven days ago.  If they beat AFC Sudbury over at Mill Field this evening, they'd go 3rd in Ryman One North.

     I'd kept myself occupied during the day, though, by getting involved in a transfer.  Not on Fifa 13 either.  This was a proper 'manager wants player, player wants this, can you help with negotiations' type thing.  There might just be a surprise in the pipeline later this week.  You'd be surprised, in any case, at how little it takes for a play to drop divisions.

   The Millers boss, Justin Gardner, had done a decent job at Bethnal Green in the ESL and evidently, after their relegation last season, had got this team believing in themselves again.  On the other hand, Sudbury had won just a couple of league games and languished near the bottom.  I've yet to meet a languish, mind, so I don't know what that means, really, but apparently they had been shite since that draw at Ilford.

   The biggest barrier to a home win tonight, though, was perhaps the weather.  The fog had been a proper pea-souper in the morning and had hardly lifted all day.  Added to that was that slow, light, continual drizzle that saps your spirit.  It's neither pissing down or a light shower, just constant getting on your tits rain.

   Thinking back, this was the first time I'd seen Aveley when I'd travelled to Mill Field.  I'd seen Basildon United face up to the exotically titled Mauritius Sports and the more mundane Romford there, and one or two other representative kick-abouts.  I'd seen Aveley away a few times, too, but tonight was a bit of history.  For nobody other than myself, mind, but still.

   For those not in the know, Mill Field is what you come to expect from a Ryman League club.  One oldish looking main stand, a covered end, a small covered enclosure by the halfway line opposite the stand, and the rest open to the elements.

   Admission and a programme for a tenner.  Smart clubhouse and burger bar.  That'll do for me.  Especially with that ad in any Ryman club programme with that model down to her lingerie.  Worth £20 and a box full of tissues alone.

   I took my seat, which I found had a bit of damp on it.  Well, there'd been fog, and moisture in the air all day before the rain came down, so no big surprise or deal.  Either give it a bit of a wipe or have a bit of a wet arse for a little while.  I couldn't be bothered to dry it so wet arse I settled upon.

   However, when the professional groundhoppers arrived, it was up there with the Jimmy Saville cover-up as an outrage.  You can spot the pro groundhoppers a mile off.  Carrier bags are rarer these days.  Shoulder bags are in.  As is bushy beards and, as ever, a propensity to talk far too loudly about grounds they'd been to or going to, purely so that everyone else within a radius of 50 yards can hear them.

   Don't get me wrong, nothing against groundhoppers.  It's harmless, and they generate a huge amount of revenue for clubs that really need it.  I'm practically one myself, bar me not actually caring too much how many grounds I've been to (I've never sat down to work it out - more than 2, less than 20,002).

   But please, don't talk loudly about going to Evesham tomorrow, or about someone going to Palace Reserves tonight and missing out.  Nobody except you cares about it.  And why not wait until the teams are announced on the tannoy instead of haranguing club officials?

   As at Cricklefield, there was a decent AFC Sudbury following.  You could tell because they came in what is obviously winter uniform.  Stern, serious face, navy overcoat with club crest, and garish yellow scarf.  Oh, and just like the groundhoppers, aged at least 60.   I must have been the youngest one in the stand by about 15 years.  This could be fun.  Or a nightmare.

   The fog wasn't worsening, but that rain was persistent.  On the pitch there were large circles of what looked like frost but was simply moisture.  You'd have thought that the game would be spoilt by it, but no.  Both teams were at it from the off.  Paul Burnett gives the hosts the lead, then Leon Antoine equalises, before a dozen minutes have passed.

   Both sides were keeping it on the deck as often as they could.  Aveley were looking particularly useful.  Lovely passing and movement, even if Justin's motivational skills on the touchline came straight from David Brent.  "Belieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeve!" was the cry.  Chortle.  This was with 20 minutes gone, not with 5 left.  With his suit and dark jacket, he looked every inch a manager.  His side looked every inch a good team, too.

   Half time came with the sides somehow still level.  Sudbury had taken a bit of a battering but were still well in it.  You'd have thought, though, they were getting beat 5-0 the way they trudged off.  The groundhoppers stood up to shout loudly about rooting for Hendon.  I so hope that's not a euphemism.  For all our sakes.

   Then came the breaking point.  With literally dozens of empty seats to choose from, and instead of sitting where they were, two groundhoppers chose to sit directly behind me.  Which ordinarily wouldn't have been too bad but for one guy's knees and feet banging into the top of my shoulders.  Followed by a succession of f words just in casual conversations.  Now, as you know, I'm not averse to the odd bit of verbals, but not every other word.

   So I got up and I ... I ... well, I buggered off to stretch my legs behind the goal.  Nobody there, see, so no knees in the shoulder, no drivel about who's been to Mangotsfield United, no f words about what time the bus to Hornchurch is.  A few minutes later, about half a dozen people felt likewise and stood behind the goal too.  Saying not a word.  They, like me, just enjoyed the peace.

   The silence was broken, though, by Sudbury's centre half.  He spent the whole time moaning at the keeper Fred Howe.  For no reason other than, I suspect, to detract from his own failings.  Apart from not being vocal when play wasn't near him, the goalie had done nothing wrong, and in fact kept his side in the game with one superb tip round the post.

   Those of us behind the goal even began to rally to his cause.  One Aveley fan shouted "Well done keeper, don't listen to him, mate, you've done nothing wrong."  He responded to question of why he doesn't shout back at him with "He never listens to me anyway", and shook his head in resignation.  Good man.  And spot on, as that defender kept shouting.  Good player he may be but clearly was looking for a scapegoat should they lose.

   That didn't seem likely, though, as Aveley sub came on for the last 15 minutes.  Sudbury were hanging on and looking more resilient as time passed by.  Then, of course, it happened.  A set piece, a shot on goal, a good reflex save, the defence standing there like dummies, and who else but sub Petrit Elbi to shoot home.

   The keeper was livid with his defence, and rightly so.  The centre half, of course, blamed the keeper for the goal and began swearing at him.  Behind the goal, one Aveley fan, with his young son, shouted "You're talking rubbish mate, it's your fault, not the keepers."  The response.  "Come over here and say that and I'll f*****g have you."  You've either got it or you haven't.  Class.  And you, son, have f*** all.

   As was proved a minute later when he went missing presumed dead for Aveley's killer third, a nice finish after being given half a pitch of space down his left hand side.  The visitors boss wisely took off that defender.  He'd made himself look foolish and was now a liability to the team.

   I wandered round back towards the turnstiles, ready for the stroll back to the bus stop at the final whistle, when Petrit Elbi finished off another move down the left as Sudbury pressed in vain and were hit on the break.  4-1 to Aveley.  It was cruel.  They deserved the win, no doubt, but not perhaps by that margin.

   Anyhow, I looked towards the turnstile and there he was.  The man of the moment.  East Thurrock United manger John Coventry was doing his regular Monday night football out somewhere, and was being surrounded by well wishers.  Of course I joined in.  Blimey, I even gave him a man hug, for which he looked suitably embarrassed.  Tomorrow night could be something else.

   I head off for home and, to while away the time, I put on the Non League Show on the radio.  I never normally listen in, I must admit.  Watching it and shouting down a radio mic about it is usually my limit but what else can you do at a bus stop when there's no shelter to write graffiti on, or windows to smash, or piss in?  Anyhow, I tune in, and of course, it's Covo on the line discussing tomorrow night's game.  I'm convinced he never sleeps.

   One thing's for sure, tomorrow night will be a good 'un.  But with five goals and a divvy defender, so was tonight.

   Despite those f*****g groundhoppers.

   Aveley 4,  AFC Sudbury 1

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 20th October - One Game, One Cup, 100 Minutes Of Magic

   As ever in life, good is mixed with bad.  I, and those around me, were given a dose of the latter.

   The news from Inverness was shockingly poor.  Hearing that your own mother had a bout of blindness and needs two operations quickly, isn't great.  Then on top of that, the uncle that introduced me to the delights of Ross County and Hearts - oh, the irony - has had a heart attack, had stents inserted, and probably needs a bypass.

   Then, a lot closer to home.  The landlord of my Bay place had long since died.  But the executors are selling the place.  Out on my ear in the new year, from the place I've loved living in more than any other.  Minor in comparison to the others but a real pisser.

   Today had better be good.  Luckily, it's the Rocks.  They won't let me down.  Never a dull game and today a quick return to Chelmsford City, a place I felt at home at just three days ago.

   Big day today.  Win this FA Cup tie and there's a chance of a Football League fallen giant in the live draw for the 1st round tomorrow.  Or, if you're unlucky, Coventry City.

   East Thurrock United certainly have the better deal as far as Coventrys go.  John and family are hugely respected in non-league circles for all the behind the scenes work they do at the club.  Getting the team to play as well as they do so consistently is a huge achievement, too, for a club of their size.

   A big task today, though.  Glenn Pennyfather is another of those guys that has a genuine love of the game, and regularly fashions highly competitive Conference South sides for the Clarets.  Chelmsford City are undoubtedly the favourites.  Of course, my heart is with the Rocks, but I'll be genuinely pleased if City went through and landed a big club in the next round, too.

   I get to the press box early.  Just as well.  Over an hour to kick off and it's already banged out, bar the seat with my name on it.  Good lad, Chris.  The Beeb are even anchoring their own sports show from the ground.  There's real interest in this one, and as kick-off time drew nearer, a real crackle of anticipation.  This could be a good 'un.

   Good?  That doesn't even begin to describe it.  Early host pressure, an appeal for handball, we hold our breath - no can do guys.  The Rocks settle down, get a throw in, a shot on the edge of the area, a deflection of Sam Higgins.  1-0 to East Thurrock United.  The small band of visiting supporters go loudly bananas.

   The Rookery Hill outfit take command.  The midfield maestros of Reiss Gilbey, Ross Parmenter and Kris Newby have taken a grip of the game and Higgins, Hakeem Araba and Kye Ruel look more dangerous with each passing attack.  The home crowd get restless.  They even start shouting abuse at the ballboys, who must've been all of 8 or 9 years old.  Good grief.

   Then from nothing, of course, an equaliser.  Chelmsford City get a corner on the right.  Scramble.  David Bridges.  Bang.  Goal.  1-1.  Right on the stroke of half time.  That's the Cup for you.  I have my doubts now about the Rocks.  Surely a Conference South outfit have to be fitter than a Ryman League side.  And with Chelmsford's tails up, it's a big ask.

   The play is unrelenting as the second half begins.  Sam Higgins is released after a fine through ball, he rounds Stuart Searle in the Clarets goal, shoots towards an empty net, but it's cleared off the line.  Minutes later, at the other end, Jamie Slabber wrestles Simon Peddie to the ground, and to everyone's amazement the ref waves play on.  In comes the shot, a curler.  It beats Richard Wray but smashes off the right hand edge of the crossbar.  Just wow.

   The crowd are alive, as if they are one huge living organism, engrossed totally in the cup tie.  The intensity builds.  A ball is played inside the six yard box.  Richard Wray punches clear but then clashes heads.  He's dazed.  Covo trots over to see the damage.  He looks over at the bench, indicating that Jamie Riley has to come on.  This could be your moment, lad.

   Still both sides go for it.  The Rocks delivery at set pieces and crosses are bang on.  You just feel, sooner or later, even with time ticking away, that at some point one of the forwards will get on the end of it.  I'm happy with the draw, though, and with 4 minutes to go say on the radio that I hope nothing else of note happens.

   Why the f*** do I have to tempt fate so much?  Another cross goes in.  This time, though, from the home side.  Kenny Clark gets a head on it.  It bounces then hits the back of the net.  Melbourne Park erupts.  I'm crestfallen but at least the Rocks have gone out on their shield.

   The 4th official puts the indicator up.  10 minutes of injury time.  Where did that come from?  Consternation from everyone around me.  They knew it wasn't over.  They knew it was the cup.  They just knew while the Rocks just hoped.

   91 minutes became 92, 93, ticking away.  Then the opportunity.  A free kick wide on the left.  Covo's such a canny manager.  He makes a double substitution.  Now the Chelmsford markers aren't sure who to go with.  The East Thurrock United supporters behind the goal bang their hands against the metal covering.  The whole ground bar them hold their breath.

   Come on Kris, put us out of our misery one way or the other.  One last chance to make use of your delivery.  Just put it in now, mate, and whatever happens happens.  He does.  It's low-ish, inside the area.  By now, time has almost stood still as we watch, mesmerised, waiting to see that vital touch one way or the other.

   I miss the touch.  So does everyone else.  Lots of players running into each other.  What we can see, though, is the ball.  Slowly.  Surely.  Evading everyone.  But not the far post.  98th minute.  Chelmsford City 2,  East Thurrock United 2.

   I give up all pretence of impartiality.  I'm out of my seat, fist raised.  On the pitch, Chelmsford City players are on their knees.  The men in amber, though, are running around in a frenzy.  I shout, almost deliriously, the radio report.

   Still time for a twist though.  100th minute and Chelmsford get the ball inside the area.  The Rocks can't clear it, a shot is blocked, the ball falls to Anthony Cook on the edge of the six yard box.  He hits it cleanly and on target.  Oh shit.  No.

   The ball hammers off the bar and out again.  Another scramble, another shot.  Jamie Riley saves it.  You bloody brilliant beauty.  He kicks it away.  Finally, the ref blows his whistle for the last time at Melbourne Park this afternoon.

   The host supporters are disconsolate but generously give both sides a standing ovation for one of the great FA Cup ties you could ever wish to see anywhere.  The press box is alive with emotion, not just from me, whilst I sum up for the radio.

   As I'm wrapping up, two Chelmsford punters stand and stare.  "Can you believe that?" one of the gutbuckets says to the other.  "F*****g b******s.  You must've watched a different game to me."  Yes, I must've.

   "Only my opinion" I replied with a smile, before adding to a media colleague "What a wanker."  He turns and looks at me.  "Have a nice trip home.  See you Tuesday", I beam back at them.  They slouch off.  You get them everywhere, I suppose.  But, of course, you don't normally get radio guys who give a bit back.  I shouldn't have.  But chortle.

   Ahead of me is a three hour journey home back to the Bay.  No trains on the Liverpool Street line.  Fenchurch Street line screwed up again.  The bus into Basildon and then onwards back to the Bay, though, seems to fly by.  The adrenaline is still pumping.  What a game.  What a f*****g game.

   Replay on Tuesday.  In between that, the live draw tomorrow.  Dare to dream?  Not just yet.  But after the shiteness of the past couple of days, the Rocks have restored a bit of my spirits.  For that alone, today has been a good 'un.  To earn a replay the way Covo and the boys did, though, that's made today spectacular.

   What a game.  What a f*****g game.

   Chelmsford City 2,  East Thurrock United 2

2012-13 Uncovered: Wednesday 17th October - 999 Down, 1 To Go

   It had been a bit of a rough week.  Under the weather and under-funded meant trips to Aveley and Hornchurch were put on ice.  So, at least there's an up side to poor health.

   No matter.  In the meantime, ITV were doing their best to liven things up.  A somewhat hysterical over-reaction to, shock of shock, a game being called off because it was pissing down.  True, having a retractable roof that they didn't bother to unretract was stupid, but bloody hell, I thought Adrian Chiles was going to have an aneurysm. 

    Anyway, we heard Chiles bleat endlessly of the 3 or 4 thousand England fans that had to miss the game by flying off that night, as if it was some sort of 9/11 conspiracy.  My sympathies, though, actually lay with the 20,000 Poland fans that had to be in the Argos warehouses in Southend or Basildon by 6am. 

   It did at least, though, put us together as Ed Millpond's 'one nation'.  All sitting there, praying Roy Keane would drag Adrian down to the pitchside and show him how unplayable it was by drowning him next to the corner flag.  Chortle.

   It allowed us, as well, to switch channels and watch the last rites of Craig Levein's Scotland tenure, as well as how far Wales are behind a perfectly average European side.  Northern Ireland, though, tremendous fun.  Pissing off Christiano Ronaldo is enough for something on the New Year's Honours List.  Jamal Campbell-Ryce's tackle on him in 2006, leaving him on a heap at Roots Hall, remains the high point of the world.  Ever.

   Of course, the game was eventually played the following afternoon.  Of course, it wasn't worth it.  Of course, England were unimpressive to a man, but somehow edged a result, as we knew they would.  It's the English way.  It's won a Champions League this year, after all.

   Anyway, that was merely the horses derv to the main course tonight.  Essex Senior Cup night again.  After weighing through the pros and cons of each game, the teams, the tactics, the relative chance of an upset, I eventually, after 4 seconds, carefully decided on the match where I could get a lift to.  Melbourne Park here I come.

   I always had a soft spot for Chelmsford City.  Some of my afternoons or evenings, in my long ago youth, would be spent first at the cricket, watching John Lever or Graham Gooch thrash the opposition into the ground.  Then it would be a quick wander over for a Clarets friendly or Southern Premier League game.  All I could remember was the chant.  "We've got the biggest Willie in the league."  Please, now, no Jimmy Saville jokes.  Or chortling.  Snigger.

   Great Wakering Rovers, meanwhile, were gearing up for their thousandth senior match on Saturday, they had run into a bit of form, so how about putting themselves in the mood to celebrate by causing an upset in their 999th?  City were bound to rest players for Saturday's FA Cup tie, so it wasn't beyond the bounds of possibility.

   In fact, arriving at Melbourne Park, it seemed anything was possible.  Buying a Hearts scarf in the club shop?  Oh yes.  Linda McCartney sausage panini at the tea bar?  Definitely.  Ramp on the main stand for the baby buggy?  You got it.  A view further away from the pitch than Wolves in the 80's?  No problem.  I like this place.

   And so it was that Ed, Bri, Olly, Eileen and I, thanks to the Mystery Machine, had gathered, along with a fair few other Rovers supporters.  I seemed to be the only one with a Hearts scarf on.  Ah well.  We were hopeful of an upset, but thought City would probably come through, on the basis that their reserves would, at the very least, be a more than handy ESL side too.

   That's how it went early on.  Chelmsford went 2-0 up in hardly any time at all.  I did well though.  I saw one of the goals, which was created by probably the best through ball I've seen at any level this season.  Bloody hell.  This could be a long night for Rovers.

   It being a cup tie, though, it turned.  Wakering scored with what was essentially their first real attack after half an hour or so, then the heavens opened.  Absolutely bucketed down.  It was so severe by half time we started to wonder of the game would be abandoned.

   It's obvious, though, that God loves a game.  As soon as we thought that, the rain eased up completely, leaving a totally clear night.  I'm convinced City even have their own weather maker-upper.  Or something.  Whatever it was, it once again seemed anything was possible.

   The second half was more evenly balanced.  The Clarets had chances to finish it off, but Rovers also had opportunities to take it into extra time, especially near the end.  Neither happened, of course, but in the game I did forsake, of course it happened.  Those yappy Concord Rangers boys had come from 3-0 down at Dagenham to win 4-3.  They'll be like Yorkshire terriers all year now, yapping away about this one.

   We went home, all apparently content.  The home side won, the away side put on a decent performance, and I got a Hearts scarf.  And got change for it from a till that contained chocolate buttons instead of pound coins.  You just know you've found a proper club when that happens.

   Wish I could go back there soon.  I look at the radio schedule.  FA Cup weekend.  The only team left in it from the Phoenix FM area, East Thurrock United are away.  At Chelmsford City.

   Karma.  It can be a bitch.  But sometimes it's pretty damn good.

   Chelmsford City 2,  Great Wakering Rovers 1