2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 24th November - Wet Afternoons, Dark Days

   To say the slings and arrows of life had been thrown at me, whilst the rest of the world went about the business, was perhaps an understatement.  The past few days and weeks had been harder than a Roots Hall sausage roll.

   On top of the people around me - and myself - falling under the surgeon's knife or lying in a hospital bed, bang, another kick in the nads.  Eviction notice from the letting agents.  And no money in the pocket to pay the bills - or much other things.  

   I wouldn't mind if I'd been frittering hundreds of quid a week.  But I haven't.  A few shekels for the odd local game and that's it.  Why the income has dried up doesn't really add to the day's frivolities, suffice to say that, as ever, it was something out of my hands.  But it gives you a fair indicator of the state of mind I was in.

   The weather seemed to come out in sympathy with me.  It was pouring down.  The skies were overcast, grey and gloomy.  Still, it was Saturday.  Match day.  Radio work day.  And, better still, East Thurrock United day.

   I'd been in touch earlier in the week with Billericay Town, asking if it was ok to pop over and cover their FA Trophy game.  No response, no reply, nothing.  This is becoming an ever more frustrating occurrence with Conference South clubs.  F*** it.  I won't bother.  I e-mail East Thurrock.  No problem, they say.  As ever.

   The Rocks hadn't regained their pre-FA Cup form since that unforgettable tussle with Chelmsford.  They were languishing, and no, not a euphemism either, in 15th.  Only three league defeats all season.  But only three wins as well.  They've got games in hand but need to start winning them as well as their Saturday games.

   A few days ago, today would've been a banker.  Note to self - stop thinking of double entendre whenever banker is written.  Anyway, I digress.  Leiston, having seen them dispose of Billericay Town handily in pre-season, were struggling, rock bottom with just 8 points.  But a new manager has just come in, and well, we all know what that means.  Definitely a glass half empty day, this.

   Anyway, b******s to the self pity, despite the relentless downpour, the game was on, unlike many in the area.  I get to the gate and Chris is there.  She always has a smile and a chat waiting for me.  Sam's there too, with the programmes, 50/50 tickets, and banter.  A woman I've never met says how much she loved me saying I wanted Kris Newby's babies.  It feels great to be here.  And I still want his babies after that goal.

   The squad and the management look like Victorian thieves with their Movember taches.  Apart from Covo, who seems to be auditioning for the Father Christmas job at Lakeside.  Chortle.  Mikey takes his snaps.  It all's good at Rookery Hill as I take my seat in the press box.

   I should've known better though.  Out comes the netbook.  Out comes the dongle.  Error.  Try again.  Error.  Reboot.  Try again.  Error.  Except this time with a reason.  It's an old t-mobile dongle but they're now Everything Everywhere and say I have to buy another one.  They're not only Everything Everywhere now.  They're also c***s who won't be getting my pennies again.

   I'm left with doing updates from the phone.  Cold, wet weather - and yep, wet even in the press box, as the occasional rain drops came through the roof.  Phone signal is also patchy.  Hmmmm.  These days, these times, are sent to test us I guess.  I must've done something pretty bad in a previous life at the same age.  I don't chortle but, well, raise my eyebrows and like to the sky a bit.  

   As the teams kick-off, I try the camera.  I'm actually anticipating it going wrong.  Sure enough, the pics are dark and blurry.  I give up after half a dozen pics.  I smile ruefully as the Rocks go forward.  So long as all the ill fortune is centred on me, then everyone else here should be okay.

   It goes to plan.  The hosts have settled down better and midway through the first half and Reiss Gilbey scores after a great lob just outside the area.  On the stroke of half time the Leiston keeper makes an awful error from a corner and Hakeem Araba doubles the lead.  

   He does the robot dance.  Covo and the injured squad player behind me chortle.  He's doing the wrong dance.  He's mistaken 'mo' for 'ro' - and looks even more stupid for it.  Chortle.

   The visiting supporters aren't too happy.  Directly in front of me is a senior citizen.  He has a hearing aid on and talks as if everyone else in earshot is wearing one as well.  He berates the ref, the linesmen, and most of all his own team.  Reports are being hampered by his rural rants but it adds to to it all, the unreality of non-league life.  He's great.

   I should've known better though.  This day is destined to be crap.  Leiston have changed players and formation.  It's worked and the dominate.  Patrick Brothers gets one back after a quick move down the left. East Thurrock are in turn struggling.  Their first half parade is being rained upon.  Passes are going astray and they are being pressed back more and more.

   Despite the scoreline, despite their respective positions, it looks like there's only one winner here.  I look on gloomily, as the Rocks players struggle in the dark and the rain.  For the first time in a while I wonder what the hell I'm doing here.  Then the inevitable equaliser.  May as well go home now, even though I can't.  This is just so depressing.

   The Rookery Hill side hang on though.  Just.  An undeserved point against the bottom side.  Out on the pitch, before they finish their warm down, there's a heated exchange between team and management on what went wrong in the second.  It's a depressing end to a depressing afternoon, near the end of a depressing week for me.  I can't wait to get home.

   The home that I won't be in for much longer.  Yep, it's pretty bad at the moment.  But at least I still have my health ... oops.  Well, my wealth should see me through ... oh.  Okay, erm, oh, I've got it, I still have pictures of Kylie almost with her tits out.  That'll do.  And believe me, I would do, too.  At least two.  Twice over.

   Bad times, bad result, but so what?  I'm still here.  That'll do for me.

   East Thurrock United 2,  Leiston 2

2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 20th November - Bari My Soul At Burroughs

   Message boards and forums up and down the country were getting all het up.  About the Israeli incursions into Gaza and the Palestinian response?  Nope.  The ceaseless clunk-clicking of more and more revelations about Jimmy Savile and his little ring of sordid friends?  Of course not.

   The issue that was getting people so enraged and intolerant was, erm, standing up at a football match.  Supporters of Premier League and Football League clubs, in the past week or so, have been whining incessantly to each other about it.  Some want to stand, others don't.  And neither have any time of day at each other's view.  

   It led, incredibly, to someone getting a broken nose for their troubles at Craven Cottage on Sunday, after an argument broke out about it.  The fuckwittedness of those involved puts them up on a par with politicians or Scottish football administrators.

   My view?  I couldn't care less if people want to sit or stand.  If those standing aren't obstructing the views of those wanting to sit, there's no problem.  At non-league level, of course, that isn't an issue, as people don't behave like knob-heads about it, by and large, and haven't done for decades.  It's also why there's no segregation below the Conference.

   It seems, however, in the pro ranks, it was the supporters who think it's a massive deal that they go to a game, and make huge noises about how great they are, that were making the biggest fuss.  You know the type.  Try to take all the credit if there's any sort of atmosphere.  Criticise everyone else if it's quiet.  Every club has them.  At Southend United they call them 'the North Bank'.  

   This was the background to yet another trip to Burroughs Park this evening and onto another issue that causes extensive argument - clubs being bankrolled.  Rovers opponents tonight in the Essex Senior League Cup were London Bari.  

   Winners of a Sunday league last season.  They by-pass the feeder Saturday afternoon leagues and gain straight entry into the ESL, move in with Clapton, and get rid of all the players they had.  Click on the club history section of their website and it's completely blank.  It's no wonder there was more than a hint of resentment in other quarters, with established and well run clubs passed over.

   Again, though, it's all about opinions.  Mine?  Although I prefer a club to be self sufficient and at least have some links with the community, you can't blame clubs if someone comes along, with an offer of enough financial backing to put the club on a decent footing, and they take it.  Their problems will come, though, if and when the backer backs out.  Their fall will be that much harder.  And it will happen in this part of the non-league country, too.

   Ed, Bri and I were in full agreement about one thing though.  It was bastard cold.  Since the weekend I'd been woefully short of money.  As this was a cup game, though, the Rovers season ticket wouldn't be any use.  In the end I let my heart rule my head and went.  If I known it was this cold, though, I'd have let my nads rule my heart and stopped in to see Celtic get beat.

   We needed the game to warm us up, to liven everything up a bit.  Rovers were trailing 2-0 from the first leg and needed an early goal.  There's a corner on the right.  Bit of a scramble.  Then a lob.  It's there.  Game on.  

   A desperate defender kicks the ball out of the goal via the crossbar but it's way too late.  1-0 to Rovers on the night.  2-1 to Barry on aggregate.  Except play is going on.  Somehow, the goal hasn't been given.  We have our main talking point, that something to get the evening going.  But not the way Great Wakering Rovers would have wanted.  I shouldn't.  But chortle.

   The game carries on, with the match officials showing their even handedness, making ridiculous decisions against both sides.  Having said that, tonight on show were the two whingiest, loudest, moaniest teams I've heard on a pitch for some time.  You'd be embarrassed even if it an under 7's side, let alone fully grown adults behaving like that.  For whatever reason, everyone in football today has gone proper radge.

   In amongst the male menopausal festival going on in front of us, London Bari score a world class goal.  A lob from around the halfway line, the scorer apparently seeing Rovers keeper Louis Godwin-Green off his line.  They rightly go berserk with a goal like that.  It's only heresay though.  I, of course, wasn't watching it, too busy chortling at Bri's miners torch on his head.  Don't ask.

   The celebrations, of course, lead to a bout of handbags, and around five minutes of the match officials deciding to tell someone off jolly hard, with one yellow being shown.  The level of football wasn't particularly good tonight, but the entertainment factor, not necessarily for footballing reasons, was high.  That'll do for me.

   It continues in a similar vein during the second half.  Dreadful officiating, occasional flashes of brilliance, all very watchable but mostly for non-footballing reasons.  Danny Heale makes me even poorer by netting an equaliser.  Barry soon head upfield though.  Not a great deal of skill but a lot of pace.  Until this guy cracks a low volley across goal from the left hand edge of the area.  Louis had no chance.  2-1 to the visitors and everyone applauds.  All five of us, anyway.

   The next goal is even better.  One touch football right cutting through the Rovers defence on the right, the perfect through ball inside the area, first time shot, 3-1 to London Bari.  Did I say not a great deal of skill?  Sheer delightful football, as Kenneth Wolstenholme once said.  Rovers get a consolation, but by that time, everyone knows that consolation is all it is.

   The rest of the game was spent who could shout and moan the loudest.  The winner, sadly, was the Rovers player-boss Trenks, who mouthed off at the lino for a good 10 seconds after a 50/50 decision went against him, out on the touchline, way out from either goal.  So, so childish.  How can you expect a side to behave when the manager does that?  The refs and linos may be patchy in quality at times, but I lose any sympathy for players when they go on like that.

   We head off home, frozen, but given a bit of value for our six quid.  Barry deserve to go through on the night, but do they deserve to be out there on the pitch to start with?  It doesn't matter now, they're through, and deservedly so.  They took their chances, Rovers didn't.  And that's the name of the game.

   As the shadows spread spookily across Burroughs Park, the talk is of games ahead.  We're all feeling the pinch.  Not that we're contemplating cutting down on games, just paring to the bone the cost of getting there and getting in.  Chipper's mate is friends with Fleetwood manager Micky Mellon, who sounds more like an act at the Wheeltappers & Shunters Social Club.  A ticket blag is in the offing.

   Something I'll happily stand for.

   Great Wakering Rovers 2,  London Bari 3  (agg. 2-5)

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 17th November - There But Not All There

   It was a tired way to start the weekend.  I'm getting too old for staying out past midnight.  There's another one to come though.  Wedding on Sunday.  Thankfully, though, not mine.  It's half the reason why these occasions are so much fun.  Everyone's relieved it's not them at the altar.

   Before that, though, it was football day.  And a conundrum.  With so much going on with those close to me, from health to happiness, it was yet another weekend I couldn't stray away from home.  I was due to cover Bromley v Billericay but that was now out of the window.

   Instead, it was, as usual, the Rovers, who were obligingly at home again.  If I couldn't be at 'the' match, I could at least be at 'a' match and give the listeners a bit of at-the-match atmosphere as the scores from elsewhere rattled in.

   Bri picked me up, fresh from Celtic going back on top of the SPL thanks to their win at Aberdeen.  That wouldn't last though.  Hibs were at Dundee.  But would Rovers tenure at the top of the ESL?  Frankly, though, much as I like the people and players at the club, and even though I have a season ticket there, I didn't really care.

   That's how it goes with football.  A club can get under your skin, be a part of you forever, even if you've only been to see them once.  Yet you can go to another club a hundred times, which might be almost exactly the same, but somehow, it just doesn't feel the same.  

   That's the Rovers for me.  I enjoy the afternoons and evenings at the match there, it's full of good people, but somehow I can't muster enough enthusiasm to be bothered if they win or not.  Their nowt queer as folk.  Especially football folk.

   A local derby today.  Hullbridge Sports would still be smarting from a cup match earlier this season.  Absolutely pummelled Rovers in the first yet were losing 4-1.  They will still be sore from that eventual 6-2 defeat.  Great Wakering Rovers would have to be wary of them.

   As the sides paraded in their green and white stripes and gaudy pink, I wondered if Mardi Gras UK was taking place here today.  In the meantime, I was setting up the online Phoenix FM live updates for scores around the region and beyond.  Even if the match was dull, I was mildly curious to see how much or little I'd see of the game in front of me.

  Normally, on live match duty, my focus is the game I'm watching and hardly anything else.  This afternoon, though, even if Rovers and Sports are doing battle in front of me, my main concentration would be the twitter feeds, colleagues texts, and other websites, scanning for info on at least five other games.

  

   The answer, in the first half, was comfortably less than 10 minutes.  I only looked up if I heard the crowd shout or roar at something, or take the occasional pic.  Midway through the first half, I had to ask Bri how the match was going, if it was any good.  From what I saw, it looked fairly even until Danny Heale put Rovers in front.  

   Soon after Hullbridge had a penalty.  I'm pretty sure everyone in the ground, on and off the pitch, knew this would be the turning point in the game.  1-1 and confidence is lifted for the pink shirted players.  Louis Godwin Green has other ideas though.  It was indeed a turning point.  But not one the visitors wanted.

   Luckily, my radio endeavours were paying off.  Every side in the Phoenix FM area were winning, two of them tricky away fixtures to boot.  Things seem to be that much easier if the sides you're covering are doing well.   

   In the second half, I saw more.  Only because a referee, this time being assessed, again decided to be the centre of attention.  At least he wasn't biased.  His ridiculous decision were being made against both teams.  When it gets to the stage when Great Wakering Rovers players and supporters were telling the ref he  had no reason to send off a Hullbridge player, you know something's wrong.

   In between all that, Rovers got another couple of goals, and Hullbridge hit back with a second penalty, this time converted.  It was the least they deserved in the circumstances.  A good game ruined by someone on the pitch but not playing.  Well, that's how it seemed in the 25 minutes or so I saw.

   It had been a good day online though.  All the area's side had won.  With results from other Football League sides waiting to be filed, the lights went out around the ground as well as the floodlights.  I filed the final scores in complete darkness.  It seemed fitting, as I was in the dark as to how the game in front of me was going for the most part.

   As we headed back towards the Bay, talk went from the rugby intenrnationals, to finance, to Catholic schools, and of course to what game was up next.  A cosmopolitan lot us, even if we do look, sound and smell like a discarded KFC box.  Though how we sound like a chicken box is anyone's guess.

   The football had ended but the weekend was just beginning.  Wedding bells.  Someone else's.  Which means all I have to do is turn up, eat and drink.

  And that, my friend, is easily the best result of the weekend.

   Great Wakering Rovers 3,  Hullbridge Sports 1 

2012-13 Uncovered: Friday 16th November - Going Boco Down Underhill

   Deep into the heart of the season now.  The nights were growing longer.  Well, the nights had crept into afternoons.  We've reached that stage where you go to work in the dark and go home in the dark.  That bit in between, at work, we're usually all in the dark whether it's winter or summer, that's a given.

   At this time of year the casual punter will be put off by the cold, by Christmas shopping, maybe even by their side being awful.  Clubs need to get their thinking caps on to pull in the punters.  Luckily, Barnet have been innovative.

   First of all, they somehow bring in Dutch superstar, the dreadlocked Champions League winner Edgar Davids.  Most importantly, though, they rearrange a Saturday afternoon match to a Friday night.  Oh yes.

   Barnet have always been one of those endearing clubs, even in their non league days, battling and losing out on the Conference title for what seemed about 52 years before Barry Fry took them up.  With North London being carved up between Spurs and Arsenal - and Man Utd of course - they've had to survive on their dyed-in-the-wool fans and little else.

   There's plenty going for the club though.  Dead easy to get to.  Chipper and I waited in the rush hour at Moorgate tube.  Absolutely rammed, with no prospect of getting the High Barnet train.  But just a few stairs below, the overhead line to New Barnet, virtually empty.  Perfect.

   Then, just by the Odeon after a short wander from the stadium, a chippy where it seems you can buy anything.  A massive clump of chips and a jumbo sausage for £3.50.  Blimey.  Now, I could make all sorts of childish jokes about my massive sausage.  Except for two things.  One, I'm vegetarian.  And two, I'd only be deluding myself if I did.

   We make the short way to Underhill and it's as league football used to be.  The stewards are human and happy to engage in a bit of chat with you.  The club is a portacabin and absolutely rammed with club merchandise.  We settle on a club vest.  And, best of all, cash turnstiles.  But then Nirvana.  Just £14 secures us a spot on the North West terrace.  Yep, terrace.  Not seats.  Oh yes.  Again.

   Underhill is maybe untidy and old fashioned but it's homely.  An open terrace behind the goal, and covered standing enclosure.  To our right was the main stand, then behind the other was a newly built stand.  There's not a big crowd in but you can tell the people that do turn up have done so for decades, maybe having the same spot on the terraces for decades.

   They're in trouble though.  Bottom two of League 2, and in their last season before what seems to be an unwanted move to one of new all singing, all dancing, characterless stadiums to share with Wealdstone.  Even with the ageing Dutch maestro, a recent 4-1 stuffing had kept the Bees firmly entrenched in the drop zone.

   Their opponents tonight, Accrington Stanley, had a well documented sad past, unable to last a league season and Peel Park sold off, but an equally well known return to the pro ranks.  And, of course, that poxy milk ad in between.  He might have been a hell of a player, but manager Ian Rush?  Who's he?  Oh yeah, they guy who helped take Chester City out of the league Stanley now occupied.  Karma.  And chortle.

   The game kicked off in front of a small crowd, although it wasn't helped by an understandably low turnout from Lancashire.  They were in the lower reaches of League Two as well, and with having to take a half day off at least to make the trip, it was hardly surprising only around 70 Accrington supporters were there.

   As it turned out, though, Barnet's innovation paid off.  More Barnet fans had turned up then at any point bar one game this season.  That wasn't all.  Throughout the first half, programme sellers, 50/50 ticket sellers, and even scarf sellers, were mingling with the crowd, bringing those extra pennies in.  Such an obvious common sense idea but rarely seen elsewhere.

   The bit on the pitch, though, was predictable.  There was an obvious lack of confidence from both sides, who seemed to be scared of making mistakes rather than going for anything.  A Barnet shot bouncing off the bar and an Accrington Stanley header a foot over was the sum total of their efforts.  Only a couple of players had impressed.  Barry Fuller, the Barnet right back, looked tidy.

   And, well it had to be, Edgar Davids.  He did everything right, seemed to be in the right place and the right time on the pitch, delivering the right passes, making the right runs.  A lovely foray down the left and perfect cross to the far post reminded you why he became a superstar at the World Cup in France.  An absolute joy to watch.  For just £14.  Bargain of the season.

   It livens up considerably in the second half.  Nice play from Ricky Holmes, his centre is blocked, then from the edge of the area, that man Davids turns in a low, accurate shot that is well saved.  Then at the other end, Graham Stack does really well to keep out a 1-on-1 shot.  Except the ball parries off him, bounces of Rom Boco, and ends up in the net.  That's how your luck goes at the bottom.

   Stanley take control and create more chances.  Barnet defenders are more jittery than a jitterbug with the jitters. It seems to be a matter of time before the game is put to bed.  The home side's attacks are sporadic.  Ricky Holmes, out on the touchline is given a pass that's about three feet above his head, and hit at 70mph.  He shakes his head.

   Dean Winnard comes over to take the throw in for Accrington.  The ball's about two yards away from him.  He stands there, shouting angrily at a ball boy.  The lad is a good 20 yards away from the ball.  The lazy knacker, shouting at a 10 year old like that.  He deservedly gets dog's abuse from the terrace, all a lot closer to him than the ball boy is.  He looks startled.

   A few minutes later, he stumbles over himself and starts to limp.  That's Karma.  You f***ing twat.  Behind him, Ricky Holmes again makes a run into the area.  There's the merest of contact, a bit of a shove, and he's actually playing on.  It was done, though, right in front of the ref.  Soft penalty, yes.  But definitely a penalty.  The Stanley defenders shout at the culprit rather than the ref.  Chortle.

   Mark Byrne steps up to take it.  Chipper and I have a great view of it, level with the penalty spot.  He steps up.  As does the Stanley keeper.  It's low and to his left.  He makes a great save.  There's a scramble. The lino, we both spot, is waving his flag furiously.  He's still near the goal-line.  My first thought is that he's going to give a free kick.

   The ref goes over, has a word, then points to the penalty spot again.  Loud cheers.  Again, no complaints.  We'd seen the keeper off his line, but it happens so often.  It seems the match officials want to make their name.  Nobody's worrying at the moment though.  Byrne steps up again.  Whacks it in the same place.  But this time in the back of the net.  Game on.

   It's now anyone's game.  The Stanley left winger gets by Davids near the area.  He trips him.  Yellow card.  At that point, Accrington make a substitution.  James Beattie comes on.  Yes, that James Beattie.  Accrington Stanley's James Beattie comes on as Barnet's Egdar Davids is booked.  You can't get any more surreal than that.

   Well, you can.  Davids and Beattie go for the ball in the centre circle and push into each other, a proper 50/50 challenge.  The Dutchman comes away with the ball.  Then the ref's whistle blows.  The Stanley players run in and surround the ref.  But they needn't have bothered making themselves look like playground kids having a tantrum.  His mind is already made up.  Edgar Davids is sent off.  Ridiculous.

   He's given warm applause by the crowd.  He hasn't wasted a single pass, hasn't made a single unnecessary run.  He's been the quickest player on the pitch.  And by some distance the best I've seen this year.  He struggled at Palace desperately last year but, even at 39, he's light years above League Two.  A real privilege to watch.

   The game fizzles out.  Neither team done anything much to deserve the win, but no side deserved to lose.  The draw temporarily lifts Barnet out of the relegation zone and puts Accrington Stanley four points clear of it.  There's been far worse ways to spend a Friday evening.  That we are about to find out.

   Plenty of tubes at High Barnet.  We get on.  As does a bag lady.  Literally.  She has half a dozen filled up Tesco carrier bags.  She stinks of fish or something.  And, below her chinny chin chin.  She has a beard.  This is beyond surreal.  But the smell was beyond description.  I need a shower just by being in the same hemisphere as the bag lady.

   On the train back to the Bay are two pissed up City workers.  They talk loudly about the North London derby and slag off a Spurs player who they claim is on £70,000 a week and never does a job for them, with AVB never picking him.  I'd say it's more to do with him actually playing for West Ham, but that's just me being picky.

   He then claims he's the manager of a women's football team that's top of the table.  Which is coincidental as I spoke to the manager of that club earlier in the day.  Unless they've suddenly secured 15 points today they're not top.  And unless the guy's put on three stone, and had a face lift to age him by a decade, he's not the manager either.  But again, it's probably just me being picky.

   I reach the Bay just after midnight, tired but glowing after the pleasure of a Friday night out with Edgar Davids.  Barnet have another Friday night next month.  We might just have another night out with Eddie and the boys.  Providing he can last the full 90 minutes.

   And so to bed.

   Barnet 1,  Accrington Stanley 1

 

   .  

2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 13th November - Where Was I? Old, I Was Spotted Dog Inn

   The news from Hearts wasn't getting much better.  At last, a consortium riding to the rescue.  With an offer to the current chairman of £450,000 and on condition the club is debt free.  As the chairman is an owed creditor for around £16m, with HMRC wanting that £450,000 in the next few weeks and possibly wanting another £1.7m, it wasn't the most tempting of offers.  Romanov might be a mentalist but he isn't that daft.

   Not to worry, their debts may be a million miles from my own financial hardship, but hard up I was.  The bare fridge and cupboards bore testament to that.  A night out at the football was simply out of the question. With Brentwood in an FA Trophy replay, and East Thurrock also in action, the Phoenix FM coverage will have to be from my living room whilst watching Only Fools & Horses.  Or, even worse, ITV football.

   It was at that time of contemplation, though, that the Bay consortium came to the rescue.  Ed and Bri were off to Clapton v Southend Manor.  And, heavens above, I was being subbed the admittance price.  Who needs dinner when you can have a night out at the Old Spotted Dog?

   It's something the good people of East London have been doing since 1888, though in rapidly decreasing numbers in the past few years.  Just up the road from West Ham's ground, you would have thought the local non-league side would get a decent following in such a densely populated area.

   Not now though.  It seems the born and bred Londoners have moved out, and the people that have moved in have little interest in football and even less affinity for the Tons.  It's noticeable, too, that from Benfleet onwards, the trains into London when West Ham are at home are banged out.  They may as well be called the Home Counties Hammers now.  They certainly don't represent the area of Upton Park much now.  

   Not that they're alone.  Arsenal, Spurs and Chelsea are also Home Counties clubs based in London, rather than London clubs.  It's no bad thing, reaching out to get support from wherever you can.  Teams like Man U, Liverpool, Celtic and Sevco depend upon non-local support just to exist.  It just seems a pity that people won't go and watch their local side a bit more often.

  Anyway, enough of the soap box.  Being out and about also gave me the opportunity to do a radio football night live from a game, which always adds a bit more to it.  And as Bri hadn't seen his late father's Clapton team win in 29 years, he was summarising, just in case the home team created a bit of personal history for him.

   Southend Manor, meanwhile, were obviously undergoing a period of transition.  After last season's heroics, this time around they were scuffling around the lower and mid table places in the ESL.  A turnover of playing and coaching staff obviously needed time to settle.  Even though they were up against the bottom side, Manor were by no means assured of a win they'd have counted on last year.

   The transition was continuing off the pitch as well.  With Bob retired from his chairman duties in the summer, his incumbent, Steve, was finding out just how arduous and time consuming the job could be.  Feathers had been ruffled one way or another.  All was not content down Southchurch Park way.  And to think everyone at this level does it voluntarily.  They must be mad as well as noble.

   We settled down, the crowd small - but tonight extremely enthusiastic.  Sitting with us were the club's youth side and they were wonderfully vociferous, especially for their favourite player, Ninja.  Or maybe they just liked turtle soup.  Whatever the reason, they were great, adding a bit of surreal atmosphere to the night.

   Did I say surreal?  Bloody hell, too right it was.  Five minutes in and Clapton win a throw in.  Immediately a volley of fireworks light up the East London skies.  Then more.  And more.  A constant barrage of sound, smoke and pyrotechnics.  It was apparently Diwali, the Hindi 'festival of light' and my, were the locals in the houses around Upton Lane celebrating.  It was getting ridiculous.  

   On the pitch, the game was fairly poor, the first half only having one outstanding moment, Manor custodian Adam Seal parrying a Clapton shot from about 25 yards out for a corner.  Prior to that there was a fairly distasteful incident with a home player being kicked whilst on the floor.  The perpetrator was booked - along with the host keeper for being unhappy about it.

   If Clapton shaded the first, Southend Manor took command of the second, creating plenty of chances.  They obviously missed Pato a lot though.  He would have buried at least a couple of the opportunities that came their way.  The longer the game went on, the longer it stayed 0-0, the more Bri's sphincter began to twitch.  Could the run come to an end?

   Not that we could see much.  The Old Spotted Dog had become a mini San Siro.  The So Solid Crew next to us when keeping up their barrage of non-stop singing and banging of the seats.  Fireworks kept landing on the pitch.  Smoke was obscuring the view for long stretches.  And there was a loudspeaker growing out of a tree.  Ed and I were enjoying ourselves immensely.  Bri must have been more nervous than a News Of The World hack receiving a voicemail.

   Then it came.  The goal.  Whilst, of course, I wasn't watching, but Bri related this possibly historic news to the listeners.  An absolute beauty.  A shot from some distance.  Bloody hell.  1-0.  To Southend Manor though.  Chris Baddeley had scored the stunner.  Surely it was game over now?

   Not that it mattered to the So Solid Crew as they continued their rhythmic chanting.  The fireworks, explosions and smoke continued to pour down on the place.  The crowd was barely above 40 but it could have been 80,000 watching a Serie A title decider had a stranger just walked into the place, such was the colour and noise.

   As time ticked away, Bri's 29 year losing (with occasional drawing) streak watching Clapton seemed to be intact.  What I had forgotten, though, was that I was the master of the last minute in recent weeks.  The last 5 games covered live on the radio had included last minute or injury time equalisers.  And nine goals in the last five minutes of those games too.

   Clapton win a corner as we head into the last 60 seconds.  It's delivered superbly, on the right, in front of their clubhouse.  There's a scramble in the six yard box, at the near post.  Then boom.  Not only from the fireworks off the pitch.  There's one on it now.  1-1.  

   The entire Clapton side go momentarily berserk, all chasing each other in celebration.  The So Solid Crew are up on their feet, cheering as if it's that Serie A title winner.  Make that six radio games, six late equalisers.  And 10 goals in the last five minutes.  

   I laughed.  How ridiculous can football get sometimes.  Behind me, the Manor chairman looked on glumly.  And at their one-time PA man celebrating a Clapton equaliser with a little disdain, I guess.  Still, that's football.  I didn't particularly want Manor to lose, but you just couldn't help feeling pleased for the hosts and the youth side that had helped make it a great evening for all of us.

   And yet still Clapton pushed forward.  After almost continual visitors pressure in the second half, it seemed almost written in the stars that the hosts would steal it and break Bri's hoodoo.  More corners, more desperate defending, a shot at goal blocked, then another just wide.  Blimey.  They could do it.  They really could.

   Except that they can't.  The whistle goes.  1-1.  Bri's record is intact as both teams are applauded off.  One way or another, and for very minimal reasons on the field, and mostly for things happening off-pitch, it had been an extraordinary night at the Old Spotted Dog.  

   As we made our way out, through Green Street, then Barking Road, we caught a glimpse of the West Ham statue of the heroes of '66.  Pah, they may have won a World Cup, but I bet they never got a last minute equaliser on Diwali and been submerged in fireworks and smoke for it.

   On a night that threatened to end Bri's 29 years of history, I thought back through the decades and centuries.  The class of 1888.  They would have loved it tonight.

   As did I.  

   Clapton 1,  Southend Manor 1

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 10th November - Jiiiiiiiiiiiiii, It Ain't Over 'Til It's Over, Martin

   It had felt like ages since Chipper and I had done a Saturday game for the radio.  It hadn't, of course, it just feels like Hearts had gone through another decade of turmoil in the past fortnight.  A month, though, since the last local side we had covered was too long.

   It had been even longer since Brentwood Town were featured.  That grisly afternoon - for them at least - at South Park had jolted them a bit, but had recovered and were coming into a bit of form.  But it was a big ask today as they again hit the Middlesex / Surrey border.

   Kingstonian themselves were having a decent season, up in the play-off slots of the Ryman Premier.  Previous winners of the FA Trophy to boot, so would be motivated to live up to both their recent and more distant past in the competition.  Brentwood would travel with some hope but little expectation.

   No matter.  It was a trip to be made via London so inevitably was a little detour to Oxford Street and Carnaby Street.  It had to be done.  Gary: Tank Commander series 3 was out on dvd and Chipper needed a Green Day cd.  In this dull, dank day, we were wary that the football might not be the greatest to watch today, so at least the morning was salvaged.

   As was lunch.  A cracking chippy right by the ground and a sweet shop that had bottles and cans of drink right by the front door.  The local shopkeepers obviously know their market well.  We were fed and watered royally.

   As we reached the press box, Martin Tyler was a few yards away, warming up his side.  And, again, no euphemisms either.  I've always respected the guy for not mentioning Kingstonian in his commentaries, unlike other Sky presenters who look for the merest opportunity to shout about their club or what they do.  He quietly goes about his work.

   Talking of respect, the minute's silence before kick-off was observed wonderfully.  It was unnoticed, or simply ignored and not mentioned, that the vast majority of people in Kingsmeadow weren't wearing poppies.  Why?  Because it's their choice.  The precise thing our soldiers down the years have fought for the right to have.  A point that was being lost at that time elsewhere.

   If today's blog so far has had little to do with football, it's simply because neither of us thought today's game would exactly be a classic.  In fact, we overestimated.  The first half was by some measure the worst 45 minutes of the season so far.  Devoid of any interest, let alone excitement.

   Brentwood, it has to be said, did at least look like they wanted to be on the pitch.  Solid at the back, getting slightly the better of it in midfield, and Alex Read lively.  It's just that little was created, which is entirely understandable for the away side who operate a division below their opponents.

   No, it was Kingstonian who were largely responsible for the non-event thus far.  They could barely string two passes together.  Free kicks and corners were heading straight and comfortably into the arms of visiting keeper Elliott Justham.  The one chance they created was a volley inside the area that hit the roof of the terracing behind the goal.  Appalling.

   This is where radio work is at its most difficult.  You don't want to be as damning as you really should but at the same time need to balance it out with giving listeners a true picture of what was going on.  I can't quite remember what we said but it was along the lines of 'there have been worse games this season  but we haven't seen them.'

   It had to get better and in the first quarter of an hour of the second half it did.  K's sent on sub Craig Mullen and his first contribution was a little lob over a defender's foot, a shot through the keeper's leg, and a looping deflection into the net.

   It encouraged the home side to finish Brentwood off.  They came forward - and paid the price.  The visitors counter-attacked swiftly and Alex Read beautifully lobbed the keeper from the right hand edge of the area.  This is better.  Much better.  I'd rather be struggling to keep up with my radio work than sitting there wondering if I'd Sky+'d Soccer Saturday.

   We thought Brentwood might just take control and perhaps win.  But lo and behold, Kingstonian produce their first half-decent set-piece of the afternoon.  Corner.  Header.  2-1.  After 45 minutes of shite, three goals and decent football in the next 15 or so.  Thank Christ for that.

   After all that fun, though, the game fizzles out, and I begin to have a look round.  Kingsmeadow is certainly a tidy little ground, including a long lost relic of the Football League, a covered enclosure down the side of the pitch.  How did AFC Wimbledon get away with that little beauty when they were admitted to League Two?  Nice work.

   In truth, though, they didn't need the three stands that were open today.  The crowd was a little under 300.  Seeing a full terrace or enclosure looks fantastic.  Seeing them virtually empty, though, well, it seems just a little underwhelming.  I'd hope K's get bigger crowds for league games.

   After all of that gazing and pondering, time had nearly run out, without incident at either end.  This was Chipper and I at the match, though, on the radio.  Brentwood win a corner on the left, as the 89th minute was fast becoming the 90th.  In it goes.  High.  Across the face of goal.  To hit the far post.

   There's silence around Kingsmeadow.  Has it gone out for a goal kick or something.  Nobody can quite see where the ball's gone.  We look around the pitch.  Kingstonian players are stationary.  Then, we see, near the right corner, the Brentwood players wheeling away, celebrating.  2-2.  Bizarre.

   It turns out Darren Blewitt got the merest of touches inside the six yard box as the ball hit the post and went in but hardly anyone saw it.  Some clever clogs in the press box behind us claim they saw a centre half at the far post.  Except there wasn't anyone at the far post.  That's why it wasn't defended and went in.

   Within a few seconds the full time whistle goes.  You could say Brentwood Town stole a draw but you'd be wrong.  They simply scored a late, but deserved, equaliser.  There's a bit of a stunned air around the home supporters, mixed with annoyance.  Tuesday at the Arena could be a tricky night for them.

   As the teams and management trudged down the tunnel, Martin Tyler was the personification of annoyance.  His walk was brisk, his eyes looking downwards, his brows getting closer together.  A man of wondrous words on tv, he said nothing, but his face painted a thousand of them.  He was furious.  As any coach or manager would be after defending like that.

   We travelled home, contemplating the replay, and the media storm over Sunderland's James McClean not wearing a poppy on his shirt.  There's so many reasons why he should or shouldn't, but this is one of those issues where nobody will change their mind with reasonable debate.  Some think he's scum.  Others think he's merely exercising freedom of choice.

   Me?  I couldn't care less what a person does, says or think, so long as they're not breaking the law, imposing their views onto mine, or putting me in a situation where I break my own moral code.  As I pointed out earlier, the vast majority here today never wore a poppy.  Who's to say none of them were asked to but refused?

   Awful first half, good second half, a tired and tiresome media storm afterwards.  The beautiful game indeed .....

   Kingstonian 2,  Brentwood Town 2

2012-13 Uncovered: Wednesday 7th November - Have You Ever Pulled A Woman's Knickers Up?

   The news emanating from Tynecastle was hardly unexpected but extremely depressing all the same.  A winding-up order for £450,000 of unpaid tax meant there's a possibility that Hearts v St. Mirren next week could be the last game the club play.

   Could the club do a Sevco?  Doubtful.  Edinburgh already has two well run non-league sides, City and Spartans, who have the facilities, playing staff and financial stability to be an asset to the Scottish League.  This really could be the ignominious end to Glorious Hearts.

   Would I support any phoenix club?  I just don't know.  There's something about Hearts, financial woes aside, that make them different, special.  Should they lose that and just become an identikit starter club, stripped of what made them unique, there certainly won't be the love for them that I have now.

   Time to snap out of the bad news.  I'd had a grand night following the US election on Sky News and watching Karl Rove go from happy, to concerned, to miserable, to angry, to denial, to meltdown, then finally to breakdown as Ohio's car workers told Romney what they thought of his "Let Detroit go bankrupt" comment.  Chortle, chortle, and triple chortle.  Oh, and chortle.

   Today was Cup Final day too.  Time to get my penny farthing to the tram station and perambulate to the Kennington Oval.  The 1872 FA Cup was having a return match this evening.  Last time out, Wanderers had upset the odds and lifted the Cup with a 1-0 win.  Royal Engineers were out for revenge.  So I in turn was out in London on a Wednesday.

   The old firm of Bri and Ed were in for this one.  Joining us for the first time for a night of raucous witticisms and cynicism was Jo and her Dad.  Last time I spent a game standing with Jo was at Cockfosters.  I think it was an act of real restraint and chivalry to not even mention where we were to her and enquire if she had ... no, I won't even say it here.  Such a gent, me.

   A special occasion deserved special seats.  We were in the pavilion balcony.  To get there we had to enter an open passage through a Members Entrance.  No chortling, please, this is proper posh.  Snigger.  Not even 6pm and already enough material for a series of Are You Being Served?

   You've got to hand it to The Oval, the staff there were absolutely spot on.  In such grand surroundings, you might have half expected a snobbish attitude, the sort you get from staff at Essex Cricket Club.  Not tonight though.  Very smartly presented, yes, like any posh place.  But welcoming and friendly, each and every one of them.  Surrey Cricket Club have something very, very right going on.

   Until we saw the price of their food.  £4.50 for a pasty?  I'd rather starve.  Luckily, though, they told us there was another gaff upstairs doing roast dinners.  Blimey.  We head off there.  £6.40 for a proper roast beef dinner.  That'll do.  For Bri, Ed, Jo and Dad.  This vegetarian decides that £4.50 is still too much and lets his half a ton of body fat keep him going for the night.

   Prior to that, we'd had a peek at the old and current FA Cups.  As people were having their pictures taken with them, I noted that they were showing the regular groundhopper trait of having their bag in with the pic of them.  And looking bloody miserable about it.  

   Not me.  After all, I had knocked a team out of the FA Cup this season.  I took my moment with a wink, arms aloft, glorying in my moment.  And no, wink is not a spelling mistake.  Bri and Ed also grinned like Cheshire cats.  Maybe it's an Essex thing but when we're at the football we tend to look like we're enjoying it.  Even though, watching Southend United and Bowers & Pitsea amongst others, we patently don't.

   We took our seats on the balcony.  Well, no, we didn't.  Ed kept saying if a door's not meant to be opened, it'd be locked.  We opened the one that lead to the Surrey boardroom.  Inside was a replica of the FA Cup, surrounded by poppies, to be given to tonight's winners.  We feigned being lost and asked if we could take pics.  The staff grinned through this obvious fib and let us.  Best sports venue staff bar none at the Oval.

   Anyway, yes, the balcony.  We looked out and it was pretty spectacular.  To our right, that famous old gasworks - just like Concord, I guess - and in the distance fireworks going off with St. Paul's Cathedral in the background.  Absolutely stunning.  Or Occupy London have returned.  Either way it looked superb.

   The teams came out, Wanderers being supported by Bri and Jo, who liked their kit, which resembled a tube of refreshers.  One of their grey to white haired players looked like he had played in the original match.  Their manager for the night, Bobby Gould, probably had.

   We settled down to our normal match day viewing.  Everyone else watching, me just looking around, turning to other people for a chat, and missing goals.  There were plenty to miss as well.  Royal Engineers were no more than averagely okay.  Wanderers were appallingly poor.  6-0 at half time, including a free kick I'd turned my back on to discuss a Simpsons episode, thinking the Wanderers defence couldn't be so bad as to let it in from there.

   With Bri and Jo looking like a cross between Rab C Nesbitt and Uncle Bulgaria, Ed decided he'd show just how namby pamby they were at the interval.  He stripped to the waist.  We then told him stripping to the waist meant the top half, not the bottom half.  He duly obliged.  Geordie Ed topless on the pavilion balcony.  How on earth could anyone ever tell Essex people had infiltrated The Oval?

   The second half continued its weary way, with the small crowd endearing themselves to Wanderers incompetence, the biggest cheer coming when they made it 6-1.  Did I see it?  Did I f ... orget to look around and watch what was going on.

   We wandered down to the boundary fence, right by the Royal Engineers bench.  After I'd sat for a minute or two in the warm and the comfy chairs by the pavilion entrance.  Bliss.  I take a seat just behind the female physio that looked worryingly like Jimmy Savile from the back.  Within a minute it's 7-1.

   Soon after, the whistle blows, and David Gold comes out to present the Cup to Wanderers.  The cup we had first dibs on a couple of hours ago.  Respect to Mr. Gold.  Ed had been given bother by the West Ham ticket office.  He tweeted David Gold.  Within 30 minutes Ed had the tickets he wanted.  Definitely the good man in the West Ham 'Good, Bad, Ugly' trio of owners.  I won't say which one Karron Brady is.

   Bobby Gould also swings over, replete with Mancini scarf and black leather manager's coat.  There's a look of genuine happiness in his eyes as he signs the autographs and poses for pictures.  You can see he's a football man through and through and just loved being out on that touchline.  There's a real warmth in his smile and chat despite the coldness of the evening.  A good man.

   We make our way home and Jo's Dad swings into action.  Usain Bolt has nothing on him when finding station platforms and what tube and train to catch.  Within about five seconds he was 30 yards ahead of us, heading off towards the Northern line.  The last time Freddy Eastwood was that fast was in the queue for a Tony Dow 'Animal Burger'.

   As the train heads homewards, Bri is gripped with fear.  The last time he fell asleep on the train home, the world of Facebook knew all about it.  He feared a bit of Buckeroo should he nod off tonight.  Oh no.  Ed whispered something far, far worse.  I've never seen someone so determined to stay awake ever.  Which was a pity as an Ed lapdance on him would have gone viral on youtube.

   We got home, and somehow, my faith in what used to be the greatest club knock-out competition in the world was restored.  If it could unite reprobates from all over the place, and all walks of life, to share a freezing night in South London and bloody enjoy it, anything was possible.

   Ah, the magic of the Cup.

   Royal Engineers 7,  Wanderers 1 

2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 6th November - Getting Your Hampton Caught In A Beach Boy

   It had been a while since I last visited Thames Road.  Nothing to do with the club itself.  Just two reasons.  It smelt bloody awful half the time thanks to the gas works and sewage works nearby.  And it was always testicle-shrinkingly cold there.  It's the only club I knew where you needed a duffle coat in the summer.

   That club in question is, of course, Concord Rangers.  They'd been going along quite nicely, gradually working their way up to the ESL, then landed on their feet.  A sugar daddy.  New players and management attracted, ground improved beyond all recognition - well, improved a fair bit, anyway - and rocketing up to the Ryman Premier, where they now sit quite comfortably.

   The difference between Concord, though, and other clubs that have had money thrown at them only to go down the tubes, is that the sugar daddy actually loves the club and invested in people as much as anything else.  The management, coaching staff, and an awful lot of the players have been together for some years, as has all other club staff.  Very shrewd.

   The result has been not just progress on the pitch, but a genuinely warm welcome from as soon as you walk through the turnstiles.  Everyone at Thames Road seems happy and comfortable in what they're doing and that transmits itself through to everyone.  In essence, Concord Rangers are a great club.

   Just one fly in the ointment though.  Online, at very least, my God do they crow about it and big themselves up.  It can, and does of course, be dismissed as a bit of fun, just harmless banter.  But it really starts to grate when on twitter or other forums, as soon as they get any favourable result, or if Canvey get beat, the boasts and mindless 'you are my Concord' stuff gets rolled out again and again.

   So tonight I'm in this position of being really pleased to be at Concord but at the same time wanting them to suffer a bit.  It could happen as well.  Hampton & Richmond Borough top the Ryman Premier table and play a decent passing game, relying on possession and patience.  Not exactly death by a thousand passes but goals from a decently placed few.

   No sooner had the gateman taken my tenner, which is the standard at this level of football - take note, West Auckland, charging a tenner for Step 5 this weekend, you bastard greedy gits - than I bump into an old colleague from the local circuit, a one time ESL boss I'd done the PA with for a while.  He's looking well, but I get the impression he's hurting a bit, though, as things aren't going for him football-wise.

   It's often the way with the game at any level.  He's a good man, and when he goes to a club he makes sure everything off the pitch is tailored to suit the players, absolutely everything.  They're treated better than many semi-pro players when he's in charge.  But, once out on that pitch, there's nothing he can do.  His players continually let him down, so of course he had to go.

   As well all know, mind, coaching comes into it an awful lot, and if players don't respect a manager or his colleagues, they're not going to train properly or play properly.  As I hadn't seen any more than warm-up sessions at senior level for a while, I couldn't say how much that has contributed to his predicament.  But it's a pity when good people are frozen out of the game as well as frozen at the game itself.

   I digress.  The game itself, yes.  Well, you know me by now.  I was too busy gabbing to see Harry Elmes give Concord the lead early on.  When I started paying attention, the hosts were well on top, with H&R on the backfoot.  That's the difference between Thames Road and Ibrox these.  At Thames Road, Rangers are leading in a Premier Division game.

   The visitors get a grip on things, pushing up and gaining possession as the half wore on.  They seemed, however, to have an aversion to shooting at goal.  Pretty passing in and around the penalty area but no end product.  When you saw the free kick they had just outside the area, though, you could perhaps see why they tried to walk the ball in.  Like a Charlie Adam penalty but without his accuracy.

 

   As half time approached, I'm afraid the home side - this time the bench - indulged in something else that pisses me off no end.  A Concord player goes down in the area.  He made the most of it, bit of a swan dive, but it did look as if there was contact.  The ref waves play on though.  They do.  Within seconds there's a clear chance, a shot from the edge of the six yard box.  It smacks against the post then bounces away.

   As soon as that happens, the home bench is up, shouting like spoilt kids about the 'penalty'.  They wouldn't have said a bloody word if the player on the pitch had bothered to shoot home from less than 10 yards rather than the 12 from the spot.  They then berate the lino nearest to them, shouting about how he missed it. Except he was patrolling the other half of the pitch and about 60 yards away.  Pathetically childish.

   Anyhow, as the second half started, I did my usual thing.  Started chatting.  This time not to a manager but to a one time official at an ESL club.  One of the thousands of people behind the scenes at every club that make sure it can function at all in the first place.  Giving up time and energy freely, often at times when they can least afford to.

   Not now though.  He's been lost by a new regime at the club.  Whereas before, the old chairman knew and trusted everyone, and let them get on with what they do best, now the latest incumbent has ruffled not just a few feathers but cooked a few geese as well.

   There was once trust.  Now everyone must meet up at 1pm and be given specific duties.  Where once youth teams were welcomed and allowed to use the clubhouse free, they've now been driven out to use different premises, losing all the revenue parents would bring.  Where there was a ladies side, they have now asked a local rival club if they could join them instead.

   The depressing news of a club imploding, as I feared it might months ago, was counterbalanced by an outstanding moment on the pitch.  Reece Harris lined up to take a free kick for Concord in a similar position to where Hampton & Richmond had theirs.  Except this went straight into the top corner, the keeper not having an earthly.  2-0.  What a goal.

   The game carries on as it has done.  Fairly even in terms of possession but Concord looking far more menacing.  Only some great keeping prevents Rangers from putting the game to bed.  Something I was contemplating, as the night grew colder, as I chatted away.  Missing, of course, Hampton & Richmond grabbing a goal with five minutes left.  It must've been a header.  There's no way they could have kicked it into the net.

   It all gets a bit lively from theron in.  Plenty of pressure on the Beachboys goal.  Corners, free kicks, scrambles in the box, and in injury time a ridiculous visiting tackle, stopping a home side breakaway, that results in a bout of handbags.  It looked a straight red.  But I was about 80 yards away.  The ref gives a yellow.  The difference with me is that I accept that the ref is closer and probably has a better idea of it than me.

   Concord hold on for a handy little win.  I'm pleased for all the good decent people at the club, and there's plenty of them, making it such a welcoming place to visit on matchdays.  But the twittersphere and forums could well be full of it again.  And I'm pleased I'm not sat on the home bench too.  What a paradox Concord Rangers are.

   And what a grumpy old git I still am.

   Concord Rangers 2,  Hampton & Richmond Borough 1