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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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