2012-13 Uncovered: Boxing Day - Victoria Reigning

   Christmas Day was great.  Up at the crack of 11am.  Grab the tv remote, the phone put on silent mode, and settle down to an all-day feast consisting of tangerines, brazil nuts, Roses, Heroes, Pom Bears, Marmite cashew nuts, and Irn Bru.

   No crappy tinsel or trees for me either.  Instead, the Bay was made festive with scarves of every colour and team you could think of.  Provided you could think of Carshalton and Auchinleck among them.  Yep, the best Christmas Day I've had in a long, long time.  Proving yet again that there's a world of difference between being on your own and being lonely.

   It also, of course, gives you the pick of the Boxing Day matches.  Except there wasn't any.  Brentwood, Billericay and East Thurrock matches all rained off.  I could make it to the Canvey derby but that would entail long walks into and from Southend Town Centre, and then from South Benfleet to the ground.  In the pissing rain.

   That left just my fall-back plan.  This wise old head had made a contingency.  Booked up a coach and ticket for Southend United's trip to Dagenham & Redbridge in advance.  If any local games were on, I could simply give that booked up trip to someone else, as a late festive treat for them.  Sometimes I surprise myself with my resourcefulness.  Or, at least, showing occasional glimpses of common sense.

   Common sense, though, would dictate that it'll be a grim Boxing Day afternoon for the teams I look out for.  County had a difficult trip to Hibs.  Hearts similarly at Killie.  Barnet were at the League Two leaders Gillingham.  Sunderland, underperforming all season, were hosting champions Man City.  And Southend's trip today was a tricky one.

   Dagenham & Redbridge are the epitome of what a club with tiny crowds and tinier resources could achieve.  On an average crowd of around 1,700, the Daggers were challenging for the play-offs.  Three years ago they had even won them, the same time as the Shrimpers dropped into the basement, ridden with debt despite having a far bigger fanbase and grandiose plans of a new ground.

   You'd have to ask what those at Victoria Road are doing so right that the Roots Hall outfit have got so wrong in recent years?  Then again, no. bollocks.  It's bloody Christmas.  The season to be jolly and all that.  Navel contemplating can wait.  At least until the party games tonight.  Until then, it's a day at the football.  On Boxing Day.  Oh yes.

   The coach soon filled up and settled down to a typical trip.  Phil was with me today and we exchanged withering, cynical chat about football, life, Christmas and everything.  After all, why change the habit of a lifetime.  Three quarters of the rest of the coach were filled with seasoned travellers - and I don't mean Dale Farm inhabitants that stink of shit - and one or two kids.

   The back of the coach, inevitably, was filled with the naughty lads and lasses.  Those devil-may-care, live fast die young types, who talk loudly enough for the rest of the coach to hear about those crazy kids and their whizzo exploits.  Before you condemn them, though, don't lie, you were like that yourself once.  I was too and, given the chance, still enjoy the odd bout of stupidity.

   I decided to indulge my grumpy side, though, when one lad said to me "Oi, Groyney, you missed a great trip to Fleetwood."  That day, I saw a nine goal thriller, including two hat-tricks, in a ground that has a settee behind the goal.  Over a trip in a coach or car, lasting hundreds of miles and many hours, in the company of someone who drank too much, for a 0-0 draw that angered a section of the Southend support.

   Admittedly, seeing the anger at the disallowed goals would've been fun, and the ref giving them a bit of stick the odd chortle, but I had the infinitely better deal.  "No I didn't", came the obvious reply.  "You did mate", he continued, not having it, and being backed up by one of those other crazy kids.  "No I didn't", came my response again, matching their vocal volume.  They gave up at that point.  Chortle.

    We arrived at Victoria Road way before kick-off, which gave plenty of time for stroll around the ground.  It's a typical non-league ground that just happens to host league football.  An open terrace, covered enclosure, and seats down the other side are what the host supporters are used to.  The seated away end, though, is modern and comfortable, with plenty of legroom.  You somehow feel out of place as a visiting fan when you sit there.

   The club shop was small and their selection of merchandise was smaller.  Think Moscow supermarkets in the 80's, then roughly halve that selection, and you have an idea of what they had.  The staff were cheerful enough, though, but then so would you be if all you had to flog were scarves and shirts.  I enjoyed the sparseness, mind.  No gaudy crap assaulting your eyes.

   There's also a massive supporters bar, where I caught up with Wino, the driving force behind some of the coaches driving the fans there.  Pissed off with how much the supporters trust were charging, a few years ago, Team Judas was formed, with an irreverent trip to Port Vale, where Chipper and I saw kids playing on a trampoline.  On the roof of a pub.

   From there, the coaches with TJ became popular, with the emphasis on keeping the prices low and the fun levels high.  This included the odd stop-off for fish & chips, unheard of in the world of motorways and service stops that everyday fans inhabit on 'official' supporter coach journeys.  One coach was soon not enough.  

   It now runs to every away game, undering the TZ moniker in conjuction with the fans website, continually under-cutting the supporters trust pricing.  And all because one person decided enough was enough.  For Wino, read Rosa Parks.  After all, he refuses to sit at the back of the bus as well.  A sound lad that's made a huge contribution in ensuring Southend United have a relatively healthy away following.

   That was in evidence today as well.  Seats more or less sold out, the club were given a small part of the Daggers enclosure, somewhere where I was heading off to after a hardy half of diet coke.  I get there and the steward asks to look at my ticket.  Strange but fair enough.

   All became clear.  He pointed to a lad nearby and said he wanted to swap his seat for a terrace ticket.  That'll do me.  Seat it is then.  My knees and back are chuffed.  As was the lad I swapped with.  He'd obviously never been around in the days of terraces everywhere, and pissing where you stood, and wanted a feel of those good old days.  You couldn't blame him.

   I was expecting a close game.  If the Daggers, with just a couple a couple of home defeats all season, won, they'd be only three points behind the Shrimpers.  A bumper crowd would be there to spur them on.  Paul Sturrock would have his work cut out to get something from this.

   A thought that held water for around 59 seconds.  That's all it took for ex Dagenham & Redbridge striker Gavin Tomlin to shoot Southend United ahead.  Very simple.  A kick from goal, a knock-down, left clear and wallop.  No messing.  1-0 to Southend.  The away end and side erupts.  And not just because of the curried turkey.

   The match settles down a little.  Not much created, both sides cancelling each other out.  Until Britt Assombalongachumbawumba gets the ball on the left.  He twists and turns like a twisty turny thing, gets inside the area, near the bye-line, and passes to Tomlin inside the six yard box.  He's not Tony Richards or Drewe Broughton, so he can't miss.  2-0 and not a quarter of an hour gone.

   The rest of the first half was, well, pretty turgid.  Passes going astray from either side.  Less being made than a bacon butty shop in a synagogue.  That suits the away side though.  A very comfortable first half as they are cheered down the tunnel to their changing rooms, beneath the away end.

   Being up in the gods, it gives me a chance to have a look around the area.  It's a curious mix of industrial estate, park, and housing.  If you didn't know where Victoria Road was, you'd miss it completely.  I like these grounds though.  All tucked up, a little hidden gem, within it a club that is part of the local community.  With West Ham more or less on their doorstep, Daggers fans really are die-hard supporters.

   Which is something their side are doing on the pitch.  Once again, keeper Paul Smith makes a long punt, a knock down, and on the edge of the Dagenham & Redbridge box, Kevan Hurst smashes in a tremendous volley into the roof of the net.  3-0 to Southend United.  Game over.

   It starts to piss down again after an hour or two of overcast gloom and nothing else.  Always the irony, that.  When everyone else is postponed, and your game is on but you're getting your bottom spanked, only then does it start to pour down again.  Those die-hard fans I talked about earlier?  Well, they're dying a lot easier today.  They've had enough of being pissed on in more ways than one and head for the exits in big numbers with 15 minutes to go.

   It's not lost on the Southend supporters, who mock them.  The crowd is announced as 3,500, easily the Daggers biggest gate of the season.  It's swelled by around 1,400 visiting fans, and the announcement is met with ironic cheers, and the usual 'What's it like to see a crowd?' stuff.  Funny that.  The last time I was at Roots Hall the crowd was 3,000 for an FA Cup tie.  The double irony, unlike the match, is lost on them.

   The win pushes Southend United to the very cusp of automatic promotion.  They only played well in brief patches, but looked like a side heading from promotion.  Confidence and professionalism all the way through.  Not a single Shrimpers player had a bad game.  Paul Sturrock has got this team motoring in Dagenham and just about anywhere else in League Two.

   The trip home is elongated.  Terrible driving conditions and a crash on the A127.  The crazy kids at the back of the coach are getting impatient and shout loudly about how they have to get to the pub and have a kebab soon.  The choice, however, in the pissing rain and with car crashes going on is simple.  You either wait a little longer to get home or you possibly die.

  I get home just as the full time scores are coming in from the later kick-offs.  A surprisingly good day.  Hearts have gone down at Killie, but somehow County have conjured up a win at Chmapions League spot chasing Hibs, and Barnet have upset League Two leaders Gillingham.  Even Sunderland have beaten Man City, prompting Roberto Mancini to say they won't bother turning up next season because they always get beat there.  Chortle.

   A great Christmas Day has carried on into a superb Boxing Day.  Three goals, wins galore elsewhere,  and  plenty of Roses left.  And Heroes.  And Bru.  And biscuits and cheese.  After the hellish past few weeks, and a future less certain than a Wogan's Winner, this year's festive season is a great one.

   Oh yes.  And chortle.

   Dagenham & Redbridge 0,  Southend United 3  

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 22nd December - Are You Bognor In Disguise?

   Whilst all the fun was going on at Underhill last night, Roots Hall was also an enjoyable place to be for home supporters.  Southend United brushed aside fellow League Two promotion hopefuls Chesterfield with a performance that had many observers purring.  Which means a lot of their supporters are cats.

   Anyhow, an unbeaten run stretching easily into double figures, a clean sheet, three points, and a great performance.  You'd think all Shrimpers supporters would be chuffed.  Apparently not.  Looking at their online forum, though, the hottest topic of conversation was criticising the keeper, who had apparently made a mis-kicking error during his clean sheet.  Page after page of complaining and arguing back.

   It seems to be endemic in their interweb supporters.  Another person bemoaned the lack of report on Wednesday's trip to Hullbridge on the official site, claiming it was a 'poor effort' now the club's previous media manager had left.

   Just two things to slightly undermine such an insightful opinion.  There was indeed a report on the website.  And the club's facebook, website, and twitter page has improved no end since the new guy started, showing up what a lazy, useless, pile of shit service the previous one was providing.

   Still, while all this online bollocks was going on, the rain continued to piss down.  Match after match after match was called off.  It left us, at mid-morning, with a choice of one.  A trip across the water to check out Maidstone United and their 3g pitch.

   It was four of us in the Mystery Machine today.  Bri, James Ewe, and Ref Glen were also making the trip over the Thames to see how the underclass live.  Before that, though, Bri made me an offer I can refuse.  There's some deal going with the cricket where you can take your wife.  He reckoned that with gay marriages and stuff, he could swing it for me to get in for a game.

   Believe me, you really don't know how far I'd be prepared to go to get a Scottish Cup Final ticket if Ross County or Hearts were in it.  But I'm not going to hold another man's hand, or even give him one up the wrong 'un, just to save a few quid on an afternoon of Essex v some God awful Northern county.

   Bri was saying that the gateman would never ask for proof.  You never know though.  Perhaps he got to be gateman by goosing David East.  Which would explain why he's gone west.  Him, the Southend media manager, and another Shrimpers employee, all gone since Bri expressed a dim view of them.  Blimey.  A hit man.  Maybe I should rubber up just to save myself.

   I digress.  Quickly.  Maidstone hadn't changed much since the last time I visited about 20 years ago for a sponsored tractor pull.  Don't ask.  But the fortunes of their football team had.  From 4th Division play-offs in 1990, Maidstone United soon went into extinction.

   A new club, Maidstone Invicta, was formed, plying their trade in local leagues, and outside the town for almost two decades, until moving back into the town this year, replete with 3g pitch, as they bid to get out of the Ryman One South.  The Maidstone public have responded, too, with crowds consistently above 1,500.

   After the gay cricket offer, which spoilt even conversation about lipstick lesbians, it was a blessed relief to get to the Gallagher Stadium, even if it was still pouring down.  At first glance it seemed a bit of a let down.  An identikit new ground.  Breeze blocks, drab colours, bereft of character or charm.  Plus points was a bar behind the goal.  And, of course, the pitch.

   Nonetheless, the Maidstone public had a senior football club back, and they kept their part of the deal, turning out in huge numbers for a non-league club not in the Conference.  They were colourful, too, with people of all ages wearing club colours, and lots of it.

   It made them look right mongs, mind, but you had to admire their enthusiasm.  Apart from those zany people dressed as Santa.  They should be shot.  With shit.  And bullets.  Merry Christmas.

   The lambs to the slaughter this afternoon were up from the Sussex coast, Worthing.  A handful of visiting fans had turned up, and had good reason to believe their lambs could become the lions.  Sure, Maidstone topped the league, but the Rebels were in the thick of the play-off race.  This could be a good 'un.

   My previous rant about useless media managers doesn't just stop in South Essex, mind.  Every few minutes, the PA announcer kept burbling on about being the only game on "because we have a 3g pitch."  The club's official twitter feed even boasted about it, in an obvious 'look what we've got, we're better than you' way.

   Yeah, you've got 3g, but most clubs can't afford it, as you well know.  Bearing in mind this club rose from the ashes of a previously bankrupted one, it seems some people have forgotten where they came from. Arrogance doesn't sit well with anyone, least of all a Ryman One South club.

   It was as if even karma paid a visit today, though.  Within a few minutes of the crass announcements and kick-off, Worthing won a free kick, it was delivered quickly into the area, and bang, own goal, 0-1 to the visitors.  Silenced by the lambs.  And perhaps a lesson taught.

   From thereon in, the game settled into a familiar pattern, the home side making most of the running, the   visitors looking dangerous on the break, with not much between them.

   With the rain continuing to pour down, both keepers were making the odd handling error, but they atoned for them before any advantage could be taken.  Entirely understandable in these conditions.  I wondered how a Roots Hall crowd would have reacted though.

   And on it went, into the second half, our end soon emptying whilst the Stones attacked the opposite goal.  The few Worthing fans stood next to us instead, and now, no longer heavily outnumbered by home supporters, they began to sing, feeling ever more confident as each minute passed by.

   Confidence became assuredness 10 minutes into the second half.  A shot comes in, the Maidstone keeper fumbles it, it shoots up into the air about a yard out, and it's bundled in.  2-0 to Worthing.  This wasn't in the script.  Chortle.

   The visiting supporters went from assured to cocky.  "Are you Bognor in disguise?" is not something I thought I'd ever hear.  Or will again.  But when they began to sing "Can we play you every week?", they were asking for it, really.  They'd seem karma kick Maidstone up the arse and they were still foolish enough to tempt fate.

   Their chant was silenced with Maidstone halving the deficit even as the words were leaving their mouths.  All of a sudden, the feel of the game, and the day, had changed.  Worthing were well in control.  Maidstone, in the body language, were starting to believe they would get beat.  Not now though.

   I looked around again.  The grey breeze block stand with plastic seats.  The functional, dull clubhouse, with the look of an industrial unit from the outside.  Yet now, it was different.  The amber and black of the home side were in evidence all around the pitch.  There was a noise, some anticipation, some hope.  At last, a football ground felt like a home.  Due to the people in it, not the design.

   Five minutes to go.  A corner on the right.  More roars of encouragement from the home fans.  It's not cleared properly.  A shot.  Bang.  Off the bar.  And into the net.  2-2.  The Gallagher Stadium erupts.  And I chortle.  Karma, having kicked Maidstone arse, now punches Worthing supporters smack in the face.

    The Stones looked likely winners now but that would be a shame, as Worthing were at least their equal for long stretches of the game.  The hosts pressed and pressed but, apart from a badly mishit shot, never really threatened after that.

   Full time.  A share of the spoils was a fair result.  I was pleased we'd all come along, to see the delights of a 3g match with my own eyes, and to see if ground designs had any originality in them.  They don't, of course, but that doesn't matter to Maidstone United supporters.  Having a club in their hometown is all that matters.

   The journey home was uneventful.  We were all looking ahead to Boxing Day, New Years Day.  Different matches, different places.  That little shindig coming up in three days time?  Pah.  Who cares?

   I do, as it goes.  I genuinely love this time of year.

   Merry Christmas to you all.

   Maidstone United 2,  Worthing 2

2012-13 Uncovered: Friday 21st December - Mayan Other Relegation Battle Bee Won

  The breakfast shows were full of it.  Well, they're always full of it, but even more so today.  "It's the end of the world as we know it" blared out station after station.  At 11.11am, some religious crank had announced that it was our lot.  Earthquakes, explosions, Reading winning, the absolute apocalypse.

   We've had all this before though.  Nostadamus had apparently predicted the two world wars, the sinking of the Titanic, and Coventry City winning the FA Cup.  In July 1999, apparently a yellow race would invade Europe and from the sky would come the great king of terror.  So he predicted Rupert Murdoch too.

   It was, of course, complete bollocks.  Unless we have all died.  In which case, this Heaven's a bit over-rated.  Cold, pisses down all the time, and the women I'm neighbours in Heaven with are right dogs.  It can't be Hell.  Too cold, too wet, and I'm not forced to put Towie on the telly.

   Anyhow, whilst all this nothingness was going on, Chipper and I were getting on with a bit of Friday Night Football Arsing Around.  Southend United were at home but Underhill had won our hearts.

   England's bottom side, Barnet, had to contend with the visit of League Two play-off chasers Burton Albion.  Forget about end of the world, if Edgar Davids can haul this lot out of the drop zone, it would be a miracle akin to a Saturday singing in tune.  Or at all.

   Things hadn't got any better since our first visit a few weeks ago.  No win in 7, rock bottom, and the prospect looming ever larger of starting life in a new stadium next season as a non-league side again.  Crowds were on the wane so much they announced spectator changes before team changes.  Barnet was not a good place to be.  Which, of course, made it even more the place to be.

   The Brewers hadn't exactly set the world alight since Nigel Clough left them four years ago, on the verge of the Conference title.  Nice, newish stadium, consolidation in League Two, that was about it.  They wanted more though.  Current boss Gary Rowett knew his stuff in the upper echelons of the game as a player.  He was now bossing their emerging play-off bid.  The Bees were in for another tough night.

   Not as much as the club staff though.  As we stumbled out of the club shop portcabin, a bloke was bemoaning the queues.  To then say out loudly  "Christmas.  Oh yeah.  It's Christmas", as if it was some sort of mystical truth revealed to just him.

   Then, just as we made our way in, another punter.  He refused to accept that you didn't need a ticket to gain admittance.  The woman on the turnstiles said to him, annoyance only mildly hidden, "You pay and you go in.".  Chipper added helpfully "No, you go in for nothing, then put your money into a bucket on your way out."  Chortle.  From the turnstile woman.

   It was cold, but dry and clear, which was all we needed.  The club, however, needed more people to come out and support their local team in times like this.  You don't expect sell-out crowds, propping up the entire country, but tonight's crowd was obviously, even by Barnet standards, sparse.  No wonder they're moving.

   That gloom seemed to descend upon the team as well.  Burton Albion were at it from the off.  Only the midfield promptings of the incomparable Edgar Davids and the trickery of Ricky Holmes kept Barnet in it.  Burton took a deserved early lead from the penalty spot, and had numerous other chances.

 

   As half time approached, and Chipper finished the last of his pie so hot the wrapper and foil stuck to it, I was musing that it'd be a result for Barnet to just be one down if they held out until the break.  In front of me, Ricky Holmes was a good 20 yards offside as the ball came through to him.

   Ricky turns and puts it past a keeper making only a half arsed attempt to get to him.  He might get a yellow card for that.  We look towards the ref to see what he does about it.  What we did not expect is to see him run towards the centre circle, indicating a Barnet equaliser.  The crowd are stunned.  So are the players.  Either the worst refereeing decision ever or the worst ever backpass.  Bizarre beyond belief.

   You know it's going to be your night when things like that happen.  Either that or it's the end of the world.  Barnet make a substitution at half time.  On comes John Oster, a player I bid 55p for on ebay a few years ago.  His first contribution is to come short for a corner.  His cross is inexplicably handled.  Holmes makes no mistake.  Somehow Barnet are ahead.

 

   By now, Davids was again in full flow.  He manages, even at 39, to cover every blade of grass without running around like a blue arsed fly.  Even if his arse is blue, which I doubt.  Every pass is into a space nobody even thought was there.  Cajoling the best out of those around him.  A true genius at work and far, far too good for this league.

   Another 10 minutes on, Davids has the ball, his back to goal, 45 yards out, wide on the left.  Unlike anyone else on the pitch, he's seen Oster in space, and switches it in a second.  He in turn feeds the ball out wide to the right, a low cross comes in and Ricky Holmes completes his hat-trick from inside the six yard box.  Liquid football.

   The game is up.  Burton Albion come forward but their shooting is pisspoor.  Their headers are something else though, and a great one from a free kick looks like halving the deficit, but Graham Stack tips it over the bar superbly.  It's not their night, typified when a supposed short one-two ends up with a pass being kicked over the roof and out of the ground.

   Eventually, in injury time, Albion get their second penalty, and the third in total tonight, all of which are fairly obvious ones.  None of the Barnet players are remotely flustered though.  They've figured the time it takes to score it will use up all the injury time.  Ex Bees striker Jacques Mahogma puts it away and, sure enough, within seconds it's full time.

 

   Another great night at Underhill.  The win hoists Barnet out of the relegation zone.  There's only one contender for man of the match.  The PA man gleefully says "Very fitting for this time of year.  Tonight's man of the match is Ricky Ho-Ho-Holmes."  It's awful but brilliant at the same time.  It's those stupid little moments that are the difference between just a football side and a football club.

  It's a pity barely 1,700 could bothered to come out tonight and back their club.  But they're the ones who've missed out.  Edgar Davids, five goals, three penalties, and a genuine 'what the fuck happened there?' moment?.

   Why, I wouldn't have missed it for the end of the world.

   Barnet 3,  Burton Albion 2 

      

2012-13 Uncovered: Wednesday 19th December - Somehow Bridging A Gap

   This was going to be a tough one.  Brentwood Town, at long last, were set for their big Essex Senior Cup tie.  After all those postponements, the glamour match with Colchester United, now switched to the League One side's ground, could be covered for the radio.

   Except I was at Hullbridge.

   True, my financial situation had improved somewhat in recent weeks, but I was still nowhere near out of the trees.  A train to Colchester and taxis to and from the stadium were out of the question.  Instead, it was a lift from the Bay with Bri and Phil to Lower Road and a cheap night out.

   Hullbridge Sports, for many years, have been plugging away in the ESL, an archetypal local club.  Loads of kids and youth sides, and a senior team built on local lads.  The manager, Enrico, is one of the non-league circuit's characters, and has been in the job longer than any other manager in the league.  I've had the odd run-in with him but it's never been taken to heart.  He's a football man at a football club.  Simple as.

   They're similar to any other club, too, in that there's internal politics abound.  The cricket section of the club, in particular, had their grievances with the football section, but that's not something I know much about.  Which, if I was a pundit, would entitle me to give an opinion on it and blame someone.

   ESPN seem to excel at that.  Experts who know nothing but talk with authority on everything.  The worst has to be Stephen Craigan.  All he can do is tell you what you've just seen with your own eyes - and then add copious amounts of moronity to it.  "It's difficult to kick the ball over your own head", he grandly stated last week.  Unless he's about 40 yards tall, I think I'd have to take issue with that.

   It's a lot easier, too, when you're head's on the floor and you're trying a bicycle kick, which was what was actually happening.  His coaching sessions for Northern Ireland must be inspirational.  As proven after he masterminded that 1-1 home draw with Luxembourg.  Something Stevie Wonder would have achieved.

   I digress.  Southend United, without any reserve fixtures this season, were probably looking forward to this  Essex Senior Cup tie as much as Hullbridge.  All those squad and reserve players, kicking their heels, finally getting a chance to strut their stuff.  Their stuff, however, would be far from silky.  Just up the road from the ground was the River Crouch, which seemed to have a subterranean cavern under the pitch.

   Added to that the pouring rain, and we had the prospect of a coin toss to decides who defends the shallow end in the first half.  It was a shame for the hosts, as after a number of postponements, forcing the game to be played right in the middle of the Christmas works party season, the weather was bound to put off all but the most dedicated football people.  A bloody good crowd had been decimated to merely a decent one.

   Meanwhile, in North Essex, Brentwood Town prepared for a big game of their own.  The people wanted to know, needed to know, how they were getting on.  This was going to be slightly tricky.  Until Rob kindly informed me that his EFA work buddy Mark was there.  I simply follow his twitter feed then pass on the information.  Passing off the slight fact that I wasn't there.

   As far as cup ties go, it panned out fairly typically.  In the early stages, the underdogs played as if their lives depended on it, and pegged Southend back.  Hullbridge had what looked a decent shout for a penalty, when the Shrimpers left back at the near post dived on the ground to put a shot out for a corner.  Other shots and crosses went dangerously near the visitors goal.

   As the rain intensified, though, so did Southend's work-rate and discipline.  They began to get some success down the left flank and chance after chance was being created.  Which the trusty boot of Freddie Eastwood ensured would go out for a goal kick.  Any doubts as to why the likes of Tomlin and Assombachumbawuma were picked ahead of him were being dispelled in the mud and rain.

   Eventually, just before half time, he slotted one away, from about an inch, after the keeper could only parry a shot onto a globule of mud almost on the goal-line.  The relief on his face was evident for all to see.  He didn't look a happy soul but at least, at long last, he was scoring again. As was Colchester, 2-0 up against Brentwood, as my live tweets were confirming.

   By this time, I thought the game would be abandoned.  The rain continued to pelt down, there was standing water on the pitch, with whatever that wasn't submerged either a muddy heap or a grassy swamp.  It wasn't untypical though.  Despite the best efforts of the ground staff throughout decades, current and ex-players knew the water always gets to the Lower Road pitch.  Sod all they can do about the soggy sods.

   The players obviously wanted to play on, though, and then all of a sudden the rain relented.  The second half, at least could be started.  Something that Brentwood Town would be wishing hadn't happened.  8-0.  Ouch.  Though I did tweet, with the score only 6-0, that if the scores are level at 90 minutes, they'd go straight to penalties.  Well, you have to chortle.

   As for the game in front of me, well, superior fitness told.  Southend keeper Dan Bentley may as well have spent the second half in the clubhouse.  Freddie got in on the act again, Elliott Bunion, and one or two others, where I wasn't really watching the game.  Well, when April's doing her cheerleader stuff, you're obviously going to be distracted.  For a couple of reasons.

   There was also football discussion about our playing days, in particular the art of captaincy.  I mentioned that I was only ever captain once.  I remember it well.  I got all the team in a huddle, and said "Right, lads, given the choice, which one out of Bananarama would you shag?"  I designated penalty, corner and free-kick takers based on their answers.  We won as well.  It's really saying something.

   The downpour returned with a vengeance, though, only this time the game was so far down the line the ref simply wouldn't abandon it.  Had it been half an hour earlier, no doubt it would have been brought to a halt.  There were murmurings that if there was an abandonment, they might just go straight for a penalty shoot-out rather than replay the game.  If the pitch is unplayable, though, that also includes penalty areas, which would have been a moot point if I knew what it meant.

   Anyway, the match was played to a conclusion, much to the relief of everyone there.  Let's get dry, let's get warm.  Heated car on the way home.  Oh yes.  We flick on the radio.  It had to be, didn't it, just had to be.  Bananarama blaring out.  Sometimes, things are just meant to be.  Like the upcoming end of the world in a couple of days.

   Which is handy.  It'll save me a few quid going to Friday's game.

   Hullbridge Sports 0,  Southend United 5  

2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 19th December - Two Bald Blokes Fighting Over A Comb

   The world of football seemed to be chilling out for a day or two before the rush of festive season matches. No scandals, no matches being hyped up by the tv channels, just plodding along while the country gets pissed at their works Christmas parties.

   I still recall fondly recall the first works Christmas parties I was at.  One of the girls ended up sprawled across the telephonists room with love bites across her baps.  The following year, I wouldn't say I was living up to a cliche, but I got off with a bird called Tracey afterwards at Liverpool Street station.  This after a toilet was thrown out of the window at the party itself by a bloke from the ICF.  Classy affairs.

   These days, inevitably, it's much more mellow.  The one I went to last Thursday, I stayed for just a couple of hours or so, just a sort of meet and greet, and got the early train home.  I didn't want to get the later ones because I knew they'd full of pissheads like I used to be.  They say people rue their lost youth but I don't rue not acting like a dick anymore.  Well, I do still, just not by getting pissed at parties.

   What all this has to do with tonight's game I have no idea.  Except that may be the state of mind the players might be in.  'F*** the football, where's the party?' could be what's on their minds.  I wouldn't blame them either.  I was exactly the same. 

   It wasn't as if the game had any bearing on anything.  Between them, Southend Manor and Bowers & Pitsea had amassed just half a dozen wins in over 30 league games.  They occupied mid table or the lower reaches of the Essex Senior League.  Bowers had a League Cup quarter final on the horizon, but not until the new year.  Manor just have pride to play for.  For the next 4 or 5 months.  

   As one wise sage online commented, Southchurch Park Arena was hosting the footballing equivalent of two bald blokes fighting over a comb.  The main thing was, though, that it was hosting it.  Brentwood's Essex  Senior Cup tie had been postponed for 437th time, East Thurrock I'd seen but three days ago.  I was thankful this extravaganza of averageness was being put on for our pleasure.  Anything beats Christmas tv.

   I took my usual seat which gave me the worst view of the game.  I'm not sure why, apart from the obvious answer of worst view of the game actually being the best view of the game.  It's probably just habit more than anything else.  Once you get into a pattern of doing something, like say George Osborne fox hunting the working class or David Cameron peasant shooting, you just stick to it.

   I had the additional pleasure of a coconut shy in front of the half of the pitch I could actually see as well.  It's where anyone who's anyone at Southend Manor congregate and let forth with their pearls of wisdom.  One guy who I've never met before started chatting to me as if he'd been on the scene for decades.  I'd never ever seen him at Southchurch Park before.  I really don't like that, people talking to you as if they'd known you for years.  I resisted the urge to ask "Who the f*** are you?"

   One of the other talking coconuts I had known for years, however, as good as a man as they come, gets on with the nuts and bolts of  behind the scenes club business quietly and efficiently.  His opinion of the visitors during the early stages?  "They're just hit and hope, that lot."  Within a minute, the Bowers left winger cuts inside, goes past a couple of defender, and smashes the ball into the top left hand corner of the net.  Chortle.  Great, great goal.  1-0 Bowers.

   For the next 20 minutes, it's all Bowers, quick and incisive when they go forward, having success down both flanks.  Shots are flashing across the face of goal or are being well saved by Adam Seal.  Really is only one team in it.  Until the last 10 minutes before the break when it suddenly reverses.  A Manor shot goes a few inches over the bar, then a run, a through ball, rounds the last defender, the Bowers keeper goes to ground, but the shot is put wide.

   For a meaningless game, with perhaps both sets of players minds looking towards Christmas party piss-ups, it's bloody good to watch, even with the view that I have.  It does have one advantage where I am, though.  I'm spared the sight of the spectators, mostly stood on the enclosure, who look like they're auditioning for a re-make of Last Of The Summer Wine.

  

   The second half, though, I join them.  I'm tempted out purely by the cricked, aching knees.  Which makes me eligible for a role with all the others.  Including someone who was out, ostensibly to walk the dog.  As he doesn't have a dog, it seems slightly implausible.  I had a dog though.  But I told you all about her in my reminisces about Christmas works piss-ups earlier.

   The rest of the game continues as the last 10 minutes of the first half had.  Manor are all over Bowers, but their poor finishing is costing them big-time.  I can recall just one or two saves the Bowers keep had to make.  The hosts, however, get a deserved reward, from the penalty spot late on.

   

   They even have the ball in the back of the net again, but this is chalked out for offside.  On the balance of play, Southend Manor deserved the win.  But what you deserve and what you get are two entirely different things.  

   In any case, Bowers battled all the way through, obviously short of confidence, but showing flashes of decent football themselves too.  They could argue they deserved a point.  It's an argument they'd lose though.  Bottom line, however, is that they didn't lose on the pitch.

   We all head off, cheered by the unexpected pre-Christmas cracker.  There's the anticipation of things to come, too.  A cup tie tomorrow night, a day off, then football overdrive, with league and non-league action.  Providing, of course, the world doesn't come to an end before then.  If it does, tonight wasn't a bad way to bow out.

   Now, I wonder of I still have Tracey's phone number? .....

   Southend Manor 1,  Bowers & Pitsea 1

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 15th December - Between The Rocks And A Hard Game

   It seems a strange thing to do, but the past few days, the local senior club had again gone out of its way to keep the floating punter away and antagonise some of its own regular support.

   On the face of it, it seemed a sound enough move.  Due to other clubs involvement in the FA Trophy, Great Wakering Rovers found themselves at a loose end this weekend.  They therefore re-arranged a midweek clash with Southend Manor in its place.

   Except that the original date never clashed with a Southend United home game.  It did now.  Matchday and ball sponsors, able to make the scheduled game in March, couldn't do so now.  Some season ticket holders, who also held one for Southend United, sold on the promise that everything would be done to avoid matchdays at Roots Hall, were left high and dry.

   It was all the more mystifying, bearing in mind the loss of potential punters and sponsors for a local derby, that another side who had a blank weekend weren't contacted.  London Bari had a scheduled week off and Rovers had still to play them at home, too.

   You can't, of course, blame Rovers for getting some much needed revenue through the turnstiles before the festive season, bearing in mind the vagaries of winter weather.  Every club would do the same.  But sacrificing sponsorship money and probable increased gate revenue from a derby game, when another club may have been able to fill the weekend void, seemed illogical.

   That's a recurring frustration with non league football everywhere.  There's thousands of volunteers, players, and supporters, all wanting to back their truly local club, only for the decision of one to inconvenience the many.  Midweek games having to be on a Tuesday, because one person goes to their bowls night on a Wednesday is another, more anonymous, example, for which I'll spare the identity of that club's blushes..

   Anyway, soapbox time over.  Matchday, weather permitting.  Something that did not permit a trip to follow Billericay Town for the radio.  Match off before the clock struck 9.30.  Brentwood Town's game was on, but have you ever tried to get to Heybridge Swifts by public transport?  It has to be a good five or six miles from the nearest rail station.  A 6+ hour round trip?  No way Pedro.

   Instead it was again the welcoming home that is Rookery Hill where Chipper and I headed off to.  For the Rocks, an unremarkable Ryman Premier clash was in prospect.  Lowestoft Town, as ever, were in the play-off zone.  But, as seems to be depressingly common at this level, their success was achieved on the basis of "playing to their strengths" - football parlance for the long ball and a physical approach.

   It's the very antithesis of what Covo instills in his side.  If you have to mix it up, then do it.  Otherwise, ball on the deck, make every pass a good one.  Coupled with a team spirit running throughout the entire club, everyone all in together whether it's your first time there or 1,001st, it made East Thurrock United a pleasure to visit and watch at any time.

   Before we arrived, Chipper and I were treated to the spectacle of the first half between Montrose and The Rangers.  ESPN really don't like Sevco.  "Where would this team finish in the SPL, Mark?"  "Bottom."  Chortle.

   As the game started, I said to Chipper "I don't care if they win 5 or 6-1, just one moment of humiliation will do me."  A few minutes later, Montrose, and Garry Wood, duly obliged.  Sevco.  The present that just keeps giving.  Chortle.

   That, though, was forgotten as the main match kicked off.  Having passed the early pitch inspection, you could tell it was a close run thing.  Within seconds the pitch was cutting up.  And within minutes, our eyes went skywards, looking for the ball.  Ho hum.  This was going to be a right thriller.

   After 25 minutes or so of absolute nothingness, my mind was wandering to what games to get to next week.  Or what telly to watch.  Or what testicle to scratch first as the itch in my groin grew more irritable.  Anything except concentrate on the game.

   I should've know better.  Within a few moments a bout of handbags breaks out.  A two footed, studs up challenge from Lowestoft's most menacing player thus far, Michael Frew.  With less than half an hour on the clock, we thought he might get away with a yellow.

   But no.  Straight red.  "That's ridiculous" whinged one away supporter.  "Yellow at worst", shouted another.  Bollocks.  Sometimes, supporters are so stupidly biased, they make themselves look right dicks.  Chortle.

   As ever the case, though, the team down to 10 men are somehow energised and take control.  A Lowestoft goal is soon after chalked off.  A few minutes later another attack.  An onrushing forward steams into Kris Newby on the goalline, grabbing him by the arm.  Over the goal line, and almost in the back of the net, Newby retaliates with an elbow.

   Again, the ref has no option.  Inside the goalmouth is still the field of play.  Newby has to go and does so.  The question is, did he see the contact that incited Kris's retaliation?  Apparently no.  Penalty instead of free kick.  Dale Cockrill slots it away.  1-0 to the Trawlermen.

   As it happens, the away supporters are a decent bunch on the whole.  The earlier comments about the first red came very much from a minority, with the rest feeling mildly embarrassed by them.  Empty vessels making the most noise, I guess.  The rest are quite happily chatting away with myself and the home supporters, including the Lowestoft directors.  I like them a lot.

   Which makes it a real pity that the side they support play the way they do.  At this level, the intersection between results and entertainment veer towards the former and away from the latter.  A dull 1-0 win is infinitely better than an unforgettable 4-4 draw.  I know which game I preferred though.

   At least the Rocks tried to make a game of it in the second half.  They piled forward.  Ben Wood had a header cleared off the line.  Sam Collins had a shot superbly turned round the post.  Hakeem Araba and Kye Ruel had shots centimetres wide.  When Andy Plummer in the visitors goal was beaten, the post came to his aid.

   Throughout all this, though, you felt East Thurrock were really missing the injured Sam Higgins, out with a dodgy hamstring.  They paid the price late on when Lowestoft made the game safe with a second.  Which, inevitably, Chipper and the rest of the crowd saw but I didn't.  That was a fun update to file, that one.

   Full time, and the inevitable defeat.  The Rocks tried their hardest, but it just wasn't their day.  Direct wins out over the pass.  Again.  Rookery Hill, for once, wasn't a particularly happy place.  Still, the team and the club will have better days, better results.  And will enjoy them that much more because of days like this.

   Before long Chipper and I had made it back to the Bay.  In our absence, Great Wakering Rovers had beaten Southend Manor in the derby game 3-1.  There was an online boast about the attendance being 100.  Perhaps that comment was aimed at dissenters like me.

   The fact that the crowd was down from the previous couple of home games was airbrushed over.  And a derby game only being above their league average for the season by a massive 7 or 8 was maybe forgotten too.  But hey, I'm just a grumpy old man.  Let sleeping dogs lie.  Life's too short.

   But I'm right.

   East Thurrock United 0,  Lowestoft Town 2     

2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 11th December - It Could Do With Being A Bit Colder

   Hurrah and huzzah.  The tiniest glimmer of a silver lining coming through.  You never know, I may not be homeless in the next few weeks after all.  I did talk about confronting problems a few days ago.  It's a salutary lesson.  Let people know what's going on, don't put your head in the sand, and a problem simply turns out to be an opportunity waiting to be discovered.

   With this in mind, and my immediate financial and housing problems easing, though not quite yet solved, the time had come to get back onto the midweek football circuit.  I took a wander out to get a feel of the weather.  After all, that was the nearest I'd get to a feel for some time.  It was bum numbingly cold.  Icier than Christmas pleasantries between the Bridge and Terry families.

   I quickly surmised that all the local non-league football would be frozen off, which left the glory, the glamour, the romance of the FA Cup.  In any case, how could anyone resist the lure of Southend United v Bury in sub zero temperatures?  It's the stuff dreams aren't made of at all.

   Since that dream draw away at Chelsea, which possibly hastened the departure of Scolari from Stamford Bridge, the stuff of nightmares has been what Southend United supporters have had to contend with.  Essentially, Chairman Ron chased the dream of a new stadium, forgot to put anything by for a rainy day, was caught out by the recession, and put the club in Shit Street.

   Players departed, wages weren't paid, the club relegated to the bottom tier, boss Steve Tilson sacked by stealth - handy little thing that, 'gardening leave' - and since then have been regular trips to the High Court for unpaid debts and taxes.  

   Current boss Paul Sturrock has done a magnificent job in the circumstances, somehow cobbling together a side from absolutely nothing in two years that went within a point and a play-off game or two from promotion. 

   Normally, in cases like this, you feel for the supporters, as it's the paying punter who usually suffers the most.  This time, though, for whatever reason, I don't.  In the past decade or so, I've sort of felt, well, not quite an arrogance among the faithful, but certainly a more intolerant attitude of where the club is and should be.

   Nothing wrong with dreaming, having ambition.  Back to back promotions show the club can at least make it into the Championship.  In all my time going to see the Shrimpers, though, a good 80% of that has been spent either in the basement division or third tier.  'Good to excellent 4th Division side, average to poor 3rd Division side' was a summary shared by many.

   There's been murmurings, though, of the club getting out of 'this awful division'.  Other clubs where things have gone wrong when Southend have visited have been derided as 'Mickey Mouse'.  Complaints about 'hoofball', losing, or playing badly when they win were becoming more prevalent.  An awful lot of the fun of supporting Southend United is being slowly eroded.

   I still want them to win every game, though, and going to Roots Hall there there were still loads of people I know who have been going for years.  Out to simply back their side, and able to take victory and defeat as twin imposters.  The less tolerant are certainly in the minority.  It's still a good place to be, whatever goes on off the pitch.

   Tonight's visitors for this replay have the distinction of being the biggest ever FA Cup winners.  The Shakers hammered Derby County 6-0.  Unfortunately for Bury, that was 109 years ago.  Look on the bright side though.  That still happened after the last time Hibs won the Scottish Cup.  Chortle.

   I didn't have high expectations for tonight's replay.  True, there was still a day out at Wembley should either side embark on an amazingly amazing run of amazement.  And I'd already seen one of the best ever FA Cup matches in a qualifying round this season.  For one night Rookery Hill was Nirvana

   At Roots Hall, though, grim reality had set in.  It was so bitterly cold that frost were settling on the pitch.  It was going to be a game about just keeping your balance and making the fewest errors to get through.  The crowd was relatively meagre and understandably so.  The weather was bound to put off the casual punter.  A night for the diehards.

   And that's how it turned out for the first half an hour.  Nothing happened.  It wasn't that it was error strewn, with just the odd sloppy pass, it was more to do that players were trying to just stay upright and not make the mistake that cost them a goal - and additional £9,000 of prize money.  For Football League clubs like Bury and Southend, that meant a lot.

   The visitors took control, though, just before the break.  A nice run at goal, then a thundering shot.  Shrimpers keeper Dan Bentley done superbly well to parry it around the post for a corner.  With the dearth of chances, shot stopping might come in very handy at the end of the evening.  It wasn't mounting excitement and led me to think this was going to penalties.  Just a lack of real chances.

   You didn't need to be Nostradamus to predict that either.  Most people around me in the South Upper felt the same way.  It was a big enough task simply staying warm even with all our layers on.  The players, in just flimsy football shirts and shorts, must be close to hypothermia.  Why doesn't the ref just blow up for full time now and just go straight to pens?

   I was wishing that even more in the early part of the second half.  Bury just shading it, as you'd expect from a side a division above Southend, but not really threatening, but then bugger, a bit of a defensive slip, Zac Thompson gets a free shot at goal inside the area, and a little lob puts the ball nicely into the back of the Shrimpers net.  Oh f***.  

   Normally, you'd expect the home support to show a bit of that bad attitude I alluded to earlier.  But not tonight.  Not so much backing their team, but more a case of understanding that on a frosty pitch against a higher rated team, these sort of things could happen.  The silence was heartening.

   It certainly seemed to help Southend United.  A few minutes later there was a roar of encouragement as they approached the South Stand goal on the right.  A nice cross to the far post.  And there was Gavin Tomlin.  They played the Kings of Leon at half time.  I don't care if Gav's sex is on fire, but he is on the pitch at the moment, in spite of the ice.  Great header.  1-1.  Get in there.

   I was surprised at the areial equaliser, as in the Bury ranks was Efe Sodje.  He's just one of those players you can't help but like.  A Londoner by birth but spending almost all of his career in Northern England.  He had a brief break dahn sarf.  

   With Southend United.  He was an integral part of their League One title winning side and the next season spent 90 minutes with Wayne Rooney in his pocket as Southend humbled Manchester United.  He still looked a bit of a twat with that bandanna, mind, but he remains possibly my favourite centre half ever.  Not the best but my favourite nonetheless.

   The next hour or so, played in bouts of thick freezing fog, had an air of inevitably about it.  Both teams were cancelling each other out.  The best opportunity to grab a winner was going to come from a set piece, but both sides looked pretty good in defence, although a late home header in normal time almost nicked it.

   

   There was also a seminal moment in extra time.  By then, another hero of Roots Hall, one time goal machine Freddy Eastwood, was on the pitch for the Shrimpers.  He'd lost a bit of his early career sparkle but he was still a Southend great.  He bore down on the Bury box.  

   Running out to the right hand side of the area, well, it had to be Efe.  For a moment, the two of them stood there, these legendary names in Southend United's history, now taking each other on.  An Eastwood jink or two doesn't shake Sodje off.  Freddy tries a shot but mishits it.  They run back towards the centre circle, shaking each other's hands.  The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

   All too soon, though, it's Nostradamus time.  Penalty shoot out.  Now's the time for heroes to be made.  Even if it's a freezing Tuesday night in December.  Even if it's Bury.  This is the FA Cup.  That old magic is still there.  The crowd become animated.

   So does Dan Bentley.  I remember that shot-stopping moment in the first half.  He does too.  He saves one.  Another Bury penalty narrowly misses the corner flag.  It's all set up for the scorer of the equaliser, Gavin Tomlin.  He does a Panenka.  Straight into the Bury keeper's arms.  What a twat.  It doesn't matter though.  A hero is made.  19 year old Bentley saves the next one.  Southend are through.

   

   For the first time all night, there's a Roots Hall Roar.  It's been a tough night for everyone, on and off the pitch, but we're through.  The prize money rises nine grand to £27,000.  That might just save Southend from another visit to the High Court.  You never know.

   And in the 3rd Round, it's the glamour of a home tie against Brentford, through after their opponents in the 2nd round fielded an ineligible player.  The team who made that fateful error are appealing though.  So it might still be them.  Bradford City.  Who have just knocked Arsenal out of the League Cup.  On penalties.  And who face Southend at the Hall on Saturday.  Sometimes these things just write themselves.

   I get back to the Bay not being able to feel my backside.  Then again, who would really want to?  Any sane person would ask why the hell I'd spent a night sat on a frozen seat, or stood in a frozen stand, watching frozen players on a frozen pitch.  They wouldn't understand though.  Bury. 1903.  Sodje.  Eastwood.  The FA Cup.

   Fantastic.

   Southend United 1,  Bury 1  

   (aet.  90 mins 1-1.  Southend United win 3-2 on penalties).