2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 12th January - Daggers Through The Heart Of Racism

   The back page headline screamed.  Well, it didn't, papers can't scream, or raise any sort of voice, unless you have a talking paper.  But I'd think that would talk rather than scream.  Anyhow, I digress.  The back page had it in large letters.  "Don't Force Suarez Out."

   The poor lamb.  He dives, he handballs, he cheats, he celebrates, but somehow he's the victim in all of this.  That nasty ESPN man.  The mean press and tv and radio people.  Those horrible supporters.  All of whom contribute to a wage he collects in one week that most of us would give our right arm to earn in 5 years.  How dare they point out his consistently cheating ways?

   Above all, though, the eight game ban he received for making racist comments to Patrice Evra was something foremost in my mind.  Today was a day out at a club that's doing more than just paying lip service to football's anti-racism campaign.  "Daggers Against Racism" was a day set by where League Two outfit Dagenham & Redbridge reach out to the area's community, of whatever age and ethnic background, with the message of supporting their local club together.

   A local press campaign, combined with very cheap tickets for the day, ensures that Victoria Road plays host every year to something that's seen as an f word in general - yep, multiculturalism.  The club goes about it quietly, without fanfare, neither seeking or particularly interested in garnering praise further afield.  They simply want to be a football club for everyone.

   Chipper had never been to Victoria Road, which made today's choice an even easier one to make.  What I hadn't realised, though, is that it might take longer that either of us had anticipated to get there.  The train from the Bay to Upminster was easy enough.  The station was conspicuous by its lack of tubes though.  I also noted the trail of red buses in the car park.

   Sure enough, a station bloke says there's no tubes to Dagenham East.  The bus will take 40 minutes.  40 minutes for 3 or 4 miles?  F*** that.  We jump on the next train to Barking and get the tube from there.  Judging by the crowded tube finally heading towards Dagenham, a few others had the same idea too.  It just goes to show, on this day of all days, we all have our prejudices.  Mine just happens to be c**tish public transport.

   The wander from the station to the ground is a short one, but bloody hell, by the time we got there, we were both absolutely frozen.  I thought back to the other night.  12 takes to do a half time report.  It might take me the entire 90 minutes to just say where we are.  I've only ever felt colder away at MK Dons.  And if you've ever been to Milton Keynes you'll know that being frozen to death is probably preferable to living there.

   We have a wander around the club shop after picking our tickets up, not so much as to actually buy anything, seeing as Chipper already has a Daggers scarf on, but simply as a way of warming up.  We weren't the only people doing this either.  

   Bearing in mind the sparse merchandise on offer, there was probably more people in there than items on sale.  Had I actually had a few quid in my pocket, though, their training top at £20 would've been bought.  Nice bit of kit.

   It was even nicer when we got in and the club mascot started handing out sweets to us.  We strolled behind the goal and down the enclosure, settling on a spot down the front, halfway inside the half nearest to the Rochdale fans. You won't get much closer to the pitch in the Football League than there.

   As kick-off time approached, it would have warmed the cockles of Harriet Harman's heart to be where we were.  Surrounded by people of Chinese, African, Caribbean and Asian origin, as well as you're everyday white British.  All here together to support their local team.  

   I'd love to have seen Norman Tebbit do his cricket test here.  It was .... well, it was just nice.  Which isn't something you can say too often when stood on a frozen football terrace on a January afternoon.  All we needed now was a decent game.

   I wasn't too hopeful of that.  Both teams were consistently inconsistent and occupied mid table.  It was colder than the contents of my boxer shorts.  There was neither the players or the conditions to encourage a decent game.

   That's the way it turned out for 70 minutes as well.  Both sides competing, cancelling each other out, physical without being cloggers, long high balls regularly, although by no means always.  The odd spell of good football ended up with one or two excellent saves by Lewington in the Daggers goal or Lillis between the Dale sticks.

   What livened it up, however, was the bloke behind us.  He'd evidently acquired all his footballing knowledge from watching Sky, reading the Sun, and listening to Talksport.  A steady stream of swearing or tactical bollocks emanated from his mouth throughout.  The ref was routinely called a 'baldy c***' and often the straightforward 'stupid c***'.  At some points during the afternoon he also swore under his breath.  It wasn't clear whether it was at the ref, the players, or just himself.

   The Daggers keeper was also berated, for not coming 30 yards out of his goal to deal with a long through ball, that the centre halves already had under control.  "Get in front of him" came his shout to another Dagenham defender, ignoring the fact that if he had got 'in front' it would have resulted in Rochdale having a free run and shot at goal.  Chortle.  Great fun.  I do hope he's a regular.

   The game was petering out (that's an odd word, 'petering'.  Is everyone called Peter prone to fading away after a while?  Why not kevining?) to a goalless draw.  Until Rochdale scored from nothing.  A shot from wide on the left, a decent save at the far post, but Andrew Tutte is there unmarked and whacks the ball home.

   The 168 Rochdale fans make the biggest noise of the afternoon, sweary man apart, as they look happily forward to a seventh away win.  Then, of course, it happens.  Trying to get an update done, I miss completely D & R's equaliser.  That's why Chipper's here.  It sounds more like a roar of 10,000 rather than two.  That low roof of the enclosure helps the sound crash down around us.  

   Suddenly there's a real game and real atmosphere.  Both teams are energised by their goals and take to using width, getting to the byeline and putting crosses in, to try and get the winner.  Both keepers are being kept busy.  Tackles are beginning to fly in.  It's getting towards the last minute, close to injury time.  With my track record, I'm absolutely certain there's a winner in this.

   Play stretches down the far side from us, near the halfway line.  Then, for apparently no reason, Gavin Hoyte loses his temper completely and has to be dragged away from an opponent by team mates.  I use the zoom on the camera to see what's going on better.  It looks like Rochdale's Bobby Grant is the target for Gav's ire.  He's incensed, that much is obvious.  The ref does well to calm things down, especially when Hoyte extends his anger towards Dale boss John Coleman.

   It galvanises Dagenham further.  Into injury time and they're doing all the pressing.  A run down the left.  A cross, and there he is, Elito, inside the six yard box.  He can't miss.  Victoria Road, with it's multicultural mix today, are as one in celebration of yet another dramatic finish.  A superb end to a great day.  It's what football should always be about.

   Chipper wants his Max crisps by way of celebration and so do I.  Instead of the tube then train back to the Bay, we instead head off to Fenchurch Street, the only place we know for definite that sells them.  It turns out to be a wise move.  Liverpool Street line is buggered so everyone's piling into Fenchurch Street.  Had we got a train back to the Bay from Barking, we'd have stood all the way home.  But we now simply choose our seat.  Some days things just somehow work out.

   Back at the Bay, reading up on the afternoon's proceedings, it's clear that the day hasn't worked out as we thought, though.  The Met Police have been called in.  Chipper and I had just assumed Gavin Hoyte had been wound up by something done on the pitch in that late altercation. 

   It's clear now that it was something said to him.  How sad that on 'Daggers Against Racism' day, after such a success off the pitch, that Rochdale player Bobby Grant has been accused of racially abusing Hoyte.  If it's true (and D & R captain Abu Ogogo, who scored the equaliser, confirmed he heard what was said) it's revolvting, contemptible, disgusting.  Should the allegations be proven, throw the book at him.  And then throw him out of football.

   Cheats, like Suarez, sometimes prosper.  Let's hope racists don't.

   Dagenham & Redbridge 2,  Rochdale 1  

2012-13 Uncovered: Wednesday 9th January - 150 for 7

   On the face of it, I didn't really want to go.  It was cold, and dropping nearer to freezing by the minute.  The prospect of sitting in a warm home, watching darts players score 16, supplemented by curry and cans of Bru, was about a million times more attractive.  Just do the decent thing.  Call the game off after that 5.30pm pitch inspection.

   Except no.  They had to spoil it over at Ship Lane.  Just after 6pm, the news came through that Romford v Brentwood Town was on.  This being a radio game, too, I had no option.  I could feel my nads shrivelling even then.

   Not that I had anything against either side.  True, both were mid table in the Ryman One North.  But both had plenty of games in hand on everyone else and were in with a more than decent shout of muscling in on the play-off action.  Romford steeped in history, Brentwood Town with their understated FA Cup pedigree in decades gone by.  It was an attractive looking game for both the football neutral and romantic.

   But it was bastard cold and at my age that was the overriding factor as to whether a game should be on or not.  Added to that, mind, was the journey from the Bay to Ship Lane.  Train, then tube, then bus.  If I'm lucky, with all the connections waiting by handily for me, it'd take an hour and a half door to door.  As the train leaving the Bay, however  was at 10 past 6, getting there for kick-off was going to be a tighter squeeze than Lisa Riley in a boob tube.  

   It did, however, avail me of one minor historical moment.  The tube was apparently 150 years old today.  I'm sure I'm not alone in thinking wistfully to when my age was less than double figures, as back then all I really wanted to do was travel around in the underground, and be a tube driver when I grew up.  Looking at their current wage, and propensity for taking a day or two off when they felt like it by striking, I wish I had done now.

   So it was with due reverence that I boarded the westbound District line to Elm Park.  The thought that went through my mind, travelling by tube on such a landmark day?  "Get me to Elm f***ing Park now, I've got a f***ing bus to catch and match to get to."  Yep, I really love my public transport.

   Ship Lane had got no warmer than my last visit.  It had in fact got several degrees colder, as the frost beginning to settle on the pitch showed.  Nope, this was going to be far from a classic tonight.  As the teams came out, and my interweb connection remained unconnected, I cursed missing out on that comfy chair, cans of Bru, and curry, all left behind in the warm.  And the sound of a darts scorer shouting "7".

   Cursing was something the Romford PA man was very adept at doing.  After a bright home opening, a mixture of Brentwood pressing the lodger hosts back, and perceived poor refereeing decisions, led to a shout of ire.  That's how you politely describe a string of mild obscenities.  He was very clever though.  No f or c words, but plenty of bloody's, lots of anger, and real volume to his voice.  He didn't need a mic at all.

   Alex Read opened the scoring for the visitors, pouncing on a defensive error, leading the PA man to shout in frustration at every tiny error Romford made.  It continued like that right up until the point Romford equalised.  A cross from the left beats everyone, bounces off the far post, hits a startled Kurt Smith, and rolls in from about 3 inches.  Suddenly, they were all brilliant heroes.  Chortle.  You've just got to love the football fan.

   The ref decides to join in with the fun.  He books a home player for an innocuous tackle.  Ryan Doyle takes the free kick on the left, a good 40 yards out.  It curls towards the far post in slow motion.  Missing everyone.  And going in.  Bizarre.  2-1 Brentwood and a bit of controversy thrown in.  Suddenly my frozen tootsies and fingers seems almost worth it.

   It's not something I can convey very well though.  I was feeling so cold I was having difficulty in actually talking.  Which was probably no bad thing.  The entire half time break was spent trying to speak coherently into a mic for around 20 seconds.  I managed it after about 12 takes.

   The ref starts the second half as he ended the first, enraging the Romford supporters, after he gives a free kick during the course of a goal line scramble as they searched for an equaliser.  This led to a chat between the Romford PA man, Brentwood Ray, and myself, about the role assessors have to play in refereeing performances.

   Call me old fashioned but I'm of the belief that refereeing assessors should just sit there and assess.  They shouldn't be able to go into the changing rooms before a game, be with them during their pitch inspection, or even speak to them in the bar beforehand, and tell them what they expect of them.  

   Players and managers would be fined and suspended if they did that, and be accused of intimidating a ref.  Assessors should just assess anonymously then have a chat afterwards.  They are the ones that are ruining games by putting pressure on a ref before he's even started.  And it's the ref who gets it in the neck for simply doing what's been unfairly asked of him.  

   Anyhow, soapbox aside, Romford again equalise on the hour thanks to a Jack Bowry volley into the roof of the net from close range.  2-2 and anyone's game now.  Brentwood are pressing but Romford are looking dangerous when they break.  You feel there's more goals left in this, and with the pitch looking whiter and frostier, it'll probably come from an error.

   Seven minutes from time it presents itself.  Ryan Doyle.  Had a decent game at right back, scored that bizarre goal in the first half.  He gets in the way a speculative Ben Jones shot from just inside the area.  He stoops to head clear.  Only to nestle it snugly into the bottom left hand corner of his own net.  Ship Lane rejoices.  It's unfair on Brentwood but that's football.

   With a mixture of tiredness creeping in, and just trying to keep their balance let alone kick a ball, Brentwood's creativity has frozen up quicker than the pitch.  As we head into injury time, a narrow defeat for the visitors looks a certainty.  Bar a terrible error along the way somewhere.

   Funny that.  Just as I was thinking of how to sum up a disappointing defeat, a Romford defender trips over himself.  Steve Butterworth is left on his own with the ball and he makes the most of it.  3-3.  Yet another injury time equaliser.  I comment on how they've salvaged a point.

   As I do so, Brentwood win a free kick.  25 yards out, just to the left of goal.  No, this won't happen, it'd be too ridiculous for words.  Up steps Alex Read.  And I'm left almost wordless by the ridiculousness of it as it smacks the ball into the back of the net. 

    

   The Brentwood players run and slip around crazily.  The Romford players are on their knees.  The whistle blows.  For full time.  Last kick of the game.  Somehow a certain defeat going into injury time has been turned into three points.  If you ever look online for a definition of 'snatching victory from the jaws of defeat' there will just be a pic of Alex Read taking a free kick.

   The journey back to the Bay may have been even colder than before but somehow I didn't feel it.  150 years of history and a seven goal thriller would warm up even the most frozen of heart cockles.  Or any other cockles.  Suddenly Lisa Riley in a boob tube doesn't seem so unappealing.

   Well, it does, but you know what I mean.

   Romford 3,  Brentwood Town 4  

2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 8th January - Wembley Nights

   Ooh, ain't social media a double edged sword?  And both edges generally end up somewhere in your jacksie.  That's what I fear may happen to Trenks, the player-boss at Great Wakering Rovers.

   Everyone who's known him can vouch for him being typically decent bloke off the pitch.  All that's played with or against him on the field knows how tenacious and inspiring he can be.  But put him in front of a twitter account and ... oh my, why does he do it?

   A little while back, after a Rovers draw at Clapton, he tweets that they were the worst team he's ever played against.  And now, after a late postponement, he wonders aloud if Barkingside didn't 'fancy it' against his side.

   Well done. That's two team talks already done for the opposition now.  Really no need for it, and he's simply made his side's task that much harder.  Save that sort of 'banter' for when the ESL title is all wrapped up.

   The calling off at Barkingside was pretty chortlesome, mind.  A broken down tractor on the pitch that had to be dragged off, leaving a number of deep ridged tyre markings all over the place.  A horrible state, but just about playable.  That's only my view though.  Others obviously thought different.

   I bet most home players felt the same as me, mind. I'd have said, too, that having won away at title chasing Enfield at the weekend, Barkingside would actually have been well up for a home game 48 hours later against a side a bit ring rusty after several weeks off.  They'll be well up for it in February too, though, thanks to twitter.

   I digress.  Tonight was the road to Wembley.  Southend United were at Oxford United in a Johnstones Sherpa LDV Windscreens Paint Van Trophy thingy.  Win and an area final against Borient awaits.  Two legs with the prize a day out at Wembley.  Oh yes.

   Bradford City had a more difficult but glamorous and glorious route awaiting them.  After knocking out Arsenal, this evening was a League Cup semi-final 1st leg against Aston Villa.  If you're a League Two side, and you had to choose one Premier League side to play against to try to get to a cup final, well, you'd pick Villa at the moment.  The Bantams definitely have a shout of getting to Wembley.

   Getting there?  Pah.  We already were there.  The Vale Farm version, mind, but nonetheless we were at Wembley, Ed, Bri and I.  Canvey Island were in town, looking to bounce back from their weekend humiliation (4-1 up at Whitehawk with 20 minutes to go, lost 5-4 - chortle) at the expense of Hendon, lodgers at the home of Wembley FC.

   Another great name from the days of the Amateur Cup, Hendon.  And also the FA Cup.  In the dim and distant recesses of my memory, I can just about recall them getting a draw at Newcastle in the FA Cup.  I also knew, as well, that after a terrible time of it this season, recent wins had seen them at last move away from the Ryman Premier relegation zone.  Tonight wouldn't be easy for the Gulls.

   We were met at the ground by Ledge, who insisted that the chips here were the best out of the lot.  They looked good, too, fatter and chunkier than my torso.  Looks are one thing though.  The taste was of a certain degree of shiteness,  The Bovril was passable but the coffee was probably made from mud.  It certainly tasted like it.

   We weren't here to be fed and watered regally though.  We were here for the same reason everyone else was.  Boredom, or to just get away from the other half for a few hours.  Or maybe both.  It was Tuesday night, we were at Wembley, where everyone else tonight were battling to be at.  The world was our oyster.  A particularly shite oyster, mind, but an oyster nonetheless.

   The game starts off okay.  Canvey look the part early on and the Hendon defence couldn't have looked more jittery if they'd taken sennapods after a curry.  A high ball comes in.  It really should be dealt with by the home side easily enough.  But the defenders and keeper freeze, and Jay Curran nods home.  He had a defender with him but he was more or less unchallenged.

   As the game goes on, Bri starts to take pictures of spider webs, whilst I count the number of Canvey Ultras in attendance.  About 20 I guess, which was only slightly less than the 'Hendon Loyal' situated at the other end.  With the union flag it was written on, it seems to be a relic of the past from north of the border - Rangers in the SPL.  Chortle.  Again.

   Whilst all this nothingness was going on, Hendon banged in an equaliser after being given about an hour to control and shoot home.  Bri asked me how the scorer Cracknell was spelt.  It put me in mind immediately of that sweet from the 70's that cut up like broken glass in your mouth.  My, we were a hardy bunch back then, having 'treats' like that.

   No matter, Canvey were soon on the attack and, sure enough, along comes the goal.   Bradley Woods-Garness runs down the right, gets to the bye-line, pulls the ball back, and there he is, Harrison Chatting, unmarked from six yards out.  Here we go, 2-1.

   H takes a swing.  It's a good, firm boot, the goalie having no chance.  Had he connected with the ball.  Instead Harrison conducts an experiment on how heavy air is on a football pitch in January and the ball tootles past him and away to safety.  There's no anger.  Only wide-eyed amazement and an incredulous 'How the f*** did he miss that?'  And yet gain - chortle.

   As the match progresses past the break and into the second, interest wanes and the chat increases.  Elsehwhere Bradford are making mugs of Villa.  Southend are to-ing and fro-ing.  As are Concord and Chelmsford, as well as Hornchurch and Col Ewe, in the Essex Senior Cup.  And we are all in agreement, though, that the Met Police's 'I Fought The Law' is the best teams-coming-out song.  Irrelevant but vital.

   Whilst this was going on, Hendon have a cast iron shout for a penalty waved away.  Evidently basketball is allowable on a football pitch these days.  It's doubly sore on them, too, when at the other end Louis Dennis chests a ball down in the area for Woods-Garness to shoot home.  Liquid football.

   The ref decides to even things up a couple of minutes later.  Woods-Garness is clear through on goal again.  The Hendon keeper comes out and clatters him.  There was a covering defender running back, but it looks a clear goalscoring opportunity denied by an obvious foul.

   The ref gives  free kick and the keeper ..... well, just a yellow card.  An enraged Ledge shouts at the ref.  He doesn't swear, but angrily informs the ref of what he should have done, borne of experience down the touchline and blowing the whistle himself.  Chortle.  If the ref only gave a yellow just to get Ledge going it was well worth it.

   The game withers away after that.  Despite Ledge's paranoia after the grisly afternoon at Whitehawk, Canvey see out the game quite comfortably.  It's not been a good game to watch, but that doesn't matter for the Gulls.  The result meant much more.  Seventh now.  On the edge of the play-offs.  Not a bad night, despite the ref and H's horrendous miss.

   As we meander home, Southend have done it.  Beating Oxford on penalties after subbing the keeper.  Ouch, that has to hurt.  Borient and Wembley awaits.  Bradford give Villa an inevitable, humiliating, beating.  Concord and Hornchurch get through in the Essex Senior Cup.  Who cares though?  We've been to Wembley.

   At the slightly more well known stadium nearby, Paul McCartney began a new career of completely destroying national events.  Live Aid was going superbly until he came on.  Even Bob Geldof then said on stage at the time, after Paul came on, that it was a 'cock-up'.  This was a grievance Ed shared with us all, the latest being his awful Olympic appearance.

   I managed to placate Ed by mentioning my admiration for the wonderful Heather Mills.  Nothing to do with her being a Sunderland fan.  But much more to do with that she frightens the life out of the untalented one of the Beatles.

   No matter who he's married to these days, every time he sings or gets up on stage, or simply wanders by, he has to look over his shoulder, making sure psycho Heather isn't there, holding Bilel Moshni's hand and brandishing his scissors.  She's fantastic.

   And so to bed.

   Hendon 1,  Canvey Island 2

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 5th January - The Season Restarts Here

   Apparently, according to the media, today was "FA Cup Day."  It seems to them that the competition magically starts at the 3rd round.  Sod the hundreds of sides that started out in August.  That unforgettable two part, 12 goal thriller, at Melbourne Park and Rookery Hill?  Forget it.  It only counts if weekend tv is filled up with the monotony of ties involving Premier League sides. 

   Cynical?  Me?  Pah.  No, I'm probably just wailing over a lost youth.  We weren't force fed a constant message that the Premier League is everything back then.  Match Of The Day regularly had at least one game from the Second Division, and sometimes 3rd and 4th Division action.  The regional ITV coverage showed their region's sides regardless of status.  And non-league football was always featued in the Sunday papers.

   I just hate the way it's forced down our throats these days, how great the Premier League is.  It seems lost on the tv channels, radio stations, and papers, that comfortably over half the nation doesn't support a Premier League side and care even less.  I don't begrudge them televising or covering top flight football.  I just wish they'd shut the f*** up about it.

   Quite what this has to do with Brentwood Town  v  Potters Bar Town I don't know.  Perhaps it was the sight of a Premier League team on the clubhouse tv.  Someone wailed afterwards that those Newcastle players had besmirched the 'famous shirt'.  Judging by the result and what they wore, I'd say plum coloured was very apt.

   For the hosts today, it wasn't a case of FA Cup starting.  It was their season restarting.  Five months in and just 13 league games played.  14th in Ryman One North didn't look too great.  They were about a dozen points adrift of the play-off zone.  But games in hand.  Wow, those games in hand.  Their opponents today, Potters Bar Town, were in 4th.  But had played nine more matches to get there.  To all intents and purposes, the hosts season started here.

   Also a new era at the radio station. A new presenter.  Wow, the excitement builds.  Minus points - a Southend United supporter, so probably a glass half empty man like me.  Plus points - lives in Shoeburyness so possibly a lift home if I popped into the studio afterwards.  Oh yes.

   A bigger crowd today too, swelled by disgruntled Billericay Town supporters.  Match called off at 1.45pm.  That has to hurt.  Especially for those who travelled from Farnborough.  I know I shouldn't.  But chortle.  Anyhow, it looked almost respectable, with plenty in the seats, not far short of three figures I'd guess.

   I was also included in the seats, mind, after someone had come up with the bright idea of putting huge hi-fi speakers on the press box seats.  It's a pity that a club gets so used to not getting any local media coverage that when they do, and even if told in advance, they don't expect it.  No seat, nowhere to put the netbook, no team sheet.  This is going to be a chortle.

   It's a bit miserable, today's blog so far, innit?  Honest, I don't mean it to be, and I was actually quite chipper, despite Chipper not being there.  It's just how the day unfolds.  I was my usual cheery self to everyone around me, not taking the game unfolding in front of me too seriously.  Or myself.  I'm not a facts guy when it comes to radio reporting.  So long as I get the score right, I'm happy.  You get from me what the day is like rather than the game.

   And the game itself?  it started off with managers swearing, not at the officials, but at their own defences.  It was an open, end-to-end, first five minutes, at which point the host boss bellows at his side "Where's the f***ing marking?".  Chortle.  Not just from me but from the old codgers around me.

   After that, they sort of cancelled each other out, preferring to dive into the sandy parts of the pitch and breaking down play rather than creating.  'At least there's a match on rather than nothing', I thought to myself as Alex Read tried to make a break on the left.  He centres it to the edge of the area.  Daryl Robson smacks it into the roof of the net.  Bloody hell.  Proper liquid football that.

   I excitedly try to report the exciting excitement of a half decent goal.  As I do so, another loud cheer.  I look up.  Brentwood team-mates are congratulating Alex Read.  "Can't you do the decent thing and not score until I'm ready?", I mutter to myself.  The codgers around me chortle.  2-0 to Brentwood Town.  I've missed one of the goals.  Like Brentwood, I'm back on form.

   It's all Brentwood for the next 10 minutes.  They could and should have put the game out of reach.  They don't and pay a penalty when they concede one on a rare Potters Bar break.  Danny Ailey steps up.  And with unerring accuracy hits the Ipswich bound carriageway of the A12.  Chortlesome in the extreme.

   

   As the skies darken, and the temperature off the pitch drops, it rises on it.  The visitors are stung into action and dominate for the rest of the half and match itself.  It's probably just as well that they go for it and attack.  Their right back shouts to his centre half, on the edge of his own penalty area, "Wes, kick it to anyone you can see."  I never realised Potters Bar Town had a San Marino internationlist playing for them.

   Reece Ottley in the Brentwood Town goal was being kept a busy man, with some comfortable saves, and one or two excellent stops, as Potters Bar piled forward.  Then, an almost exact opposite of the first half.  Brentwood break, a trip inside the area, and against the run of play, a penalty.  Only almost this time though. Alex Read bangs it away.  Done and dusted.

   Potters Bar pull a goal back through Danny Ailey, but you can tell from their demeanour, with urgency replacing craft and guile, that the game's up.  They never really believed they could or would get themselves back into it.  They'd run down the flanks, then pause, almost frightened to get into the box.  Only when there was a corner did they really threaten again, and that was just an old fashoned scramble.

   Full time and a 3-1 win for Brentwood Town.  Not a bad way to start their restarted season.  Ten points from the play-offs.  Between six and nine games in hand on everyone up there.  The Arena is a good place to be, a bit of hope and maybe even expectancy shining through the dark skies.  Brentwood are looking good.  Potters Bar were, too, but simply not good enough today.

   I pop over to the studio.  The new presenter, Robbo, has an air of calm and relaxation about him.  Underneath, though, he's been rushed off his feet.  All those FA Cup ties.  Hearteningly, though, his main focus is today's game and non-league scores from around the area and beyond.  The hour in the studio flies by.

   As does the trip back to the Bay.  A kindly man, Robbo offers me a lift home, as I'd hoped, but not expected.  The discussion on the journey eastwards extends to Le Mans, Brands Hatch, and why the darts was interrupted by an episode of Doctors.  It's an upbeat way to end a day that started so downbeat and cynically.  You see, I am indeed a cheery chappie.

   Ahead lies a rocky path.  Impending eviction.  A check-up to gauge just how poorly the heart is.  Less money than a Scotsman winning a tightarse contest.  Still, it doesn't matter.  I can deal with all of that.

   And the season has restarted in cracking style.

   Brentwood Town 3,  Potters Bar Town 1

   

2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 1st January - Gulls Travels

   So 2012 ended with a damp squib.  Which, as ever, isn't a euphemism.  Brentwood Town game off, as well as loads more others in non-league.  No local ESL action.  Not enough money to afford either the Billericay or Dagenham games.  Or any game that cost over a tenner, which also ruled out Leyton Orient or Charlton.  Or just anywhere that was on.  As you can tell, I'm still desperately short of moolah.

   So it was with blessed relief that 2012 passed.  Heart attack, surgery that went awry, friends and family around me also falling seriously ill, then a company director running off with the staff wages to pay for his divorce ensuring the year finished in poverty.  2013 couldn't come quick enough.

   The constants that kept me going throughout the year, though, radio work and football, were the high points, and as the New Year was brought in watching the curiously yummy Jackie Bird up in Edinburgh (she's in her 50's, she looks it, but somehow you just want to doink her regardless - or senseless), it was there again.

   Not at New Lodge though.  Yet again, despite getting in touch with them well before the game, no replies, no nothing.  It's a pity, but doesn't bother me in the slightest.  It just means that other local sides get more radio coverage.  Not for Brentwood Town today, though, either.  Their match at Redbridge rained off again.  They now have the unenviable task of 29 league games to fit into 17 weeks, having played just 13 in the previous 23.  Blimey.

   That left just the Rocks who, thankfully, were on, and just a short and cheap train journey away from the Bay.  East Thurrock United, mind, were having a tough time of it, too.  Drawing too many games had left them dangerously close to the Ryman Premier drop zone.  An injury list longer than an MP's expenses form. 

   And, more hurtfully, league leaders Shitehawk had waved their wad at Hakeem Araba and lured him away with a ridiculous offer he couldn't refuse.  It's always depressing at this level when clubs buy success.  It goes against the entire ethos of non-league football.    

   Whitehawk, of course, aren't alone in this.  But a club with gates of 200 can't sustain a squad of players lured from clubs with far bigger crowds.  As soon as the sugar daddy leaves the club will fold..  And, again, they won't be alone in that.

   It was with those cheery, cynical thoughts that Benfleet station came into view. The Rocks were at, of all the teams to play whilst I contemplated money ruining non-league football, Canvey Island.  The classic example.  A club built on the money and ego of one man.  They marched up the leagues, into the Conference, with FA Trophy and FA Cup runs galore. That one man then spits his dummy out and leaves the Gulls up to their necks in bird shit.

   Luckily, though, there was a hardcore of between 300 and 400 supporters who would not let the club die. They took the decision to drop three divisions into Ryman One North and start afresh.  A brave decision, but it meant that it was only people committed to Canvey Island F.C. who were involved.  It was, at last, a club again in the true sense of the word.

   Progress has been slow but steady, learning from their past, not running before they can walk.  Promotion to the Premier five seasons ago and featuring regularly in the play-off battles.  And, last season, an epic Essex Senior Cup triumph over Colchester United.  You can't help but feel pleased for a set of people that have turned a plaything into a genuine local football club again.

   It was a gloriously bright start to 2013.  No buses from the station today so it was a 3 or 4 mile walk.  It was so sunny, and unusually mild, so the stroll was a pleasure.  Especially wandering out of the station.  Just ahead of me was a grey haired man wearing a stetson.  For some reason I began humming "I was born under a wandrin' star."

   Coming our way on Ferry Road was a cyclist.  As he goes by, Lee Marvin gives him a volley of abuse.  "Yeah, whatever", he mutters, riding by.  A minute later, another cyclist on the path, and another very loud slagging, this time rightly responded to by the cyclist.  Chortle.

   Along comes a third cyclist, and this time Lee Marvin walks right in front of the bike, making it stop, to give the cyclist a piece of his undoubtedly tiny mind.  He doesn't know what I know.  That it's actually a cycle path and we're the ones in the wrong.  The third cyclist puts him right and then we exchange glances and shrugs, together in thinking what a twat the Paint Your Wagon man is.  Double chortle.

   About an hour later, I'm in the press box at Park Lane.  Glen is not having the best of times.  The PA system is packing up.  I try to make myself as invisible as possible, which is quite a feat when you have the bulk of a wild hog, but without the hygiene.  My offer of playing the Hearts cd is inexplicably turned down, too.

   I have a look around from my box seat.  I remember in the ESL days, way back in my youth, and the ground seemed huge.  As Glen pointed out, though, that was before the main stand was built, and that gives it a feeling of being closer to the pitch.  Then again, in my youth, electricity hadn't been invented, so it was just a pitch and a puddle to shower in.

   The game is an important one for the Gulls.  A 3-0 gubbing at derby rivals Concord Rangers on Boxing Day had jolted their play-off challenge a little and their pride immensely.  Manager Steve Tilson might be a 'legend' in many people's eyes in South Essex, but if he doesn't get his team back on track soon, he'll be a legend that used to be a manager.

   That's not a prospect awaiting Covo.  After the New Year greetings, he confirmed he's spent New Year's Eve in a curry house.  Forget about the injury woes and players departing, I was just hoping that the away dug-out had a bucket, just in case.  Or at least a fan to waft away what might be aired during the game.  Chortle.

   The Rocks started with Hakeem's replacement, L'Heureux Muega from Worksop Town, starting.  Good grief, even taller than Araba.  The Rocks like their passing game but they definitely have an option for mixing it if the need arises.  The height of an NBA man, the physique of an MMA man.  Blimey.

   It's just as well there was a talking point like that because for 35 minutes there was sod all happening on the pitch.  Final passes into the box going further astray than Kerry Katona inviting Lindsay Lohan over for a quiet night in.  

   The Gulls keeper, Ashlee Jones, had a bit of a flap at a corner early on.  That was the most creative moment either side produced up until then.  I began to wonder what I was doing here.  God knows what the radio listeners were thinking.  Apart from 'what's on elsehwere?'.

   It's funny how games just turn around though.  East Thurrock come forward.  Kye Ruel on the right gets a low centre in.  The Canvey defence just stand there scratching their arses.  Sam Collins says thank you very much and taps home from inside the six yard box.

   A few minutes later, it gets almost comically worse for the Gulls.  The poor keeper.  He slices a clearance terribly.  When I say sliced, I mean it goes behind him, and starts to trundle into an empty net.  He, and new Rocks forward Meuga, chase the ball frantically.  The keeper gets there just before it crosses the line and clears.  I feel sorry for the guy, making a ricket like that.  But still, chortle.  And at least it doesn't cost his side.

   You get the feeling that there's really something in this now.  Lost the derby game, losing at home, drifting from the play-off zone.  Whisper it quietly, but Steve Tilson might just be under a bit of pressure.  Canvey need a big 45 minutes.  Not 24 hours in 2013 and a story may just be developing.

   The Gulls come flying out of the blocks in the second half.  Perhaps they feel their places at the club are at stake, too.  But still, they almost lose it completely.  A rare East Thurrock break, Tom Stephen puts a corner on the right into the six yard box, another panic, and new boy Meuga shoots home.  2-0.  Except that the ref has blown for an infringement.  The relief around Park Lane is palpable.

   Buoyed by this break, Canvey intensify their pressure.  Bradley Woods-Garness has a curling shot superbly parried away.  Meuga and home player Dobbo decide to engage in their own  MMA battle.  Luckily the ref sees nothing or Meuga would have gone.

   The Rocks luck runs out soon after.  A lovely, swerving cross is sent in from the left at pace into the six yard box.  Simon Peddie simply can't let that go by him.  He sticks a foot out.  It goes in.  Own goal 1-1.  Momentum firmly with the hosts.

   They surge forward, fuelled by self belief and the inclusion of sub Harrison Chatting.  Canvey look a different side once he's come on.  There's a throw in near the bye-line on the right.  It finds Woods-Garness inside the area.  His back's to goal.  But he somehow turns and volleys into the roof of the net at a tight angle.  What a bloody goal.

   From thereon in it's all Gulls.  The pressure mounts, but the Rocks defence tighten up.  What they can't do, however, is get any foothold on the game in the Canvey half.  It's all set up for a smash and grab from the away team, but there's not smash about East Thurrock anymore.  All they can grab is their nether regions as the sky and cold finally closes in.

   It finishes in a home win far more comfortable than the scoreline suggests.  And far, far more comfortably than anyone from Canvey could possibly have hoped for at the break.  Covo has his work cut out.  Injuries, star players leaving, and jelly botty from that curry.  There's a wry grin on his face though.  You simply can't help but admire a football man like Covo, accepting victory and defeat in equally good grace.

   You also can't help but admire what a great job the people now at Canvey Island have done.  It's full of good people from top to bottom.  Exemplified when Glen, finding out I walked from the station, has a word with Keith, a steward, who happily gives me a lift all the way back to the Bay.  

   Proper touch, that, and hugely appreciated, rounding off a good day out superbly.  Park Lane is once again a great place to watch your football.  If it goes on like this, 2013 is going to be infinitely better than 2012.  

   Especially if Kerry and Lindsay give me a call for that quiet night in.

   Canvey Island 2,  East Thurrock United 1