2012-13 Uncovered: Wednesday 20th February - The Southend Chronicles III; Nirvana

   It's been a long time for Southend United.  Never been to Wembley for a cup final.  Apart from the comps they get from the FA every year.  83 years years since their only visit to what was then the Twin Towers.  An inauspicious 3-1 league defeat against a side using Wembley as a temporary home until ground improvements at their own place had been completed.

   Some would say the improvements still hadn't been finished, judging by the flimsy seats Southend fans encountered a couple of weeks ago.  Yep, the team who had beaten them at Wembley in their only appearance 83 years ago, now stood in their way from a long, long, long awaited return.  

   They may be the Leyton version rather than Clapton, but Orient could heap more misery on Southend's Wembley woes by stopping their bid for a first ever cup final appearance there.  One way or another, this was history in the making.  

   After getting that ticket in the South Lower, time hung heavy in the air.  In the distance, Victoria station briefly echoed to some Orient fans that had evidently drank a bit too much already.  The Plod, though, were already waiting for them.  Their visit to Southend would either be a short one or would involve holding cells only.

   In the end, I went home.  I had no need to, it was just something to do to keep out of the pub, killing some time.  Back to the Bay, a shower, fresh clothes, and back into the fresh, cold wind.  Almost an ill wind.   To counteract that, though, I was on the number 8 bus back to Roots Hall.  Having had Chinese noodles earlier,  was it a good luck portent?  Erm, no, it was just a f*****g bus after an unexceptional meal.

   Anyhow, I'd timed it well.  Less than half an hour to kick off.  As I wandered through the main gates, the Sky tv people hovered, trying to catch my eye, gagging for someone to ask their inane questions to.  'How do you think the game will go?', 'Are you excited about tonight?' 'Do you think you'll win?'  

   There's only one answer to all of these questions - "Forget about all that.  Richard Madeley, if you're watching, I hope your next dump is a hedgehog."  Not exactly relevant, true, but it would certainly liven up the cliched drivel that passes as football punditry.

   I instead stood by the programme stall until they trapped an unsuspecting woman, and wandered in.  I like the South Lower.  It does have the worst view of the ground, but often that's no bad thing.  But it also has a decent mix of people and ages.  There's generally banter with the odd bit of verbals, rather than constant swearing.  Most of all, though, it's the least populated part of Roots Hall so I can stretch out a bit.

   The ground was filling out nicely.  Blimey, even my section was becoming more and more populated.  Everyone around me was excited.  Me?  Not really.  The anticipation of watching a bit of history play out before my eyes was there.   But excitement was pushing it a bit.  

   I'd seen so much of Southend achieving in the past 10 years that this just seemed to be another chapter to the same story rather than a whole new one.  A couple of cup finals in Cardiff, a play-off final win, a League One title win, beating Man Utd, pulsating contests with Spurs and Chelsea, and all the while the ongoing saga of a chairman who can't afford to get a new ground built or afford to stay at Roots Hall.  

   Tonight would be more of the same.  Engrossing. enduring. at times compelling.  But the excitement of it all had waned.  I was more than happy, however, to be around people who were extremely excited by what awaited us.  The atmosphere pre-match, at least in the South Lower, crackled with anticipation.  One way or another, exciting or not, tonight will be something else.

   As the teams came out, you almost felt as if they were both already at Wembley.  The crowd raised the roof, perhaps more in relief that they were out on the pitch and that their agony of waiting was over.  Now it was simply the agony of getting through 90 minutes.  Or, if nerves weren't shredded enough by then, all the way through to penalties.

   After the kick-off, though, the whole of Roots Hall fell quiet, bar the beat of a drum and the odd chant.  If it was a quiet start on the pitch, it was twice as nervy around the stadium.  So much to win but yet so much to lose.

   Which is exactly what Southend United did after just seven minutes.  Attacking us in the South, Orient put in a cross from the left,  Shaun Batt gets to it, and bang, into the far post corner of the net.  There's two and half thousand supporters from Leyton in the North Bank and at last they make noise worthy of it.

   Ahead early on against a side a division below them, and ravaged by injury and suspension, the tie has swung heavily in favour of the East Londoners.  At least it's a clean, early blow, none of this waiting until the last minute to put us out.  Southend's gallant failure is now just a matter of time.  No ifs or buts about it.

   But ..... for whatever reason, Orient retreat back into their shells.  Sure, they seem more confident on the ball.  Yes, it appears they have more territory and possession.  But Smith hasn't had to make a save worthy of the name.  Southend, whilst not comfortable, are now coping.  The match is poor, which suits the Shrimpers at the moment.

   The crowd have been sucked into the drama of the moment rather than the prospect of what awaits them.  Roots Hall is subdued.  Very little chanting from either set of supporters.  You can see the anguish written all over everyone's faces.  Fear of losing has long since overtaken the prospect of winning.

   Paul Sturrock knows his stuff.  I remember fondly his playing days, putting the likes of the Old Firm and Barcelona to the sword, competing with the Germans in the World Cup Finals.  Vast experience of Football League management.  He knows the formation just ain't working.  Off comes a bewildered Woodyard after only 30 minutes.  Brave, so brave, that move.  On comes Big Bad Barry Corr.  Two up front now.  Let's see what happens.

   For the next half hour, the sum total of nothing does, bar those jailbard Bluebelles strutting their stuff at half time.  Southend have parity with possession now but created nothing.  Orient continued to play with an air of confidence but they own lack of creativity betrays them.  Jesus, this is intense.  And so tense.  Something must give at some point.  The O's appeal for a penalty, more in hope than expectation.  Nothing doing.

   From nothing doing, though, the Orient defence suddenly cracks.  Britt Assombalonga gets to Kevan Hurst's free-kick, it's nodded on and the ball is rammed home with a vengence.  Roots Hall erupts.  The noise is off the hook.  And another Sturrock masterstroke.  Big Bad Barry Corr.  What a substitution.  People of all ages, from 5 to about 75, begin to cheer, shout, scream, dance a little, even cry a bit.  Wembley beckons.

   Leyton Orient are suddenly looking a beaten team.  The players are arguing with each other.  Those passes which found their team mates easily are just going that vital inch or two awry.  You just begin to feel.  This is Southend United's time, it's their turn for a Wembley cup final.  They know.  And so, it seems, do their opponents, as 3 sides of Roots Hall begin to really believe again.

   Oh bollocks.

   We should have known better, really.  20 minutes left.  Cross.  Header.  Smith rooted to his line.  Goal.  Orient take a 2-1 lead on the night.  It's  2-2 on aggregate.  But advantage well and truly with the Brisbane Road outfit.  They have their tails up at a time when Southend bodies, as well as spirits, will be flagging.  With all those first team players out, surely the Shrimpers are on their way out.

   The away side seem to think so.  For the remainder of normal time, Leyton Orient pummel their hosts.  Play seems almost exclusively in the Southend half.  That lad Batt has put himself about all night for the O's.  He bangs in a shot that Smith saves well.  The next one, with five minutes left, crashes off the crossbar.  "Just a matter of time", an octogenrian nearby says mournfully.  "If it's not now, they'll get us in extra time."

   Strangely, I don't share his view.  I look around.  Both sets of fans are still almost paralysed with fear.  But I then look towards the pitch.  I see the Orient players looking upwards, shaking their heads.  They think that was their chance.  

   I think back through the season.  Just how many games have I been to for the radio where there's been last minute equalisers?  I've lost count.  I'm meant to be doing a full time summary for them tonight.  I smile to myself, relaxed, almost confident.  I say back to the senior citizen "Don't worry, there's another Southend goal left in this."  He eyes me doubtfully.  

   Fate, though.  Something you can't change.   As soon as I've uttered those words, as the clock straddles the border between normal and injury time, Kevan Hurst gets the ball on the left, at the byeline.  There doesn't seem any imminent danger.  But a swift turn and low centre across the six yard box changes everything.

   It was Southampton where Paul Sturrock endured possibly his unhappiest managerial experience.  Oh my, how karma works to even life's outrageous fortunes out.  In space, converging on goal, is the player who's been head and shoulders Southend United's best tonight.  Ben Reeves.  On loan.  From Southampton.

   The rest of the ground may be holding their breath but we in the South Lower know.  Trusting the gods of fate, I knew probably about a minute before this moment of all moments.  Reeves.  Goal.  2-2 on the night.  3-2 on aggregate.  Southend United are on their way to Wembley.

   The roofs are blown off by a tumult of sound.  It rumbles around Roots Hall, crashing around everyone, an unbroken wall of sound for a good 30 seconds.  After the celebration, everyone around me either scream or are in tears.  It's finally dawned of them.  It's too much to take in.  Southend United in a cup final at Wembley.  Do we dare to believe it's true?

   I do.  There's a nob-head who's run on the pitch, holding up play.  But for Orient, it's simply delaying the inevitable.  Hands are on their hips, heads down.  And that's just the North Bank.  The full time whistle may not yet have blown, but their time is up.  And they know it.

   Sure enough, the man in yellow blows for full time.  You just have to, don't you.  On the pitch.  You don't intend to, unless you're a kid.  But it's living in the moment, you want to run around somewhere, anywhere, screaming with joy, with relief.  It's football Nirvana.

   I breathlessly shout out a match report for the radio.  I have no idea how much of it made sense, let alone the accuracy of it.  It was just me and the moment.  And then realise, for the first time since I left home, in among thousands of delirious Shrimpers, I've got my Auchinleck Talbot scarf on.  I'd forgotten all about it.  Until tonight, Southend had drawn every game I'd worn this scarf to.  Karma.  It was meant to be.

   I meet Ken on the halfway line.  I can see he's shed a tear or two and his face is a picture of pure joy.  It lifts my own heart seeing someone as happy as that.  All those years of hard yakka watching awful football in awful weather, often supporting an awful team.  Tonight's for you, Ken, and all those who kept with Southend United in the bad times as well as good.

   

   Out come the team, once I've allowed Britt Assombalonga to get past me, into the directors box, and are greeted with mass hysteria.  Paul Sturrock soon arrives.  What a job he's done.  In spite of Ron Martin, in spite of players not being paid, in spite of the High Court visits, in spite of the farce of Fossetts Farm, he's somehow got this club into the play-offs and now to a Wembley cup final.  Extraordinary.

   Eventually, people slowly drift away, clinging onto every moment like a cherished heirloom, something to be passed to the grandchildren in years to come.  And, of course, Ed and Bri are on the pitch, kids in tow, with Eileen behaving by standing on the cinder track.  It still hasn't quite sunk in for them yet.  They still don't believe it.  But yes, Southend United are on their way to Wembley.

   I'm given a lift back to the Bay, and the talk turns excitedly to how much the tickets will be, whether we can get a block booking, because we want to take everyone with us.  Welcome to Dreamland, Southend United, we do hope you enjoy your six week stay of planning and then living the dream.

   Epic.  Absolutely epic.

   Johnstones Paint Trophy, Southern Area Final, 2nd Leg

   Southend United 2,  Leyton Orient 2

   (Southend United win 3-2 on aggregate, and play Crewe Alexandra in the Final.  At Wembley.  At last.)

2012-13 Uncovered: Wednesday 20th February - The Southend Chronicles II; A Shining Diamond Lost In Boots & Laces

  So this was it.  Some people would call it the day of destiny.  With a 7.15pm kick-off, though, the day meant agonising hours for Southend United fans to kill before the agony of 90 minutes later that evening.

   I was having my own internal agonies.  Oh, I'd long since accepted victory and defeat as twin imposters.  Whatever happens, happens, and that's it.  No, mine was different.  Brentwood Town Ladies had a rare midweek home game.  Perhaps it was the only chance I could get to see them this season.

   Then there was the issue of cost.  I had enough in my bank account to get to Tilbury, where the Ladies were playing.  I didn't have enough for a Southend ticket though.  It seemed to be leaning one way.  But then again, money was due to hit my account at any time during the afternoon.  And there was this feeling I'd be missing out on a bit of history one way or the other if I wasn't at Roots Hall tonight.

   With these internal machinations going on I, just like a number of Southend United fans last night, needed to be at another game, but not to forget about what was coming, but to make a choice.  Maybe being at a game will give me the inspiration to choose what game to be at.  Unless I'm not paid.  Then it's definitely a night out with the girls, no questions asked.

   Luckily, there's always something going on somewhere.  Today the Southend United youth side had a League Cup tie against the same team that turned up the last time I ventured over to Boots & Laces, Watford.  I couldn't remember too much other than a mentalist bloke haranguing Rob and a bit of handbags at the end.  This could be a chortle.

   It always underwhelms me, though, when I get to Boots & Laces.  The building looks as if it was 30 years out of date as soon as it was built.  The signs outside look beddraggled and unkempt.  It all gives an impression of a club down on its' uppers.  In reality, a training ground is a training ground, it doesn't matter a monkey's what a set of changing rooms, showers, and weights rooms look like from the outside.

   It puts me in mind, though, being next to the Jones Memorial Ground, of many years ago, on cold, windy pitches that were a mixture of mud and dogshit.  They were next door.  The Boots & Laces ones were pristine.  It was still bastard well cold and windy, though.  Some things never change, even if you do.

   Rob was there again, as was Phil, along with a few old codgers, among them a Millwall season ticket holder back from their 5-1 spanking at home last night.  Against Peterborough.  Ouch.   You know you're in trouble when that happens.

   Talking of trouble, as the game settles down from an early Watford goal, along comes Bilel Moshni.  Bri's in the car, wisely out of the wind with Olly, and already chatted to him.  As he strolls down the side of the pitch, though, nobody else does.  In fact, nobody even acknowledges his existence.  There's a slightly embarrassed silence.

   Well, b*****ks to that.  I know he's been a twat about things, but you tell me who at his age didn't act like a twat about something?  And, let's face it, the agent advising him has played a big part, without getting any flak.  I like the lad.  He makes the effort to see the youths and local non-league football.  And he's here today when he could easily hide

   I break the silence with a terrible thumbs-up and a "Top man" with a winning smile.  I'm like Keith Chegwin on crack.  He says "thank you" with an little grin of his own.  Despite the cheesiness, I can see him visibly relax.  Then again, he might just have seen a spare pair of scissors the physio left on the touchline and thought he was now sorted for Orient later on.

   Half time comes and goes.  My mind is made up.  If I've been paid, it's Roots Hall.  If I haven't, it's Chadfields.  My whole day depends on a balance enquiry at a cashpoint.  That can wait though.  Something else has taken my eye.  And everyone else's.

   The Southend United number 11, Mitchell Pinnock, puts on a display that is, quite simply, the best I've seen in the flesh at any level this season.  He drifts out wide on the left.  The ball is coming towards him.  It's high.

   But he's already looking across the pitch.  Play is all condensed but he's spotted a team mate in a yard of space.  Without even looking at the ball he traps it with his right, then plays a 50 yard cross field pass with his left, right to the feet of his team mate.  Astonishing.

   And so it goes on.  Taking players on, seeing space that others don't realise exist.  Inch perfect passing with both feet.  In-swinging corners from both sides of the field that cause panic and desperate goal-line clearances.  A free kick that smashes off the crossbar.  His brain is two seconds faster than anyone else, his feet also a couple of seconds quicker.

   Then, late on with Southend still chasing the game and their undeserved 0-1 deficit, Pinnock is on the right hand edge of the area, around 10 yards from the bye-line, with his back to goal.  The ball is played towards him.  He turns, stops the ball, steps over it, and somehow shoots all in one movement.  The keeper's beaten but again the woodwork saves Watford.  A moment of pure genius.  Even the Watford players applaud.

   As luck would have it, Watford break away and kill the game off, but the result isn't the talking point.  Not even Bilel being there.  Mitchell Pinnock was the name on everyone's lips.  You could even see it on the wry grins on the faces of the old codgers.

   They'd never dare do anything so namby-pamby as admit to enjoying themselves at the match or, well, anywhere.  But they had that look of someone who been taken back to that golden era, in their own youth, when football really was the beautiful game.   For 45 minutes, though, Mitchell Pinnock had done just that.  To all of us.  He could go a long, long way, that lad.

   I wander off in the cold, having been warmed to seeing a rare diamond at Boots & Laces.  Whatever happens this evening, today I've seen something special.  But now .... Bournemouth Park Road.  North Road.  Sutton Road.  Guildford Road,  Cashpoint.  Bloody hell, why I am so nervous?

   Okay, let's see, balance enquiry.  I wait.  And wait.  For f*** sake machine, hurry u .... Ah.  I take my card back.  And resume my trudge.  It's cold.  It's getting dark.  As I feared, what money was in my account had ruled where I was going tonight.   But for now my trudge took me down another road.

   Victoria Avenue.  Roots Hall.  Ticket.

   History?  Who knows .....

   League Cup:  Southend United Youths 0,  Watford Youths 2

2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 19th February - The Southend Chronicles I; All Manor Of Fogginess

   It was squeaky bum time, as blubbering mediocre manager Steve Bruce once said.  I never take much notice of what he says usually.  After all, he kept whining to the press about being sacked at Sunderland because he was a geordie.  

   Funny that, as Bob Stokoe, black and white to the core of his soul, seemed to not suffer such prejudice.  No Steve, you were sacked because you were shit at your job, and that's why the fans wanted you sacked.  Long winless streaks and, latterly, slipping into the relegation zone, done for Bruce.  And nothing else.

   I'm going off the beaten track because that was what Southend United supporters wanted to do, too.  The night before their second leg with Leyton Orient.  90 minutes from a cup final Wembley, the first in their history, so long as they avoided defeat.  But up against a side a division above them, with a injury rvaged squad.  The Shrimpers, despite being 1-0 up and at home, were still up against.  So close but so far.

   To try to take their minds off it, Southchurch Park Arena obligingly had a game on.  Southend Manor's season continued on its' weary way.  We all know league tables can be misleading, that you can be in a false position - but they don't lie.  

   Manor continued to disappoint.   15th in a 19-strong Essex Senior League.  It's a hefty drop from the heights of last season's runners-up berth.  Just four league wins from 21.  True, they had games in hand on the side immediately above them, Stansted.  But everyone else in the lower and middle sections of the table had played less than them.

   The noises continually coming out were that the team were playing well, really unlucky, etc, etc.  Indeed, I know there's plenty of talent at this level within their squad.  But you can only blame so much on the rub of the green, or if you're Great Wakering Rovers, the ref.  

   Standng in their way this evening were Enfield 1893, perennial title challengers, denied promotion a couple of seasons back through ground grading requirements.  This time around they were 4th but, to all intents and purposes, out of the title race.  13 points behind leaders Burnham Ramblers with just tonight's game in hand. Just pride and 3 inconsequential points at stake for both sides.

   The chap on the makeshift gate was jovial enough to me, in the concrete mess as a new turnstile was in the process of being built.  He informed me, though, that there were no programmes as one Enfield fan bought the lot.  Blimey, he's either got deep pockets, at £2 a pop, or there wasn't a high print run.

   Just before kick-off, Ed and Bri wander in, along with a number of other Southend United supporters trying to keep their minds off tomorrow.  They were somewhat put out though.  They handed their £6 each over, only to be told "One of your lot has bought all the programmes."  

   This guy has taken their money at various times through the season.  They have been coming to the odd Manor game, probably a good half dozen or so, every season for a number of years.  But here they were, being treated like strangers.

   They could have forgiven it, except that a few minutes into the game, after Manor open the scoring, chairman Steve shouts to them "Don't worry, we always let the opposition come back into it, you've still got a chance."  Steve literally stood in front of Bri just before Christmas against Bowers, and sat directly behind Ed at Clapton.  I explained to him they weren't Enfield fans, only to be met with a "What?".  

   Anyway, while this irrelevance was going on, and in between reading the new graffiti written on the stand, from what I could see, Manor were at last determined not to feel sorry for themselves.  They scored early on through Ben Hudson, and proceeded to dominate throughout the entire first half.

   Aaron Baldwin, after about 20 previous attempts, finally doubled the hosts lead about half an hour or so in.  I missed it, of course, because Ed was demonstrating how a four fingered goalkeeping glove works.  My guess of cutting off the thumb was apparently not the way.  Although it would explain Pepe Reina this season.

   Danso soon after made it 3-0 to Southend Manor.  Then it came.  Not gradually, but bang, straight across the entire pitch in a matter of seconds.  Freezing fog.  It was so quick, how it came down, that Ed and I were convinced that there must be a nearby fire.  I've never known fog that thick to come down so quickly.  It was clearly unplayable in the uncleariness.

   With it being so close to half time the ref, who had kindly donated Bri his match programmes, and so by definition had a stonkingly good game up until then, played out the last few minutes of the first half, in the shadow of ghostly figures apparently playing football.  For all we could see they could've been playing with themselves.  In which case it'd be just as well the fog was there.

   We, despite the mist, could see what was coming.  As we came out of the clubhouse, more in hope than expectation of seeing a second half, the ref and linesmen came wandering back down the tunnel towards the changing rooms.  He put a finger across his throat.  Either he was late for a gangland killing or the match was abandoned.

   Behind him was Southend Manor boss Russ.  He was desperately pleading with the ref about the unfairness of the decision.  You had to feel for the guy.  At last, Manor had played really well, and ripped a top 4 side apart, and now had it snatched away without the waiting even for 5 minutes to see if the fog lifted. Russ was proper radge.

   We soon made our way home, after a convivial chat with Tubbsy and JJ amongst others back in the clubhouse.  Along with Russ, Stef, Linda, and a few others, they are club stalwarts, good men, just what every football club needs.  As we departed though, a group of other Manor people, hanging around outside the clubhouse entrance, glared at me, and commented on 'how lucky you are'.  Any sympathy I had for Southend Manor at that point disappeared. 

   Sometimes you get what you deserve.  Southend Manor, as a club and a team, clearly didn't, thanks to the ref.  But some who've attached themselves to Manor - well, as I've said often enough, karma can be a bitch sometimes.

   Tonight, though, guys, you were karma's bitches.

   Southend Manor 3,  Enfield 1893 0  (abandoned after 45 minutes - fog)  

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 16th February - Lost In A Forest Of Kings

   Oh, what a tangled web everyday life weaves.  Despite being paid their rent, and knowing I'm still waiting for the nod from the landlord of my new place before I can leave this particular Bay residence, I'm told I'm being hit with a litigation thingy to forcibly evict me.

   The fact these things take about two months to process, and I should be out of here in less than two weeks anyway, seems to be lost on some.  Legal costs?  There's no way a judge will rule against me in this situation.  Whatever will be, will be, though.

   On the plus side, I had the surreal privilege of sitting in a studio, watching snooker, with arguably the greatest player ever to have drawn breath.  Steve 'Interesting' Davis was there as well.  A good lad.  Loves his music, does a cracking show on a Monday night.

   And, at last, the prospect of earning a few quid rather than relying on my vastly whittled down savings and kindness of others to see my way through.  Happy?  No, more relieved than anything else.  Means I can get to more games again as well.  Result.

   While all this was going on, Brentwood Town had come to a shuddering halt.  Another midweek postponement.  23 games to play.  10 weeks to go.  Starting with another Arena confrontation, this time against Needham Market.  12th in Ryman One North, they are, despite having not won a single home game all season.  Seven away wins, though, mean it'll be a tough afternoon for the hosts.

   With Sky an expensive luxury I could no longer afford, I was out of the door in good time, rather than waiting until the last possible second, being engrossed by St. Mirren v Motherwell or something until that moment.  Just as well.  Fenchurch Street line buggered again.

   No problem.  Sarfend Vic to Shenfield, then on to Brentwood.  I must admit, though, today was a difficult one to go to, and not just the travel bit.  Basildon United were away at Great Wakering Rovers.  It was so tempting to just toddle off to Burroughs Park and do scores only for Phoenix FM area games.

   But my conscience wouldn't allow it.  Which is surprising, as it allows me all manner of other questionable acts without so much as a second's thought or regret.  Christine was so distraught during one of those that she's now in California, desperately seeing if she has the money to get further away from me, the churchyard, and that ping pong ball.

   I digress.  Sometimes, for no reason, you just feel you might be missing out on something by going to something else.  By ten past 2, though, the feeling was reality.  Waiting for the bus from the station to the Arena, I find out that the ref has postponed yet another Brentwood game.  Oh b*****ks.

   Too pricy at Southend United, too far from Great Wakering to get to until well after kick-off now, too awkward to get to Concord or most other places by public transport.  A Saturday afternoon wasted looms.  I check the fixtures.

   Oh yes.  Only a few minutes further down the line at Seven Kings is Waltham Forest v Thamesmead Town.  At £8 a pop and a few extra pennies on the train, I can just about afford it out of the £15 I have to get me through the weekend.  Cricklefield here I come.

   For whatever reason, it's one of my favourite grounds.  I like the way it's hidden away behind some sort of office block.  The shot put and hammer nets behind one goal.  The sandpit and steeplechase water jump behind the other.  The kids gym classes that go on in the clubhouse regardless of the game.  The track, the trees, the whole feel of the place.  It feels like somewhere different, somewhere you want to be.

   Which is why it's such a crying shame for Waltham Forest.  Evicted from their Wadham Lodge home, something I'm gradually knowing the feeling of, they continue to quietly ply their trade in the lower reaches of Ryman One North.  Without a home to call their own, 5th bottom, with no chance of relegation, can almost be seen as a triumph.

   Quietly is what it is, too, though.  By kick-off time, I have counted 23 paying punters, I could also see some more watching from the clubhouse bar.  But it'd take the total crowd to no more than 30..  It must be soul destroying for Forest, especially as there were a few who made the short trip from south of the river, with their side up in 3rd and needing the points to maintain a play-off challenge.

   It's already been one of those days, mind, but now it takes another turn for the surreal.  Kick-off delayed.  The ref decides that the Thamesmead keeper's shiny silver top will clash with the Forest white shirts.  From a distance, he has a good point.  The visitors kick up a right stink.

   Eventually the keeper wears a red bib, moaning that it looks embarrassing.  Well, if he wasn't twattish enough to wear a shirt that looks like the opposition's, he wouldn't feel so embarrassed.  A short while after, they find him a black t-shirt, for which he delays a goal-kick to put on.  So red is embarrassing, but black is fine to hold up play for.  Fair enough.

   In truth it was the only talking point for half an hour.  Lots of swearing, lots of hoofs, but no chances.  Looking around Cricklefield, and its vast expanse of nothingness on the terraces and in the seats, I wondered what the hell I was doing here.  I let the waiting masses on twitter know there's nothing going on, purely to try to tempt fate.

   Sure enough, it livens up as soon as I say how dull it is.  Free kick on the left, looping header just beyond the far post across the goal, and bingo, Waltham Forest take a surprise 1-0 lead.  The surprise is that something's actually happened.

   Soon after that a home player goes down, with the ref not realising just how hurt he obviously is, and waves play on.  When the ball finally goes out of play, he runs over to the stricken man.  But then, taking advantage of the ref having their back to them, all the other players engage in some handbags.  Chortle.

   This is much better now.   One Thamesmead player, who up to that point was having a stinker, loudly confronts the ref and accuses him of telling him to "f*** off."  He didn't.  What he actually said was "Get off out the way".

   Tellingly, no other player backs him up.  Refs sometimes - well usually - don't help themselves, but players really do act like morons so often, I feel more sympathy than most, and perhaps more than I should do, for the men in black.

   In fact, I wish refs could use the same language that players and management routinely use against them.  They deserve it the way the carry on.  In fact, it's a pity refs aren't allowed to use clips around the ear.  That'd shut the f***ers up.

   Half time comes only too soon after that, and probably too soon for the hosts.  Too old and creaky to stand much longer, I take a seat for the second half, and somehow manage not to break it, which considering my ties to Southend United is commendable.  As is Thamesmead's urgency as the second half starts and wears on.

   Forest are on the back foot as the visitors press them back towards their own area.  The only problem for them, however, is that their forward, Staurt Zanone, is having one of those days.  He must be a decent enough player to be at this level, but everything he's doing today goes wrong.  Every pass seems to be misplaced, and every time he gets the ball he miscontrols it.

   I feel for the guy.  He's obviously much better than that, as he shouts to himself in frustration, and gets into that situation where you try too hard to make up for your errors.  It's just not working out for him, or for Thamesmead Town.  Despte their dominance, it looks like Waltham Forest will be taking the points.

   It looks that way until they score.  Inevitably in controversial circumstances.  A corner at the Sandpit End goal, a header across the face of it, and over everyone, looping under the bar.  A Forest defender runs behind everyone and desperately boots it clear.

   The feeling from the crowd (such as it was) in the seats is that it's a goal.  The ref doesn't give it at first, but instead looks to his lino at the far side, the only person who had an unobstructed view.  He's running straight to the centre circle.  1-1.

   The protests are muted.  The keeper has a moan, and the defender who kicked the ball out of the goalmouth is booked for his troubles.  The rest of the team are strangely quiet, either just standing or trudging back to the centre circle while Thamesmead celebrate.  They know it's a goal, in spite of the anger from some Forest supporters stood at the byeline.

   Waltham Forest, though, respond, and all of a sudden it's an excellent game, not exactly end to end, but both sides creating chances.  That Thamesmead keeper gets in on the act again, coming way out of his area, and is almost lobbed from 40 yards, the ball going about two inches wide of the far post.  Going into the last few minutes, you know there's another goal in this.

   And we all know where it's coming.  A harsh free kick, going into injury time, on the edge of the area, more or lest level with the left hand post.  The keeper gets his wall together but there seems to be an air of inevitability about it.   Here it comes.

     

   Yep, 2-1 to Thamesmead Town.  They don't celebrate too wildly, it seems to be more relief than anything else.  Waltham Forest are stunned.  For the third home game in a row (if you can call an official attendance of 29, at Ilford FC, a 'home' game) they have at least a point snatched from them in injury time.  Life's cruel.  But that's life.

   As I quietly make my way out of Cricklefield, those supporters at the byeline are venting their fury still at the equaliser.  To stop any lingering arguments wittering on in the seats during the game, I'd said I'd taken a pic and it was "clearly over the line".  I hadn't, the pic showed it just about to loop in.  Now my bluff was being called.

   Two guys behind me mentioned I'd taken a pic and one middle aged bloke, standing on the track, glowered at me, stating they were stood there and I was sitting in the seats.  Being nearer means sod all when your view is obstructed, as theirs clearly was by players at the near post, but I remember something my Dad said to me.  You can't reason with liars and idiots.

   I'm not sure if this guy was a liar or an idiot, or maybe a mixture of both, but he was clearly angry.  I smiled, which went down well.  Sensing the possibility of a chortlesome wind-up, I commented "It was definitely a goal."  It drew an increasingly annoyed response.

   "So you're saying that was a goal?"
   I smiled again.  "Yes."
   "So I'm standing here and you're sat over there but you can see it and I can't?"
   Yet again that smile.  "Yes."
 
   His face and mood, like the East London skyline, was getting darker by the second.  I said to a couple of other bystanders "He could start an argument in an empty room.  And would still lose."  They chortled, as did I, winding my merry way home.  An unexpected bonus to wind someone up like that is always good for the soul.

   As I travelled home, put out at first but then placated by an afternoon at Cricklefield, word reached me that Basildon United had beaten Great Wakering Rovers 2-1.  I smiled, bring probably the only Rovers season ticket holder delighted with the result.  I felt a pang at missing it, but then I'd have a missed a day out in Seven Kings, lost with the Forest.

   And that is something that should never be lost.  

   Waltham Forest 1,  Thamesmead Town 2

   

   

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 9th February - Suit Shops And Angry Tennis

   There was, of course, a lot of football played midweek, as everyone starts playing catch-up, and occasionally a bit of football.  The rule of thumb, though, is no money, no goey to footbally.  Oh bollocksy.

   That's the way it was in the Bay though.  The curious thing, however, is that with a plethora (and a swallowed dictionary) of football on tv, I rarely watch much.  I did make an exception on Wednesday though.  Or Tuesday.  I can't remember which.  

   While England were battling it out against Brazil, I was glued to Burkina Faso v someone else on ITV4.  Only for Lynsey Hipgrave.  She might be a mag but, bloody hell, she is so do-able.  Well worthy of a two legged affair.  Especially when you get the first leg over with her.

   I digress.  After about a month without any game getting the live radio treatment, Brentwood Town were on at last.  Chipper had never been there either.  To save ourselves the bother of walking through Sarfend town centre, we instead done the Bay-Upminster-Romford-Brentwood ridiculously elongated route.  My laziness knows no bounds.

   I'm glad we did though.  Waiting at Romford for the final connection, a bloke stands next to us.  As the train pulls in, we start to wander to the back of the train, as that's nearest the Brentwood station exits.  The bloke next to us walks alongside and then in front.  We try to walk around him but he waves his arms and blocks our path.  We chortle, increase our pace, and wander either side of him.  He walks even quicker.  He's genuinely treating it as a race.

   We chuckle all the way to Brentwood, then block the stairs to stop him getting past, doing the same when we cross the road to the bus stop.  He's clearly agitated, mumbling to himself.  As the bus pulls in, he jumps to the front of the queue.  He hasn't seen what we have.  Another driver.  They're doing a swap.  Another chortle as he's stopped from getting on.  He stands in the doorway of the bus while they change over, with a number of passengers and driver eyeing him warily.  Brilliant fun.

   We hop on, and as the bus finally chunters on its merry way to the Arena, Chipper looks out of the window and sees a shop front.  Smart formal mens attire.  Nothing untoward with that.  In this day and age, however, it's name is somewhat unfortunate.  I would imagine "Mr. Savile" has experienced a downturn in trade in recent times.  Even from beyond his murky, mucky grave, Jim may still have fixed them.

   After all that chortlesome fun, we were expecting an anti-climax.  Not that it would be Brentwood's fault.  It's just that as far as their opponents go, every Heybridge Swifts match we've been to have been awful.  The goalless draw with Rovers last year is right down there with the worst games we've ever seen.  Probably the very worst.  Other Swifts matches have been similarly bereft of entertainment, bar a supporter kicking a railing when he thought they conceded a late equaliser.

   With that in mind, it was likely that the Bon Jovi karaoke going on as we entered the ground would be the highlight of the day.  It was cold, the away side guaranteed us a poor game, and I didn't have the money for even a chip fork, let alone chippy.  Just a bit of work to get through this afternoon.  A game that makes you appreciate the good ones all the more.

   And for 45 minutes that's all it was.  Brentwood scored early on when I wasn't watching.  And the rest of the half was filled with shouting, swearing, running around in circles, long hopeful punts and misplaced passes.  It wasn't the worst game we'd seen all season.  Just the second worst.  The Heybridge guarantee of being a terrible match when we were there was running true to bad form.

   Which made it all the more fun when it livened up considerbaly.  With a rocket evidently up 11 arses, Swifts took control, then just past the hour, Luke Callender shoots, Richard Wray saves and parries, but only into the path of Solomon Ofori, who taps in.  Twice.  All of a sudden, the second placed team in Ryman One North are showing why.  They're looking good.

   What Chipper and I know about the home side, though, is that they never know when they're beaten.  Back they come, attacking the A12 End goal.  Greg Cohen puts in a corner to the six yard box.  Darren Blewitt heads home.  20 minutes left and game on.  The Swifts Shite Match Promise is out of the window now.

   Both sides have done away with sitting on what they have.  It seems a point would do neither side any good.  I remark to Chipper that there's another goal in this.  At which point Ryan Doyle floats a free kick on the right into the six yard box, where Sam West nods home.  Somehow it's 3-2 to Brentwood when just a short while ago they seemed destined for defeat.  That's what a team set for the play-offs do.  

   Rough justice on the visitors, but then again, any sympathy I might've had had long since been dispelled by my Heybridge media counterpart.  Despite sitting next to us, he'd spent the entire afternoon in blanking mode, talking to those directly in front of him but just staring at Chipper and I.  I hope he enjoyed writing up their undeserved defeat.  Chortle.

   I doubly enjoyed the post-match analysis from one of the Brentwood Town officials.  'I have to win at everything.  So anyway, at the tennis, there was this woman, I took an instant dislike to her.  The coach said 'drop shot' but I smashed the ball at her. She collapsed on the floor.  She was screaming and crying and everything'.  That's what football chat should always be about, anecdotes spiced with petty and irrational hatred.  Superb.

   The win left Brentwood Town still a good 10 points or so from the play-offs.  But, more importantly. the afternoon left Chipper and I with a warm glow.  Sometimes you get great days from the most unlikely of sources. 

   Brilliant.  Just brilliant.

   Brentwood Town 3,  Heybridge Swifts 2

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 2nd February - Odd Shaped Balls And Some Rugby

   Another weekend, another bleak outlook for getting to the game.  East Thurrock United and Billericay Town wiped out.  Brentwood Town away at a place that was two buses, two trains, forty quid, and a number of hours away.  At 11am and with less in my pocket than a Scotsman's sporran, radio coverage was yet again out of the question.

   Other options dissipated as the morning progressed.  Southend Manor, Bowers & Pitsea, Tilbury, all off.  Basildon United's trip to Burnham Ramblers was on at the moment, but a bus and two trains it'd take, with no guarantee it'd still be on by the time I got there.  Southend United, at £21 a pop, was out of my price line.  This wasn't good.  Have to get out somewhere on a Saturday, however cold it was.

   Concord Rangers were at home.  Well, that was a last resort.  Thorney Bay Park was the last resort you'd go to, after all.  But hang on, if they're playing on Canvey Island .... Hmmmm, it's the start of the Six Nations today.  A little look at the rugby fixtures for the Phoenix FM area.  Bingo.  Old Brentwoods are away at Canvey Island.  That'll do.

   Paradoxical as it may seem, rugby union is in the Groyne clan DNA.  A father that made it to England representative level and top class club rugby, a brother than was denied a professional career by a broken leg on his pro debut (and only appearance at that club).  Regular trips to Six Nations and other test matches up until the recent past.  And a multitude of cold Sunday mornings in my teenage years at Godforsaken places like Bancroft.  And, erm, Canvey.

   Yep, Tewkes Creek was one of the least appealing places, out of a number of bleak rugby venues in the county.  Just a bit of grass and some posts by a roadside.  Totally open to the elements.  Whenever I played there, right by that creek and estuary, the wind howled across the pitch.  No wonder I preferred the clubhouse bar to the game itself.

   The sport, however, is something its' round ball companion could learn a great deal from.  For one, the referee is always right whenever he is wrong.  Dissent at a penalty?  Back 10 metres.  You want to carry on?  Off you go, 10 minutes in the sin bin.  Players, unless they're particularly hammy and put a fake blood capsule in their mouth, only go down and stay down when they're really hurt.  If they're only a bit hurt they get up and get on with it.  And amongst the supporters on the touchline, no malice, no menace, no abuse, all mixing together backing their team.

   The only drawback, to my mind, is that it isn't as eye-pleasing as the so-called beautiful game, or rugby league.  Play gets bogged down in forward battles.  A good 'kicking' game is seen as much as a virtue as creativity and try scoring.  Three points for a penalty or drop goal, as opposed to just two and one respectively for it's league counterpart.  I enjoy the game but not as much as the others.  Though I tend to admire the people involved in rugby union that bit more.

   I was fearful of one of those froward dominated games as I arrived.  It was bitterly cold and, as ever, the wind howled in from one set of posts to the other.  Using the wind advantage best would probably be the deciding factor.  There was something riding on this London 3 North East game too.  Old Brentwoods were a lowly eighth out of 12, a bit too close for the relegation zone for comfort.  Canvey Island's position was even more precarious, a place and three points behind their visitors.  Result foremost, performance irrelevant today.  This could be a right barrel of laughs.

   Try as I might, the wind ensured that any attempt at recording a match preview was futile.  It was just a case of sitting on a park bench, suffer the elements, and hope against hope that there was a half decent game to report on.  Wales v Ireland in the clubhouse ensured that only 30 or so hardy souls joined me and the players in this sporting masochism.

   Which made the opening five minutes or so all the more surprising.  Old Brentwoods have a scrum in their own half.  It's delivered quickly out and through the backline.  Lovely bit of running down the right hand touchline and in at the corner.  An excellent move and the visitors 5-0 ahead.  This could be a real good 'un.

   It was a false dawn though.  The Canvey pack, much to the home supporters delight, took a vice like grip on their opposite forwards.  They ground them into the ground, so to speak, shunting them clean off their own put-in on occasions, making hard yards, tying things down, then relying on the healthy turnover of penalties, which were inevitably conceded, to keep the score ticking over.  At half time even my ribs were sore, let alone the Old Brentwoods props.  15-5 to Canvey at half time and thoroughly deserved too.

   The saving grace for the Old B's, if there were any, was that they hand the wind at their backs in the second half.  The Canvey forwards were so dominant, however, that it seemed as if it would be rendered useless by their scarcity of possession.  It had been a less than entertaining first half, and the cold made it feel that much worse.  I couldn't feel my feet and the visitors were struggling to find theirs.  This could be a long second half for one side.

   And so it proved to be.  For Canvey Island.  Old Brentwoods learned from their frist half pummelling up front.  They made sure that the ball stayed with the forwards as lesast as possible, letting the back line run, with the odd kick ahead to gain territory.  Within a quarter of an hour they were level with a couple of decent tries from running moves sweeping across the pitch.  The game had suddenly become absorbing.

   From the sidelines, though, came something very familiar.  The Canvey Island supporters, up until then very happy with proceedings, began to berate the referee for what they saw as wrong decisions.  Out of the ref's earshot, one big lad even swore at him.  Maybe rugby and association football people aren't so different now.  But that lad knew what he was doing.  If the ref had heard him, he would have been sent from the touchline, and play stopped until he had gone.  That would be fun to see at Roots Hall.  It'd take an entire season to finish one game at that rate.

   The game had swung irrevocably and with a quarter of an hour left, the Old Brentwoods full back made a lovely mazy run, finishing just a yard or two from the tryline in the left hand corner.  The ball's recycled quickly and it's a try under the posts.  From 15-5 down, Old Brentwoods were now 22-15 ahead.  The turnaround was as impressive as it had been unlikely at the interval.

   The Canvey pack tried to re-assert their authority.  Another vice like squeeze, another penalty, this time a visiting player sin-binned to boot.  It seemed like game on again.  But soon after, again Old Brentwoods don't dwell on anything, surge forward, and kick a penalty of their own.  They're the ones now believing in themselves.  It's they who have the confidence.  And now, it's they who have the points on the board.

   Canvey Island again go forward with their forwards, as normal time passes into injury time, and the Old Brentwoods tryline gets ever nearer.  But you can see it, almost feel it.  Canvey think they could salvage something.  But, vitally, didn't believe they would.  Old B's think they could and would win now.  The belief is the difference as the defence holds firm.  Eventually the ball is cleared and the ref calls time.

   I finally get to file a radio report of sorts, the wind at last dying down, and head off home, barely able to feel my ankles, let alone feet.  One way or another it had been a great game, against, I suspect, most people's expectations.  And all these players, coaches, and the like, being paid not a penny for their endeavours.  Doing it for the sheer love of the game.  And asking not a penny in admittance.  There's something very, very right with rugby union.

   Despite no football, it had been a great day.  Oh yes.

   Canvey Island 18,  Old Brentwoods 25

    

2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 29th January - Out Of Hibernation

   It had been a long time.  Too long.  But then life itself can seem too long on occasion.  A mix of rain, snow, and frost ensured a virtual wipe-out of football through most of January.  In the meantime, eviction date from the Bay had come and gone, and despite my efforts to get things moving as quickly as possible, the move remained unmoved.  I get the unwelcome feeling in my guts that only litigation brings.

   No matter.  At long last, despite my predicament, despite living on pennies, it was match night tonight.  And as it was Rovers, with season ticket in hand, it more importantly meant no money being spent.  A few hours away from what life was throwing at me outside of the beautidul game.  That'll do nicely.

   Bri and Ed were the companions in crime for the Mystery Machine tonight.  We weren't hopeful of a decent game.  It was far too cold, wet and windy for that.  No, tonight was all about the points.  Great Wakering Rovers needed them far more than tonight's opponents, Bethnal Green United.  Back in East London, though, the evening's visitors had dispatched Rovers quite comfortably 2-0.  Burroughs Park seemed set for an intriguing, if not entertaining, battle.

   Since the last time, things had gone to form elsewhere.  Southend United had duly been dumped out of the FA Cup after having the carrot of a home tie with Chelsea dangled in front of them.  Ross County, improbably, sat in a very comfortable second bottom in the SPL, 11 points from relegation, but 9 points from Europe with two games in hand.  Hearts, despite having no players above the age of 7, were a couple of points and places better off.

   Tonight, meanwhile, saw Rovers three points behind ESL leaders Burnham Ramblers.  Takeley were lurking, with their games in hand.  Bethnal Green, however, had to win tonight, otherwise their own faint title hopes were gone.  I was far more interested, however, in Bri's miners headlamp, which he wore whilst reporting on the game.  Bloody hell, mate, just do what I do, get the scores right and make the rest of it up.  And sometimes I don't even get the scores correct either.

   It's probably just as well Rovers don't let me loose on their media output, mind.  One player in the squad is touchy enough about criticism to actually send e-mails of complaint.  Chortle.  Really, that'd be like shooting fish in a barrel.  I fear he'd get arthritis in his fingers with all the correspondence he'd be typing up after a Groyne take on things, true or not. 

   Anyway, I digress.  As kick-off time approached, Bethnal Green hadn't.  The old chestnut of traffic jams.  Kick off delayed.  Bastards.  Far too cold for this.  Can they not just start without them?  Just like Scotland did in Estonia - and still only drew 0-0.  Bit embarrassing, that scoreline, mind.  For Estonia, of course.

   It did give us time to have a nosey through the all singing, all dancing new quid programme.  All revamped and advertising GWRovers TV, a youtube channel where you can see entire Rovers games.  Bearing in mind most of us didn't even want to see the actual game being played in front of us, I wasn't tempted by their new service.

   Eventually, the visitors turned up and, in their Ivory Coast coloured away kit, turned up on the pitch as well.  They used the elements in their favour well.  It was pretty direct but when you have pace and the wind behind you, it's what you're going to do.  Bethnal Green deservedly went 1-0 up early on, a smart finish from inside the area after a cross on the right, and came mighty close to a second before there was 15 minutes on the clock.  Rovers were in trouble.

   There should have a sense of urgency from the supporters as well as players, to start to get into the game, but people were just too cold, too wet.  It was grim watching, through no fault of the players on the pitch.  We were reduced to talking about the bespectacled lino, who was a ringer from Bronson out of Grange Hill. Either that or how Charles Hawtrey would look like now if he was still alive.

   

   Whilst this was not going on, Rovers at last almost threatened, a free kick causing a bit of kerfuffle in the area and put out eventually for a corner.  I turned round and got back onto the conversation about whether you fancied Mrs. McClusky in Grange Hill or not, me siding with 'she could teach you far more than the 3 r's'  camp.  As I did so, of course, Rovers equalised.  I saw the Rovers players turning away in delight and two Bethnal Green defenders on their arse, moaning at each other.  Chortle.

   That was it really.  You knew the game was up for Bethnal Green.  They started the second half well, but the first time Rovers attacked after the break, they scored, via the post.  When your luck's out, it's out.  The game was forgettable, so much so that I know Rovers scored again, but within about 10 seconds of it being scored I'd forgotten how.

   The match finished late, and as soon as the final whistle blew, it had been consigned both to and from the memory bank.  The result had been all important and Rovers got what they wanted.  As Jim walked by, he praised the Bethnal Green side but said their talking into the ref's ear throughout was 'disgraceful'.  Seeing as the host side's player-manager had been up to his usual antics of shouting aggressively at the ref at some decisions he perceived as being wrong, it was at best ironic.

   Level on points with Burnham Ramblers at the top of the ESL now, though.  A team that Rovers apparently are certainly not worried about.  So much so that the programme editor and Trenks insisted in print that they weren't bothered at all by them or what they said on twitter.  Yeah, rightio, they certainly haven't got under Rovers skin.  Chortle.

   We were soon back to warming comfort of the Mystery Machine, replete with sick bowl.  When we got back to the Bay, I took my severely creased and folded programme out of my coat pocket to get at my door keys.  Bri and Ed looked on aghast.  A creased programme was akin to holding a house party with a Mr. and Mrs. West and a Mr. Fritzel.  With a Dr. Shipman on hand for any first aid.  Their faces betrayed their shock.  Chortle.  Yet again.

   Terrible game, cold and freezing, and willful homocide of a programme.  It's good to be back.

   Great Wakering Rovers 3,  Bethnal Green United 1