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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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