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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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
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