After all the fun and history of Wednesday night at the Hall, the intervening period was altogether more easy going. The normal scarcity of funds meant weekend choices were limited. The freezing weather, however, ensured that Joe wisely decided he'd rather spend the weekend at the Bay indoors and warm.
Ironic, really, as today was feeling cold, and the temperature dropping, as I rattled through the drive show. Brentwood Town were playing Grays Athletic in a game that now meant little to the hosts. I explained to Joe how cold it will be, and how dull the game will probably turn out. He wanted to go, though. So that was it. Game on.
Waiting at Brentwood station for the bus, in the gloom, a welcome figure came into the view. That nutter who saw getting onto the train at Romford as an Olympic event came into view. And wandered right to the head of the queue. He looked agitated though and, lo and behold, asked for our help. Obviously saw us as fellow athletes.
It may sound like anathema to the committed football fan, but that's the way it's always been. 10 or so years ago, we had a cracking morning and lunchtime on the beach at Southend, in unusually warm conditions. Later that afternoon, at the Hall, it had turned sharply cold, and Southend v Rochdale was dire. 10 minutes into the second half we simply went home, deciding not to have our day spoilt.
Ironic, really, as today was feeling cold, and the temperature dropping, as I rattled through the drive show. Brentwood Town were playing Grays Athletic in a game that now meant little to the hosts. I explained to Joe how cold it will be, and how dull the game will probably turn out. He wanted to go, though. So that was it. Game on.
It had been, however, game over for Brentwood Town. Three away games in four days, three arse kickings, meant that even their vast number of games still in hand were more or less irrelevant, unless the top five, and a few others above them, collapsed spectacularly.
One of those top five were the visitors. Grays Athletic were in second, 13 points behind perennial Ryman 1 North leaders Maldon & Tiptree, but having played three games fewer. They were hitting the pages off the pitch, however, with the revelation that their chief exec was up in court for organising football hooliganism between West Ham and Millwall followers. Somehow, nobody is surprised by this, bearing in mind that ruck at Tilbury v Grays on New Years Day two or three years ago.
Waiting at Brentwood station for the bus, in the gloom, a welcome figure came into the view. That nutter who saw getting onto the train at Romford as an Olympic event came into view. And wandered right to the head of the queue. He looked agitated though and, lo and behold, asked for our help. Obviously saw us as fellow athletes.
With Joe digging into his chips, we were of little help, but it's nice when a competitor acknowledges a rival. Chortle. Only regular chips, mind. £3.10 for large chips? £1.50 for a small sausage? F**k off. No wonder there were no queues at that chippy, right next to the bus stop, despite it being peak time for trade. Robbing gits.
Anyway, despite the cold, we were cheered by a tweet during the afternoon from one of the Brentwood players. Confirming that there would be at least one two-footed tackle going in tonight, and that his head was gone. Bloody hell. What is it about twitter and football players? Are they really that stu .... well, that's a stupid question in itself, of course they bloody are.
We get there early and take up our press box seats, The view? Well, it's changed. Forget about the wooden posts and wire mesh gate to peer at the game through. Tonight was the piece de irresistible. A new players tunnel. Completely blocking the left hand side of the pitch looking towards the goal with the settee behind it.
I guess if I took football seriously I'd have complained. But I don't, so Joe and I chortle. Which seems not to go down to well with the Thurrock Gazette man. Just like the lad from Heybridge Swifts, he sees us in the press box, and fails to even acknowledge our presence, let alone talk to us. Although he may have sensed a flood of Rick Astley wisecracks coming his way, judging by his awful attempt to copy Beckham's quiff. Still sad, though, to find the occasional media people at this level so aloof and unsociable.
I feared, with the cold temperatures, and that cold lack of exchange, that the game would be similarly unappetising. I feared that the view of the tunnel would possibly be the best part of the game. Something different happened, mind. Something almost unbelievable. For the first time in about 763 years at a game, I was right. It was awful to watch.
Grays came with a game plan to kick the ball as high and as far as possible and hope their pacy forwards could get on the end of it. Brentwood, shorn of confidence, simply tried to compete and get a foothold on the game. Attritional was a kind way to describe it. Shite possibly more accurate.
Curiously enough, though, I didn't blame either side. It was bloody cold, the home team had virtually no self belief, and the away team were doing what away teams should do, get a result by whatever means necessary, with the responsibility to entertain the home supporters lying solely on the shoulder of the hosts. Just one of the nights. Nobody's fault but it was going to be a stinker. My, was I glad of that players tunnel now.
Brentwood had their chances, including an open goal, but shots were clearing the bar with monotonous regularity. Both teams had a goal chalked out for offside, but with the ref having blown way before the ball was in the back of the net. Lots of huffing and puffing, but no end product. Until right before half time, when Jack West tapped home after Richard Wray's save meant the ball felt obligingly in front of him from about five yards out.
As the game chuntered wearily on, something remarkable happened. A man neither of us had seen in the ground all night, wandered by, with just a minute or two left. He had less hair than me, but had decided to grow what he had long. Glasses by Elvis Costello Seconds. Brown jacket and trousers. Man bag. It was a throwback to the groundhoppers and trainspotters of the 80's. Tesco carrier bags must have fallen out of fashion though.
It was the walk, though. It was a cross between John Cleese and Oscar Pistorius. What made it all the more noticable, if that wasn't enough, was that he had arms at his side, not moving at all. If I hadn't seen his sandals moving I'd have sworn he was on a hoverboard. Perhaps he also had a flux capacitor in his bag.
We scuttled off, the match thankfully over, pleased we had at least salvaged something from the evening with a demonstration of the Brentwood Shake. No buses back to the station, though, and the mist came down so heavily it felt almost like rain. This was going to be a long two mile trudge for Joe and I.
Or so we thought. As we approached the High Street, we started chortling about the Walking Man. Then, out of the corner of my eye, there it was. That unmistakable brown jacket and unkempt hair. We;d caught up with the Walking Man. We watched, in awe, as he walked, a bit like a slow motion Benny Hill chase.
Then came the crowning moment. He approached the junction of a road, stopped, then for whatever reason bowed like a Japanese trade delegation. This was too bizarre and fun for words. We chuckled and wandered on. As if to complete the surreality of it all, we paused to take breath from our giggling, only to see in front of us a bead shop. Yes, a bead shop. Why, just why?
We made our way home, somehow satisfied. We'd spent half the game staring at a players tunnel. Ross County had forced their way into the Champions League reckoning. Edgar Davids had scored against Southend. And we had seen the Brentwood Shake performed by a retro trainspotter.
One way or another, it had been another good night out at the football. Oh yes.
Brentwood Town 0, Grays Athletic 1
