2012-13 Uncovered: Friday 29th March; Damn Good Friday I - Groundhoppers And Grit

  And so, at long last, the Bay becomes the Cliff.  Sea views, right next to the station, that'll do me.  The drunks hanging around and the petty crime I'm sure I'll get used to, especially in view of the money I'm saving moving here.

   With the move, and going full time at Phoenix FM, it meant no football or Super League for 20 days.  The continual snow and postponements didn't help much either.  But still.  20 days.  Far, far too long.
 

It all ends today though.  With a bang.  Well, probably not, I'm past caring about having one of them.  But Good Friday is going to be a bloody good one.  Bri, Ed and I have been planning, looking forward to, and saving up for this one since the fixtures came out last June.  A triple header.  Oh yes.

   As soon as we knew Southend were away at Bradford on Good Friday afternoon again, we were at it.  Later in the season, it all fitted nicely into place.  In the evening, another fierce local Super League derby as Castleford meet Wakefield at the Jungle.

   But before that, Northern Counties East League obligingly arranged an 11am start.  Glasshoughton Welfare v Nostell Miners Welfare.  It had to be done.

 

We were joined this year by football royalty.  Jo is quite simply a dream woman.  Knows her football back to front.  Well up for some Super League.  And loves Irn Bru.  That's all anyone needs to be the personification of perfection.

   Either that or I have simple tastes.  But I'm sure I don't.  Much.  Anyhow, Jo's Dad was game for the trip too.  We all, of course, insisted on calling him Dad throughout the day.  He added some much needed maturity in a Mystery Machine otherwise populated by four grown up juveniles.

   The first thing we realised as we excitedly headed up the A1.  Or M1.  I forget.  Anyway, where was I?  Oh yes, we all realised we were now actually too old to be up this early for such a long day.  The mind's willing, but the body's bloody knackered by the time we get to the ground, in the environs of Castleford.  At this point, a few hours kip in the car is a much more inviting prospect.

 

Too late though, in we go.  Along with hundreds of others.  The trainspotters of the footballing world, groundhoppers, have descended for the first of their 762 stadiums they're visiting over the weekend.  I like them being around.  One, because they make me look human.  And two, because they look like failed audition actors for the lead role in the 'act fast' stroke advert.

   Inside the ground, they descended on the badge stalls like flies around Jordan.  Programmes were snapped up and put into plastic sheets.  And then, of course, they talked loudly of who wasn't there and why ... "Septic Eric is at Bristol Rovers reserves today before hot footing it to the Wells dysentery memorial derby "

   People rip the piss out of them all the time.  Me included.  And I really shouldn't as I'm similar to them, just not as into the going to grounds thing.  But they're harming nobody.  They bring in thousands of pounds to non-league clubs that need it most.  And they are almost always friendly and chatty, despite their oddity.  Groundhoppers, I salute you, right down to your carrier bag.

 

Anyway, when the rush for badges had died down, I decided on a couple of badges myself.  Grimethorpe because it had the most depressing name of a place I've ever heard.  And Wigtown because it's a bloody stupid name.  I really haven't got the hang of this badge collecting lark either.  Chortle.

   Both teams were struggling near the foot of Northern Counties East League Premier Division, but not quite enough to be in serious relegation trouble.  Pride instead was at stake in front of over 300 paying punters, around seven times more than their average crowd.

   We stood in the covered end, not trusting the snow showers that may or may not happen.  Someone who was trusted, unusually, was the ref.  He was letting tackles go that would result in squealing, shrieking and handbags in the Essex Senior League.  As a consequence, the players got on with it and got stuck in.  It was bloody brilliant.  Just as football should be and used to be.

 

 The only time I heard a player swear was when he was hurt.  And that by a tackle so late you could only measure the time it took to arrive by how much the wind had eroded the stone in your hand.  Even then, the ref just gave the culprit a bit of a talking to.

   Both teams accepted this too.  This is obviously the way they play it in the NCEL.  How I'd love to see Rovers play in that league.  That'd sort the prima donnas out.

   Attacking and defending was rudimentary.  Just crowding the penalty area and seeing what happens.  It was just like the SPL then.  And Stoke.  It led to some desperate scrambles.  And a desperate miss.  A home striker, less than a foot out, in front of goal, puts it wide.

 

Left with no hiding place, he done the same as we all would do.  Appeal that he was fouled even though nobody touched him.  Chortle.  Yep, mate, been there, done that.

   Glasshoughton Welfare took the lead in the second half with what was probably a well taken goal but I was too busy talking to a groundhopper who was asking me if I'd been to the Dripping Pan.  All I'd said was I'd been referred to a urologist about it but until then have to tie a knot in it.

   They then had a penalty late on to secure the three points, but fair play to the Nostell Miners Welfare keeper, he made a decent save.

 

   As the match was drifting to a conclusion, we spotted the phalanx of spotters drifting out.  We were going to be stuck in that car park for ages.  Except no.  Bri had already gone, narrowly missing the ball from a wayward visiting shot out of the ground in the process.  We would be okay.

 

As I contemplated what being in a traffic jam surrounded by 300 anoraks and kagouls would've been like, (my first thought was 'don't light a match, the friction from the nylon would blow the place up') Glasshoughton scored again.  Did I see it?  Don't be stupid.

   We were cold, we were tired.  But inside, we were warmed by being taken back to a time when football really was football.  A bloody brilliant start to Damn Good Friday.

   Oh yes.

   Glasshoughton Welfare 2,  Nostell Miners Welfare 0  (probably)

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 9th March - Saturday Night's Alright For Fighting

   A sure sign that the football season is coming to an end.  The friendlier, more fun, and cheaper Super League is back today - or in this case the evening.  The London Broncos, somehow, were deemed suitably attractive to have the Sky cameras around as they took on a side from one of Britain's grimmest cities.

   Hull Kingston Rovers were descending on the Stoop again, but after that 90 point thriller on the last day of the 2012 season, the possibility was strong that from such grime would spring forth a cracker.  Chipper and I hoped so as we took in the late winter coldness wandering down Oxford Street in the afternoon.  

   The Super League had, in fact, been back for a month, but lack of money, the perennial problem, had kept us absent.  It might be cheap to get in, £25 in total for the two of us, but with the train fare and all the bits and pieces that go with it, I have to pick and choose. 

   It may seem odd to therefore pick a game live on tv.  But, I can say with hand on heart, it never has been a consideration ever.  If I've had the spare time, the inclination, and the money, I'll go.  If I haven't, I won't.  Whether or not it's televised is irrelevant.  Just a bonus if something's on I can't get to, no more, no less.

   A day - or at least a night - out at the Broncos with Chipper is a world apart from football.  Regardless of the result, it's just a damn good time out.  Everyone, supporters and players, seem to have the right attitude of wanting to win, going all-out to, but it not being life and death.  No sobbing to the media about the ref.  You win, you lose, you play.

 

I therefore try to go without, to make sure we get along to whatever Super League or Challenge Cup games we can. So this week I was on economy line noodles and instant mash for the week.  And on the toilet for the next month or so afterwards.  Which means economy line toilet roll.  So probably best not to shake my hand for a long while afterwards too.

   Anyway, hand stains aside, the Broncos had started the season completely inverse to the end of the last one.  When they'd last played the Robins they'd ended up winning 4 out of their last 5.  2013 had overseen 4 out of 5 defeats.  All that optimism Tony Rea had built up had dissipated.  Again.

   Things weren't quite as bad as they seemed though.  3 of the defeats were to teams expected to be well up into the title mix.  The other was to a side being thrown money at it.  The only side they were expected to compete for positions with, Salford, they'd hammered last week.  They'd also given Wigan a bit of a scare up at the DW Stadium too in the first half.  The Broncos weren't quite as bad as it looked.

   

As for the Robins, same old same old really.  In a bottom six position but capable of beating the best when they felt like it.  A decent away support and you have to feel sorry for a place that spawned John Prescott and the bloke who earned his money sticking his fist up Basil Brush's arse.

   The train fare and paying for tickets had almost cleaned me out but thankfully the chippy by Twickenham station gave huge portions at knock-down prices, so Chipper was fed and watered regally.  Providing the Queen likes chip butties and a can of 7Up.  Wandering to the ground, it was evident that a few Hull KR lads had spent the day drinking in London.  Loud and incoherent.  Or perhaps it was Eddie & Stevo.

 

When we got to the club shop, hurrah, they're giving stuff away.  Foam hands.  That is so 1978.  I'm not sure if the club are being ironically retro or seriously out of touch but hey, we have to take some and proceed to piss around with them.  I doubt the Sky cameras will focus on people giving a large one finger salute, which is a bonus.

   We get to our seats, and soon after kick-off the Hull KR drunks turn up.  But they've made a serious error.  They've had that one or two too many, and crossed from loud and drunk to aggressive and abusive.  They don't realise it.  But the stewards do.  I'd seen these lads in action last year when a few gobby Salford fans were put in their place.  Sod the rugby, this is going to be some spectacle.

 

 The stewards wander over and try to calm the lads down.  They're not threatening anyone, just being arses and spoiling it for people round them, and they're asked to just quieten it down a bit.  One of them takes exception.  He looks like he failed the auditions for the Chuckle Brothers so is hardly likely to intimidate.  He makes the mistake, however, of swearing and trying to whack one of the pink hi-viz jacketed stewards.

    Pop, pop, pop.  The response from the stewards is as impressive as it is quick.  The drunk is staggered, not by the alcohol, not even by the speed and strength of the clips to him, but the shock of a steward actually doing their job and not taking any nonsense.  His mates immediately become placatory, holding hands up, sitting down, nodding as the stewards tell them what's expected of them.  In pink.  Chortle.

 

Soon after, the drunk gets out of his seat, and calmly strolls to the steward in front of Chipper and I.  He puts his arm around him and apologises.  The steward asks him if he always gets this pissed at the rugby.  His reply?  "I'm not drunk.  I just like a fight."  Perhaps the best thing I've ever heard said to a steward.  Multiple chortling.

   It's a whole lot better than what's happening on the field.  By half time Broncos are being thrashed 6-30.  High kicks were being allowed to bounce and be pounced upon.  Michael Witt, having temporarily got his side back into the game at one point, in the next minute throws to ball straight to a Robins player for a giveaway try.  London are a shambles, knocking on and being forced into touch regularly, a pale imitation of the side that ended 2012 so brightly, or even of last week.

 

It's a comforting place for Chipper and I.  We don't embrace defeat or ineptitude, but we are familiar with their work.  We also know Tony Rea will have them all guns blazing in the second half.  With nothing now to lose, there seems, oddly, to be that more hope than if they were just a few points down.  This could be a cracker.

   As sure as night follows day, under the darkened Twickenham skies, the Broncos storm back into it.  They force a couple of goal line drop-outs, gain a penalty, and Kieran Dixon, the Broncos one player that would get into any other Super League side, darts into the corner.  Suddenly the Stoop is alive again.

   Just as suddenly, the errors aren't coming from the Broncos but from everyone else.  Big error by the Rovers full back, dropping the ball like that.  Chris Bailey grabs it but is held up crashing over the try-line.  It goes to the video ref who inevitably will give no try.  Unbelievably, a try is given.  The Hull KR fans around us are rightly angry.  There was no way Bailey scored.  Except he has now.  18-30.  Game on.

 

The only thing is, of course, is that this is London Broncos we're talking about.  After their brief spell of inspiring rugby, they revert to making arses of themselves.  A couple more Hull KR tries send the visitors  home happy, even if Dan Sarginson has the final say.

   We do get something out of the evening though.  That brief moment, when from total shite came hope, maybe even belief, that another remarkable turnaround was on.  The adrenaline that coursed through the veins at the time was intoxicating.  And, of course, stewards dressed in pink punching a drunk.  Unrivalled entertainment.

   As we made our way home, mingling totally unfettered with the Hull KR supporters, the night, and London, was their oyster.  Despite the defeat, despite the lack of money, somehow Chipper and I had smiles on our faces courtesy of London Broncos.  Sometimes, it seems anything is possible.  And if Simon Cowell ever stops being a c***, then anything is.

   But he won't.  The c****.

   London Broncos 22,  Hull Kingston Rovers 42

   

   

   

   

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 2nd March - Finders No Keepers At Rovers

   It was supposed to be the last vestiges of winter but quite frankly it felt like a typically freezing early January day.  The clouds were low and gloomy, a bit like Warwick Davies crossing India with Karl Pilkington.  The cold bit through you like Luis Suarez.  Yet again, another day for the die-hards and the loons.

   I was definitely in the latter.  I couldn't give a toss who won at Burroughs Park.  It was cheaper than faltering Southend United's Roots Hall thriller with Rotherham.  It was simply an afternoon at the match.  Which is better than the lunchtime offering Hearts served up.  The weather seemed to dovetail nicely with the mood at Tynecastle, the Jambos stuggling in the bottom three of the SPL and perilously close to extinction.

   It was in this cheery frame of mind that I wandered off for the number 4 bus to Burroughs Park.  Rovers, though, had struggles of their own.  Second in the ESL sounds decent enough, with the possibility of promotion back to the Ryman League in a runners-up place.  

   All was not well though.  Good runs were interspersed by damaging defeats.  The last five results were a case in point.  A couple of thumping five goal wins had been preceded by an inexplicable return of just one point out of nine from sides either struggling or in a poor vein of form.  It was killing their title hopes.  Trenks was finding out the hard way how tough this management lark can be.

   

Standing in their way this afternoon was a London Apsa side competitive but hamstrung by inconsistency.  They could beat any side in the ESL on their day but those days were few and far between.  They travelled perhaps more in the hope that the home side would have another off-day than expectation they would play Rovers off the park.

   As the brave souls huddled for some warmth it was fairly clear Rovers had turned up.  As I wander into the ground, wisely deciding on taking a later bus and missing the first five minutes or so to stay in the warmth for another half hour, a ball goes into the Apsa box and Ashley Hawkins bundles it in.

   Play generally is centred in and around the Apsa penalty area.  Rovers have their tails up.  It's bastard cold.  In this situation I don't blame the visitors for not looking too bright.  It takes me back decades, times where it was pissing down, we were getting clobbered, and thinking "Why the f*** do I bother?".  On days like this you know you're luck's out and that you have to just put up with a miserable day.

   

Your luck's pretty much out in these circumstances too.  An Apsa defender passes back to the keeper just after the half hour.  Trenks cuts down his angle as the ball reaches him.  He, like the rest of us, isn't expecting anything other than a kick upfield.  Simply trying to get him to slice his kick.

   He does better than that.  The kick is firm and straight.  Right into Trenks.  From the seats, it looks like the mid-riff.  It canons into the back of the net.  2-0.  The goalie is incandescent with rage, claiming handball.  Whether it was or not, the lino has the same view we did, correctly staying level with the last defender.  

   From the lino's view it looks like it came off the body.  It's all he can give.  The keeper starts to swear.  Chortle.  Trenks runs towards us for a subsequent throw-in, grinning.  "Was it handball, Trenks?", I ask.  

   His  reply was "It came off my elbow, as I was tucking in my arms to protect my body from his kick."  You could argue it was ball to hand (or elbow) rather than hand to ball.  Certainly no intent.  But, for Apsa, if your luck's out, it's out.

   The game meanders it's way through the cold, overcast day.  By early second half it's still 2-0 but Apsa are belatedly making a game of it.  A couple of near misses.  But then a slice of luck.  Courtesy this time of the host keeper.

   Louis comes out of his area, well outside, to clear a ball.  Did he really need to?  Whether he did or not, he's decided to.  That's what you want from a keeper, decisiveness.  You also want him to make sure he doesn't make an arse of his clearances though.

   This time, however, his kick goes straight to the grateful feet of an Apsa forward, who has the simple task of lobbing into an empty, unguarded net.  From a match drifting off into a comfortable win it's suddenly game on.  Both keepers will reflect on having had better days but at least it's made a dull afternoon much more fun.

   It seems to wake up Rovers, though.  Pressure resumes on the visitors penalty area.  It's quickly 3-1, then in the dying embers of the game, Ashley Hawkins gets a chance to double his goal tally from the penalty spot.

   

 

   In the end, a decent afternoon's entertainment on a bitterly cold day.  I'm thankful to both keepers for livening things up, though I doubt the management of either side share my view.  For Rovers, another 3 points on a bid to secure second place, with Burnham Ramblers almost out of sight at the top. For Apsa, just another game nearer the end of the season, nothing more, nothing less.

   I get home to find County have failed to win yet another derby and Sunderland continue to struggle.  With untold riches in the self obsessed world of the Premier League next season, I wonder how long it is before a manager and person as decent as Martin O'Neill, surrounded by prima-donna millionaires nowhere near as good as him in his playing days, is given the chop.  Days rather than months of years is my guess.

   I also wonder what the hell I was doing freezing my nads off for almost a nothing game this afternoon.  But then I think back to those keepers and grin.  Football is a cruel game.  But not if you've given up playing and instead watching others make the same mistakes you did.

   And on that note, chortle.

   Great Wakering Rovers 4,  London Apsa 1