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)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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)
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