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

   

   

2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 26th February - Graysing In The Fun Of Mediocrity

   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.

   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 

2012-13 Uncovered: Wednesday 20th February - The Southend Chronicles III; Nirvana

   It's been a long time for Southend United.  Never been to Wembley for a cup final.  Apart from the comps they get from the FA every year.  83 years years since their only visit to what was then the Twin Towers.  An inauspicious 3-1 league defeat against a side using Wembley as a temporary home until ground improvements at their own place had been completed.

   Some would say the improvements still hadn't been finished, judging by the flimsy seats Southend fans encountered a couple of weeks ago.  Yep, the team who had beaten them at Wembley in their only appearance 83 years ago, now stood in their way from a long, long, long awaited return.  

   They may be the Leyton version rather than Clapton, but Orient could heap more misery on Southend's Wembley woes by stopping their bid for a first ever cup final appearance there.  One way or another, this was history in the making.  

   After getting that ticket in the South Lower, time hung heavy in the air.  In the distance, Victoria station briefly echoed to some Orient fans that had evidently drank a bit too much already.  The Plod, though, were already waiting for them.  Their visit to Southend would either be a short one or would involve holding cells only.

   In the end, I went home.  I had no need to, it was just something to do to keep out of the pub, killing some time.  Back to the Bay, a shower, fresh clothes, and back into the fresh, cold wind.  Almost an ill wind.   To counteract that, though, I was on the number 8 bus back to Roots Hall.  Having had Chinese noodles earlier,  was it a good luck portent?  Erm, no, it was just a f*****g bus after an unexceptional meal.

   Anyhow, I'd timed it well.  Less than half an hour to kick off.  As I wandered through the main gates, the Sky tv people hovered, trying to catch my eye, gagging for someone to ask their inane questions to.  'How do you think the game will go?', 'Are you excited about tonight?' 'Do you think you'll win?'  

   There's only one answer to all of these questions - "Forget about all that.  Richard Madeley, if you're watching, I hope your next dump is a hedgehog."  Not exactly relevant, true, but it would certainly liven up the cliched drivel that passes as football punditry.

   I instead stood by the programme stall until they trapped an unsuspecting woman, and wandered in.  I like the South Lower.  It does have the worst view of the ground, but often that's no bad thing.  But it also has a decent mix of people and ages.  There's generally banter with the odd bit of verbals, rather than constant swearing.  Most of all, though, it's the least populated part of Roots Hall so I can stretch out a bit.

   The ground was filling out nicely.  Blimey, even my section was becoming more and more populated.  Everyone around me was excited.  Me?  Not really.  The anticipation of watching a bit of history play out before my eyes was there.   But excitement was pushing it a bit.  

   I'd seen so much of Southend achieving in the past 10 years that this just seemed to be another chapter to the same story rather than a whole new one.  A couple of cup finals in Cardiff, a play-off final win, a League One title win, beating Man Utd, pulsating contests with Spurs and Chelsea, and all the while the ongoing saga of a chairman who can't afford to get a new ground built or afford to stay at Roots Hall.  

   Tonight would be more of the same.  Engrossing. enduring. at times compelling.  But the excitement of it all had waned.  I was more than happy, however, to be around people who were extremely excited by what awaited us.  The atmosphere pre-match, at least in the South Lower, crackled with anticipation.  One way or another, exciting or not, tonight will be something else.

   As the teams came out, you almost felt as if they were both already at Wembley.  The crowd raised the roof, perhaps more in relief that they were out on the pitch and that their agony of waiting was over.  Now it was simply the agony of getting through 90 minutes.  Or, if nerves weren't shredded enough by then, all the way through to penalties.

   After the kick-off, though, the whole of Roots Hall fell quiet, bar the beat of a drum and the odd chant.  If it was a quiet start on the pitch, it was twice as nervy around the stadium.  So much to win but yet so much to lose.

   Which is exactly what Southend United did after just seven minutes.  Attacking us in the South, Orient put in a cross from the left,  Shaun Batt gets to it, and bang, into the far post corner of the net.  There's two and half thousand supporters from Leyton in the North Bank and at last they make noise worthy of it.

   Ahead early on against a side a division below them, and ravaged by injury and suspension, the tie has swung heavily in favour of the East Londoners.  At least it's a clean, early blow, none of this waiting until the last minute to put us out.  Southend's gallant failure is now just a matter of time.  No ifs or buts about it.

   But ..... for whatever reason, Orient retreat back into their shells.  Sure, they seem more confident on the ball.  Yes, it appears they have more territory and possession.  But Smith hasn't had to make a save worthy of the name.  Southend, whilst not comfortable, are now coping.  The match is poor, which suits the Shrimpers at the moment.

   The crowd have been sucked into the drama of the moment rather than the prospect of what awaits them.  Roots Hall is subdued.  Very little chanting from either set of supporters.  You can see the anguish written all over everyone's faces.  Fear of losing has long since overtaken the prospect of winning.

   Paul Sturrock knows his stuff.  I remember fondly his playing days, putting the likes of the Old Firm and Barcelona to the sword, competing with the Germans in the World Cup Finals.  Vast experience of Football League management.  He knows the formation just ain't working.  Off comes a bewildered Woodyard after only 30 minutes.  Brave, so brave, that move.  On comes Big Bad Barry Corr.  Two up front now.  Let's see what happens.

   For the next half hour, the sum total of nothing does, bar those jailbard Bluebelles strutting their stuff at half time.  Southend have parity with possession now but created nothing.  Orient continued to play with an air of confidence but they own lack of creativity betrays them.  Jesus, this is intense.  And so tense.  Something must give at some point.  The O's appeal for a penalty, more in hope than expectation.  Nothing doing.

   From nothing doing, though, the Orient defence suddenly cracks.  Britt Assombalonga gets to Kevan Hurst's free-kick, it's nodded on and the ball is rammed home with a vengence.  Roots Hall erupts.  The noise is off the hook.  And another Sturrock masterstroke.  Big Bad Barry Corr.  What a substitution.  People of all ages, from 5 to about 75, begin to cheer, shout, scream, dance a little, even cry a bit.  Wembley beckons.

   Leyton Orient are suddenly looking a beaten team.  The players are arguing with each other.  Those passes which found their team mates easily are just going that vital inch or two awry.  You just begin to feel.  This is Southend United's time, it's their turn for a Wembley cup final.  They know.  And so, it seems, do their opponents, as 3 sides of Roots Hall begin to really believe again.

   Oh bollocks.

   We should have known better, really.  20 minutes left.  Cross.  Header.  Smith rooted to his line.  Goal.  Orient take a 2-1 lead on the night.  It's  2-2 on aggregate.  But advantage well and truly with the Brisbane Road outfit.  They have their tails up at a time when Southend bodies, as well as spirits, will be flagging.  With all those first team players out, surely the Shrimpers are on their way out.

   The away side seem to think so.  For the remainder of normal time, Leyton Orient pummel their hosts.  Play seems almost exclusively in the Southend half.  That lad Batt has put himself about all night for the O's.  He bangs in a shot that Smith saves well.  The next one, with five minutes left, crashes off the crossbar.  "Just a matter of time", an octogenrian nearby says mournfully.  "If it's not now, they'll get us in extra time."

   Strangely, I don't share his view.  I look around.  Both sets of fans are still almost paralysed with fear.  But I then look towards the pitch.  I see the Orient players looking upwards, shaking their heads.  They think that was their chance.  

   I think back through the season.  Just how many games have I been to for the radio where there's been last minute equalisers?  I've lost count.  I'm meant to be doing a full time summary for them tonight.  I smile to myself, relaxed, almost confident.  I say back to the senior citizen "Don't worry, there's another Southend goal left in this."  He eyes me doubtfully.  

   Fate, though.  Something you can't change.   As soon as I've uttered those words, as the clock straddles the border between normal and injury time, Kevan Hurst gets the ball on the left, at the byeline.  There doesn't seem any imminent danger.  But a swift turn and low centre across the six yard box changes everything.

   It was Southampton where Paul Sturrock endured possibly his unhappiest managerial experience.  Oh my, how karma works to even life's outrageous fortunes out.  In space, converging on goal, is the player who's been head and shoulders Southend United's best tonight.  Ben Reeves.  On loan.  From Southampton.

   The rest of the ground may be holding their breath but we in the South Lower know.  Trusting the gods of fate, I knew probably about a minute before this moment of all moments.  Reeves.  Goal.  2-2 on the night.  3-2 on aggregate.  Southend United are on their way to Wembley.

   The roofs are blown off by a tumult of sound.  It rumbles around Roots Hall, crashing around everyone, an unbroken wall of sound for a good 30 seconds.  After the celebration, everyone around me either scream or are in tears.  It's finally dawned of them.  It's too much to take in.  Southend United in a cup final at Wembley.  Do we dare to believe it's true?

   I do.  There's a nob-head who's run on the pitch, holding up play.  But for Orient, it's simply delaying the inevitable.  Hands are on their hips, heads down.  And that's just the North Bank.  The full time whistle may not yet have blown, but their time is up.  And they know it.

   Sure enough, the man in yellow blows for full time.  You just have to, don't you.  On the pitch.  You don't intend to, unless you're a kid.  But it's living in the moment, you want to run around somewhere, anywhere, screaming with joy, with relief.  It's football Nirvana.

   I breathlessly shout out a match report for the radio.  I have no idea how much of it made sense, let alone the accuracy of it.  It was just me and the moment.  And then realise, for the first time since I left home, in among thousands of delirious Shrimpers, I've got my Auchinleck Talbot scarf on.  I'd forgotten all about it.  Until tonight, Southend had drawn every game I'd worn this scarf to.  Karma.  It was meant to be.

   I meet Ken on the halfway line.  I can see he's shed a tear or two and his face is a picture of pure joy.  It lifts my own heart seeing someone as happy as that.  All those years of hard yakka watching awful football in awful weather, often supporting an awful team.  Tonight's for you, Ken, and all those who kept with Southend United in the bad times as well as good.

   

   Out come the team, once I've allowed Britt Assombalonga to get past me, into the directors box, and are greeted with mass hysteria.  Paul Sturrock soon arrives.  What a job he's done.  In spite of Ron Martin, in spite of players not being paid, in spite of the High Court visits, in spite of the farce of Fossetts Farm, he's somehow got this club into the play-offs and now to a Wembley cup final.  Extraordinary.

   Eventually, people slowly drift away, clinging onto every moment like a cherished heirloom, something to be passed to the grandchildren in years to come.  And, of course, Ed and Bri are on the pitch, kids in tow, with Eileen behaving by standing on the cinder track.  It still hasn't quite sunk in for them yet.  They still don't believe it.  But yes, Southend United are on their way to Wembley.

   I'm given a lift back to the Bay, and the talk turns excitedly to how much the tickets will be, whether we can get a block booking, because we want to take everyone with us.  Welcome to Dreamland, Southend United, we do hope you enjoy your six week stay of planning and then living the dream.

   Epic.  Absolutely epic.

   Johnstones Paint Trophy, Southern Area Final, 2nd Leg

   Southend United 2,  Leyton Orient 2

   (Southend United win 3-2 on aggregate, and play Crewe Alexandra in the Final.  At Wembley.  At last.)

2012-13 Uncovered: Wednesday 20th February - The Southend Chronicles II; A Shining Diamond Lost In Boots & Laces

  So this was it.  Some people would call it the day of destiny.  With a 7.15pm kick-off, though, the day meant agonising hours for Southend United fans to kill before the agony of 90 minutes later that evening.

   I was having my own internal agonies.  Oh, I'd long since accepted victory and defeat as twin imposters.  Whatever happens, happens, and that's it.  No, mine was different.  Brentwood Town Ladies had a rare midweek home game.  Perhaps it was the only chance I could get to see them this season.

   Then there was the issue of cost.  I had enough in my bank account to get to Tilbury, where the Ladies were playing.  I didn't have enough for a Southend ticket though.  It seemed to be leaning one way.  But then again, money was due to hit my account at any time during the afternoon.  And there was this feeling I'd be missing out on a bit of history one way or the other if I wasn't at Roots Hall tonight.

   With these internal machinations going on I, just like a number of Southend United fans last night, needed to be at another game, but not to forget about what was coming, but to make a choice.  Maybe being at a game will give me the inspiration to choose what game to be at.  Unless I'm not paid.  Then it's definitely a night out with the girls, no questions asked.

   Luckily, there's always something going on somewhere.  Today the Southend United youth side had a League Cup tie against the same team that turned up the last time I ventured over to Boots & Laces, Watford.  I couldn't remember too much other than a mentalist bloke haranguing Rob and a bit of handbags at the end.  This could be a chortle.

   It always underwhelms me, though, when I get to Boots & Laces.  The building looks as if it was 30 years out of date as soon as it was built.  The signs outside look beddraggled and unkempt.  It all gives an impression of a club down on its' uppers.  In reality, a training ground is a training ground, it doesn't matter a monkey's what a set of changing rooms, showers, and weights rooms look like from the outside.

   It puts me in mind, though, being next to the Jones Memorial Ground, of many years ago, on cold, windy pitches that were a mixture of mud and dogshit.  They were next door.  The Boots & Laces ones were pristine.  It was still bastard well cold and windy, though.  Some things never change, even if you do.

   Rob was there again, as was Phil, along with a few old codgers, among them a Millwall season ticket holder back from their 5-1 spanking at home last night.  Against Peterborough.  Ouch.   You know you're in trouble when that happens.

   Talking of trouble, as the game settles down from an early Watford goal, along comes Bilel Moshni.  Bri's in the car, wisely out of the wind with Olly, and already chatted to him.  As he strolls down the side of the pitch, though, nobody else does.  In fact, nobody even acknowledges his existence.  There's a slightly embarrassed silence.

   Well, b*****ks to that.  I know he's been a twat about things, but you tell me who at his age didn't act like a twat about something?  And, let's face it, the agent advising him has played a big part, without getting any flak.  I like the lad.  He makes the effort to see the youths and local non-league football.  And he's here today when he could easily hide

   I break the silence with a terrible thumbs-up and a "Top man" with a winning smile.  I'm like Keith Chegwin on crack.  He says "thank you" with an little grin of his own.  Despite the cheesiness, I can see him visibly relax.  Then again, he might just have seen a spare pair of scissors the physio left on the touchline and thought he was now sorted for Orient later on.

   Half time comes and goes.  My mind is made up.  If I've been paid, it's Roots Hall.  If I haven't, it's Chadfields.  My whole day depends on a balance enquiry at a cashpoint.  That can wait though.  Something else has taken my eye.  And everyone else's.

   The Southend United number 11, Mitchell Pinnock, puts on a display that is, quite simply, the best I've seen in the flesh at any level this season.  He drifts out wide on the left.  The ball is coming towards him.  It's high.

   But he's already looking across the pitch.  Play is all condensed but he's spotted a team mate in a yard of space.  Without even looking at the ball he traps it with his right, then plays a 50 yard cross field pass with his left, right to the feet of his team mate.  Astonishing.

   And so it goes on.  Taking players on, seeing space that others don't realise exist.  Inch perfect passing with both feet.  In-swinging corners from both sides of the field that cause panic and desperate goal-line clearances.  A free kick that smashes off the crossbar.  His brain is two seconds faster than anyone else, his feet also a couple of seconds quicker.

   Then, late on with Southend still chasing the game and their undeserved 0-1 deficit, Pinnock is on the right hand edge of the area, around 10 yards from the bye-line, with his back to goal.  The ball is played towards him.  He turns, stops the ball, steps over it, and somehow shoots all in one movement.  The keeper's beaten but again the woodwork saves Watford.  A moment of pure genius.  Even the Watford players applaud.

   As luck would have it, Watford break away and kill the game off, but the result isn't the talking point.  Not even Bilel being there.  Mitchell Pinnock was the name on everyone's lips.  You could even see it on the wry grins on the faces of the old codgers.

   They'd never dare do anything so namby-pamby as admit to enjoying themselves at the match or, well, anywhere.  But they had that look of someone who been taken back to that golden era, in their own youth, when football really was the beautiful game.   For 45 minutes, though, Mitchell Pinnock had done just that.  To all of us.  He could go a long, long way, that lad.

   I wander off in the cold, having been warmed to seeing a rare diamond at Boots & Laces.  Whatever happens this evening, today I've seen something special.  But now .... Bournemouth Park Road.  North Road.  Sutton Road.  Guildford Road,  Cashpoint.  Bloody hell, why I am so nervous?

   Okay, let's see, balance enquiry.  I wait.  And wait.  For f*** sake machine, hurry u .... Ah.  I take my card back.  And resume my trudge.  It's cold.  It's getting dark.  As I feared, what money was in my account had ruled where I was going tonight.   But for now my trudge took me down another road.

   Victoria Avenue.  Roots Hall.  Ticket.

   History?  Who knows .....

   League Cup:  Southend United Youths 0,  Watford Youths 2

2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 19th February - The Southend Chronicles I; All Manor Of Fogginess

   It was squeaky bum time, as blubbering mediocre manager Steve Bruce once said.  I never take much notice of what he says usually.  After all, he kept whining to the press about being sacked at Sunderland because he was a geordie.  

   Funny that, as Bob Stokoe, black and white to the core of his soul, seemed to not suffer such prejudice.  No Steve, you were sacked because you were shit at your job, and that's why the fans wanted you sacked.  Long winless streaks and, latterly, slipping into the relegation zone, done for Bruce.  And nothing else.

   I'm going off the beaten track because that was what Southend United supporters wanted to do, too.  The night before their second leg with Leyton Orient.  90 minutes from a cup final Wembley, the first in their history, so long as they avoided defeat.  But up against a side a division above them, with a injury rvaged squad.  The Shrimpers, despite being 1-0 up and at home, were still up against.  So close but so far.

   To try to take their minds off it, Southchurch Park Arena obligingly had a game on.  Southend Manor's season continued on its' weary way.  We all know league tables can be misleading, that you can be in a false position - but they don't lie.  

   Manor continued to disappoint.   15th in a 19-strong Essex Senior League.  It's a hefty drop from the heights of last season's runners-up berth.  Just four league wins from 21.  True, they had games in hand on the side immediately above them, Stansted.  But everyone else in the lower and middle sections of the table had played less than them.

   The noises continually coming out were that the team were playing well, really unlucky, etc, etc.  Indeed, I know there's plenty of talent at this level within their squad.  But you can only blame so much on the rub of the green, or if you're Great Wakering Rovers, the ref.  

   Standng in their way this evening were Enfield 1893, perennial title challengers, denied promotion a couple of seasons back through ground grading requirements.  This time around they were 4th but, to all intents and purposes, out of the title race.  13 points behind leaders Burnham Ramblers with just tonight's game in hand. Just pride and 3 inconsequential points at stake for both sides.

   The chap on the makeshift gate was jovial enough to me, in the concrete mess as a new turnstile was in the process of being built.  He informed me, though, that there were no programmes as one Enfield fan bought the lot.  Blimey, he's either got deep pockets, at £2 a pop, or there wasn't a high print run.

   Just before kick-off, Ed and Bri wander in, along with a number of other Southend United supporters trying to keep their minds off tomorrow.  They were somewhat put out though.  They handed their £6 each over, only to be told "One of your lot has bought all the programmes."  

   This guy has taken their money at various times through the season.  They have been coming to the odd Manor game, probably a good half dozen or so, every season for a number of years.  But here they were, being treated like strangers.

   They could have forgiven it, except that a few minutes into the game, after Manor open the scoring, chairman Steve shouts to them "Don't worry, we always let the opposition come back into it, you've still got a chance."  Steve literally stood in front of Bri just before Christmas against Bowers, and sat directly behind Ed at Clapton.  I explained to him they weren't Enfield fans, only to be met with a "What?".  

   Anyway, while this irrelevance was going on, and in between reading the new graffiti written on the stand, from what I could see, Manor were at last determined not to feel sorry for themselves.  They scored early on through Ben Hudson, and proceeded to dominate throughout the entire first half.

   Aaron Baldwin, after about 20 previous attempts, finally doubled the hosts lead about half an hour or so in.  I missed it, of course, because Ed was demonstrating how a four fingered goalkeeping glove works.  My guess of cutting off the thumb was apparently not the way.  Although it would explain Pepe Reina this season.

   Danso soon after made it 3-0 to Southend Manor.  Then it came.  Not gradually, but bang, straight across the entire pitch in a matter of seconds.  Freezing fog.  It was so quick, how it came down, that Ed and I were convinced that there must be a nearby fire.  I've never known fog that thick to come down so quickly.  It was clearly unplayable in the uncleariness.

   With it being so close to half time the ref, who had kindly donated Bri his match programmes, and so by definition had a stonkingly good game up until then, played out the last few minutes of the first half, in the shadow of ghostly figures apparently playing football.  For all we could see they could've been playing with themselves.  In which case it'd be just as well the fog was there.

   We, despite the mist, could see what was coming.  As we came out of the clubhouse, more in hope than expectation of seeing a second half, the ref and linesmen came wandering back down the tunnel towards the changing rooms.  He put a finger across his throat.  Either he was late for a gangland killing or the match was abandoned.

   Behind him was Southend Manor boss Russ.  He was desperately pleading with the ref about the unfairness of the decision.  You had to feel for the guy.  At last, Manor had played really well, and ripped a top 4 side apart, and now had it snatched away without the waiting even for 5 minutes to see if the fog lifted. Russ was proper radge.

   We soon made our way home, after a convivial chat with Tubbsy and JJ amongst others back in the clubhouse.  Along with Russ, Stef, Linda, and a few others, they are club stalwarts, good men, just what every football club needs.  As we departed though, a group of other Manor people, hanging around outside the clubhouse entrance, glared at me, and commented on 'how lucky you are'.  Any sympathy I had for Southend Manor at that point disappeared. 

   Sometimes you get what you deserve.  Southend Manor, as a club and a team, clearly didn't, thanks to the ref.  But some who've attached themselves to Manor - well, as I've said often enough, karma can be a bitch sometimes.

   Tonight, though, guys, you were karma's bitches.

   Southend Manor 3,  Enfield 1893 0  (abandoned after 45 minutes - fog)