212-13 Uncovered: Saturday 8th December - Wood You Believe It?

   The week had gone slowly, with luck conspicuous by its absence.  Down to my last pair of jeans, ripped from the crotch all the way down the seam.  Okay, no worries, put on shorts for half an hour, get some money for a bus fare from the cashpoint, buy the Asda version of 501's - by which I mean costing £5.01 - then get to Canvey.  Reduced admission.  Need every penny I can at the moment.

   Get to the cashpoint.  Refused even a balance but let me keep my card.  So the fault is with the ATM's, not my card.  Try another bank's.  Then a store's.  Exactly the same.  It's happening to other punters too.  All the ATM's in the Bay are down.  It's far, far too cold to walk around in shorts searching for the nearest working cashpoint or the nearest store selling cheap jeans.

   I have no alternative.  Stay in.  Miss out on another midweek.  Try to stay warm.  Then hope that Saturday brings a working cashpoint and a Brentwood Town match that isn't called off.  The way my luck's going both of them are 50/50 at best.

   Down comes the cold, down comes the frost, the rain, the freezing wind.  It doesn't augur well.  I finally get my George at Asds 501's, which in the end turn out to be a fiver.  But then was doesn't augur well turns out okay.  Sunlit blue skies on Saturday morning.  Almost mild as well.  An early pitch inspection are we're in business.  Brentwood Town v Soham Town Rangers is on.  Oh yes.

   Nestled between an underpass of the A12 and a leisure centre, with a couple of residential areas in easy walking distance, you'd have thought the club would enjoy healthy attendances.  But, despite being so close to a place specifically designed to encourage locals to take an interest in sport, the lack of crowd is startling.  

   You don't, of course, expect an excited throng queueing up at twenty past two, the time I get there.  But the trickle remained just that right up until kick-off.  It's one of those days where you could actually count the crowd.  The unofficial Groyney total was 60.  The club deserve far better.  Play-off finalists a couple of years ago, and staffed by enthusiastic, warm and welcoming volunteers.

   Perhaps it was the shenanigans earlier in the season, both on and off the pitch, that puts people off.  It can't help the club's image when making the wrong sort of local headlines.  It negates all the good work the people at every club do.  Still, 60 for a game between two potential play-off contenders, it's still a poor show from a densely populated area.

   Play-off contenders may look to be stretching it a bit for the home side, in 17th place, some nine or 10 points adrift.  But with up to six games in hand on those above, a winning sequence will put them right up there.  As for Soham, they already are in the mix, 7th after an appalling start.  Ex Histon boss Jim Fallon knows his stuff and Soham were starting to reap the benefits.

   I'm not sure what it is but I seem to have a knack at the moment of choosing the right games for the radio.  The last eight were all score draws, with last minute and injury time equalisers in seven of them.  12 goals in the last five minutes.  And 34 in total.  Not a win in sight though.  

   Surely that run has to end though?  Perhaps I'm due a stinker.  And I don't mean the smell of stew from the clubhouse.  A dull 0-0 or a terrible low scoring win one way or the other was what I'm anticipating.  After the week I've had, the weekend is bound to follow suit.

   In goal for Brentwood is a Spurs loanee.  He couldn't have made a worse start to the game.  He mishits his kick, straight to a Soham forward, only about 20 yards out, completely unmarked.  He says thank you very much and shoots firmly on target after a moment of control and a pace or two forwards.  The keeper, Jonathan Miles, redeems himself with a superb save.  My, what a dull start.

   It's an emerging pattern, Brentwood Town mistakes followed by Soham Town Rangers being denied by good goalkeeping or bad finishing.  In between all that, the home side have a goal disallowed.  Their dugout is raging.  Chortle.  For a 0-0 it's a damn good one.

   Eventually, after 25 minutes, Robbie Mason doesn't pass up an opportunity presented by the Wood defence.  1-0 to Soham.  Brentwood's in trouble here.  I'm just hoping they can hang on for an hour.  Then they can rely on my track record for featured live Phoenix FM matches.  This could be tense.  But boring it ain't.

   Alex Read, though, decides to take things into his own hands.  He has a couple of shots at the Soham Town Rangers goal.  Dan Bircham is up to the task though, with one good save and a great one.  The visitors fail to heed the warning and do nothing to stem the supply down the Brentwood Town right.  Alex has three more shots in 10 minutes.  Suddenly Brentwood Town are 3-1 up.  Alex Read has a hat-trick to his name.

   Still not finished though.  Another run into the area.  This time a pass to Abs Thompson.  He puts it away.  After being nervous, jittery and behind after 25 minutes, Brentwood Town go into the break somehow 4-1 ahead.  You can see the look of shock on the away side as they head off down the tunnel.  They don't know what's hit them,  Another cracker for the Phoenix FM archives already.

   The fun continues in the second half.  Daryl Robson seemingly makes it safe at 5-1.  Robbie Mason, however, replies in kind.  5-2 with not an hour played.  The pressure mounts on the home goal at the Land of Leather End.  A Luke Stanley shot goes inches over.  A free header from a corner is even closer and really should have been in.  Despite the three goal advantage, the nerves are jamgling.

   Meanwhile, the PA announcer does his best to match my undoubted record for not really paying much attention or knowing who's who.  He announces the 'Wood number 7, Steve Butterworth, had been substituted.  He, though, has the ball at his feet, running towards goal, not 10 yards away.  Chortle. 

   For some reason, away supporters shout at me at the obvious error.  They think I'm the PA man.  Perhaps they've heard me in action before.  I shrug my shoulders, smile, and say "Why tell me?  I couldn't give a monkey's."  

   Their faces are sullen, miserable.  Then the actual PA man then steps out after correcting his mistake.  The Soham contingent fall silent, realising they've had a pop at the wrong bloke and made themselves look like dicks.  Chortle.  Again.

   The players on the pitch interrupt the banter by carrying on being surreal.  There's a home break in the 80th minute and Abs Thompson is fouled on the right hand edge of the area.  He wasn't.  It was obviously inside.  The Brentwood players point out that the lino, no more than 15 yards away, is giving the penna.  The ref has a chat with him and gives the spot kick.  6-2.  Alex Read with four of them.

   Soham plug away though.  There's a scramble inside the six yard box and suddenly the ball is in the back of the Brentwood net.  Again.  Robbie Mason.  Again.  Two hat tricks in the game now.  Yep, I called this one right.  Absolute stinker, isn't it.  The away team are outdoing even my record.  That's 88 goals in their 18 league games.  

   As the Phoenix FM studios are next door to the Arena, I hot-foot it there.  Or, more accurately, bloody frozenly cold-foot it.  Dave and Joe are on good form.  There's lots of chat, and subjects vary from one second to the next, not all about sport.  It's like three blokes in the pub discussing what's going on.  Much better than the serious analysis.  The hour flies by.

   I return home, heartened by the brief spell away from the increasingly depressing and difficult course of everyday life.  There's still a lot of problems to be confronted one way or another.  The next couple of months, at the very least, are going to be very, very tough.  Football at the moment really is my only release from a fair grim reality.

   Get through it I will though.  Hope always springs eternal.  Just like Brentwood Town's play-off charge.  

   For them, and me, it really is game on.

   Brentwood Town 6,  Soham Town Rangers 3  

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 1st December - A Fitting Tribute

   Unusually, a blank week.  Winter kicking in wiped out the non-league trips.  I had everything booked, though, for Sunderland v QPR.  Tickets, train from London, hotel.

   What I didn't have, though, or could afford to borrow, was the train fare into London and the little extra to keep me fed and watered up there.  It wasn't much, but when you have even less, it's too much.  Then again, by the look of it, it seems as if I dodged a bullet by missing out.

   Yep, money was tighter than Simon Cowell's jockstrap.  But a lot less messy.  Not to worry though.  The weekend's here.  Radio day.  I hadn't been to The Arena for a while.  Chipper hadn't been there ever.  Brentwood Town v Wroxham it was.

   Unsurprisingly, but annoyingly, the frost came down and the game was off.  Oh bloody hell.  Let's have a look.  Billericay at home.  Hmmm.  I have a look at my wallet.  I don't have the £30+ quid for us both to get in, the train fare, and programme.  Rovers are at home.  Seen them far too much recently though.  This is such a pain in the arse.

   Then the news hits me.  I'd never considered too much about him from when he left Southend United up until he joined Basildon United.  I knew he was still young.  I knew he couldn't play top level football because of some health condition.  But you just don't expect it.  Mitchell Cole, gone at the age of just 27.

   It's funny how the passing of someone you don't know affects you.  He certainly didn't know me.  It wasn't so long ago, though, that I was paying good money at Roots Hall and other League One grounds to see him take a grip on midfields up and down the country.  

   He quietly went about his business, rarely putting a foot wrong, and scoring against Col Ewe.  He wasn't a crowd favourite, Freddy Eastwood was there filling that role, but just about everyone at Roots Hall respected and rated him.  Southend United were considerably weakened without his influence.

   I laughed when he signed for Basildon United this season.  A player that good playing at that level?  It seemed such a waste, plying his trade at ESL level.  The Bees, understandably, were delighted to have him on board for the short time he was there.  He was far too good for this league.

   It seems such a waste.  27.  Twenty bloody seven.  Young family.  So much ahead of him, so much potential away from the football field, so many years to carve out a long and successful career in whatever he wanted to do.  It just seems so bloody unfair.  Like I say, I never knew Mitchell Cole, and he never knew me, but I couldn't help feeling a little heartbroken.

   I checked through the fixtures again.  A few minutes down from the Bay.  Southend Manor.  Their game was still on.  A bit milder near the beach and the frost held off.  Their opponents?  Well, it just had to be Basildon United, didn't it?  There's no way Chipper and I could be anywhere else today.

   The season had been kind to Manor in the FA Vase, through to the third round.  Elsewhere, however, not so.  Only three league wins all season and drifting around lower to mid table.  There were still some resentment between the club officials too.  One such official asked how we were.  When I reciprocated there came a reply of not liking it there but carrying on.  Oops.

   The visitors had regrouped after last year's calamitous season.  Nothing to write home about, one place below Manor, but the Bees had actually won one more league game than them.  To add a bit of spice, one of the coaches that had left Gardiners Close last season - and there were a few - was in the home dugout this afternoon.  This could be fun.

   It was damn cold though.  The only place in Southchurch Park that offered any real protection against the elements meant that your view was restricted to around half the pitch.  So I had a choice.  Stay warm or see the match.  

   I looked to the opposite side.  Over there, a coach was giving glowing praise to his side.  For the massive achievement of running correctly between 3 or 4 cones.  If that's how coaching at this level is nowadays, then my mind is made up.  Warm with a thoroughly restricted view every time. 

   The teams came out to a small and frozen crowd.  Nobody looked like they really wanted to be there.  Including the players as they lined up for their 'respect' handshakes.  It was gloomy.  It was cold.  It was two teams going nowhere in the league this season.  

   There was one person, of course, who would have done anything to be there.  That put things into context.  Both sides approached the centre circle and paid their respects.  The silence for that minute was so complete you could hear the chirruping of birds in the long distance.  Sad, eerie, yet somehow a time where the hairs on the back of your neck stood up.

   The game, predictably, was fairly poor.  I can never be too critical though.  All these players work through the week, some at weekends too, then when that's finished get up off their arses to train twice a week or play a couple of matches a week.  It's a hard slog.  It's little wonder quality isn't a byword for the ESL.  Especially, mind, if you're praised for just running between cones.

   By half time, Manor were in complete control, without playing particularly well themselves.  Jay Smith had finished neatly for both goals in their 2-0 scoreline.  Not that I saw much of either.  The restricted view and keeping the radio listeners up to date with their local teams meant I just caught the end of one of them, a nice low shot from about 8 yards, after what seemed a fairly swift move

    Basildon United, sadly, had offered little threat, and as they came off the pitch, the familiar arguing amongst themselves had started in earnest.  I feared a gubbing for the Bees.  It was a far cry from their title winning days in both the ESL and Isthmian Leagues, and an FA Vase run to the quarter finals.  Those days are long since gone.  With little prospect of anything remotely like that happening again.  It hurts.

   The second half was in similar vein.  Basildon huffed and puffed, but really looked less likely to score on the pitch than I was in a nightclub with Eva Longoriathingy.  After all, having seen those tv ads, I knew exactly what her pussy liked.  

   I digress.  As the close drew nearer, a bit of a comedy moment.  The home striker through on goal, completely unmarked.  All he has to do is roll it into an empty net.  He places the ball calmly and carefully.  Passing rather than wildly shooting.  A foot wide of the near post.  Chortle.  Not just from me.  But from everyone.  We all know it just means a 2-0 win rather than 3-0.

   Into the last five minutes.  A free kick for the Bees.  For the first time all afternoon, a header on target.  The deficit is halved.  Technically, Basildon are in it.  But we know it's mere consolation.  The red shirted Bees players run back towards the halfway shouting, encouraging each other on.  Manor, though, look completely unruffled.

   Getting to the last minute.  The hosts are seeing the game out.  The visitors have the ball, venturing into the Manor half, but there's no threat, nobody near the area.  The attacking forward has no options.  Except to shoot from a fair distance.  Considering there's been nothing on target from their boots this afternoon it really is no option, too.

   Which makes the equaliser all the more surprising.  I'm up out of my seat for the first time all afternoon, the familiar fist up and shouting "Yes!".  Around me are the few Manor supporters and club officials.  They knew me well and took it for granted I was with them, wanting that home win.  Knowing me well today, though, is not knowing me well enough.  There's a couple of looks of surprise and even one glare.  

   I'm genuinely thrilled, as are the players, celebrating as if they'd won the league itself.  I looked heavenwards, into the clear dark Southend skies, and thought of Mitchell Cole.  I hoped he was looking down, seeing how his former team mates had somehow concocted a comeback from absolutely nothing.  That one was for you Mitchell, mate.

   Chipper and I concluded the radio coverage in complete darkness as the floodlights went off.  We were cold.  We were hungry.  We'd seen a game that wasn't that good.  But somehow, it felt great.  The spirit of Mitchell Cole was alive, the memory of him complete.  It felt great to be a Bee again.  

   Rest in peace, Mitchell.  You may be gone, but your Basildon United, and my Basildon United, showed today you will never be forgotten.

   Southend Manor 2,  Basildon United 2

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 24th November - Wet Afternoons, Dark Days

   To say the slings and arrows of life had been thrown at me, whilst the rest of the world went about the business, was perhaps an understatement.  The past few days and weeks had been harder than a Roots Hall sausage roll.

   On top of the people around me - and myself - falling under the surgeon's knife or lying in a hospital bed, bang, another kick in the nads.  Eviction notice from the letting agents.  And no money in the pocket to pay the bills - or much other things.  

   I wouldn't mind if I'd been frittering hundreds of quid a week.  But I haven't.  A few shekels for the odd local game and that's it.  Why the income has dried up doesn't really add to the day's frivolities, suffice to say that, as ever, it was something out of my hands.  But it gives you a fair indicator of the state of mind I was in.

   The weather seemed to come out in sympathy with me.  It was pouring down.  The skies were overcast, grey and gloomy.  Still, it was Saturday.  Match day.  Radio work day.  And, better still, East Thurrock United day.

   I'd been in touch earlier in the week with Billericay Town, asking if it was ok to pop over and cover their FA Trophy game.  No response, no reply, nothing.  This is becoming an ever more frustrating occurrence with Conference South clubs.  F*** it.  I won't bother.  I e-mail East Thurrock.  No problem, they say.  As ever.

   The Rocks hadn't regained their pre-FA Cup form since that unforgettable tussle with Chelmsford.  They were languishing, and no, not a euphemism either, in 15th.  Only three league defeats all season.  But only three wins as well.  They've got games in hand but need to start winning them as well as their Saturday games.

   A few days ago, today would've been a banker.  Note to self - stop thinking of double entendre whenever banker is written.  Anyway, I digress.  Leiston, having seen them dispose of Billericay Town handily in pre-season, were struggling, rock bottom with just 8 points.  But a new manager has just come in, and well, we all know what that means.  Definitely a glass half empty day, this.

   Anyway, b******s to the self pity, despite the relentless downpour, the game was on, unlike many in the area.  I get to the gate and Chris is there.  She always has a smile and a chat waiting for me.  Sam's there too, with the programmes, 50/50 tickets, and banter.  A woman I've never met says how much she loved me saying I wanted Kris Newby's babies.  It feels great to be here.  And I still want his babies after that goal.

   The squad and the management look like Victorian thieves with their Movember taches.  Apart from Covo, who seems to be auditioning for the Father Christmas job at Lakeside.  Chortle.  Mikey takes his snaps.  It all's good at Rookery Hill as I take my seat in the press box.

   I should've known better though.  Out comes the netbook.  Out comes the dongle.  Error.  Try again.  Error.  Reboot.  Try again.  Error.  Except this time with a reason.  It's an old t-mobile dongle but they're now Everything Everywhere and say I have to buy another one.  They're not only Everything Everywhere now.  They're also c***s who won't be getting my pennies again.

   I'm left with doing updates from the phone.  Cold, wet weather - and yep, wet even in the press box, as the occasional rain drops came through the roof.  Phone signal is also patchy.  Hmmmm.  These days, these times, are sent to test us I guess.  I must've done something pretty bad in a previous life at the same age.  I don't chortle but, well, raise my eyebrows and like to the sky a bit.  

   As the teams kick-off, I try the camera.  I'm actually anticipating it going wrong.  Sure enough, the pics are dark and blurry.  I give up after half a dozen pics.  I smile ruefully as the Rocks go forward.  So long as all the ill fortune is centred on me, then everyone else here should be okay.

   It goes to plan.  The hosts have settled down better and midway through the first half and Reiss Gilbey scores after a great lob just outside the area.  On the stroke of half time the Leiston keeper makes an awful error from a corner and Hakeem Araba doubles the lead.  

   He does the robot dance.  Covo and the injured squad player behind me chortle.  He's doing the wrong dance.  He's mistaken 'mo' for 'ro' - and looks even more stupid for it.  Chortle.

   The visiting supporters aren't too happy.  Directly in front of me is a senior citizen.  He has a hearing aid on and talks as if everyone else in earshot is wearing one as well.  He berates the ref, the linesmen, and most of all his own team.  Reports are being hampered by his rural rants but it adds to to it all, the unreality of non-league life.  He's great.

   I should've known better though.  This day is destined to be crap.  Leiston have changed players and formation.  It's worked and the dominate.  Patrick Brothers gets one back after a quick move down the left. East Thurrock are in turn struggling.  Their first half parade is being rained upon.  Passes are going astray and they are being pressed back more and more.

   Despite the scoreline, despite their respective positions, it looks like there's only one winner here.  I look on gloomily, as the Rocks players struggle in the dark and the rain.  For the first time in a while I wonder what the hell I'm doing here.  Then the inevitable equaliser.  May as well go home now, even though I can't.  This is just so depressing.

   The Rookery Hill side hang on though.  Just.  An undeserved point against the bottom side.  Out on the pitch, before they finish their warm down, there's a heated exchange between team and management on what went wrong in the second.  It's a depressing end to a depressing afternoon, near the end of a depressing week for me.  I can't wait to get home.

   The home that I won't be in for much longer.  Yep, it's pretty bad at the moment.  But at least I still have my health ... oops.  Well, my wealth should see me through ... oh.  Okay, erm, oh, I've got it, I still have pictures of Kylie almost with her tits out.  That'll do.  And believe me, I would do, too.  At least two.  Twice over.

   Bad times, bad result, but so what?  I'm still here.  That'll do for me.

   East Thurrock United 2,  Leiston 2

2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 20th November - Bari My Soul At Burroughs

   Message boards and forums up and down the country were getting all het up.  About the Israeli incursions into Gaza and the Palestinian response?  Nope.  The ceaseless clunk-clicking of more and more revelations about Jimmy Savile and his little ring of sordid friends?  Of course not.

   The issue that was getting people so enraged and intolerant was, erm, standing up at a football match.  Supporters of Premier League and Football League clubs, in the past week or so, have been whining incessantly to each other about it.  Some want to stand, others don't.  And neither have any time of day at each other's view.  

   It led, incredibly, to someone getting a broken nose for their troubles at Craven Cottage on Sunday, after an argument broke out about it.  The fuckwittedness of those involved puts them up on a par with politicians or Scottish football administrators.

   My view?  I couldn't care less if people want to sit or stand.  If those standing aren't obstructing the views of those wanting to sit, there's no problem.  At non-league level, of course, that isn't an issue, as people don't behave like knob-heads about it, by and large, and haven't done for decades.  It's also why there's no segregation below the Conference.

   It seems, however, in the pro ranks, it was the supporters who think it's a massive deal that they go to a game, and make huge noises about how great they are, that were making the biggest fuss.  You know the type.  Try to take all the credit if there's any sort of atmosphere.  Criticise everyone else if it's quiet.  Every club has them.  At Southend United they call them 'the North Bank'.  

   This was the background to yet another trip to Burroughs Park this evening and onto another issue that causes extensive argument - clubs being bankrolled.  Rovers opponents tonight in the Essex Senior League Cup were London Bari.  

   Winners of a Sunday league last season.  They by-pass the feeder Saturday afternoon leagues and gain straight entry into the ESL, move in with Clapton, and get rid of all the players they had.  Click on the club history section of their website and it's completely blank.  It's no wonder there was more than a hint of resentment in other quarters, with established and well run clubs passed over.

   Again, though, it's all about opinions.  Mine?  Although I prefer a club to be self sufficient and at least have some links with the community, you can't blame clubs if someone comes along, with an offer of enough financial backing to put the club on a decent footing, and they take it.  Their problems will come, though, if and when the backer backs out.  Their fall will be that much harder.  And it will happen in this part of the non-league country, too.

   Ed, Bri and I were in full agreement about one thing though.  It was bastard cold.  Since the weekend I'd been woefully short of money.  As this was a cup game, though, the Rovers season ticket wouldn't be any use.  In the end I let my heart rule my head and went.  If I known it was this cold, though, I'd have let my nads rule my heart and stopped in to see Celtic get beat.

   We needed the game to warm us up, to liven everything up a bit.  Rovers were trailing 2-0 from the first leg and needed an early goal.  There's a corner on the right.  Bit of a scramble.  Then a lob.  It's there.  Game on.  

   A desperate defender kicks the ball out of the goal via the crossbar but it's way too late.  1-0 to Rovers on the night.  2-1 to Barry on aggregate.  Except play is going on.  Somehow, the goal hasn't been given.  We have our main talking point, that something to get the evening going.  But not the way Great Wakering Rovers would have wanted.  I shouldn't.  But chortle.

   The game carries on, with the match officials showing their even handedness, making ridiculous decisions against both sides.  Having said that, tonight on show were the two whingiest, loudest, moaniest teams I've heard on a pitch for some time.  You'd be embarrassed even if it an under 7's side, let alone fully grown adults behaving like that.  For whatever reason, everyone in football today has gone proper radge.

   In amongst the male menopausal festival going on in front of us, London Bari score a world class goal.  A lob from around the halfway line, the scorer apparently seeing Rovers keeper Louis Godwin-Green off his line.  They rightly go berserk with a goal like that.  It's only heresay though.  I, of course, wasn't watching it, too busy chortling at Bri's miners torch on his head.  Don't ask.

   The celebrations, of course, lead to a bout of handbags, and around five minutes of the match officials deciding to tell someone off jolly hard, with one yellow being shown.  The level of football wasn't particularly good tonight, but the entertainment factor, not necessarily for footballing reasons, was high.  That'll do for me.

   It continues in a similar vein during the second half.  Dreadful officiating, occasional flashes of brilliance, all very watchable but mostly for non-footballing reasons.  Danny Heale makes me even poorer by netting an equaliser.  Barry soon head upfield though.  Not a great deal of skill but a lot of pace.  Until this guy cracks a low volley across goal from the left hand edge of the area.  Louis had no chance.  2-1 to the visitors and everyone applauds.  All five of us, anyway.

   The next goal is even better.  One touch football right cutting through the Rovers defence on the right, the perfect through ball inside the area, first time shot, 3-1 to London Bari.  Did I say not a great deal of skill?  Sheer delightful football, as Kenneth Wolstenholme once said.  Rovers get a consolation, but by that time, everyone knows that consolation is all it is.

   The rest of the game was spent who could shout and moan the loudest.  The winner, sadly, was the Rovers player-boss Trenks, who mouthed off at the lino for a good 10 seconds after a 50/50 decision went against him, out on the touchline, way out from either goal.  So, so childish.  How can you expect a side to behave when the manager does that?  The refs and linos may be patchy in quality at times, but I lose any sympathy for players when they go on like that.

   We head off home, frozen, but given a bit of value for our six quid.  Barry deserve to go through on the night, but do they deserve to be out there on the pitch to start with?  It doesn't matter now, they're through, and deservedly so.  They took their chances, Rovers didn't.  And that's the name of the game.

   As the shadows spread spookily across Burroughs Park, the talk is of games ahead.  We're all feeling the pinch.  Not that we're contemplating cutting down on games, just paring to the bone the cost of getting there and getting in.  Chipper's mate is friends with Fleetwood manager Micky Mellon, who sounds more like an act at the Wheeltappers & Shunters Social Club.  A ticket blag is in the offing.

   Something I'll happily stand for.

   Great Wakering Rovers 2,  London Bari 3  (agg. 2-5)

2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 17th November - There But Not All There

   It was a tired way to start the weekend.  I'm getting too old for staying out past midnight.  There's another one to come though.  Wedding on Sunday.  Thankfully, though, not mine.  It's half the reason why these occasions are so much fun.  Everyone's relieved it's not them at the altar.

   Before that, though, it was football day.  And a conundrum.  With so much going on with those close to me, from health to happiness, it was yet another weekend I couldn't stray away from home.  I was due to cover Bromley v Billericay but that was now out of the window.

   Instead, it was, as usual, the Rovers, who were obligingly at home again.  If I couldn't be at 'the' match, I could at least be at 'a' match and give the listeners a bit of at-the-match atmosphere as the scores from elsewhere rattled in.

   Bri picked me up, fresh from Celtic going back on top of the SPL thanks to their win at Aberdeen.  That wouldn't last though.  Hibs were at Dundee.  But would Rovers tenure at the top of the ESL?  Frankly, though, much as I like the people and players at the club, and even though I have a season ticket there, I didn't really care.

   That's how it goes with football.  A club can get under your skin, be a part of you forever, even if you've only been to see them once.  Yet you can go to another club a hundred times, which might be almost exactly the same, but somehow, it just doesn't feel the same.  

   That's the Rovers for me.  I enjoy the afternoons and evenings at the match there, it's full of good people, but somehow I can't muster enough enthusiasm to be bothered if they win or not.  Their nowt queer as folk.  Especially football folk.

   A local derby today.  Hullbridge Sports would still be smarting from a cup match earlier this season.  Absolutely pummelled Rovers in the first yet were losing 4-1.  They will still be sore from that eventual 6-2 defeat.  Great Wakering Rovers would have to be wary of them.

   As the sides paraded in their green and white stripes and gaudy pink, I wondered if Mardi Gras UK was taking place here today.  In the meantime, I was setting up the online Phoenix FM live updates for scores around the region and beyond.  Even if the match was dull, I was mildly curious to see how much or little I'd see of the game in front of me.

  Normally, on live match duty, my focus is the game I'm watching and hardly anything else.  This afternoon, though, even if Rovers and Sports are doing battle in front of me, my main concentration would be the twitter feeds, colleagues texts, and other websites, scanning for info on at least five other games.

  

   The answer, in the first half, was comfortably less than 10 minutes.  I only looked up if I heard the crowd shout or roar at something, or take the occasional pic.  Midway through the first half, I had to ask Bri how the match was going, if it was any good.  From what I saw, it looked fairly even until Danny Heale put Rovers in front.  

   Soon after Hullbridge had a penalty.  I'm pretty sure everyone in the ground, on and off the pitch, knew this would be the turning point in the game.  1-1 and confidence is lifted for the pink shirted players.  Louis Godwin Green has other ideas though.  It was indeed a turning point.  But not one the visitors wanted.

   Luckily, my radio endeavours were paying off.  Every side in the Phoenix FM area were winning, two of them tricky away fixtures to boot.  Things seem to be that much easier if the sides you're covering are doing well.   

   In the second half, I saw more.  Only because a referee, this time being assessed, again decided to be the centre of attention.  At least he wasn't biased.  His ridiculous decision were being made against both teams.  When it gets to the stage when Great Wakering Rovers players and supporters were telling the ref he  had no reason to send off a Hullbridge player, you know something's wrong.

   In between all that, Rovers got another couple of goals, and Hullbridge hit back with a second penalty, this time converted.  It was the least they deserved in the circumstances.  A good game ruined by someone on the pitch but not playing.  Well, that's how it seemed in the 25 minutes or so I saw.

   It had been a good day online though.  All the area's side had won.  With results from other Football League sides waiting to be filed, the lights went out around the ground as well as the floodlights.  I filed the final scores in complete darkness.  It seemed fitting, as I was in the dark as to how the game in front of me was going for the most part.

   As we headed back towards the Bay, talk went from the rugby intenrnationals, to finance, to Catholic schools, and of course to what game was up next.  A cosmopolitan lot us, even if we do look, sound and smell like a discarded KFC box.  Though how we sound like a chicken box is anyone's guess.

   The football had ended but the weekend was just beginning.  Wedding bells.  Someone else's.  Which means all I have to do is turn up, eat and drink.

  And that, my friend, is easily the best result of the weekend.

   Great Wakering Rovers 3,  Hullbridge Sports 1 

2012-13 Uncovered: Friday 16th November - Going Boco Down Underhill

   Deep into the heart of the season now.  The nights were growing longer.  Well, the nights had crept into afternoons.  We've reached that stage where you go to work in the dark and go home in the dark.  That bit in between, at work, we're usually all in the dark whether it's winter or summer, that's a given.

   At this time of year the casual punter will be put off by the cold, by Christmas shopping, maybe even by their side being awful.  Clubs need to get their thinking caps on to pull in the punters.  Luckily, Barnet have been innovative.

   First of all, they somehow bring in Dutch superstar, the dreadlocked Champions League winner Edgar Davids.  Most importantly, though, they rearrange a Saturday afternoon match to a Friday night.  Oh yes.

   Barnet have always been one of those endearing clubs, even in their non league days, battling and losing out on the Conference title for what seemed about 52 years before Barry Fry took them up.  With North London being carved up between Spurs and Arsenal - and Man Utd of course - they've had to survive on their dyed-in-the-wool fans and little else.

   There's plenty going for the club though.  Dead easy to get to.  Chipper and I waited in the rush hour at Moorgate tube.  Absolutely rammed, with no prospect of getting the High Barnet train.  But just a few stairs below, the overhead line to New Barnet, virtually empty.  Perfect.

   Then, just by the Odeon after a short wander from the stadium, a chippy where it seems you can buy anything.  A massive clump of chips and a jumbo sausage for £3.50.  Blimey.  Now, I could make all sorts of childish jokes about my massive sausage.  Except for two things.  One, I'm vegetarian.  And two, I'd only be deluding myself if I did.

   We make the short way to Underhill and it's as league football used to be.  The stewards are human and happy to engage in a bit of chat with you.  The club is a portacabin and absolutely rammed with club merchandise.  We settle on a club vest.  And, best of all, cash turnstiles.  But then Nirvana.  Just £14 secures us a spot on the North West terrace.  Yep, terrace.  Not seats.  Oh yes.  Again.

   Underhill is maybe untidy and old fashioned but it's homely.  An open terrace behind the goal, and covered standing enclosure.  To our right was the main stand, then behind the other was a newly built stand.  There's not a big crowd in but you can tell the people that do turn up have done so for decades, maybe having the same spot on the terraces for decades.

   They're in trouble though.  Bottom two of League 2, and in their last season before what seems to be an unwanted move to one of new all singing, all dancing, characterless stadiums to share with Wealdstone.  Even with the ageing Dutch maestro, a recent 4-1 stuffing had kept the Bees firmly entrenched in the drop zone.

   Their opponents tonight, Accrington Stanley, had a well documented sad past, unable to last a league season and Peel Park sold off, but an equally well known return to the pro ranks.  And, of course, that poxy milk ad in between.  He might have been a hell of a player, but manager Ian Rush?  Who's he?  Oh yeah, they guy who helped take Chester City out of the league Stanley now occupied.  Karma.  And chortle.

   The game kicked off in front of a small crowd, although it wasn't helped by an understandably low turnout from Lancashire.  They were in the lower reaches of League Two as well, and with having to take a half day off at least to make the trip, it was hardly surprising only around 70 Accrington supporters were there.

   As it turned out, though, Barnet's innovation paid off.  More Barnet fans had turned up then at any point bar one game this season.  That wasn't all.  Throughout the first half, programme sellers, 50/50 ticket sellers, and even scarf sellers, were mingling with the crowd, bringing those extra pennies in.  Such an obvious common sense idea but rarely seen elsewhere.

   The bit on the pitch, though, was predictable.  There was an obvious lack of confidence from both sides, who seemed to be scared of making mistakes rather than going for anything.  A Barnet shot bouncing off the bar and an Accrington Stanley header a foot over was the sum total of their efforts.  Only a couple of players had impressed.  Barry Fuller, the Barnet right back, looked tidy.

   And, well it had to be, Edgar Davids.  He did everything right, seemed to be in the right place and the right time on the pitch, delivering the right passes, making the right runs.  A lovely foray down the left and perfect cross to the far post reminded you why he became a superstar at the World Cup in France.  An absolute joy to watch.  For just £14.  Bargain of the season.

   It livens up considerably in the second half.  Nice play from Ricky Holmes, his centre is blocked, then from the edge of the area, that man Davids turns in a low, accurate shot that is well saved.  Then at the other end, Graham Stack does really well to keep out a 1-on-1 shot.  Except the ball parries off him, bounces of Rom Boco, and ends up in the net.  That's how your luck goes at the bottom.

   Stanley take control and create more chances.  Barnet defenders are more jittery than a jitterbug with the jitters. It seems to be a matter of time before the game is put to bed.  The home side's attacks are sporadic.  Ricky Holmes, out on the touchline is given a pass that's about three feet above his head, and hit at 70mph.  He shakes his head.

   Dean Winnard comes over to take the throw in for Accrington.  The ball's about two yards away from him.  He stands there, shouting angrily at a ball boy.  The lad is a good 20 yards away from the ball.  The lazy knacker, shouting at a 10 year old like that.  He deservedly gets dog's abuse from the terrace, all a lot closer to him than the ball boy is.  He looks startled.

   A few minutes later, he stumbles over himself and starts to limp.  That's Karma.  You f***ing twat.  Behind him, Ricky Holmes again makes a run into the area.  There's the merest of contact, a bit of a shove, and he's actually playing on.  It was done, though, right in front of the ref.  Soft penalty, yes.  But definitely a penalty.  The Stanley defenders shout at the culprit rather than the ref.  Chortle.

   Mark Byrne steps up to take it.  Chipper and I have a great view of it, level with the penalty spot.  He steps up.  As does the Stanley keeper.  It's low and to his left.  He makes a great save.  There's a scramble. The lino, we both spot, is waving his flag furiously.  He's still near the goal-line.  My first thought is that he's going to give a free kick.

   The ref goes over, has a word, then points to the penalty spot again.  Loud cheers.  Again, no complaints.  We'd seen the keeper off his line, but it happens so often.  It seems the match officials want to make their name.  Nobody's worrying at the moment though.  Byrne steps up again.  Whacks it in the same place.  But this time in the back of the net.  Game on.

   It's now anyone's game.  The Stanley left winger gets by Davids near the area.  He trips him.  Yellow card.  At that point, Accrington make a substitution.  James Beattie comes on.  Yes, that James Beattie.  Accrington Stanley's James Beattie comes on as Barnet's Egdar Davids is booked.  You can't get any more surreal than that.

   Well, you can.  Davids and Beattie go for the ball in the centre circle and push into each other, a proper 50/50 challenge.  The Dutchman comes away with the ball.  Then the ref's whistle blows.  The Stanley players run in and surround the ref.  But they needn't have bothered making themselves look like playground kids having a tantrum.  His mind is already made up.  Edgar Davids is sent off.  Ridiculous.

   He's given warm applause by the crowd.  He hasn't wasted a single pass, hasn't made a single unnecessary run.  He's been the quickest player on the pitch.  And by some distance the best I've seen this year.  He struggled at Palace desperately last year but, even at 39, he's light years above League Two.  A real privilege to watch.

   The game fizzles out.  Neither team done anything much to deserve the win, but no side deserved to lose.  The draw temporarily lifts Barnet out of the relegation zone and puts Accrington Stanley four points clear of it.  There's been far worse ways to spend a Friday evening.  That we are about to find out.

   Plenty of tubes at High Barnet.  We get on.  As does a bag lady.  Literally.  She has half a dozen filled up Tesco carrier bags.  She stinks of fish or something.  And, below her chinny chin chin.  She has a beard.  This is beyond surreal.  But the smell was beyond description.  I need a shower just by being in the same hemisphere as the bag lady.

   On the train back to the Bay are two pissed up City workers.  They talk loudly about the North London derby and slag off a Spurs player who they claim is on £70,000 a week and never does a job for them, with AVB never picking him.  I'd say it's more to do with him actually playing for West Ham, but that's just me being picky.

   He then claims he's the manager of a women's football team that's top of the table.  Which is coincidental as I spoke to the manager of that club earlier in the day.  Unless they've suddenly secured 15 points today they're not top.  And unless the guy's put on three stone, and had a face lift to age him by a decade, he's not the manager either.  But again, it's probably just me being picky.

   I reach the Bay just after midnight, tired but glowing after the pleasure of a Friday night out with Edgar Davids.  Barnet have another Friday night next month.  We might just have another night out with Eddie and the boys.  Providing he can last the full 90 minutes.

   And so to bed.

   Barnet 1,  Accrington Stanley 1

 

   .  

2012-13 Uncovered: Tuesday 13th November - Where Was I? Old, I Was Spotted Dog Inn

   The news from Hearts wasn't getting much better.  At last, a consortium riding to the rescue.  With an offer to the current chairman of £450,000 and on condition the club is debt free.  As the chairman is an owed creditor for around £16m, with HMRC wanting that £450,000 in the next few weeks and possibly wanting another £1.7m, it wasn't the most tempting of offers.  Romanov might be a mentalist but he isn't that daft.

   Not to worry, their debts may be a million miles from my own financial hardship, but hard up I was.  The bare fridge and cupboards bore testament to that.  A night out at the football was simply out of the question. With Brentwood in an FA Trophy replay, and East Thurrock also in action, the Phoenix FM coverage will have to be from my living room whilst watching Only Fools & Horses.  Or, even worse, ITV football.

   It was at that time of contemplation, though, that the Bay consortium came to the rescue.  Ed and Bri were off to Clapton v Southend Manor.  And, heavens above, I was being subbed the admittance price.  Who needs dinner when you can have a night out at the Old Spotted Dog?

   It's something the good people of East London have been doing since 1888, though in rapidly decreasing numbers in the past few years.  Just up the road from West Ham's ground, you would have thought the local non-league side would get a decent following in such a densely populated area.

   Not now though.  It seems the born and bred Londoners have moved out, and the people that have moved in have little interest in football and even less affinity for the Tons.  It's noticeable, too, that from Benfleet onwards, the trains into London when West Ham are at home are banged out.  They may as well be called the Home Counties Hammers now.  They certainly don't represent the area of Upton Park much now.  

   Not that they're alone.  Arsenal, Spurs and Chelsea are also Home Counties clubs based in London, rather than London clubs.  It's no bad thing, reaching out to get support from wherever you can.  Teams like Man U, Liverpool, Celtic and Sevco depend upon non-local support just to exist.  It just seems a pity that people won't go and watch their local side a bit more often.

  Anyway, enough of the soap box.  Being out and about also gave me the opportunity to do a radio football night live from a game, which always adds a bit more to it.  And as Bri hadn't seen his late father's Clapton team win in 29 years, he was summarising, just in case the home team created a bit of personal history for him.

   Southend Manor, meanwhile, were obviously undergoing a period of transition.  After last season's heroics, this time around they were scuffling around the lower and mid table places in the ESL.  A turnover of playing and coaching staff obviously needed time to settle.  Even though they were up against the bottom side, Manor were by no means assured of a win they'd have counted on last year.

   The transition was continuing off the pitch as well.  With Bob retired from his chairman duties in the summer, his incumbent, Steve, was finding out just how arduous and time consuming the job could be.  Feathers had been ruffled one way or another.  All was not content down Southchurch Park way.  And to think everyone at this level does it voluntarily.  They must be mad as well as noble.

   We settled down, the crowd small - but tonight extremely enthusiastic.  Sitting with us were the club's youth side and they were wonderfully vociferous, especially for their favourite player, Ninja.  Or maybe they just liked turtle soup.  Whatever the reason, they were great, adding a bit of surreal atmosphere to the night.

   Did I say surreal?  Bloody hell, too right it was.  Five minutes in and Clapton win a throw in.  Immediately a volley of fireworks light up the East London skies.  Then more.  And more.  A constant barrage of sound, smoke and pyrotechnics.  It was apparently Diwali, the Hindi 'festival of light' and my, were the locals in the houses around Upton Lane celebrating.  It was getting ridiculous.  

   On the pitch, the game was fairly poor, the first half only having one outstanding moment, Manor custodian Adam Seal parrying a Clapton shot from about 25 yards out for a corner.  Prior to that there was a fairly distasteful incident with a home player being kicked whilst on the floor.  The perpetrator was booked - along with the host keeper for being unhappy about it.

   If Clapton shaded the first, Southend Manor took command of the second, creating plenty of chances.  They obviously missed Pato a lot though.  He would have buried at least a couple of the opportunities that came their way.  The longer the game went on, the longer it stayed 0-0, the more Bri's sphincter began to twitch.  Could the run come to an end?

   Not that we could see much.  The Old Spotted Dog had become a mini San Siro.  The So Solid Crew next to us when keeping up their barrage of non-stop singing and banging of the seats.  Fireworks kept landing on the pitch.  Smoke was obscuring the view for long stretches.  And there was a loudspeaker growing out of a tree.  Ed and I were enjoying ourselves immensely.  Bri must have been more nervous than a News Of The World hack receiving a voicemail.

   Then it came.  The goal.  Whilst, of course, I wasn't watching, but Bri related this possibly historic news to the listeners.  An absolute beauty.  A shot from some distance.  Bloody hell.  1-0.  To Southend Manor though.  Chris Baddeley had scored the stunner.  Surely it was game over now?

   Not that it mattered to the So Solid Crew as they continued their rhythmic chanting.  The fireworks, explosions and smoke continued to pour down on the place.  The crowd was barely above 40 but it could have been 80,000 watching a Serie A title decider had a stranger just walked into the place, such was the colour and noise.

   As time ticked away, Bri's 29 year losing (with occasional drawing) streak watching Clapton seemed to be intact.  What I had forgotten, though, was that I was the master of the last minute in recent weeks.  The last 5 games covered live on the radio had included last minute or injury time equalisers.  And nine goals in the last five minutes of those games too.

   Clapton win a corner as we head into the last 60 seconds.  It's delivered superbly, on the right, in front of their clubhouse.  There's a scramble in the six yard box, at the near post.  Then boom.  Not only from the fireworks off the pitch.  There's one on it now.  1-1.  

   The entire Clapton side go momentarily berserk, all chasing each other in celebration.  The So Solid Crew are up on their feet, cheering as if it's that Serie A title winner.  Make that six radio games, six late equalisers.  And 10 goals in the last five minutes.  

   I laughed.  How ridiculous can football get sometimes.  Behind me, the Manor chairman looked on glumly.  And at their one-time PA man celebrating a Clapton equaliser with a little disdain, I guess.  Still, that's football.  I didn't particularly want Manor to lose, but you just couldn't help feeling pleased for the hosts and the youth side that had helped make it a great evening for all of us.

   And yet still Clapton pushed forward.  After almost continual visitors pressure in the second half, it seemed almost written in the stars that the hosts would steal it and break Bri's hoodoo.  More corners, more desperate defending, a shot at goal blocked, then another just wide.  Blimey.  They could do it.  They really could.

   Except that they can't.  The whistle goes.  1-1.  Bri's record is intact as both teams are applauded off.  One way or another, and for very minimal reasons on the field, and mostly for things happening off-pitch, it had been an extraordinary night at the Old Spotted Dog.  

   As we made our way out, through Green Street, then Barking Road, we caught a glimpse of the West Ham statue of the heroes of '66.  Pah, they may have won a World Cup, but I bet they never got a last minute equaliser on Diwali and been submerged in fireworks and smoke for it.

   On a night that threatened to end Bri's 29 years of history, I thought back through the decades and centuries.  The class of 1888.  They would have loved it tonight.

   As did I.  

   Clapton 1,  Southend Manor 1