Coming up!

Saturday December 26th

WALTON CASUALS, NORTHWOOD & UXBRIDGE

I’ve spotted a possible threesome (weather permitting) so I’m now going for games at Walton, Northwood & Uxbridge, all in the one day! The kick-offs are two hours apart so I might have to slice a little of beginnings and ends but the empty (!) Boxing Day roads should be an advantage.

Tuesday December 29th

DULWICH HAMLET v CORINTHIAN CASUALS

Change of plan for the Festive Holiday as Notts have sold out of their tickets for the Burton game so I’m off down to London again, despite National Express now adding a credit card fee to their spiraling prices – no wonder they’re losing customers! I’ve got my pick of several games, all depending on weather conditions, with Dulwich my first choice.

Friday January 1st

THATCHAM TOWN v BRACKNELL TOWN

Bearing in mind that the previous evening could well have been spent ushering in the new decade, I might just about be able to struggle down to the M4 corridor for this pulsating Southern League S&W derby, doubtless with my stray ball chasing son in tow, if I can prise him away from his chuffing X-Box….

Saturday January 2nd

WINGATE & FINCHLEY v LEYTON

It’s back on the National Express, but I’m traveling later and returning earlier, so exploring the local pubs might be a no-no. The last time I saw Leyton they were being tanked at Lowestoft so it’ll be interesting to see what they learned from that.

Sutton United – Saturday December 12th 2009 (385)

'The club committe are a little concerned that the short-sighted signwriter might have gone overboard with the new 'way out' signs...'

One of our business customers is a well-presented lady with, as far as I am aware, no interest in football whatsoever. She has a wall in her office on which are displayed several pictures under the collective heading ‘It’s A Woman’s World’. One illustration is a mock-up of a cover from a Haynes Motor Manual. It just says ‘Blue Car’ on the front. Another is of a car fuel gauge which has three marks – green for full, orange for half full, and red for ‘Ring Boyfriend’. But the one that makes me smile the most is that of a TV presenter who is proclaiming… “Todays live match between Arsenal and Liverpool will follow after extended coverage of events in Albert Square….”  The cheek, eh?

I bring this up because I am on my way to the capital today and although it’s not the East End I’m heading for, a local derby in ‘Sarf’ London will surely raise the temperature to Albert Square levels. One can only hope.

I decide to travel by rail for a change, despite fares having gone up dramatically over the last twelve months or so. At least it gives me a chance to take my morning walk through theatreland and down the Mall, where I am overtaken by a speeding convoy featuring some royal or other. At the Willow Walk I get an extra veggie sausage on my plate, no doubt making up for the lack of Hash Browns I suffered in Glasgow last week. Then it’s the short rail journey to Sutton, where my choice of hostelries is limited to two more Wetherspoons, followed by a Youngs pub, the Robin Hood. As I sit supping my pint of Youngs Winter Warmer in the latter, I remember exactly what it is that a real community local has that a Wetherspoons will always struggle to replicate – atmosphere.

I head for the ground, pausing only to check whether the local Holland & Barratt has sold its one Scotch Egg of the day. I’ve found that each branch only ever has the one daily egg, so you have to get in there quick. Today is my lucky day. There’s around a 20-minute walk from the town centre to the ground. You can in fact get a train from Waterloo to West Sutton which will take you virtually to the doorstep, but you’d miss out on the pubs, and as I like a pint, I prefer to suffer the extra footslog.

The Borough Sports Ground used to feature a running track with a pitch in the middle. Evidence of this still exists at one end, but the rest of the stadium is reasonably well developed, with raised terracing all the way round, a decent sized main stand, and covered standing areas on one side and behind a goal. The bar – best accessed from outside the ground prior to the game – is under the main stand and soon gets pretty busy, due to its compact nature. The good news is live footy via Sky Sports, a food hatch selling (albeit pricy) vegeburgers, and two handpumps on the bar, dispensing Directors and an excellent pint of Bombardier.

With a tough local derby ahead of them, I fear for a team playing in – according to the official programme – amber and chocolate! What’s that all about? Looks like yellow and brown, to me. Prior to the game Sutton are a handy 8th in the table with visiting Kingstonian flying in third. Although not played at such a breakneck pace as I’ve been used to suffering in recent weeks, there is a lot of venom going into the tackling, players no doubt stoked up by the banter of the two sets of fans, who clearly have little respect for each other’s town. I smile when I hear the visitors refer to Sutton’s home with a ’shit ground, No fans’ refrain. They’re soon reminded of their own shortcomings as the locals respond with ‘Shit fans, no ground’…

As I reflect on a dour and reasonably uneventful first half, half a dozen chaps walk past wearing crombies. If indeed the long-awaited smoothy revival is underway, I’m well up for that. The games kicks off in the second half with no quarter asked and no quarter given. Kingstonian take the lead and the atmosphere hots up. Tackles clearly designed to take man and ball become the norm, and when Sutton equalise late on from a suspiciously offside position, the referee knows his ear-battering is only going to reach critical levels.

The Kingstonian contingent continue to pour scorn on their hosts, spurring a young blond woman pushing a pram and towing a youngster to hurl a volley of abuse in their general direction.  Tribal warfare, feisty blonds, dodgy language … It’s more like a scene from Eastenders, only, of course that’s real life. This is just a football match.

Programme: Glossy but not especially riveting and at £2.50 a tad expensive. All the topical pages are printed in brown er sorry, chocolate. Sold outside the main stand.

Floodlight pylons: 4

Parakeets: I had been hopeful but sadly the little critters don’t seem to fancy Sutton

Toilets: Behind the main stand.

Club Shop: Behind the goal near to the main turnstile block.

Tannoy music: Anybody who spins the La’s ‘There She Goes’ is alright by me!

Players with the quirkiest name: Nothing inspirational but I did notice that the referee hails from Battle. How very apt!

Clyde – Saturday December 5th 2009 (384)

"There's some doubt that emergency repairs to a crash barrier were undertaken to current Health & Safety standards..."

At the rag end of the 80s, I was at a trade show at the SEC in Glasgow. Looking for some evening entertainment I noted that Clyde FC were at home on that very night. Now I had no idea where Clyde actually played, but I reasoned with a name like that it had to be somewhere in Glasgow. My travelling companion of the time persuaded me that the evening would be much better spent down the nearest pub drinking beer and eyeing up the local women. A man of little apparent substance, I was won over to his argument and the chance to discover and visit Shawfield was lost, subsequently as it turned out, for ever.

The club’s move to its new home must have been like a dagger to the heart of Glaswegian fans of Clyde, seeing as Broadwood is in a different conurbation entirely. I’m not sure what crowds used to frequent Shawfield but I’m hazarding a guess it must have been a few more than those dragging themselves from Cumbernauld and its satellites down to the new ground.

As I said in a previous post – and disputed by a respondee – my rail journey into Glasgow offers me a ‘tantalising glimpse’ of Shawfield, with the much larger mass of Celtic Park in the background. I make sure that I check this out once again today, just to reassure myself that I’m not delusional. Having said that, the sight of a backpacker at Crewe station struggling with two rucksacks and an ironing board has me rubbing my eyes a tad.

I seem to arrive in Glasgow today with the place not quite ready for me. There’s few problems at the Crystal Palace, a GBG-listed Wetherspooons, although the brekkie does show a deficiency on the hash brown front. A touch of CD shopping at Fopp and I’m ready for another pint. Unfortunately the GBG-listed Ingrams Bar has no real ale on at all, the nearby Drum & Monkey is full of women that shop and there’s no seats, whilst at the Pot Still the youthful barman is struggling to find a beer he can pull through, and all the stools are still up. Still, it’s only 12.30 in the afternoon, eh?

I check my iphone and the Clyde game is still on. Even at this late stage I consider whether I should switch to Stennie who are at home to non-league Cove Rangers in the cup, but faced with the mouthwatering prospect of the two bottom sides in League Two ripping the hell out of each other in a jamboree of Total football, I alight the train at Croy and make the 20-minute walk to Broadwood. From a distance the stadium looks very impressive but it’s a bit like a Notts County scenario. Half an hour to kick off and you wouldn’t know a match is taking place, just the dayglo presence of an odd steward or two giving the game away.

Broadwood currently consists of three stands, only one of which is used on matchdays. The ground holds over 8,000 when full, but a third tier match against fellow strugglers like Arbroath is never going to produce a sell-out. I scoff down a Macaroni Pie and look for a seat. No problem there, I can a have a row to myself if I want. The teams emerge, with Clyde headed up by the most miserable looking mascot I think I’ve ever seen. It’s a bloke (I presume) in some kind of spotty dog outfit, with his oversized head hanging somewhere down by his waist. Presumably in his pomp he was a tall, upright, imposing kind of figure, strutting and proud, but the ravages of time – and successive relegations – has seen him take something of a beating. A bit like his team.

As the names are read out, only the local schoolkids seem to get excited, a high-pitched ‘Yaaaay” greeting every announcement. Curiously, no ‘boos’ for the opposition – a sporting bunch! My expectations of a blood and thrust encounter, both teams going at it from the off, are swiftly shattered. Arbroath seem to have the intention of playing a gentle passing game, but there’s very little in the final third, whilst Clyde provide the serious running mentality, but sadly consistently down blind alleys.

Neither side have a striker that’s worthy of the name, and it takes a freak goal direct from a long-range free kick to settle the issue. The strike comes right out of the blue, even catching out the tannoy man whose job it is to play the goal celebration music – the teams have kicked off again before the ‘Wooly Bully’ jingle strikes up. A local youth behind me – who looks strangely like the lead singer of Keane – is beseeching everybody to keep the volume going, but he’s fighting a losing battle. There’s just not a lot to get excited about.

It’s easy to see why these two are the basement clubs. On the day, neither have very much to offer the beautiful game. Hard running and pretty passing might be desirable in the make-up of a successful side, but when just one of these is your only attribute, you’ve got a long, hard season ahead. A trip to Division Three looks nailed on for both. For long-suffering Clyde fans, this will have only one consolation, in that they will once again get to see some football back in Glasgow. Sadly, it will be at Hampden, courtesy of Queen’s Park. Maybe it will even offer them a ‘tantalising glimpse’ of those Shawfield floodlights….

Programme: £2.50 from the club shop and a cracking good read. Compiled by someone who’s actually interested in what he is doing.

Floodlight pylons: None

Parakeets: A couple of dozen crows seem to use the ground as a marker on their way home to roost.

Toilets: Under the stand

Club Shop: Outside the ground. Small but well-stocked

Tannoy music: The announcer has a liking for remixed 1980’s disco-pop classics … and a very small record collection, repetition being the name of the game.

Player with the quirkiest name: Steven ‘Sore Throat’ Rennie

Hungerford Town – Tuesday December 1st 2009 (383)

"It was Sponsors Day at Hungerford, but whilst Bill was keen to join the party, Ben decided to have a lie-in..."

For my sins, I’m a bit of an ‘eventist’. I’m one of those irritating fellows who knows where he was whenever a major news event has occurred. Churchill, Kennedy, various Popes, Thatcher’s downfall (hurrah!), I remember ‘em all. Not to mention disasters, such as the Twin Towers (sat in my office in Nottingham), the Bradford fire (spectating at another ground), Hillsborough (unfortunately spectating at that ground), and the Hungerford Massacre (delivering beer about ten miles away). So it follows that my football travels often take me to towns and cities where I can check out the local landmarks, macabre though they may be.

When I saw Hungerford Town had won promotion to the Southern League, I immediately got googling to find out whereabouts the ground was, and perhaps a little more about the town. Type in Hungerford and number two on the list is Hungerford Town FC. Above it – at number one – is the Hungerford Massacre. It’s 22 years since, but the name is seemingly forever synonymous with events that took place in the streets around the ground.

I’m in the West Country with business partner Simon. We visit one of our customers in Melksham then head for nearby Devizes, home of the Wadworth’s Brewery. Shamefully, we’re not looking for one of their pubs, but the local Wetherspoons so I can grab a five-bean chilli for next to nothing. I doff my cap to Waddies by ordering a pint of 6X by way of penance. Simon’s driving and we make the 45-minute hike to Hungerford with just a hint of rain in the air. The streets around the ground are fairly tight and compact, as is the club’s car park so we leave the motor outside, ready for a sharp getaway. Several layers of clothes are in order and for the first time since my trip to Scotland in February, the ski gloves are deployed.

Town’s ground is one of many at this level built on a slope, albeit reasonably gentle. Straddling the half way line on opposite sides are two small but fairly upright stands, one with seats and one without. A couple of kit stands are deployed elsewhere in the ground, and there’s a simple covered terrace behind one goal. Behind the other is a sizeable clubhouse, the layout of which is obviously designed to cater for functions. There’s a large flat-screen TV showing live sports, but sadly nothing interesting in terms of beer on the bar. I mention to the bar-chap that I always look in the fridge to see if any local beers are on sale, but he appears to be one of those guys who thinks Guinness is a local beer cus it’s brewed in the UK, and is disinterested in my observation. Guinness it is then.

Kick-off time nears and we make our way outside via the snack bar. It’s the usual burger and hot dog fare so it looks like I’m going to be on the chip butties again, despite my recent health food kick. The threatened rain begins to fall so we head for the cover behind the goal and wait for the feast of football that we are sure visitors Windsor & Eton – second in the table – will bring to the party. At half time we’re still waiting, having witnessed the usual frenetic 110mph stuff over-bossed by a fussy referee, whilst both goalies can afford to take a nap.

Hungerford themselves are having a reasonable season with eight wins from thirteen games. They’ve certainly not given anything away in the opening 45, but all that is about to change. Effective half-time substitutions are made and the stalemate is broken early in the second when a hitherto rare Windsor & Eton break results in the opening goal. It serves to raise the tempo and Town come close to dragging it back before a defensive error gives the visitors a second. They’re cruising now and the third is merely confirmation of the away win. The eight-strong traveling fan contingent can journey back to London with a smile on their faces.

And so that was Hungerford. A name still synonymous with dark events in Britain’s history, but presented to us in 2009 as a sleepy Berkshire town with a splendid line in illuminated town centre Christmas tree decorations. And a football team with a bit to do before it can persuade Google that it is the primary thing that the town should be known for.

Programme: On sale at the turnstile. I can’t tell you how much it costs because it doesn’t say on the cover. It’s crammed with website stuff, although we did enjoy the quiz.

Floodlight Pylons: Eight, including a smattering of mobile phone masts

Parakeets: Not a dickie bird

Club Shop: Nothing evident

Toilets: In the clubhouse

Music: All quiet on the western Berkshire front

Players with the quirkiest names: Shaun ‘The Don’ Wimble and Steve ‘I’m a PC’ Dell

Lowestoft Town – Saturday November 28th 2009 (382)

"The club's fundraising drive for the new grandstand reaches a milestone as the first seats are installed..."

My son plays in an under 12’s league with basically the same bunch of lads he started with four years ago. Through the years they’ve been on the end of a fair few drubbings but have now reached a certain standard where it’s they who are dishing out the thumpings. Many of the teams they have encountered this season have possessed players of equal and occasionally superior talent, but my son’s side have not lost a match and have a game goal ration of  almost 7-1. Amongst the reasons for this is that they have finally realised the benefits of team play, and also the importance of composure in front of goal.

I recount all of this not simply to blow the trumpet for my son and his team, but merely to illustrate that football is not that difficult a game, when you get the basics right. Thus it was on Saturday at Lowestoft Town, where a Leyton side packed with young skilful footballers was blown away by a home team who just got on with the simple things.

My day starts early (there’s a surprise!) as I’ve booked a cheap rail deal to Norwich, the intention being to tour some of that city’s fabled real ale hostelries. I don’t disappoint myself, taking in a Wetherspoons breakfast before trekking out to the Alexandra, the Fat Cat, and the King’s Head, all beer-ticker friendly pubs with a good line in local brews and, in the case of the Cat, a basket of 60p cobs which I stock up with for later. Then it’s crammed onto the single-carriage train for the 35-minute journey to Lowestoft on the Suffolk coast, before calling at the Green Jack brewery tap, The Triangle Tavern, where a couple of Leyton fans are in conversation with a few locals. There’s an amusing moment as Sham 69’s ‘Hersham Boys’ kicks off on the jukebox and three or four of those present involuntarily join in the chorus.  ”Men of a certain age…” observes one of the guys.

The Lowestoft ground is just a few minutes walk away in a residential area. It’s pretty typical of stadia at this level, being primarily flat standing with a decent main stand on the half way line, some covered terracing by its side, and what constitutes a lean-to serving as a covered terrace behind one goal. Behind the other goal is a bar complex, with a Green Jack handpump having pride of place. The food hut in the corner next to the terrace is advertising apple pies! Well I suppose it’s veggie fodder….

The teams run out and I’m glad when the game kicks off, after the debacle at Margate two weeks ago. I recognise the home team’s number four as former Norwich and Forest midfielder Gary Holt, who seems to have dropped down a few levels in a short space of time. In fact, he doesn’t dominate the game today like I thought he might, but it doesn’t really matter as a young-looking Leyton team, who I understand have been having a difficult time in the league of late, prove that hard running and slick one-touch passing is totally ineffective if the pass is to an opposing player. A grateful Lowestoft team accept the gifts and score at regular intervals, before deciding to call it a day at eight. They play at their own pace, know where the goal is, and are a joy to watch. A journey to the Isthmian Premier is surely on the cards.

My sojourn is not done as I travel back into Norwich, taking in the Ketts Tavern and the Coach & Horses. Both pubs are showing the Carlisle v Norwich cup-tie, but I’m probably the only guy in the place taking little notice. I’ve just seen football as it should be played, and I don’t want to spoil my day.

Programme: £1.50 from a seller just inside the turnstile. Quite a chunky little number with a fair bit in it. Good value.

Floodlight pylons: Eight

Parakeets: Curiously, for a ground so close to the sea, there was an eerie absence of anything winged, include seagulls!

Club Shop: Just inside the turnstile, and reasonably well-stocked, although I did wonder who might want to buy a set of coasters with the players faces emblazoned on them. A christmas present for a well-loved aunt, maybe?

Toilets: A bit of a trek behind the changing rooms.

Tannoy music: nice mix of old and new pop. The teams emerge to the Old Spice anthem

Players with the quirkiest names: Nothing suitably inspiring, I’m afraid.

Dutch Weekender – Friday 20th – Monday 23rd November 2009 (379 – 381)

There's confusion at De Kuip as star Utrecht striker Ricky van Wolfswinkel forgets where he parked his company vehicle...

For the fourth year in succession, Eagle Bobster and I embark on our three games in three days jaunt across the North Sea, but this time with a difference. BMI Baby’s insistence on charging top whack for Amsterdam flights means we look elsewhere and find that Ryanair’s service to Weeze in Germany is a darn sight more cost-effective. Granted, we do have to get back across the border into Holland, and stay an extra night, but that’s all part of the adventure!

Before I go on, a word about Dutch football. I have a friend who lives in Breda, in southern Holland. When we first met in 1997 in Crete, he was very keen to tell me that his favourite TV programme was BBC’s Match of the Day, widely available throughout his homeland. Did he watch any Dutch football? I asked. No, It’s not so good, he assured, which surprised me, reared as I was on a diet of that great Ajax team and the exploits of their national side. After this weekend, Eagle Bobster and I are now in agreement that we don’t come to Holland for the quality of the football. In FC Twente, Feyenoord and Utecht we were watching three of the top five teams. On a weekend where Spurs put nine past a Wigan team that are not exactly rock bottom of the Premier League, we had to sit through 180 minutes of some of the most tedious football we’ve experienced all season, from perceivably the best sides. Their approach is to pass square and back and hope that an opening shows itself. It’s patient passing football, somewhat like Arsenal, but at least Arsenal have some firepower. Our Dutch teams relied primarily on muscular central strikers in the John Fashanu mould. Except Fashanu, for all his perceived limitations, could at least control a ball and find the net on occasions. How we prayed for a John Fashanu!

Day One starts with an early morning meeting at Direby Station and a train to Birmingham Airport. We run the gauntlet of the ‘Does Your Bag Fit In This Rack, Sir’ Ryanair jobsworths before the short flight to Weeze. We have taken the precaution of pre-booking a taxivan at the German airport which takes us to Nijmegen for 16 euros each – a good deal cheaper and quicker than the cross-border rail service. From Nijmegen it’s a train to Deventer, where we’ve booked a room for two nights. It’s two minutes from the Bierencafe de Heks (the Witch) which is busy when we arrive for our pre-match bevvys. It’s then only a 15-minute walk from the town centre to the stadium of Go Ahead Eagles, who are by coincidence top of the Dutch Second Division. I say that because we chose and organised tickets for this match right at the start of the season.

Their ground is what the Dutch describe as an ‘English’ stadium. It has bags of character but certainly nothing in common with Old Trafford or the Emirates, which are definitely English stadiums. We’re sitting next to a couple of Dutch brothers who, noticing our accents, engage us in conversation. They actually live in Arnhem but adopted Go Ahead as their team courtesy of their father who ‘infected’ them with his allegiance. They tell us, to no great surprise, that the unusual team name has stirring English connotations, and that the Eagle suffix was added by a British coach who thought it had a nice ring to it. Indeed it does as the Kop section of the crowd regularly chant “Go Ahead” which is swiftly followed by an “Eagles” from the rest of the punters. Out on the pitch a couple of handlers release and catch a giant eagle which flies to various parts of the ground and excites the ensemble.

The visitors are mid-table MVV of Maatricht and it’s a reasonably absorbing game settled by a three-goals-in-two-minutes burst in the first half, on-loan left-sided midfielder Jules Reimerink – a Kevin Sheedy type of player – ripping the defence to shreds to inflict the damage. It’s a hammer blow from which a plucky MVV will not recover, and a fourth in the second half is an Eagles bonus. The crowd is just over 5,000 and at a little over 11 Euros to gain entry, we reason that we have had good value for money on the night.

Our plan for the evening is to return to the De Heks, but it’s a tad busy so we divert to another quieter cafe nearby. The owner susses we have been to the game (programmes a give-away) and indicates we should not tell him the score, pointing to a big-screen which subsequently rolls down to show the Friday night’s Jupiler League highlights, obviously a tradition. Despite the no Smoking rule being applied to Dutch bars last year, this one is decidedly smoky. Eagle Bobster and I have this theory that, when Brussels dictates a new law, the British protest but ultimately obey it. The rest of Europe, meanwhile, simply accept the law and proceed to ignore it. Hence one in two Dutch bars is still smoky. After a couple of Boks, we decamp back to the Heks, find a corner, and settle for a session, which we regret in the morning.

The only answer to the mother of all hangovers is to get over to Amsterdam and drink it off in the Wildeman. As usual we buy a go-anywhere ticket which gives unlimited rail travel in Holland for the day. At 39.50 euros for two people, travelling in First Class, it’s the bargain to end all bargains. We take a detour to the Arandsnest, a bar specialising in Dutch-only beers, and speculate as to why we’ve never actually been in the place before. As we arrive at the door, we suddenly remember it’s because it’s never bloody open when we arrive (it opens at 4.00pm, far too late for beer tourists like ourselves). So we head to the Wildeman, are pleased to see that our old friend Simon is on the bar, and we chill out for several hours, taking our beers at a decidedly leisurely pace.

In no time at all we’re back on the train and heading for Enschede. Something goes wrong with our rail schedule and we have to give the biercafe Beiarrd in the town a miss, going straight back out to Twente’s dedicated railway station, right opposite the ground. We’ve got pre-booked and pre-paid tickets here (20 euros each, plus £20 bank transfer fee) which we collect from the ticket window next to the turnstile. We’re directed round the ground and are disappointed to see that we’ve been allocated seats in a spill-over section for the away fans. No Vitesse fans in it, but a bloody great glass screen with spiky metalwork and a net impairing our view of one goal. Welcome to Enschede! We’re not amused, especially as there are more than a few spare blocks of seats scattered around the stadium.

We’ve been told that the Arke Stadion is an atmospheric stadium, and before the kick-off most of the crowd do join in a hearty rendition of “You’ll Never Walk Alone”, but that is about as animated as it gets. A relatively lively first quarter settles into the Dutch passing game and forays on goal become a rarity. The visitors have the better of the few chances, but live to regret it as a late winner is bundled in to keep Twente on top of the table. The home crowd are happy but we’re decidedly less so. Back in Deventer the Heks is positively rammed so we settle on a small smoke-free bar near the hotel and drink some Lachouffes.

Day Three dawns with an early rail journey to Rotterdam. It’s a 12.30 kick-off and we head in and out of the Centraal station courtesy of our day rail tickets. The Stadion station is right opposite de Kuip and we suss out the ticket office, deciding to join one of the four queues all heading for a window with a different indecipherable Dutch word on it. We’ve pre-booked tickets but speculate on the odds of being in the wrong queue. Unfortunately at the head of ours is a large local ‘yoath’ who clearly has an issue with the ticket staff, rattling away in Flemish and swearing in English – the man has talent! To our delight, when we do arrive at the window, we have chosen wisely, and 44.50 euros each – you’d better believe it – gets us our prize seat which is as different again from Twente. Right on the front row of the top tier, and almost as good as the PSV ones we bagged last year.

De Kuip is almost three-quarters of a century old but still passes as a modern-style stadium, despite rows of what appear to be temporary seats filling what must have once been a running track or something similar. A lot of the crowd seem to prefer to stand, and the 500 or so Utrecht fans encased in their away cage are out-shouted for much of the game. Unfortunately, this game picks up where the last one left off. There is a smattering of chances but not enough to lighten up the general tedium, and derisive whistling at half and full time shows that even the Dutch – probably well-used to chess-board domestic football – can get a bit teed off now and again.

A train journey to Nijmegen and a taxivan to Weeze  sees us over the German border by early evening and our digs for the night, a typically un-Teutonic bar in the town called ‘Kevin’s Pub’. Run by an ex-RAF man – Weeze airport was an RAF base once – the bar has an accommodation block opposite which is good value at 65 euros per night for a twin room. Curiously the town has several restaurants and virtually no bars (the opposite to Holland) so we polish off a pizza and settle for a pool tournament in Kevin’s, Eagle Bobster showing what an English pub landlord gets up to in his free time by giving me a pasting, 6-4 flattering me somewhat. An early morning flight, a Wetherspoons brekkie in the Briar Rose in Brum, followed by a couple in the Wellington, and our 2009 adventure is done.

Eagle Bobster thinks we should try Germany next year, in a search for better football. In the next breadth he’s suggesting we could hit that week in the Spring where the Dutch Eredivisie has a game for virtually ten days in succession. It’s a nice idea but I think the missus might have something to say about it….

Programmes – Had to pay for all of them this year (usually given away free in the past). Go Ahead Eagles on sale in the club shop, FC Twente and Feyenoord from sellers outside the grounds.

Floodlight Pylons: Four each at Go Ahead and Feyenoord, none apparent at Twente (!)

Parakeets – Ducks and Coots outnumber the natives in Holland

Toilets – plenty, usually with a birds eye view of the pitch

Club Shops – outside the ground at Go Ahead and Twente, didn’t come across one at Feyenoord

Players with the quirkiest names: The best thing about Dutch names is that they’re generally funny enough without having to add anything. Here’s my selection….

GO AHEAD – Dave Bus and Joey Suk

MVV: Ruud Boffin, Edwin Wang and Faty Papy

FC TWENTE: Wout Brama and ‘Wellington’ (unless he’s been given the boot…)

VITESSE: Civard Sprockel and Calvin Jong A Pin

FEYENOORD: strangely pretty normal

UTRECHT: My son’s X-Box 360 Fifa 10 favourite, Ricky van Wolfswinkel!

Margate – Saturday November 14th 2009 (!)

"There's some doubt that the club's 'Make Away Fans Feel Welcome' initiative will have the desired effect..."

I’ve got a bad feeling about this one all week. I want to get to Margate before the dodgy weather sets in for the Winter, but as the day approaches, it looks like Winter is beating me to it. If everything can go wrong on the day then it does. Even the bus to London – normally reasonably busy – is chocka, and when we leave Milton Keynes there’s a 20-minute delay while passengers fight off a desperate armed militant insurgent gang intent on changing the new world order whilst – and here’s the real bummer – somebody sneaks on without paying! The driver is on his phone trying to establish why he’s got two passengers standing up (shocker!). Excuse me, but wouldn’t a simple ticket check reveal the miscreants, or is that not for me to say? Twenty minutes later we get the ticket check and the villains are revealed.

The Willow Walk is busy. The breakfast takes an age to arrive, and I’m busy on the I-Phone checking today’s weather casualties. Harrow Borough is on AND they have a beer festival! It’s a no-brainer except – and here’s the next bummer – I’m on the coach with driving to do later, so best stick to Plan A. Margate is showing as ‘playing’ as are Chatham and Whitstable, so if Margate IS called off later, I’ve got options.

I make the train with seconds to spare and within two hours – including the bus replacement service between Herne Bay and Margate (I’ve seen that bus on Heartbeat) – I’m in a very blustery Kent seaside town. Boy, this wind IS strong, as I take three steps forward and two back. I head straight for the ground, even though it is only 1.00 o’clock, as I still have time to detour to Whitstable if the game is in doubt. The pitch is fine, says the steward at the gate, but the safety officer with him sounds less enthusiastic. “If it was a pop concert I’d call it off,” he says reassuringly. If they were X-Factor contestants, I’d applaud him.

I decide to check in early and head for the bar. No beer to talk of and the snack bar offers no cheer, either. The ref and his assistants are on the pitch, the wind is howling but nobody’s being blown over. The sun is shining, the players are kicking balls about and I start to relax. It goes dark about 2.15 and starts to rain. SOME. People are getting wet but that happens with rain. Half an hour later and the buzz goes round the bar that the ref has called it off. The weather – evidently relieved by this decision – relents and within five minutes the sun is shining and the wind noticeably calmer. Which is more than could be said for the fans, who are not impressed, especially those who have travelled from Wealdstone. And Nottingham, come to that!

The gateman says the club don’t do refunds, but directs me to the bar where a club official – a Mr Piper according to the Margate forum – is trying to weigh up his options. The referee – who in my humble opinion clearly doesn’t fancy getting any wetter when he’s going to get paid anyway – sneaks in and becomes the subject of some light-hearted (!) banter as a section of the crowd swamp the bar politely requesting a refund of their entry monies. At 3.30 the entry monies are duly returned and I shuffle off towards the rail station, faced with an early return to London and the agony of a seemingly wasted day.

Having said that, the best thing about doing a football blog is that you still get to write stuff without a ball being kicked in anger. Like today, in fact.

Programme: From a hut inside the turnstile. £2 and a reasonably good read.

Floodlight Pylons: 4

Parakeets: The one highlight of the day. Fifteen of the beggars swooping low over the ground as I make my way home.

Toilets: In the bar

Club Shop: In the office block behind one goal.

Tannoy music: overly loud soft rock (The Final Countdown, that sort of crap)

Player’s with the quirkiest name: The referee, Mr Lee ‘B*st*rd’ Venamore

Hamilton Academical – Saturday November 7th 2009 (378)

"There's confusion in the SPL as the Rangers mascot turns up at the wrong ground..."

It’s back north of the border today but no flight this time. Instead I’m stood at Crewe station, trying to think of the name of the MP in the white suit who’s shifting from foot to foot trying to look inconspicuous not ten yards away. Doubtless he’s wracking his brains trying to put a name to the internet blogger staring at him from not ten yards away…

The train into Glasgow offers tantalising glimpses of Celtic Park – which looks like a three-sided ground from a distance – and Shawfield, the former home of Clyde FC, which now serves as a greyhound stadium. I’ve only one match today, so I have leisure time prior to getting the train to Hamilton. It has to be the Wetherspoons on Sauchiehall Street where I have a disagreement with the barlady as to what constitutes a good head on a beer. Her idea of perfect is an inch of froth. I counter that I don’t think so but after three attempts I give it best. I retire next to the Bon Accord, a more agreeable pub with a good selection of ale.

My train from the Low Level station into Hamilton passes by the Accies ground which looks quite impressive from a distance. Before heading there I need to sample the delights of the George Bar in town, a GBG regular. It’s a friendly enough old local, with three ales on tap, but a pig of a walk back to the ground. It’s like the away end at Watford, you can see it but the official route takes you way beyond. It’s much easier to access the ground from the Hamilton West station.

At close quarters New Douglas Park turns out to be a bit like Falkirk, basically a two-sided ground. The main stand holds the Accies faithful whilst a second stand behind the goal is home to the visitors from just down the road, local rivals Motherwell. There’s a load of scaffolding behind the other goal, so maybe something is being developed here, but on the far side there’s an empty temporary stand, looking like it last saw service at Hickstead. It’s a cold day but a macaroni pie from one of the several snack hatches on the concourse in front of the stand warms me up.

I saw Hamilton a few weeks ago at Tannadice. Their tactic then was to lump stuff up to Antoine-Curier and hope something would stick. For most of this match that looks to be the policy at home, too. They are a team of honest endeavour but with Motherwell only slightly more cultured it’s looking stalemate territory until the ref intervenes towards the end of the first half. A second rash tackle from an Accies man and he can’t get the yellow and the red out of his pocket quick enough. Are these guys on commission?

Needless to say the traditional Scottish pastime, the Boo (if you recall an earlier post, delivered like a cow with a cold) comes into play and for much of the match I find myself compelled to offer my own contribution, often when there’s nothing to boo at. To make matters worse, there’s a penalty shortly thereafter – a stonewaller despite the home boo-ing – and it looks glum for the Accies. A good save from the home custodian, combined with a few more over the next 40 minutes or so, creates a platform for a steal, and the Accies go a goal up, are pegged back, go in front again, and finally lose two points at the death. The excitement is late in coming but welcome nonetheless.

Drizzly rain greets my return to Glasgow and I plan to settle down in a quiet hostelry with a book for a hour or so. I reckon without the instinct in this city to be on the ale at 5.30 of a Saturday evening. Everywhere is packed – including the Pot Still, my favoured watering hole – so I give it best and head for the station cafe. I’ve a four-hour rail journey and an hour’s drive ahead of me. No sign of the MP in the white suit. I assume he isn’t an Accies fan…..

Programme: £2.50, lots of ads, sold outside the ground in the club shop, or from booths just inside the turnstile

Floodlight pylons: Four solid-looking things

Parakeets: Don’t be daft

Toilets: On the concourse in front of the main stand

Club Shop: Outside the ground

Tannoy music: A bit disco-orientated

Player with the quirkiest name: Motherwell’s Giles ‘Canna’ Coke

Market Drayton Town – Tuesday October 27th 2009 (377)

"Club officials solve the problem of player's drinks bottles littering the touchline by installing hi-tech refreshment dispense equipment..."

The prospect of a blank weekend looming up, due to domestic obligations, leads me to the potentially rash decision that I need to drive 50 miles or so on this October evening to fit in a ground I had originally planned for March. I have my son for company, with it being half term week in our area. He’s been complaining of his lack of pitchside action this season, so I can kill two birds with one stone.

Market Drayton’s ground is to the north-west of this small Shropshire market town. They share the complex with the local tennis and rugby clubs, and it’s the latter’s car park you use. We manage to walk past the club house in the gloom and are amongst the first to enter the ground, a quick tour of which takes in the snack bar – jacket potatoes advertised – the modest main stand, with its mix of ancient and modern seating, and a wooden two-step terrace that looks like it might once have served as a stabling block in The Waltons. In fact wood is in predominance around the ground, no doubt a nod to environmentalists due to its location out in the sticks. The lack of an obvious clubhouse leads us to ask the question, and we are redirected back out of the ground and up towards the car park. Ah, there it is! The words ‘Clubhouse’ written on the side a dead giveaway!

The small cosy room is populated by half a dozen punters and a bevy of very presentable thirty-something ladies busying about their club duties. There’s no proper beer on sale, unfortunately, and the TV gives you the impression it would benefit from being tuned in properly, but it passes a half-hour prior to kick-off. My accomplice is happy enough, ploughing through innumerable packets of crisps and cans of fizzy stimulants.

Tonight’s action is a Northern Premier League Cup second round match against fellow Division One South side Mickleover Sports. It has certainly captivated the town as 69 hardy souls pack into the ground. We position ourselves behind one goal, in order that my lad can indulge his favourite pastime of stray ball chasing. He looks daggers at several local urchins who move into his territory, doubtless bent on the same mission. With both teams in the top half of the table we’re looking forwards to a lively match and to a large extent it doesn’t disappoint, the ball pinging around the pitch at the usual breakneck speed and bringing the keepers into play every so often.

One up at half time, the visitors turn the screw in the second and a comedy scramble resulting from a defender’s sliced clearance against his own bar finishes with the home keeper prostrate and requiring urgent medical attention to what looks like a damaged finger. The sub keeper – ominously wearing 13 – takes over but is soon picking the ball out of the net and despite Drayton pegging it to 1-2, a third from the dominant Sports seals the win. A last minute Drayton goal just massages the score-line.

The ball-chaser and I set off back home, both of our jobs done for the evening.

Programme: £1.50 on sale at the turnstile. Not much in it but this is just a cup game so maybe a token effort

Floodlight pylons: Four

Parakeets: Not even an owl

Tannoy music: my memory escapes me

Toilets: by the side of the main stand

Club Shop: Didn’t encounter one. The website has a club shop section but the page is blank

Players with the quirkiest names: Drayton’s Gary ‘Quick’ Anslow and Mickleover’s Eric ‘Onefootinthe’ Graves

Worthing – Saturday October 24th 2009 (376)

'Chairman orders enquiry after someone nicks the gnomes from the club's ornamental garden...'

After last weekend’s flurry of activity it’s back to the usual one game in a day routine as I head off to the  South coast, via the 440 and a Willow Walk brekkie, followed by a surprisingly good advance deal on Southern Trains, costing me just £3 each way to Worthing.

There’s a distinct aroma in the air in Worthing. Just like when you go to Burton on Trent you can always smell a brewery, here there is a definite whiff of fish and chips – a cross that I suppose a seaside town has to bear.

For the first time this season I get a bit wet as I trek out to the ground first to see that nothing is amiss, paranoia having set in for some unknown reason. I manage to dry off at a Good Beer Guide 2010 (yes, I bit the bullet and bought it) listed local called the Selden Arms which is the epitomy of a cosy community pub – long may it survive! My next port-of-call is equally comfortable, this being the Richard Cobden which, despite its name, is not a Wetherspoons. A pint of Harvey’s Best – one of my favourite ales – goes down a treat before my short walk to Worthing’s A2B stadium, or Woodside Road  if you like to stick to tradition.

The impressive business-like frontage reveals a traditional if somewhat aging Isthmian league stadium with a sizeable main stand dominating. Elsewhere there is some raised terracing with a modicum of cover behind each goal and on the halfway line. Although there’s a small bar under the stand, the main clubhouse is near the entrance and is roomy. There’s an erratic TV showing Sky Sports News, sort of, between the pixels, but a quick check of the bar confirms the absence of anything worth drinking. Similarly, the two snack bars either side of the goal have nothing for the veggie, except chips and I’ve given them up for Lent.

The rain has eased but there’s a swirling wind favouring one direction. Worthing are riding high in the table, having scored ten goals in their previous three games. The fact that they have also let in eight gives me the inkling that this could be a goal-fest, especially as the visitors Whitstable Town are next to bottom having conceded 21 goals in nine games already this season. It more or less goes to form, with the hosts having infinitely more clues than their guests, who appear to be clue-less. Worthing have players who can trap a ball, turn with it and run at the defence, something of a novelty compared to many of the games I’ve seen recently. The fact that Whitstable’s defending is, at best, inept, also helps the situation.

For some reason it’s only one at half time, but the floodgates open in the second, and you have the feeling that the home team will score with every attack. They also sportingly offer Whitstable opportunities to put their own names on the score sheet, but the visitors don’t seem to want to spoil the party and their finishing is laughable. Two goals direct from free-kicks and another from a late penalty contribute to a final 5-0 scoreline that could easily be 9-2 or something similar. Whitstable’s keeper is sent off in the penalty incident, and you can’t help thinking it akin to putting the man out of his misery, him having been dropping the ball all afternoon to a consistent chorus of ‘dodgy keeper’ by the sympathetic home fans behind the goal.

I take the opportunity on the return journey of travelling via Brighton so I can get in a pint of Harvey’s Mild at the Lord Nelson on Trafalgar Street near the station. If I could take five pubs with me to a desert island, this would be one of them. A traditional old town hostelry with a mix of regulars, tourists and the odd celebrity drinker – the Fast Show’s Mark Williams was in last time I called – it just has to be a one of England’s classic pubs.

Programme: £1.50 from a kiosk just inside the turnstile. Not a lot in it.

Floodlight pylons: Three phone masts and one pylon

Parakeets: Nowt but pigeons and shitehawks

Tannoy music: Curiously, teams emerge to stirring brass band music

Club Shop: By the side of the pitch near the corner, but closed today

Toilets: Near the club shop and snack bar, or in the clubhouse

Players with the quirkiest names: Worthing’s Medi ‘Chicken’ Koroma and Whitstable’s Jake ‘Yerbig’ Gess