Saturday November 7th

HAMILTON ACCIES

It’s off to Scotland after a lengthy three-week break. Only one game this time – a three o’clock kick-off – so maybe I’ll have time for a pre-match brekkie at a convenient Wetherspoon’s, maybe a pint in the Bon Accord, and certainly at the George Bar in Hamilton.

Saturday November 14th

MARGATE

South Eastern trains have tried to trip me up with this one by inserting a rail replacement bus from Herne Bay into Margate, but I’m not deterred and intend on making this long haul before the Winter weather sets in.

Friday November 20th – Monday November 23rd

ANNUAL DUTCH WEEKENDER

A change of of plan this year as we’re flying into Dusseldorf… well, Weeze actually, 50 miles from anywhere! That won’t stop us taking in the delights of Deventer, and of course Go Ahead Eagles, currently riding high in the Dutch Second Division. Then after a drinks break at the Wildeman in Amsterdam we’re doubling back to see how the Umbrella Man is getting on at Twente. On Sunday we’re paying a small fortune to visit Feyenoord before a night’s sampling back in Germany. It’s a hard life!

"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

'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

"Club officials ponder which style to choose from the selection at Floodlight-Pylons-R-Us..."

I have a few criteria when it comes to adding a new ground to my list. One is that the game has to be a meaningful contest, as in no ‘friendlies’ – there has to be something at stake, eg. league points or a place in the next round of the cup. That’s why, on an otherwise blank Sunday waiting for a flight home, I manage to track down a match that must add a gold anorak award to my distinguished accomplishments! More of that later.

It’s a bright Saturday in October and I arrive at Birmingham airport for the 8.50am to Glasgow. Wetherspoon’s is open and I avail myself of a breakfast but no beer, as I’ve got some driving to do later. The airport is alive with be-shirted Villa fans flying in for the big match with Chelsea. My plane has propellors and has the registration mark G-JEDI … hopefully it’ll fare better than the Death Star! There’s no queue for Enterprise car rental at Glasgow airport and within 20 minutes of landing I’m speeding up the M8 heading for Perth. A few weeks ago I wrote to the Managing Director of St Johnstone pleading for dispensation when it came to tickets for this game, which happens to be against Rangers. It’s a TV match with an early kick-off, and tickets are only being sold to regulars, to avoid infiltration. Mr Duff kindly gave the nod and on arrival at McDiarmid Park I am in possession of two tickets for the game, the other being for Eagle Bobster who meets me at the ground.

The stadium is one of the earliest of the new-builds, and although a fairly unadventurous arrangement of symmetrically-matched stands, has a certain charm with its overhanging trees, and a view of sorts from a hill outside the ground. I’m pleased to see the Macaroni pies on sale and decide to top up my breakfast. The ground is somewhat less than full, despite Rangers having both ends and part of one stand, and the stay-aways miss a lively game in which the home team show the more purpose and deservedly go in front. Kris Boyd is caught offside and a wag behind shouts out “Hey Boyd, your head was onside but your belly was off!” Boyd has the last laugh because, although both he and Rangers look sluggish, he poaches an equaliser and then the usual SPL script kicks in. The lesser team – St Johnstone in this instance – deserve a share of the spoils, but the Auld Firm team – Rangers today – get the late winner. It’s a familiar book.

We set off in our hired Twingo to cover the 25 miles to Dundee in 40 minutes or so, arriving at Tannadice just as the game kicks off. The stadium is a curious mix of stand architecture, with most of the crowd crammed into two of them. Opposite are 50 or so Hamilton Accies supporters who have much of one side to themselves, save for the patrons of a row of what appear to be garden sheds tacked together to form executive boxes. A big advert for the Samaritans dominates and I consider calling the number as a generally dreadful game drifts on. Antoine-Curier, a former Forest trainee, is given time to lace his boots before slotting the visitors in front. Bobster and I look at each other and utter the words ‘comedy goal’ simultaneously. The crowd are by now resigned to persistantly abusing the referee and his assistants, backed by a constant barrage of booing, but in a strangely Scottish way which I can only describe as akin to hearing a cow with a cold. A late United equaliser lifts some of the gloom.

Our sporting day done, we return to Glasgow for an evening on the shandy. I have plans for the Sunday, which involve either a stadium tour of Hampden, or my coup de grace, a match at the former Scottish League ground once used by Meadowbank Thistle. Admittedly, it’s only an East of Scotland Under-19 League match, but as I said at the start of this post, if there’s points at stake, that’s OK by me. Thus we brave roadworks on the M8 and Edinburgh’s infernal traffic to arrive at the Meadowbank Stadium in good time for the 2.00 kick-off. Bobster and his travelling companion, an amiable chap called John with a modicum of interest in football, don their own anoraks to join me.

We startle the staff at the reception desk by declaring our interest in seeing the game, and after getting lost in the corridors underneath the main stand at Meadowbank, then sidetracked by the cafe overlooking the pitch, we finally find our way out onto the concourse to join the 20 or so mums and dads congregating in the middle of the stand. Both these teams are in the top five in this league. Paradoxically they are also in the bottom five. Edinburgh are top and Easthouses Lily (!) bottom. The visitors, however take an early lead and despite conceding much of the possession, are comfortable until half time, and settle in the second. Curiously the referee is working with just one linesman, a disinterested chap who shuffles up and down the line making decisions often at odds with his superior, whilst sipping coffee from a cup as he does so. Fergie would no doubt suggest he wasn’t fit – the cheek of it!

We head for the airport, our anoraks sporting new campaign medals and a job well done.

PROGRAMMES – St.J – Bobster bought it before I arrived: D.U. – outside the ground: ECU19 – Curiously no programme

PARAKEETS – More likely to see Penguins this far from the Equator

PYLONS: St. J – 4: D.U. – 5 (9 if you include Dundee’s): ECU19 – 4

CLUB SHOP: St J – just outside the East Stand: D.U.- One on the concourse inside the Main Stand: ECU19 – curiously not one

TOILETS: St J & D.U. – under the stands: ECU19 – just inside the Leisure Centre doors

TANNOY MUSIC: Nothing worth remembering

PLAYER WITH THE QUIRKIEST NAME (Retained by popular demand): St Johnstone’s Paul ‘Sheep’ Sheerin and Edinburgh’s Lee ‘Slim’ Tubby

Hastings directors try to make the team feel at home by bringing the beach with them..."

Back on the 440 to London today but I don’t follow my usual plan as I’ve set up a meeting with a guy I haven’t seen for nigh on 30 years. The re-uniting powers of the world wide web has put me in touch again with an East End lad called Wayne, who I last saw back in the early 1980’s when I was a weekend second-generation mod and he was the real deal, playing in a band called the Numbers at the Marquee and other prestigious places.

We meet up at the Wetherspoons at Liverpool Street and reminisce about the ‘old daze’ as he puts it, and how he’s gone on to a career casting actors for films and adverts, including stuff for Match of the Day. He also did all the Nike adverts of a few years ago, and got to kick a ball around with Ronaldo and Rui Costa amongst others. I tell him I once propped up the bar with Alan Birchenall and he seems most impressed.

We bid Au Revoir and I get the train out to Waltham Cross, pausing only for a pint in the local Wetherspoons before the half hour walk via Waltham Abbey town centre to get to Capershotts. En route I marvel at the amount of customised hatchbacks speeding around like lunatics, a sight you don’t see so much in the daylights hours up where I live. Then again, Essex man might well be a different animal.

Capershotts is set back from the main road, and is accessible down a short track. I have to be careful now what I say, it seems, as perceived negative comments about St Mirren’s new stadium earned me a bumper postbag and the most hits on the site in one day I’ve ever had! So I’ll just note that Waltham Abbey’s ground is expecting to receive an upgrade in the near future, and at the moment is probably not a state-of-the-art stadium, unlike nearby Dartford’s for instance. My first port-of-call as always is the clubhouse, which is outside of the ground. There’s a big screen TV but I draw a blank on the beer front. There’s a food servery in the bar and a meaty menu, with the unusual option of scampi (if you’re a seafood-eating sort of veggie, like me). There’s another food servery inside the ground, at the back of the changing rooms, but here the choice is even more limited – not even chips.

Having sat down at Fylde earlier in the week, I decide to rest my legs again and take up a seat in the stand. Along with a small terrace behind one goal, it’s the only cover in the ground. I’m entertained by a little mascot in oversize kit and shorts down to his ankle doing kicks-ins and fancy tricks. He must about 3, but definitely one for the future – sign him up.

Lowly Abbey are today taking on high-flyers Hastings United, and there’s not a lot to choose between them for most of the first half, a stunning strike from the visitors No8 breaking the deadlock. The ball (or balls) seem to spend a lot of the time in the fields surrounding the ground, one effort going so high and wide that some wag behind me comments “…that one’s in MY back garden!” Much of the second half is spent in honest endeavour and I’m starting to endure micro-naps as the excitement level plumbs new depths. I’m stirred by the home team deciding to go for broke and a double woodwork strike gives the Abbey fans something to be optimistic about. It’s not to be, however, and the result reflects the form book.

I travel back to Victoria via St Pancras, so I can call into the curry house I found earlier in the year that offers a £5.95 Saturday night buffet. They’re still doing it, and though there’s not a massive choice, where else can you stuff yourself for six quid in London? Answers to my mailbox, please…..

Programme: £2, on sale from a lad just inside the turnstile. Probably in the bar too. Although it’s colourful and glossy, there’s not much original stuff in it. I wasn’t even going to attempt to tackle the two pages of text set aside for the complete history of Hastings United, in case I died of excitement halfway through..

Pylons: Four

Parakeets: plenty of bloody pigeons

Club Shop: Didn’t spot one

Toilets: Behind the goal, near the snack hatch

Tannoy Music: A mix of easy listening and obscure singles

Player with the quirkiest name: I’m giving upon this because most of my ideas tend not to be politically correct

"AFC Fylde players suspect their manager's team selection methods are not always as considered as they could be..."

Who said never mix business with pleasure?   Not me, that’s for sure, as I contemplate the thrill of a night out in rain-sodden Lancashire following a business trip to Preston. My long-suffering brother-in-law and business partner Simon is in tow. Having recently had his appendix removed, I feel it is my duty to treat him to an evening on a draughty terrace at AFC Fylde, one of those grounds you really need to get to by car.

After stopping off for a cheapo meal at the Wetherspoon’s in Preston – sadly devoid of all but a couple of token cask beers – I recognise the pub across the road – the Old Black Bull – as being the place I watched an England qualifier last year. Unfortunately they’ll be no return visit tonight, as I’m behind the wheel so it’s straight off to Warton on the road to Blackpool, passing by Preston’s Deepdale – with its fantastic floodlight architecture – on the way.

I’m not quite sure why Kirkham & Wesham football club decided to rename itself AFC Fylde  as my maps don’t show any metropolis with that name nearby. Then again I was rubbish at geography at school so it’s doubtless the region of Lancashire that encompasses the village of Warton, outside of which sits Kellamergh Park. Access to the ground is via a pub car park (novel!) and down a winding track that leads to the middle of a field. Here sits the ground, surrounded by a six foot high concrete wall. It’s a very wet night and we need to ask if the game is on. Once inside we are reassured to see that the pitch is designed to shed water. Simon gets chatting to one of the club officials who says that £40,000 was spent on the pitch drainage system in the summer after lots of problems last year. It pays off because on a night when nearby Bamber Bridge have their game called off, this one’s definitely on, much to my relief.

One of the most striking features of the stadium is the use of two huge containers to provide hospitality facilities. From the outside they are rugged, metallic and green. From the inside you’d think you were in a modern office suite, with carpets, stylish furniture, flat screen TVs showing Sports News, and in one of them a neat but basic bar. Sadly no real beer, not even in bottle. The other container is used for sponsors, and we have the pleasure of watching them tuck into their half time buffet as we wander around the ground.

The move from our cosy seats in the long but narrow main stand is to check out the snack bar which gleams behind one goal, especially as the attractive blonde that bought the buffet to the sponsors was last seen disappearing back into it. Unfortunately she brings me the bad news that, despite the sign stating the contrary, there actually aren’t any cheese and onion pies on sale. Neither are there any peas, so my cash stays in my wallet. Simon munches on his chips.

The game is between 13th placed AFC Fylde, resplendent in their new white kit, and visitors Trafford FC from Manchester, a good six places further up the table. It’s one of those typical Northern Premier League games, played at 110mph with no lack of individual skill but a general absence of fluid team play. The home side are seeing most of the ball but you suspect that the visitors are just waiting for their moment to strike, which they do ten minutes from the break. Within 20 minutes of the second half starting they’ve tripled their lead, courtesy of two players called Scott. The gaggle of Trafford fans sitting near us sing their songs, not surprisingly mainly about players called Scott. There’s not a peep from the home contingent.

I take a last lingering look at the snack bar – fantasizing about cheese and onion pies you understand – and we make for the soggy car park and our long trek home. Me thinking how fortunate to be able to tick off one of the most awkward grounds to get to, and Simon wondering why his sister ever took up with me in the first place. I know he enjoyed it really…

Programmes: £2 – nicely presented for this level, but a little on the pricey side. On sale in the bar.

Floodlight pylons: 6

Parakeets: Too dark and wet to see (or hear) any birdlife at all

Toilets: In the container .. er I mean bar, and behind the snack bar

Tannoy Music: Whatever it was it was too muffled to decipher. Kasabian I think…

Club Shop: A couple of ladies with a small table selling shirts and scarves in the bar

Player with the quirkiest name: Ryan ‘Bob’ Marley (yeah, I know, I’m scraping the barrel)

'Centre Forwards get a reminder that, at this ground, a wayward shot could well be a Red Card offense....'

As a pedantic ground collector, Wimbledon gives me a problem. I have a folder with three programmes in it. One dates from 1989 and is fronted ‘Wimbledon Football Club’. The second is from 2004 and is again headed ‘Wimbledon Football Club’. The third is from 2007 and is headed ‘MK Dons’. They’re in the same folder for it appears to me that – despite the name change, and the three different grounds in question (Plough Lane, National Hockey Stadium and Stadium MK) – they were issued by the same club. However, I am very aware that die-hard fans of the new ‘AFC Wimbledon’ will dispute this, and doubtless bestow on me a ‘fatwa’ of sorts, but I have to make a decision as to how I order my collection, and therefore the three are likely to stay in the folder that I have marked ‘MK Dons, formerly Wimbledon’.

I now have a new folder marked AFC Wimbledon, and I have taken until this season to put anything in it. This is because AFC Wimbledon play at Kingstonian’s ground …. or is the other way round? Websites say that AFC hold the lease, but one suspects that if they pull out – and there’s talk of it in today’s programme – it will revert to being Kingstonian’s once more. Certainly the more prominent signage around this impressive ground belong to the Isthmian League side.

Either way, I’ve decided today is the day to complete my ‘160′ and having followed my usual routine – early morning 440, Willow Walk brekkie – I get to walk from Victoria to Waterloo for a change, and marvel at the tourists as they swing their cameras on masse to take pictures of two mounted policemen ambling down Whitehall. They’d have a field day snapping away at a local derby!

I travel to Norbiton station, from where its a ten minute walk to two 2007 Good Beer Guide pubs (I’m saving up for the 2010 edition) these being the Canbury Arms (foody and a bit arty-farty) and the Willoughby Arms. This latter is the kind of pub any decent footy fan would want in their town. A front bar for the drinkers, and a rear saloon laid out like an auditorium, with not one but two big screens to show live action. There’s a pool table at the back, football table in the yard, and real ales from local independents. On the wall are press cuttings showing that the national media is aware of this place and it’s sport-obsessive landlord. It’s a gem, and in walking distance of AFC’s adopted home.

At the ground I notice there are two bars, both accessible from outside. At least one of them has a handpump, dispensing a seasonal ale from Theakstons – no LocAle scheme here, then. Just inside the turnstile is a food van. I note that there are veggie sausages available, three to a roll for £3.50. I go for the less pricey vegeburger at £3. Another food kiosk further round the ground has pre-packed sandwiches.

Kingsmeadow is a Football League stadium in waiting. It reminds me a little of Burton’s old Eton Park ground, roomy with lots of character but maybe not quite big enough for the higher echelons. There’s more than three and a half thousand in for todays clash of two ‘up-there’ teams, with a fair few from visitors Kidderminster. I have a laugh on entering the stadium to see that the Away turnstile leads directly into the same part of the ground as the adjacent Home turnstiles. What’s that all about then? Presumably they have a different ticket stub to tell them apart from the AFC supporters, although I would hazard a guess that their overwhelmingly red & white garb might be the real giveaway.

The teams emerge and I clock a couple of Kidderminster players I recognise. Robbie Matthews was at Notts County and is one of those veterans pro’s who can boss a forward line. Alongside him is Barnes-Homer who impressed me when playing for Halesowen a couple of seasons back, and I felt then he’d go far. Well he’s got as far as the Conference, and scores the only goal of the game, a neat turn and placement when presented with the ball eighteen yards out. AFC have much of the possession but rarely look capable of scoring, whilst the visitors play on the break and have other chances but seem content with the 1-0. The crowd go home disappointed but not disheartened. I think they know that the Football League is just around the corner, though whether at this ground or not is another matter.

After the match I have time to kill so head back to the Willoughby to watch the Live game, Man U v Sunderland (If  ’Man U’ were my team , I’d have the respect to call them Manchester United, unlike many of the people who profess to being ‘a Man U fan’). There’s the usual smattering of Reds supporters in attendance (well, we are in London, after all) and I take great delight in cheering the Sunderland goals, just to help wind ‘em up. I leave early and end up missing the inevitable ‘own goal’ equaliser (cue betting scam enquiry) in an effort to find my way back to the station, which I do with the aid of a passer-by and the satellite positioning device on my iphone, with seconds to spare. A bit like AFC really; they know where they’re going, they just need enough time to get there.

Programme: £2.50 and definitely top-class. Available from sellers as you approach the main Kingsmeadow gates

Pylons: Bog-standard 4

Parakeets: Yes, two, my first of the season!

Toilets: At least three blocks within the ground

Tannoy music: Very funky, the DJ most love to jive!

Club Shop: Outside the ground – impressive

Player with the quirkiest name: I suppose you might expect me to go for Matthews Barnes-Homer ‘Simpson’ but no, I’m having a crack at Zac ‘Elvis’ Costello or maybe Chris ‘Brazen’ Hussey.

"organisers in disarray as no-one turns up to watch the World dwarf-wall building championships..."

Wow – two MORE grounds for the price of one!

Just like two weeks ago when I got to see two Scottish games in one day, I can do it again today, and this time it’s even easier with both St Mirren and Greenock Morton easily reached by rail. I don’t bank, however, on a blocked line and a cancelled train at Glasgow Central which sets my schedule back by 25 minutes or so. Fortunately I bump into a fellow footie fan, an Irish guy called Ken who takes an interest in my ground-collecting passion and reckons he might know of my blog. He also points me in the right direction when I eventually get to Paisley.

This substitute train isn’t going to Paisley St James – the station right next to the new St Mirren Park – so I have a ten-minute power-walk to collect my ticket (which should have been mailed to me but the ticket office fouled up) before getting into the ground with ten minutes to spare. The stadium isn’t very interesting. It’s one of those grounds that – if you were buying from Stadiums-R-Us – it would be in the cut-price section. Four very square, very ordinary stands with no frills. No scoreboard or clock, no Big Screen, just a ground.

Before the game kicks off I check out the snack bar and am thinking about buying a cheese and onion pie when the shutters suddenly power down. People are in the process of being served, and stand there bemused as the serving staff – food and drink in hand – disappear from view.

The game kicks off and the Celtic fans – here in numbers – belt out a song which seems to incur the wrath of the home fans. No doubt it recalls some historic battle or other, long forgotten by most of the UK. The game is reasonably entertaining but you get the feeling that there will only be one winner. A cracking solo goal by Paddy McCourt sets the visitors on the way, and despite St Mirren upping the ante in the second half, a second by Moloney seals the points. I head out of the ground just in time to catch my train at Paisley St James.

Within 25 minutes I’m stepping out at Cartsdyke with a few minutes to spare until kick-off at Cappielow Park. I make the mistake of diving into the first set of turnstiles I come to and end up crammed into one corner of an ancient stand. Too late I realise I’ve gone into the away fans section, and am doomed to spend the whole match cramped into inadequate wooden seating, drooling at the site of the lovely terraces opposite, and behind one goal. Behind the other goal is a curious arrangements of what looks like rows and rows of concrete plinths designed to be sat on. Surely they can’t be comfortable! We’ll never know, because this end is roped off. Presumably only Celtic and Rangers ever get the pleasure.

There’s a mobile burger van just outside the stand and I run the gauntlet of the flesh-eating locals by asking if they’ve got anything without meat. Actually they have – the seemingly-popular Tatty Scones, which don’t look that appetising but are better than a kick up the botty.

This game between Morton and Airdrie – two struggling teams – looks on paper as if its going to be a non-event and for the first half and much of the second it is. The home team’s tactic seems to be use their long ball man and his mighty throws cause havoc amongst the visitors defenders. Unfortunately they also cause havoc amongst the home attackers, so no harm is done. I’m thinking of how I might sum up the game and the thought occurs to me that not only is there no end product, but there’s very little middle product either! Suddenly Morton score and we get ten minutes of urgency from the visitors, to no avail. I vacate my cramped seat, thinking if it had been on a plane I’d have had DVT before leaving UK airspace.

There’s only one place now to finish this latest trip north of the border. You guessed it, my customary pint in the Pot Still before the train journey home.

Programme: St Mirren – £2.50 good value – on sale right outside the ground. Morton (away end) – £2 a bit thin – on sale just inside the main stand

Floodlight pylons: St Mirren – a boring four. Morton – two pylons on one side and three gantries on the roof of the main stand opposite

Club Shop: St Mirren – Main stand, accessed from outside of the ground. Morton – couldn’t see (in the wrong bl**dy end!)

Toilets: St Mirren – underneath the stands. Morton (Away end) – just inside the turnstuiles

Tannoy music: St Mirren – stirring classic rock. Morton – some indie stuff which sounded good

Parakeets: not a sqwuark!

Players with the quirkiest names: St Mirren’s John ‘Harry’ Potter (had to be!)  & Morton’s Carlo ‘Monte Carlo’ Monti

Flo

"Thirsty Hastings Pensioners threaten to riot as age discrimination row hits the Pilot Field ..."

After my fleeting dalliance with the Scottish Premier, it’s back to the heady heights of the Isthmian Premier today as my National Express 440 hurtles towards London in the wee small hours. I’ve taken the opportunity to pre-buy tickets from Victoria to Hastings at just £3 each way in a Southern Railways fire-sale, so I don’t waste time and good money at Victoria station and can dive straight into the Willow Walk for my brekky prior to a two-hour trip to the South Coast.

Bungling announcements at Victoria and on the train mean that when it splits into two at Eastbourne, having already shed 4 coaches at Haywards Heath, I’m sat in the wrong section until the cleaner points out my predicament and I manage to decamp to the other part of the train just before it pulls out. How hard can it be to get the announcements right?

I arrive in Hastings to cracking weather and my first port of call is the White Rock Hotel Bar on the prom for a veranda pint of Dark Star, overlooking the locked and boarded-up pier. A large sign adorning the construction suggests that I can save it. Maybe I should form a pier-hoppers society and launch Piertastic magazine! There’s a thought ….

After a pint in the First In Last Out brew-pub I set out on what looks a lengthy but straightforward walk to the Pilot Field, which is to the north of the town centre. I reckon without the undulating terrain that exists betwixt my start and finish – a back-breaking climb then a quick descent and yet another climb. Walking on the flat is minimal. I’m getting hot and I’m wishing I hadn’t had that second pint, so am very glad to see the ground appear on my right.

It’s an interesting stadium. A large old main stand set well back from the pitch, a traditional steep roofed terrace slightly to the side of one goal, and a newer and much smaller terrace at the other end. Most of the playing area is surrounded by the what looks like a dog track. One of the natives informs me that it is indeed the remains of a long-abandoned flirtation with greyhound racing and speedway. To the north of the Pilot Field, set at right-angles and on a much higher elevation, is another stadium, the Firs, which is currently unused. In fact, says my helpful native, the council have built an all-weather complex on part of it, meaning it can’t now be used for competitive football… effectively a lost ground.

The programme costs £2 and is a bit down-market for this level. Having said that, there’s plenty in it, even if we have to go through the ritual of reading consecutive articles by the Secretary, the Manager, The Chairman, and somebody called Pat McCrossan, all welcoming us to Pilot Field for today’s game.  I partake of a vegebuger with raw onion (lovely!) at the snack bar near the entrance then make my way into the clubhouse which is reasonably spacious with two bars, The only TV is a small 14″ used for BBC Sports results, and the only beer is Charles Wells Bombardier in bottles. Out on the pitch a dozen little darlings are a tad disappointed when the chosen CD for their twirly routine fails to function and they will have to wait for half time for their three minutes of glory.

The game kicks off and most of the crowd starts to nod off. Hastings are high-flying and Billericay looking to kick-start their season, but we get 90 minutes of rubbish. To be fair, the referee doesn’t help. “You’re making it worse, Ref…” shouts a local and he is being kind. The man in black is making a diabolical game … well, even more diabolical. The players get involved in niggling with themselves, their opponents, and the ref and there is no football. Just hopeful hoofs, miskicks, and misplaced passes, players running down blind alleys, and balls sailing out of the ground. Probably the worst game I’ve seen since, I recall, AFC Hornchurch last season, and at least that had three goals in it. The biggest cheer of the game is when a defender hoofs clear and the ball ricochets back into play off the top of a floodlight pylon. The only goal of the game, when it comes, is the result of a wayward shot falling at the feet of an unmarked striker. The final whistle comes as a relief to us all.

The thirty minute walk back to Hastings Station (Ore is nearer) is not quite as demanding as the earlier journey but I’m still happy to get on my Victoria-bound train so I can get some enjoyment out of football – in this case finishing the copy of The Damn United that I started last week.

Floodlight Pylons: 8

Parakeets: Too warm a climate for them down here

Club Shop: A nice little cabin just as you come in the entrance

Programme Seller: A stall just after you come through the turnstiles

Toilets: In the same block as the Club Shop and the Snack Bar, plus inside the nearby club house

Tannoy Music: Soft Indy Rock … plus the kids CD, eventually

Player with the quirkiest name: a few possibilities in this match but I’ll go with Billericay’s Russell ‘Duck’ Pond

"As the pre-match entertainment begins, the Construction Worker wishes he was out there with the rest of the Village People..."

Wow – two grounds for the price of one!

Well, one rail ticket anyway. In fact, when I book the Virgin Voyager some weeks previously, I have no idea that TV companies are going to give me two bites of the cherry on the same day, but some time spent poring over rail timetables shows me that all things are achievable. It’s a shame my train from Crewe doesn’t stop at Motherwell on the way up (it thunders through) but I quickly change at Glasgow Central and am soon on my way to Airbles.

Airbles? you say. It’s the halt prior to Motherwell Central, but only a ten minute brisk walk to Fir Park. In fact this line from Glasgow Central to Motherwell and back is quite handy for other grounds, including Hamilton, and Celtic Park, which is where I am heading later, after visiting Fir Park for this 12.15 ko against Rangers.

Some of the customers on the train out to Airbles have a certain earthy quality about them. I bury my head in my book – The Damn United, a car boot snip at £1 – whilst a group of youths serenade everybody in the carriage with a string of cider-fuelled profanities. The ticket collector slings a deaf ear whilst I – mindful of my south of the border accent – decide not to be a hero. These guys aren’t going to the game, they’re just rat-arsed locals probably doing what they usually do at midday on a Saturday.

Fir Park is a mixture of the old and new. I’m sitting in the East Stand where cunningly-placed stanchions impede part of the view. The newest – and tallest – stand contains the bulk of the Rangers supporters whilst the main stand holds some of the rest. Behind the other goal is a smaller seated stand. The game is nowhere near a sell-out, despite the limited capacity of Fir Park. I partake of a macaroni pie (one of the delights of Scotland) and settle down for the action.

Being a neutral at these kinds of game is enlightening. Every incident on the pitch brings hoots and howls of derision and outrage from my companions in the East Stand – Motherwell to a man, woman and child – whilst I struggle to see what all the fuss is about. I suppose that’s what happens when you switch from the ardent week-in, week-out supporter I once was, to the nomadic stadium collector I am now. I’ve become sanitised!

Rangers look the most likely to score for most of the game, although Motherwell have some lively direct-running players who give the ‘Gers defence a few problems. It’s looking goalless until the referee intervenes and – surprisingly – awards the home team a late penalty. Now I’ve seen the script of these games involving ‘Auld Firm’ teams and shouldn’t it be Rangers getting the late winner? It sorts itself out when Motherwell remember their lines and 0-0 it stays.

Now its time to shoot off to match 2, and I’m back on the train heading for Glasgow, until alighting at Dalmarnock. I’m not alone, as a phalanx of green & white clad troops (all chanting Celtic at each other, for what it’s worth) take the ten-minute march to the stadium which looms above the houses on the near sky-line. Celtic Park is a tad bigger than Fir Park and I spend some time walking around the exterior before finding my turnstile (one of more than 100, that’s about 97 more than most of the grounds I go to). I suspect my seat might be sun-soaked and consider buying a cap before deciding not to queue for three hours trying to pay for it. When I find my seat I wish I had, because I can forsee 90 minutes of squinting ahead of me!

The food stands are doing a roaring trade. Fortunately I had my fill of macaroni pie earlier so I have no need to take my turn for the pizza and chips on offer. There’s fish and chips, too, if you want to rid yourself of a Scottish fiver.

Surprising, Celtic Park is not full either, although there’s a few thousand more than were at Motherwell. Probably about 50,000 more in fact. A little cluster of vocal fans in one enclave at my end do not stop singing from start to finish. Judging by the flags they wave, they’re from overseas, and not Ireland, as you might imagine. Over on the far side, the modest gaggle of away fans – having left their taxis – are stunned by their heroes going a goal up in the early stages and can sing and dance for a while before an equaliser restores the status quo. Some pizza depository a few rows in front of me is shouting something indecipherable  at the ref – or maybe its the players – and spraying everybody within ten feet of him with the residue of his lunch. Truly, I chose my seat wisely (apart from the sun).

Despite showing promise in the first period, the game degenerates after the break and only really livens up when the script calls for a late Celtic winner. The home fans – those clad in the green and yellow dayglo away shirts looking like angry wasps dotted around the ground – do their best to raise the temp but despite the ref doing his bit by brandishing a red for a Dundee offence, the Hoops aren’t good enough to score and it remains 1-1 to the end.

Just time, on the walk back into Glasgow, to avail myself of a pint at the West Brewery, a place I visited last year only to fall foul of archaic Scottish licensing laws which dictate pubs can’t open til 12.30 on a Sunday. Then it’s one in the Pot Still before settling down for a snooze back to Crewe on my Virgin Voyager. Mission accomplished.

Floodlight Pylons: Four at Fir Park, none at Celtic Park

Parakeets: Birdlife in Glasgow is endangered.

Toilets: Back of the stands

Club Shop: Outside both grounds:

Tannoy music: Mainstream (eg Killers)

Players with the quirkiest names: Rangers Jamie ‘Loch’ Ness and Marc-Antoine ‘Costa’ Fortune