'There's just a little concern at Walton that the new steeplechase hurdle configuration could result in the odd spectator being pole-axed...'

It’s very rare that I feel guilty about going to a game of football but I do today. Guilty because I’m heading 125 miles south when I perhaps really ought to be heading 125 miles in the opposite direction. Having been following the Darlington saga all week, in particular the ‘patient is dead, no he’s still alive!’ cliffhanger on Wednesday, when I got to appreciate the up-to-the-minute-news value of Twitter for the first time, I did seriously consider throwing my existing plans to the wind today and batting up the A1 – a route I knew off by heart in the late 1990s – to do my bit for the embattled Quakers and put a little money in the coffers.

Without wishing to stick my neck out too much, I think it’s fair to say that if Darlo FC has a long-term future, it’s not going to be at the ‘Reynolds’ Arena. But if the club can muddle through this season, buy a little time, until some kind of survival plan is hatched where all parties feel they’re getting something, then all we can do as football supporters is to try to financially support that prospect.

So why am I heading south then? Well for a start I’m going to Stompond Lane, where fans of Walton & Hersham have their own problems, with the local council seemingly intent on moving the club out of their home of 80-odd years to allow the building of some housing. And judging by some of the existing properties in ‘leafy’ Walton-on-Thames, there would be some value to the council in this. The club have their own variation of this plan, the key difference being that Stompond Lane remains as a football stadium. More information – and a petition you can sign – is available on the club website.

My second reason for heading down to London today is a last chance to visit an exhibition of photographs taken by celebrity photographer Terry O’Neill, being displayed at the Proud Gallery on Chelsea’s Kings Road. Terry was in the enviable ‘right place, right time’ position of having access to some of the greatest film and music stars of the 60s and 70s, and has dug out pictures never previously on public display. As well as the inevitable Beatles and Stones shots, there are some fascinating Bowie pics, although the one I really wanted to see – Syd Barrett taken in 1977 – was sadly not on display. If you get a chance to look at that shot, marvel at how music fashion and style would appear to go round in circles every 35 years or so, and imagine Syd fronting any one of a number of indie rock guitar bands today.

Looking at the exhibition, with Terry O’Neill asking anything up to four figures for signed copies of his pictures, I reckon my old Forest pal Nick could be sitting on something of a little goldmine. In our punk days of the 1970s, Nick was the one with the camera and I suspect his lensman’s discipline for never throwing away negatives could come up trumps if he ever delved into the depths of his attic. They’d be some good Buzzcocks stuff in there, for a start!

My route back to Victoria station takes me on a slight detour into Pimlico where, after helping a couple of disorientated Italian tourists find their elusive hotel – my first good deed for the day – I settle on the Cask Bar & Kitchen, which is a lot quieter this lunchtime than the last time I called in, a hectic pre-Christmas Saturday night where seating was at a premium. Cask is a success story in choice, with up to a dozen hand-pulled ales to suit a variety of palates, plus as extensive a bottled beer list as any a classic Belgian or Dutch beer bar. I sample a couple of darker brews from Dark Star and do an impromptu sales job on the management for a friend of mine whose brewery uniquely only produces organic beers. Hopefully my second good deed of the day!

After what seems a fairly hectic day already, I take the 40 minute rail hike via Clapham Junction to Walton-on-Thames and immediately exit into parakeet country. There’s a pub/diner called Ember opposite the station, with several handpumps on display – I notice Landlord on one – but I’m not lingering as I want to get to Stompond Lane in good time. It’s a ten-minute walk from the station, through stockbroker country and some impressive housing stock, to the soundtrack of those sqwuarking little green feathery things bustling from tree to tree. The entrance to the stadium is quite attractive, with a nice little turnstile block giving access to the grounds, where you encounter a programme shack side-by-side with the food bar (only chips for the veggie) and the rustic clubhouse, a sign attached to which declares solidarity with Liverpool FC 1989. The year has obvious significance, although I remain mystified by the apparent link between the two clubs.

There’s no cask beer in the clubhouse, but there are bottles of London Pride and Old Speckled Hen in the fridge, and I sample the latter as I peruse form for the game ahead. Visitors Chipstead are having their best-ever season, and take on a W&H side too close to the bottom of the table for comfort. It’s a windy day as I eschew the chance of paying an extra £1 to sit in the tall main stand, and instead head round the curved open terrace behind one goal – the ground being oval to accommodate athletics facilities – and into the covered terrace which runs the length of one side.

There I make the acquaintance of a solitary gentleman in the green-and-white attire of the visitors – the few other Chipstead fans are in the stand – whose away-day role is to pin up a large flag proclaiming loyalty to the ‘The Chips’, and urge his boys on from the terraces, even if his is a lone voice at times. ‘They call me the Flag Man’ he explains. I can see why that might be.

He has plenty to shout about today, though, as slick finishing allows his team to notch four before the break, even if the sheen is diminished slightly by a home strike just on the whistle. Like many a second half following an early goal glut, it’s after-the-Lord-Mayor’s-Show stuff, with not a lot more to shout about as my new friend retrieves his flag and I head back into London, missing out on my good-deed hat-trick by deciding not to wake the spark-out chap sitting opposite as we arrive at Victoria. He’s probably now back in Brighton.

I look for news of Darlo and am slightly disappointed to see a crowd of less than 6,000. Given all the fuss during the week, and the number of non-aligned fan groups traveling from far-and-wide, I feel the turnout from local Darlington folk might have been better. Given the town’s population of nearly 100,000, you might imagine a few more of them could have traveled the 2 miles or so down to the Arena.

Having got over my own guilt trip today, my next one comes on Saturday February 28th. My pre-booked coach trip to London to visit Enfield’s new ground? Or take the lad up to Darlo for what could possibly be the last time…? Watch this space….

Programme: £2 from a booth inside the turnstiles. A fair bit of reading matter and lots of stats, most of which I presume is culled from the Isthmian website.

Floodlight pylons: 8

Parakeets: Yes, Walton-on-Thames is certainly parakeet country

Club Shop: A little room in the clubhouse. I suspect you need to enquire at the bar for it to be opened.

Toilets: Didn’t see any in the ground, although the ones in the clubhouse aren’t too far away

Music the players run out to: Too windy to hear

Kop Choir: a few disgruntled home fans happy to let the Walton players know how well they were defending

Away contingent: The Flag Man, plus a few mates in the stand

What’s in a Name:  Presumably Chipstead’s Jason Dolby is known for his clear and concise communicational skills (delivered with an absence of static….). and tell me if you can find a more exotic name for a manager than W&H’s Chuck Martini? His assistant is Steve Darlington – ah that word again, bringing on my guilt attack!

'Having finally discovered where the absent-minded groundsman parked up the club tractor all those years ago, attention now turns to the whereabouts of the absent-minded groundsman himself...'

Like many a smug, self-satisfied man who feels that he’s ‘been there, done that’ I’m quite fond of talking about the good old days, even descending into ‘When I were a Lad’ territory on occasions, although I always appreciate a good slap when I do, just to bring me to my senses. I could waffle on for hours about the places I’ve visited throughout the UK, usually to see a brewery, maybe a cracking real ale pub, or more likely a football a ground. However, up until today, I’d never been to Slough.

There used to be a feature in the Dandy (I think) comic about random British cities. I recall one week reading about Hemel Hempstead having something to do with Henry VIII. Another week it was about Slough, a name that in my formative years I had no idea how to pronounce. So I called it Sludge. I read recently that residents of this fair city are so fed up with people taking a dim view of the place because of the dowdy name, they were thinking of adding ‘on-Thames’ to it. I suppose Sludge-on-Thames does have a bit of a ring to it.

Another good reason for going to Slough for the first time is that I get to travel from Paddington station. This evokes strong memories of ‘When I were a Lad’ as my dad once drove all the way down there from our Leicestershire village just so I could spend a couple of hours logging steam train numbers for what I think must have been Western region locos (someone point out this crass error if I am wrong). Before I discovered football around 1963, train-spotting was my joint favourite hobby along with dirt-tracking on my bike around the local streets. We’d mark out a course with rocks in the Summer, but in the Winter this was done for us by the local dogs whose ‘deposits’ stood out like beacons in the crisp and virgin snow. We’d refer to each turd by name – and usually could guess which local mutt had left it. In fact, thinking about it, in those days, if you could enjoy yourself for a day and arrive home without some trace element of dog-dirt on your shoes or trousers, it was an achievement to be wildly celebrated.

So having booked a cheapish London rail deal before Christmas, and mulled for a couple of weeks over exactly where to go to see a game, I am happy that the sun is shining on today’s visit to Slough – or Burnham to be precise, as they are at home to their very near neighbours – and League leaders – Slough Town. But first I must visit Slough itself.

To be honest, in the 50 years or so since I first discovered that Sludge – sorry Slough – existed, I probably haven’t missed much. They are tarting up the roads near the railway station (is the Olympic Torch coming this way?) but the slight detour through the shopping centre and out onto the high street hasn’t delayed me from anything. All the usual shops, lots of people talking in Eastern European languages, and a Wetherspoons. I decide to walk a couple of hundred yards further on to the end of the concrete jungle and the first old building I come to is the Good Beer Guide listed Rose & Crown pub. It’s quite small and homely but I’m the only in and I feel that I’m unfairly keeping the landlady awake. I purchase a pint of Bingham Space Hoppy IPA, brewed in nearby Twyford, which although quite pale has a nice crisp kick to it. At 5.0%abv I probably couldn’t drink many, though.

So having been to Slough, I retrace my steps through the concrete and back to the station before making the 4-minute rail journey to Burnham. From Burnham station there is then a good half-hour, generally uphill, walk to The Gore, on the far side of Burnham village. About ten minutes from the ground is The Bee, a former Brakspear’s hostelry now stocking various Marston’s Group brands on handpull. It’s a busy old pub but I don’t linger as I want to get to the stadium in good time for a programme, as I sense a reasonable attendance today.

The Gore is the kind of home I presume homeless Slough Town would aspire to. Fully enclosed, with a small covered terrace on one side, opposite a large, modern admin and hospitality complex on the back of which is tacked a fairly substantial main stand. It’s a smart arena with scope for expansion, and you wonder if a satellite village like Burnham can come up with this, what has been the delay in much larger neighbour Slough, where the Town have endured nomadhood for almost ten years?

The smart clubhouse bar is full of Slough fans, but a quick assessment of the beer situation shows all the usual keg draught and pilsner bottle suspects being present and correct, but there being nothing for the cask or craft drinker. The little food hatch inside the ground has chips, but I decide to give it best.

With over 400 fans – at least three-quarters wearing the yellow and black of the visitors – inside the ground, the game kicks off and the home side, although nearer the bottom of the league than the top, decide there are bragging rights to be played for, and they give as good as they get early doors. After an early run-in with the Slough fans barking behind him, the linesman wisely decides to turn a blind eye to a couple of blatant offsides, and Slough look to dominate. However, they are rocked by a goal on 31 minutes by Burnham which follows a number of near misses, and at half time the home team are good value for their lead. Town come out fighting in the second half, and after an early equaliser you wouldn’t bet against an away win.

But it doesn’t turn out like that. Burnham recover to have the better chances in a see-saw second half and despite a brief Slough onslaught at the end, it’s probably the visitors who are looking at a point gained, rather than two lost. In effect, they could have been looking into a ‘Slough of Despond’… geddit? Or is that a Sludge of Despond? Hang on, I’ll just check my back issues of the Dandy…

Programme: Says £1.50 on the cover but only got charged £1 from a seller just inside the turnstile. A nice shiny little number parts of which you need a magnifying glass to read.

Floodlight pylons: 8

Parakeets: YES!  Only saw 1 but heard others. Was also impressed by two huge birds-of-prey soaring and circling over the ground. As probably were the parakeets who decided to give them a wide berth…

Club Shop: Did see some shirts hanging up but for the life of me can’t remember where. In the clubhouse bar, maybe….

Toilets: under the main stand.

Music players come out to: Just the reading of the team sheets.

Kop choir: No

Away fans: yes, about 300 or so, but only occasionally bursting into an all-too-brief chant. Spent a lot of time moaning at their team’s perceived lack of the expected dominance over little local neighbours.

What’s in a name? Burnham captain Will Dunlop always looks a little tyred, but assistant manager Laurie Cracker thinks he’s analysed why that is….

'There was a general realisation that asking the groundsman to mark out the pitch immediately after the club's raucous New Year's Eve party might have been a tad ambitious...'

I’ve never really been much of a gambling man. I usually have to subject myself to some serious soul-searching before giving up a quid for the half-time raffle. I did have a flutter on something called the Euromillions quite recently, when the family en masse persuaded me that the £161 million up for grabs might come in quite handy for horse-feed and such like. Of course my share of that would have bought me a brewery and several pubs. Sadly, a couple of old dears in Scotland won that opportunity.

The only three bets I ever placed at a bookies were during a holiday in the late 1970s. The first two drew a blank but the third came in at 3-1 and won me my 50p back with interest. I never darkened their doors again. I have been to a couple of race meetings, at one of which I felt so self-conscious about asking the arm-waving bookie for 25p each way that I decided just to watch the nags run round. On the second occasion, a party of us beer-writers were being wined and dined at York, with each of us given £5 for each of the 8 races to bet on who we liked. Of course I studied form and placed each fiver thoughtfully and skilfully. And of course I ended up with nothing. The girl next to me just picked out the horse names she liked the sound of, and walked away quids up.

So apart from doing the pools for a time a couple of decades ago, I’m not one for betting on the results of football matches. Judging by the adverts that pepper Sky Sports during live games, I presume you can now gamble pretty much on anything at any time. Little wonder that some suspicious activity does occur. Like Forest going seven games without scoring for instance. That sure sounds fishy to me! Early in the season, when Forest were struggling under McLaren and they bought Cotterill in, I had a gut feeling they would beat high-flying Middlesbrough 2-0. So much so I thought about putting the house on it. If I had, I’d have won that brewery. And maybe a pub or two.

Today I’m studying form for the two fixtures I’ve got lined up in the Northern Counties East League Premier division, and looking at a nailed-on Away win followed by a Home banker. As it’s a Bank Holiday, I have my lad with me, as even a small boy can only take so-much holiday time X-Box 360 activity. Maltby Main are conveniently kicking off at 1.00pm, and a 20-minute Motorway sprint will then take us to Staveley for a 3.00pm kick-off. It’s a bright but draughty day, bordering on bloody cold, but we arrive at Maltby just prior to kick-off, and grab a quick chance to acquaint ourselves with the quaintly-monikered Muglet Lane ground. We identify the doorway that serves as the snack bar, where the chips are selling out fast due to the presence of one of the club’s junior teams, destined for ball-boy duty. We’re not sure if there is a clubhouse bar. I ask a local individual who sadly doesn’t appear to know what day it is, so I end up none the wiser. I suspect it’s upstairs but access seems restricted by a steel barrier, so we give it best.

It’s pretty much a two-sided ground, with the other two sides restricted to officials and designated ball boys, much to the lad’s disdain. There’s two covered stands, one of which is seated, although the individuals standing in front does rather make this pointless. The pitch has a wicked slope from end to end but a strong wind is blowing uphill so we expect it to even things out. Home team Maltby Main are second bottom of the table, having not won a home game since beating Bridlington on the first day of the season back in August. They have scored just 16 goals all season whilst conceding 59. Visitors Armthorpe Welfare arrive from Doncaster with two impressive December league wins under their belt. Like I said, an Away banker. I resist the temptation.

Which is just as well, as Maltby’s lively forwards take the game to Armthorpe’s ponderous back line and after benefitting from the keeper’s generosity in fumbling the first into his own net, twice go close before blowing the visitors away with three more goals in a ten-minute spell prior to half time. The visiting fans around us are as shell-shocked as the home fans are, although some of the one-liners certainly help to warm up a bitingly cold day. We are also treated to the amusement of Maltby’s ‘multi-ballboy’ system, with as many as seven of the club’s youngsters tearing across the adjacent cricket pitch at any one time in an attempt to retrieve any strays.

Armthorpe shake it up after the break and it’s more of an even contest, but their goal on 62 turns out to be merely a consolation and Maltby have upset the odds. My hesitance in financially backing my Away banker has been justified. Surely then, in our second match, visiting Long Eaton United – seventh from bottom of the table – must now be favourites to inflict only a second home defeat on promotion-chasing Staveley Miners Welfare? In a weekend where Manchester City, Manchester United and Chelsea have all slipped to unexpected defeats, somebody must have made a killing at the bookies. Maybe it’s my turn today!

On arrival at Staveley’s Inkersall Road ground, we are immediately impressed by the smart frontage which smacks of a club in a higher league. The large, spacious and well-patronised clubhouse hosts a busy catering operation with pie (sadly only meat) chips and peas being the order of the day. On the drinks front, there’s no draught, but plenty of bottle-and-can choice, including bottles of Old Speckled Hen. Outside there are seated stands behind one goal and on the halfway line, some covered terracing set well back behind the other goal, and even a TV gantry from which someone is filming the game. The whole stadium gives the impression that the club could effortlessly step up to the Northern Premier League, assuming the team takes them there.

Once again, my gambling money stays firmly in my pocket as the home team duly put Long Eaton to the sword. The visitors play with just a lone, chunky striker up front and although he shows glimpses of control, it’s never going to be enough as Staveley notch two in each half to take the points quite comfortably.

As we go to leave, we check the TV scores and Hey Presto! Forest have scored three and won at Ipswich. Hey, if only I’d have put my house on that!

Programme: Maltby Main £1.50 on the gate. Quite a lot of reading matter, although a lot of it taken from the League website. Staveley £1 on the turnstile. Advert-free but design is little uninspiring.

Floodlight pylons: 4 at Maltby (plus one redundant tower) and 8 at Staveley

Parakeets: Not much birdlife at all.

Club Shop: Didn’t get to explore much at Maltby although they were selling red hats on the turnstile. In the Staveley clubhouse there’s are some club tops for sale.

Toilets: Near to the snack bar at Maltby, in the clubhouse at Staveley

Music the teams run out to: Amusingly, as the players filed out at Maltby, a passing ice-cream van was playing ‘Nellie The Elephant’. All quiet at Staveley

Kop Choirs: No

Away fans: Several mature Armthorpe fellows with biting wit. A lone Long Eaton voice at Staveley.

What’s in a name? I’d like to have seen Long Eaton’s Paul Gamble take a few more chances. And I think Staveley’s Chris Coy should impose himself more. Would it be unfair to blame Long Eaton’s Gary Breach for the holes in his team’s defence?

'The newly-created look-out platform at Ilford proves to be a valuable asset to the club's unofficial stray-ball-chaser...'

Boxing Day. One of those all-too-rare days in the football calendar where kick-off times are invariably staggered – probably more-often-than-not to suit the individual clubs and their players – but nevertheless giving us roving football fans the opportunity of taking in more than the one game. And what’s wrong with that? It certainly puts more money into club coffers, for one thing. For instance, I can travel down to London, take in two games for just the one set of transport costs, and give two clubs the benefit of my hard-earned pennies. It’s a ‘Win-Win’ situation! For most of the rest of the year, all those religiously-observed 3.00pm kick-off times are – to me – something of a wasted opportunity.

Two years ago I managed to squeeze in three games, but for 2011 my sights are set on just two, but a very convenient two in Ilford and Redbridge, both in Isthmian League Division One North and situated barely a couple of miles apart in North-East London, or South-West Essex if you want to be pedantic. And as usual on Boxing day, I have my 13-year old lad for company.

Our leisurely and uneventful drive south on a surprisingly busy M1 and M25 – nobody working but everybody off to the sales – gives us time to check out routes and access times from our second ground – Redbridge – and the first port-of-call, the Cricklewood Stadium used by Ilford FC. The latter stadium is not well-signed, and is tucked away down what looks like a track to a building site. Fortunately we have done our homework online and with the aid of our downloaded google map can pinpoint which hole in the line of buildings is likely to conceal the ground. My on-board navigator – who needs SatNav? – spots a torn sticker on a lamp-post which confirms our astuteness and we welcome the tell-tale sight of floodlights as we pull into a public car-park which serves the stadium. It’s also free parking on Bank Holidays, which is a bonus.

After passing through the turnstile, entry to the stadium itself is either by a gate by the side of the snack bar (a veggie-free zone) or through the main two-tier admin complex which features an upstairs bar with panoramic views of the pitch. We check out the bar which has a sign up apologising for the lack of draught beer (technical issue), but offering a good choice of bottles by way of compensation. There’s a heavy Greene King bias but also a solitary bottle of McEwans Champion, a 7.3%abv belter of a brew. What a shame I’m driving!  A mischievous Jack Russell terrier and a huge fish (in a tank) keep us entertained as we await kick-off time.

The stadium itself is quite well-equipped, if not exactly designed for football. Like most arenas of its type – with the possible exception of Chelmsford – standing behind the goal is not really an option, although there is a curved bank of terracing at one end. A pair of good binoculars and you’d be well away. There’s actually raised terracing on three sides of the ground, but the only cover is a small ‘shed’ on one side, from which the view is severely restricted by the dug-outs, and a modest main stand on the other, in which we decide to sit, as the lad recognises that opportunities to field stray balls are well-limited by the vast run-off areas all round the pitch.

In fact the only real entertainment of a dull and uneventful game comes from within the stand itself, as a young lady – quiet for much of the match – suddenly and unexpectedly bursts into a 60-second rant at the Brentwood number 8, which starts with a tirade of abuse concerning his tendency to fall over at the earliest opportunity and finishes with her questioning the size of his manhood into the bargain. With most of us too astonished to say anything, it’s left to the only other female occupant of the stand to suggest that she might just calm down a bit. “I will not calm down!” she yells defiantly, but a goal for Brentwood shortly thereafter seems to do the trick. We don’t get another peep out of her.

It’s the only goal of a woeful game and you can see why Ilford are bottom of the table. Very few opportunities and no-one to take them.

We move on to Redbridge, just a ten-minute drive away, and in good time for the kick-off as we pull into the car-park. The ground is next to Barkingside tube station, but a strike means there are no trains today, which perhaps accounts for an official attendance of only 40, although it does look like more than that. The clubhouse is a very smart affair having been recently refurbished, and is advertising various TV games. Sadly none of the beer on offer is of any interest to the ale-lover, but we have better luck at the snack bar where you can get egg rolls, and plates of chips. The lad smothers his £1.20 worth with ketchup and settles down on the small balcony to watch the game as he munches.

The ground itself offers a lot of scope for watching from vantage points, with raised terracing down one side and behind one goal, whilst there is cover down the whole of the other side. A small main stand opposite completes the picture, as the area behind the other goal is out-of-bounds no doubt due to the state of the perimeter fence behind it. Amusingly, one of the club officials spends the whole of the game watching the match from a large earth bank which overlooks the covered terrace, his job being to field the stray balls which sail up there from time to time.

The game – between mid-table rivals Redbridge and Waltham Forest – starts well with an early home goal but in between then and just before half time it descends into the sort of mess we have just witnessed at Ilford. Hearteningly, one for each side just before the break bodes well for the second half, which turns out to be far more entertaining. Although only producing two further scores – both for the home side – it’s much more end-to-end and far more entertaining. Well worth the long drive south in fact.

Before writing this piece, I look up the origins of the word Boxing Day in good old Wikipedia. Although opinions are divided, it seems likely that this day after Christmas Day was when the Have-Nots would receive boxed gifts from the more generous of the Haves. A day for giving. How Ilford could have done with some of that generosity today.

Programmes: On the turnstile at both (although I had to ask at Redbridge). Both bright and breezy affairs.

Floodlight pylons: 12 (!) at Ilford, just the regulation 4 at Redbridge

Parakeets: Essex a no-go-area for the sqwarksters

Toilets: The ones in the clubhouse recommended at both

Club Shop: Nothing at Ilford but a section in the clubhouse at Redbridge has some scope, although curiously has two dummies modelling Ford United kit. The club switched to the Redbridge name 7 years ago…..

Music the teams come out to: No

Kop choir: Nothing at either.

Away fans: A few Brentwood supporters in the main stand at Ilford, strangely quiet when the girl was ranting but noisy when they scored. At Redbridge, a couple of old fellahs – one with a post-war rattle – braved some spiteful abuse from a mature vocal local before drifting to the sanctuary of the main stand.

What’s in a name? Brentwood’s Elliott ‘No Beef’ Justham. Presumably his team mate Darren Blewitt thought his first team chances might have gone. Have a feeling Ilford’s Raffael Valentino might get called ‘Rudolf’ on the odd occasion.

'The incoming Town manager believes he has found a fool-proof way to procure the new players his team desperately needs...'

As someone who is a partner in a business that – amongst other things – produces websites for its customers, I have to admit that our own company site leaves a bit to be desired. That’s only because, since we started work on it, we’ve been so busy looking after our clients that we have never found the time to update it. Unforgiveable but true!

Although doubtless there is some company out there desperate to discover us and what we can do for them, by-and-large our website doesn’t need to contain too much date-sensitive information. Unlike that of the average football club, you would have thought, with matches coming thick and fast and the fan-base needing to be kept abreast of the latest news, especially postponements. Sadly, it’s not always the case.

I discover that whilst standing at Victoria railway station looking at a departures board full of cancellations and delays and wondering what to do for the best. It’s 6.00pm, I’ve just arrived on a National Express 440 from Loughborough having decided to take advantage of a cheap coach deal, and I’m planning on heading out to Chertsey Town who have a Southern League Division One Central home game scheduled with Barton Rovers. Well at least I think they have, with no mention of it on the club website which is still announcing a forthcoming fixture scheduled for December 3rd, some ten days ago. With another one of my options, North Greenford United, already postponed, I’m debating whether to stick to my original schedule and take a chance on Chertsey, or buy a tube ticket to Barkingside to watch Redbridge instead.

I check in again on the Chertsey website. Still no recent update. I ring the club. No-one picks up the phone. I eventually manage to log onto the Southern League website which had gone missing earlier – it has a habit of doing that at times – and there’s no sign of the word ‘postponement’ against the fixture. I take the plunge, buy the rail ticket, and immediately regret it as there are no trains heading out of Victoria due to a fatality on the line near Croydon. So I join the massed ranks of commuter London all staring hopefully at the boards.

Finally a train pulls in and I become a sardine for the 10-minute crawl to Clapham Junction, from where everything picks up nicely and I am in Chertsey for just after 7.00pm. Still not sure whether I am going to get to see a game, or end up having to kill time in a pub, I charge off up Guildford Street where I come face-to-face with a young urban fox, obviously out a little too early and in the wrong part of town. I pass inviting-looking hostelries – the King’s Head and the Olde Swan – all showing evidence of handpumped ales, but I must satisfy myself that my journey has not been in vain. I turn into Alwyn’s Lane and – relief – the sound of players warming up and the glow of floodlights blazing. Barring a freak hailstorm, we are in business!

The stadium has been home to Town for more than 80 years, and in a rudimentary way is quite well-appointed for lower league football. There is raised terracing all of the way round the ground, albeit just one step in places but up to four in others, and much of it is covered, including a section along one side sporting a very interesting cantilever roof, so low in places I have to duck to avoid getting a headache. The main stand is not particularly large but is still quite tall and upright affording a decent elevated view of the game.

The clubhouse is a good size too, but despite evidence of Fullers in the branding, there are no handpumps or even bottles in the fridge. There may well be a Fullers keg fount, but these are all covered up by towels leading me to think that nobody will be getting a beer of any description tonight. Food is available at the tea bar which is tucked away behind one goal. It stocks all the usual meaty suspects – what is a Burgar, presumably someone from Burgaria? – but nothing for the veggie, so I tuck into the two cheese-and-onion cobs that I prepared in a Blue Peter moment a few hours earlier.

Reading through the programme notes it appears that there has been something of a behind-the-scenes upheaval at Alwyn’s Road recently, which might explain why nobody has seen fit to update the website. An influx of new young players has coincided with a slump in current form, whereas visitors Barton Rovers, although below Chertsey in the table, have won four of their last six games. They make the perfect start, going a goal up before Town have even got out of bed. But it’s a very open game and with both defences stretched, more goals look inevitable. With Rovers spurning some good openings, Chertsey round off a great passing move with a smartly taken equaliser and at this stage the game could go either way. In added time just before the break, a fine 25-yarder puts the visitors back in front and they are not to look back. A third on 65 reinforces their credentials and another two in the dying minutes confirms that Chertsey have a confidence mountain to climb in the coming weeks.

Not that the stay-away fans will read much about this though. I log onto the Chertsey website and – sure enough – there’s a home game coming up on December 3rd. You know, I might just go to that….

(Footnote – for the latest info on Chertsey Town FC, log onto www.thecurfews.org.uk, an unofficial site that’s very much more up-to-date)

Programme: £1.50 on the turnstile. I like the cover.

Floodlight pylons: 8

Parakeets: This IS parakeet country (just) but sadly way too dark and gloomy for the sqwarksters.

Toilets: By the side of the tea bar, behind one goal. No lights on so risk of collateral damage is high

Club Shop: A list on the clubhouse wall, along with various examples of t-shirts and hats pinned up

Players run out to: Nothing special although the record-putter-onner was showing his preference for 70s disco-pop most of the evening

Kop choir: About a dozen youths decided to put up a chant early in the second half.

Away fans: little evidence

What’s In A Name: Chertsey’s Nathan ‘Hi-Ho’ Silver

'Despite filming of 'Day of the Triffids' having finished some 40 years ago, one or two of the little blighters still keep cropping up around the Pickering area...'

I suspect I’m not the only family man who likes to take the missus away for a weekend – without the kids – at least once a year. Indeed, we have our own little ‘bolt hole’ pub in north Yorkshire which boasts a few well-appointed letting bedrooms, a cracking restaurant, and – all importantly – its own brewery at the back. We usually do a bit of shopping en route, spend the evening sampling the local produce, and then make our way back home on a leisurely basis the following day.

Now and again I also manage to fit in a game of football. Looking back at my diaries I see that on the day of our first visit – back in 1997 – I let the wife loose in Darlington with my credit card while I slipped over to Feethams to watch Darlo play Mansfield. On another occasion I left her to sleep off a heavy lunch in the car as I felt obliged to attend the Whitby Town v  Matlock Town fixture taking place quite coincidentally (yeah, right!) 100 yards from where we were parked up.

Circumstances this year have dictated that our ‘bolt hole’ weekend will be just before Christmas, and – weather permitting – should give the wife a chance of a bit of pre-Christmas shopping in the charming market town of Pickering where – by sheer chance – the local footy team are also playing at home.

I’ve often passed this stadium on the many occasions of our visits to the area but as yet never managed to fit a game in. As the extreme northern outpost for the Northern Counties East League, it would be handy to ‘tick’ this ground off without having to make a special visit, so I’m praying that the coldish snap that has signaled the end of a mildish Autumn doesn’t scupper the game. The league website re-assuringly states that the game is definitely ‘On’ after a pitch inspection so we park up in Pickering Town centre, say Au Revoir as we set out on our differing missions, and I take the ten minute walk to the Mill Hill Recreation Ground which necessitates me having to trek all the way round the pavilion and enter the ground via the car park.

As a bit of a footballing oasis in this part of the world, crowds are pretty reasonable at Pickering by NCEL standards, and there’s 115 hardy souls braving the just-above-zero temperatures which leave the linesman and substitutes crunching up and down the frosty touchline, with one of the latter claiming to be doing a passable Torvill & Dean impression.

Pickering’s ground is quite well appointed with not one but two seated stands, one straddling the halfway line and the other behind one goal, whilst there’s some covered shallow terracing by the side of the other goal. The clubhouse is one of the largest I’ve seen for a club at this level, and features two rooms, one with a bar serving two real ales – John Smith’s Cask and Thwaites Wainwright – whilst the other sports a food hatch, with pie and peas being the order of the day. Sadly they’re all meaty pies so it looks like I’ll be building up an appetite for my Scampi and Chips dinner later.

Today’s game is against rock-bottom Maltby Main – birthplace of Freddie Truman according to chalked promotional signs at the entrance to the ground – and with Pickering too close to the drop zone for comfort, the home loyalists are expecting no less than three points from this fixture. The visitors, having not won since the opening game of the current campaign and with a mid-season goal difference of -42, would appear to be lambs to the slaughter for a Pickering side that netted 5 in a midweek League Cup game. As so often happens on occasions such as this, the form book goes out of the window.

Despite a bright start when the home team can’t quite capitalise on the Maltby goalie’s inability to kick a ball, the first half degenerates into a midfield mess where neither side can add a third pass to the first two they just about manage. The more Town huff and puff in their attempts to put a decent attacking move together, the more Maltby believe that their occasional counter-attacks will bear some fruit, and so it does early in the second half, when a sustained spell of pressure leads to the visitors taking a not-undeserved lead. With the natives getting restless Pickering try to up the ante but it’s to no avail and the visitors have their second win of the season.

As I rendezvous with the wife and we head off to our adopted home for the night, I muse to myself how one man’s meat can be another’s poison. Being in this part of the world is my idea of a good weekend, and I’m surely joined in that thought today by the management and players of Maltby Main FC. On the other hand, the Pickering Town lads would probably be anywhere else but here right now….

Programme: £1.30 from a table just inside the turnstile. Very heavy on advertising but some entertaining reading matter.

Floodlight pylons: 5 for some reason…

Parakeets: Not in this part of the world

Club Shop: An impressive array of merchandise laid out on a table in the clubhouse bar

Toilets: In the bar and in a dodgy looking corner behind the far goal

Players run out to: The teams being read out

Kop Choir: Mainly grumpy old men

Away fans: None visible

What’s In a name?: If Pickering’s Chaz Wrigley was to set up in business with referee Steve Rowntree, could we have the makings of one hell of a sweet shop? Bet you a few years back Maltby’s Benjamin Langford would have been nailed on to be called ‘Bonny’

'There's some confusion at Brighton as Forest fans are a little bemused by the thought of having to buy the Notts County fanzine along with their beer...'

‘Doing the 92′ is probably the ultimate challenge for any football supporter. I’ve come across a few guys who have managed to do it – or nearly do it – by following just one team. Now that’s something! My original ’92′ was achieved about twenty-odd years ago by some extreme ‘hopping’, often making a 300-mile return drive of an evening to some far-flung stadium. This was in the days when I was between relationships, had just sold a house, and had some money to burn.

I was reading the latest copy of Groundtastic which records the number of new Premier and Football League stadiums built since I first completed the set. It numbers around 30, which illustrates the current challenge to members of the 92 club. And that’s keeping the achievement up-to-date. A couple of seasons ago I made the first League game at Cardiff’s new ground my first stop of the season, which necessitated me becoming a club member – I still get the weekly emails – and last year it was Chesterfield (easy) and Morecambe (a bit of a drive).

The latest is the AMEX of Brighton & Hove Albion, and given the gates they’ve been getting, somewhat more of a challenge. I did consider following the lead of a fellow blogger, who did the ‘away fan’ route with some club with a traditionally low following. Then I thought about targeting the 3rd round of the FA Cup, hoping Brighton would get drawn at home against a side not likely to attract a massive crowd. But the solution lay right in front of my eyes. With Forest due to play at Brighton on December 3rd, why not go there with my own team? With a 2,500 ticket allocation and some left for general sale, I snapped up two of the last, and re-completing the 92 is ON again!

The two tickets because I’m taking the lad with me. When I was that ‘lad’ the prospect of a four-hour coach trip would have been something to relish, seeing new parts of the world, bonding with my fellow supporters, and maybe enjoying a sing-song or two. Today’s youngsters don’t see it that way. Although I equip him with a word-search book and a copy of a football magazine with lots of free gifts, his only thought is to borrow my iphone so he can play pool against himself, or toss paper into a wastebin. eee!

The last time I travelled with Forest to Brighton we were making good time until the Police held us up for a hour on the outskirts prior to convoying us to the Withdean. This time there’s none of that hassle as we arrive outside the AMEX at just after 12.15 and we have some time to kill. I’ve done my research and know that a trip into Brighton could be a problem, with reports of over-crowded trains coming back out. So I decide we will go in the other direction, and take the ten-minute rail journey into Lewes, a small country town that’s home to the exceptional Harvey’s Brewery.

A quick negotiation of the back streets brings us to the Gardeners Arms. This is the free house that sits right opposite the brewery, and where the landlord reportedly dug his heels in when the operators tried to evict Harveys Best Bitter from the bar. The Harvey’s stayed on, and in fine form it is to as I enjoy a pint as we stand in the adjacent alley. The landlady says she doesn’t have a children’s licence but the law says that 14 and over is OK if drinking soft drinks. But I respect the publican’s right to make the rules as they see fit, so we end up in the alley, despite there being a nice cosy corner in the pub where we might well have stayed on for a second drink. Hey ho.

Our journey back to Lewes station is interspersed with visits to every deli that the lad thinks he spotted on the way to the pub. He’s in search of the ultimate sausage roll – despite consuming two on the coach journey south – but he’s out of luck and has to settle for a hot dog back at Falmer station. He’s praying that someone will come up with a ‘Good Sausage Roll Guide’ app for my iphone – first customer assured!

From previous locations shots I’ve seen I imagine that the new stadium would be set in some kind of a valley. Not a bit of it. It stands high above the A27 in an elevated position and its design smacks very much of the Bolton and Huddersfield model. Inside, everything else is dwarfed by the three-tier main West stand, but other than the South Stand which holds the away fans, the other two sides and the empty corners give an impression of quite a bit of wasted space. Doubtless the designers have their reasons. But you can’t fault the spectator facilities, with the live TV game on the concourse screen, and a choice of refreshment which includes gravity-fed casks of Harvey’s real ale and quite a bit for veggies too, with vegeburgers and the vegetarian pie which I plumped for. Plus padded seats with adequate leg-room. Now if all new grounds were like this….

We are seated a couple of rows back from the pitch, with little kids in front, so our view of the action is unimpeded by the usual nuisance element who like to stand up throughout the match. Each to his own, but I find that when these guys are stood up in front of you, your choices in the matter are severely limited. Today we don’t have that problem and we can enjoy the game. Which largely we do, with Forest being encouraged to attack by a surprisingly negative home team who like to ensure that their keeper gets the maximum amount of touches on the ball, even when the defence is under no particular pressure.

Having reached half time with no sticky moments, Forest take the game to Brighton in the second half, creating four cracking openings before discovering that the only way to win games is to find the back of the net. That the home team do so with one of their Mr Kipling (exceedingly rare) scoring opportunities, and right on the whistle too, is an absolute sickener.

So I complete the 92 again, for probably the umpteenth time, and I refocus my sights on other targets, such as the Scottish 42 (8 to go), the Dutch Eredivisie (halfway there) and my ultimate 357, the top 8 levels of English football (24 to go!). That’s until next season, when other new grounds come on stream and newly promoted clubs fall under my radar.

It’s one of those tasks that never seems to have an endpoint. Like painting the Forth Road Bridge. Mind you, I did read recently that, despite that old adage, they have actually finished painting the bridge. So when all’s said and done, I am actually glad I’m a hopper, and not a painter!

Programme: £3 and a weighty tome! From numerous sellers on the approach to the ground from Falmer station. I’ll be wading through this until Christmas….

Floodlight pylons: None

Parakeets: This is seagull country

Teams run out to: cheerleaders of all shapes and sizes

Toilets: By the side of the entry points to the seating tiers. Unusual for toilet facilities, there was a long queue for the gents, whereas the ladies could just waltz straight in.

Club Shop: A big one opposite the approach from the station. Queuing to get in, they were.

Kop choir: Noisy from the West Stand in particular, and from the North Stand.

Away support: Officially 2,402. The lad says we were the 2.

What’s in a name: The lad has this theory that Forest have been beaten by 12 men, as a late Brighton substitution saw Noone go off (Noone, No-one, geddit?). We clutch at straws.

'Accusations that in player contract negotiations the management was "always moving the goalposts" were strenuously denied by the club directors, saying there was no evidence of this...'

Like most kids of a certain era, the arrival of the weekly comic through the letterbox was an occasion of some rejoicing. I would pore over every column inch and chortle at the same old well-worn jokes and puns that my dad probably did a generation earlier. My bible was the Dandy – my brother was a Beano man – but we both graduated up the scale until I got into the Eagle, whereas he had the Jag – the new kid on the block – which I seem to recall featured the ‘Football Family Robinson’ on the cover.

The Jag only lasted a year before it joined up with its stable-mate the Tiger, but the Football Family carried on with their interesting notion that every player in the team must be a Robinson. Maybe if we could get Joe, Carlton, Ashley and Andrew to find another seven footballers called Cole, we could yet see that concept become a modern-day reality. Then again, perhaps not.

I mention all of this because I’m spending the weekend at the new home of my old pal formerly known as Eagle Bobster, the Boston publican, who now contemplates semi-retirement at his gaff on the Scottish coast, overlooking the Tay estuary and the city of Dundee. Henceforth then to be known as the Fife Bobster, he has promised to accompany me on my annual Berwick Rangers awayday – to nearby Montrose – and afterwards give me a guided evening tour of the delights of his adopted home town, Dundee, whose main claim to fame apart from a cake is that it is the base for D C Thomson & Co, the publishers of both the Dandy and the Beano. Which probably explains the larger than life sculpture of Desperate Dan with sidekick Minnie the Minx which takes pride of place in the city centre.

My day starts with the trouble-and-strife whizzing me up to East Midlands airport at an ungodly hour for the short hop to Edinburgh. By 9.15am I am in the Alexander Graham Bell tucking into a large veggie breakfast and the first pint of the day, Houston Slainthe, a deep red malty brew, and the start of a two-day session that will see me exclusively partake of Scottish ales. From here I Wetherspoons hop – these being the only Edinburgh establishments serving ale at this time of the morning – to the Counting House, where a pint of Orkney St Andrews Ale passes a half hour or so before my train to Dundee is due.

Bobster has already tipped me off about Club 55, a Scotrail initiative which allows over 55s to make a return rail journey anywhere in Scotland for only £19. My only beef is that the ticket clerk issues me one without asking for me to prove my age – the cheek! An hour or so later of a very scenic rail journey, we pull into Dundee and the Fife Bobster is waiting on the platform. Pleasantries exchanged, we contemplate Montrose and the game ahead. Within half an hour we are in the windswept coastal town and find ourselves blown in the direction of the Market Tavern just up the hill from the station. It’s a busy pub with Sky Sports on TV (Stoke v Blackburn) and a beer range limited to Harviestoun Bitter & Twisted and Isle of Skye Hebridean Gold. Despite my general aversion to golden beers, I decide to give each of them a blast, as my journey has worked up something of a thirst.

The wind carries us along for another ten minutes and we are at Links Park, home of Montrose. Despite languishing near the bottom of Division Three, the home team have just run First Division Ayr United close in a recent cup tie, so it’s definitely not a nailed-on three points for visiting Berwick, although the Bobster and I remain quietly confident. There seems to be about six other people here following the Wee Gers, and we are a bit conspicuous in the sparsely populated covered terracing behind the goal, which provides 100% protection from the gale force wind battering the ground, but not the local loony who keeps making a beeline for me.

Those choosing to sit in the main stand, or stand behind the other goal, are hardy souls indeed. Bobster checks out the snack bar and reports that every single pie in the display cabinet is of a meaty derivative and so snacktime for me is a Twix bar.

Windy it may be, but the game is packed full of entertainment. In Noble and Gribben, Berwick at last seem to have found a striking duo on a par with the near-legendary Hutch and McCutch of recent promotion-winning days. An early setback is overcome and the visitors go into the break 2-1 in front, courtesy of a Gribben brace. The local wags are out in force. “D’ya want me to bring ye a pie, keeper?’ asks one of them to the portly Berwick custodian. As in the first half, Montrose race out from the blocks and level it up at 2-2, only for Rangers to find another gear with Noble slotting in two more, the second a personal tragedy for the home keeper who spills a straightforward through ball. “That’s right, hang yer head in shame, yer c**t….” offers an understanding local voice as the goalie wallows in his misery.

There’s still time for both sides to bang in another one each and at the whistle Bobster and I are celebrating our finest ever Berwick away victory, 5-3 being the final score.

Back in Dundee we set about exploring the city’s Good Beer Guide listed hostelries which include the Town, a grand old building with a good range of beer, but a bit food-orientated; the Counting House, a typical large open plan Wetherspoons; the Duke’s Corner which promises a lot but delivers little, as none of the cask ales are on (Good Beer Guide editor Roger Protz please take note); the Phoenix which is a cracking pub if you can get a seat but a bit of a crush if you can’t; and the Bank Bar which is a bit small and dead, on this night anyway. We take time out to go for a Thai meal – the cheaper Indian being full – and kill time before the last bus by becoming letching old men in the Capitol, a Wetherspoons-by-day, Lloyds-by-night fun bar where inebriated bright young things make fools of themselves exclusively for our entertainment.

Having retired for the night across the river into northern Fife, at Chez Bobster, my first task the next morning is to walk back across the Tay estuary bridge, about a mile and a half long, and no mean feat with a Force Eight gale blowing directly into my face. With a brekky in the Counting House under my belt, the train journey back to Edinburgh is soon out of the way and I head off to my afternoon’s entertainment, an East of Scotland Youth League match between Craigroyston and Lothian Thistle. I arrive to find no sign of life at the ground – despite having checked with the club secretary on Friday. The sun is shining, the wind has abated, the pitch looks immaculate, but no-one’s at home. I’ve trudged all the way out here, missing out on valuable drinking time, and no bugger can be arsed to turn up!

Maybe there’s some mileage for a comic character in all of this. Ever-So-Slightly-Pissed-Off-Chris! I’ll have to give DC Thomson & Co a call – they might even give me my own statue in Dundee city centre…

Programme: £1.50 from a seller just inside the turnstile. It includes a review of the Ayr United programme, bemoaning that ‘unfortunately’ 10 of the 24 pages are given over to adverts. The Montrose ‘Gable Ender’  has 32 pages with 11 of them adverts – not a vast difference.

Floodlight pylons: 4

Parakeets: All blown to Norway

Club Shop: opposite the turnstiles

Toilets: Built into the base of the main stand.

Music the players run out to: Nothing

Kop choir: a handful behind the goal

Away fans: Eight of us

What’s in a name? It’s a real game for the girls with Montrose’s Martin Boyle likely to burst into action although presumably Montrose’s Jamie Winter likes to play it cool. Berwick’s Jamie Currie looks like real hot stuff but Steven Notman is a bit more guarded as to where his preferences lie….

Footnote: I spent the late Sunday afternoon in the Gordon Arms in Edinburgh watching Liverpool v Manchester City. During the minute’s silence for Gary Speed, the whole pub went quiet and burst into a round of applause at the end. Respect.

"There's consternation at Faversham as the club announcer simply can't find the 'only' button...'

Sadly not all of my recent away-days have taken me to areas rolling in good beer. I’ve already visited all of the Midland and Northern clubs in the top eight levels of English football, which leaves me with the area around London, and although I enjoy a pint of Fullers as much as the next man, tracking down some of the newer microbrewer beers is not always that easy.

There are the old faithfuls, of course, like the Bree Louise near Euston station, which always has a good selection of Capital-brewed ale in stock, but as most of my transport to the ‘Smoke’ now drops me at Victoria, that’s a long way to walk for a pint even by my standards.

So the prospects of a trip to a real ‘brewing town’ gives today’s outing a bit of a bonus element. I often profess to a general preference for Northern beers to anybody who cares to listen, but in all honesty I also have a sneaking admiration for one or two from the South-East, especially the afore-mentioned Fullers, the ever-excellent Harveys from Lewes, and also the beers of Shepherd Neame, brewed in Faversham, Kent. Which is where I am headed today.

Like most destinations in Kent, it costs an arm and a leg to travel to from London, and I part with £21 for the return rail trip from Victoria. But at least the scenery is eye-catching, particularly on a sunny, late-November day like today. The hopfields and oast-houses of the ‘Garden of England’ flash past as I reach my destination in good time for a couple of pre-match pints.

Faversham really is a lovely little town, not too big and not over-run with the same old chain-stores you see on virtually every other High Street in the country. As for pubs, where do you start? Every other one seems to be operated by Shepherd Neame, as you might expect, but I decide to save that until later as I go in search of a couple of Good Beer Guide listed free houses. The first of these – right opposite the local Wetherspoons which, with every window showing signs of impact damage, I decide not to explore – is the Old Wine Vaults.

A quaint but not unwelcoming front bar leads to the main bar, lounge and dining areas, and a couple of attractive young girls waiting to take my beer order. I oblige by choosing a pint of Incubus by Kent microbrewer Hopdaemon, whose owner/brewer I met at a recent beer competition. He’s a New Zealander with a penchant for crafting some good, proper English ale. Incubus is just how I like ‘em, a deep-bronze-coloured malty brew packed with English hops. Marvellous!

Five minutes away, and just a short walk under the railway tracks, is the Elephant, Swale CAMRA Pub-of-the-Year for five years on the bounce. It’s a little gem with five Locale handpumps facing you as you walk through the door. I only have time for the one, and I select a 3.9%abv mild, Black Prince from the Canterbury-based Wantsum Brewery. I am not to be disappointed.

From here it’s around a ten-minute walk to the home of Faversham Town FC, Salters Lane – or should I say the Shepherd Neame Stadium. It’s fair to say that the brewery dominates the town, and there are reminders all around about the perils of bringing alien alcohol into the stadium. The brewer doubtless wants its money’s worth for putting up four massive ‘Shepherd Neame’ signs around the ground! A shame though that they haven’t seen fit to install a handpump in the clubhouse bar, if only just for match days. There are bottles of their beer in the fridge, but I decide to save my last pint of the day for later.

The ‘S.N.’ Stadium’ is effectively a two-sided ground, with just narrow flat-standing strips along one side and behind one goal. Along the other side is a characterful covered seated stand, and there’s a covered ‘bike-shed’ terrace behind one goal.

The snack bar, operated by a couple of mature ladies game for a bit of banter with the cheeky chappy locals visiting them for refreshment, sells chip rolls but the Pukka Pies are only of the meat variety. “We’ve just about run out of them,” says one of the ladies, as I spot the rolly-poly linesman warming up out of the corner of my eye. It all adds up.

And there’s no bacon sarnies today either, as she’s forgotten to put the dead-pig order in! It’s an oversight which subsequently merits a condemnation over the club’s public address system. There’s obviously a good, friendly atmosphere at the club, as is evidenced by the polite applause which breaks out around the ground whenever the home team put a good move together, and a generous reception at the end of what in all honesty is a pretty uninspiring game of football.

With mid-table Town taking on struggling Burgess Hill, I don’t particularly anticipate a feast of football, but for much of the match the excitement level is low enough to be snooze-inducing. A goal apiece at the end of the first half, and a flurry of activity at the start of the second proves to be the peak of the entertainment, and as the game drifts to its inevitable conclusion I start to think about the last pint.

As I walk back into town I reluctantly pass by the door of the Elephant – with those other four LocAle beers just waiting to entice me in – and decide that, when in Rome, I must visit a Shepherd Neame pub. The Chimney Boy is in the Good Beer Guide, and is handy for the station. It’s been knocked about a bit over the years, with several rooms converted into one, but I find a corner and settle down with my book and a pint of Late Red. Just like the two earlier in the day, it’s a cracking drink.

Sadly, my ‘hit’ list of footy grounds is unlikely to take me to anywhere else quite like Faversham. With the ranks of the old ‘family’ brewers dwindling in numbers as the years go by, towns dominated by one respected company are few and far between. I put my thinking cap on and I come up with Palmers, just along the South Coast in Bridport, Dorset.

Bridport eh? What league are they in? Western League Premier Division, Level 9. You know, I feel a Western League away-day coming up….

Programme: Stiff cover and a splash of colour but very heavy on adverts and not much more than a procession of stats. £1.50 on the turnstile.

Floodlight pylons: Six

Parakeets: No but I did see an old bi-plane doing aerobatics above the ground

Toilets: up a ramp to the side of the clubhouse

Club shop: Didn’t see one

Music the players run out to: A music-less ground. Tannoy used to announce the Golden Goal winners and embarrass the snack bar ladies!

Kop choir: Some noisy individuals in the centre of the stand but no singing

Away fans: A handful

What’s in a name? Whoever is translating the Visitors information for the programme clearly isn’t paying attention as the word ‘age’ becomes tacked on to the end of three of the names. Hence Jonno Meila, age 22, becomes Jonno Meilaage, 22; Olalekan Bankhole becomes Olalekan Bankoleage, and Oli Lockyer is Oli Lockyerage. Mind you, he’s 17 and probably doesn’t!

'The Christmas Tree market has always proved to be a nice little earner for the club groundsman...'

Having recently rekindled my love affair with Barrow Town, what joy to find that their recent FA Cup run has thrown up a backlog of away fixtures, and here’s another one right on my doorstep. The lad is up for it too, and we set off on a draughty Tuesday night for the 20-mile drive to Ellistown for this East Midlands Counties League fixture.

Although brought up in neighbouring Sileby, where I occasionally watched the local Sileby Town side who competed on the ‘Reccy’ in the Leicestershire Senior League, it wasn’t until I moved to Barrow in 1968 and found my new house to be less than 100 yards from Barrow’s own ‘Reccy’ that I took to local football in a big way. I joined all the other village urchins on the grassy bank behind the goal, where we attempted to become a kop choir mirroring the Anfield model. Maybe a few less people, but we were still fiercely loyal.

When I became old enough to use the nearby pub, I was surprised to see quite a few of the Barrow players in there BEFORE the game. Indeed, legend had it that one of the strikers – I forget his name – always drank a gallon prior to the match to ensure that when he clattered into the opposition defenders, he wouldn’t feel a thing. Sadly his calculations as to the whereabouts of the goal net were often a little awry too.

We rarely traveled away, which is why grounds like Ellistown – fellow Senior League stalwarts of old – are still new to me. And probably explains why I can’t find it, despite poring over maps before setting out. I remember it being between Ellistown village and neighbouring Bagworth, and by a process of elimination, we stumble across the floodlights and pull into the car park prior to kick-off.

Entry fee for me and the lad, plus two programmes, is a paltry £6 in total. Not bad when you think of the price for most grounds are charging for variable entertainment. Mind you in 1968 it was free. No programmes though.

The Terrace Road ground is situated behind Battram Bowls Club. No less than twelve floodlight pylons light up the pitch which is surrounded primarily by flat standing, the only cover being a two-row covered stand straddling the half way line. Directly opposite is a larger seated stand with no roof. Only the hardy sit here on a windy November night. There’s a snack bar in front of the club-house with chips on offer. We check out the small clubhouse bar, but there’s nothing of any beery interest.

As usual we are positioned behind the goal, where the lad prepares to take up his self-appointed ball-boy duties. The Ellistown custodian is especially chatty and gives us a run-down of the enduring hamstring injury which restricts his movements and eventually leads to him leaving the pitch on 40, albeit with a clean sheet intact. His replacement, another portly gentleman who declines to converse with us, is beaten more or less as soon as he comes on and Barrow are one-up.

The second half resembles a game of tennis, with the ball swinging from end-to-end. Every time Barrow think they’ve sealed it, Ellistown peg them back and it’s not until the previously wasteful Barrow number 10 discovers how to pass the ball into the net – identical strikes within five minutes of each other – that the game looks settled. Even then Ellistown bring it back to 3-4 but despite a previously erratic display by the referee, he manages to blow up right on time and Barrow have another three points.

The lad is feeling something like a lucky charm, as he has yet to see Barrow beaten. Maybe in a few year’s time he’ll be scootering down to the Leicestershire village of his own accord, to join the local village youths cheering their new heroes on. Either that or he’ll be in the pub. Somebody has to keep the players company….

Programme: Given away on the turnstile. A rigid little number with not much reading matter in it. Managed to get the dates wrong on the cover…

Floodlight pylons: I refer you to the answer I gave some paragraphs earlier…

Parakeets: More chance of a barn owl

Club Shop: Nope

Toilets: Not too sure as I wasn’t caught short

Music the players run out to: A muted rendition of ‘Right Here, Right Now’

Kop Choir: No

Away fans: a few faces I remembered from ‘Old Boy’ days – and us two, of course!

What’s in a name? Ellistown’s Ross ‘Davy Jones’ Locker. I presume the Ellistown manager can always rely on the support of Sunny Loyal, but Paul Leaver might well have his own agenda…. George Himan seems a cheerful sort, though. I wonder if Barrow’s Michael Paparozzi bought his camera.