Ramsbottom United – Tuesday March 20th 2012 (485)

'There's a general suspicion that the club benefactor's kind offer of a new pitch roller might not have been as generous as first thought...'

The problem with living in the middle of the country is that you’re never quite sure whether you’re from the north or the south. When people talk about the ‘Great North/South Divide’, which one should I be rooting for? I’ve heard it said that anybody living north of Watford is a ‘Northerner’. Equally I suppose there are great swathes of the population who think folk from south of Sheffield are namby pamby ‘Southerners’.

As a beer drinking man I tend to prefer my beer with a head. Does that make me a ‘Northerner’? Yet on reflection some of my favourite brews have been headless. Harvey’s Best Bitter from about as far south as you can get is my champion quaffing ale. And I think back to my youth and the original Ruddles County, with just a trace of beer scum on top, but divine to the tongue.

Something I do find attractive about the north, though, are the place names. While southerners trudge off to work in conurbations as mundane-sounding as Slough and Croydon, their northern compatriots can venture into exotic habitats such as Mytholmroyd, Heckmondwike, and Rawtenstall. And who wouldn’t want to live in Ramsbottom!

I’m ‘oop north’ today on an afternoon business visit to an ambitious microbrewery not far from Leeds, and my evening options include watching Forest at Elland Road (bound to be a boring 1-0 defeat says the visionary) or somewhere in the North West Counties Premier. My eyes descend on the Ramsbottom United v Silsden fixture. ‘Rammy’ are clear at the top of the division, and it’s a good chance to explore this compact Lancashire town, following very brief previous visits as guests of a local brewery. One of those involved a trip on the East Lancashire steam railway, the station for which is very close to United’s Riverside Stadium.

I arrive in Ramsbottom a couple of hours prior to kick-off, and conscious of the fact that I’ve some driving to do later, allow myself the luxury of just one half-pint, so it needs to be researched carefully! First of all, though, I need some food, and as Wetherspoon’s has not yet opened a branch in the town,  I call into Taylor’s chippy just up from the station, where a sit-down fish supper sets me back just a fiver. There are a number of pubs within walking distance of the ground. These include the Oaks, modern and busy, selling Thwaites beers; the Grey Mare, which looks very much like the ‘locals’ pub, again selling Thwaites; the Grant Arms, an imposing pub/hotel on the crossroads, selling Thwaites and a Moorhouse’s beer, and the Railway, down by the station, with DIY pumpclips and some clips turned round – not very enticing.

But I stumble upon the First Chop Bar & Kitchen on Bolton Street, a single room beer-cafe style of operation. Despite a struggle to get in past a group of regulars hogging all the seats by the door, and clogging up the entrance with their coats and dogs, I have a brief chat with the enthusiastic barman and from his range of northern microbeers go for the ‘house’ ale, First Chop Bitter brewed by Outstanding of Bury. The pub also has a small but interesting range of bottled and imported draught craft beers and seems to me very much like an interesting place to spend many a long evening.

It’s time, though, to head back down to the ground, and the car park has filled up considerably since I dumped my motor about an hour before. There’s no bar in the ground, but the site is dominated by the local cricket club and their clubhouse appears to be open. On investigation there’s a line-dancing session going on, and the bar shutters are firmly closed. Punters do start to drift around the back about 7.00pm, and I check out the attraction. A bar is indeed opening up, but you’d have thought a tad late to attract much pre-match business. There’s a Thwaites Wainwright handpump on the bar, but I’ve no idea if the beer is on, as I’ve had my quota and am merely nosing around.

On entry to the ground the players are out on the pitch warming up in virtual darkness. In fact visibility is so poor it’s not really safe to venture any further than the tea hut, which also doubles as the snack bar and club shop. At 7.15pm precisely an almighty roar fills the night as a generator powers up and the floodlights flicker into life. I can see the stadium for the first time, and observe a large covered stand – boasting the best legroom I think I’ve ever enjoyed – with a smaller stand adjacent, plus a covered terrace running the full width of the pitch behind one goal. Curiously most of the punters in attendance seem to prefer to use the flat standing on the tea-bar side of the ground.

Ramsbottom dominate the first half of the match against mid-table visitors Silsden, but only have a 25th-minute headed goal from a free kick to show for it. A promising game degenerates somewhat after the break, with a series of lengthy injuries affecting any real flow. When the ball is in play it’s more often too high up in the air for my liking, providing both sets of central defenders with plenty of heading practice, but not really exciting the crowd. It takes until five minutes from the end for ‘Rammy’ to wrap it up with a second, adding a third for good measure in injury time.

There’s a good chance that United will win this division, and – ground grading issues aside – will be taking the grand old ‘northern’ name of Ramsbottom to a higher footballing level next season. As I leave the thundering roar of the generator behind, I head out of the car park ready for my 90-minute home journey back to the south …. or maybe I’ll still be in the north.

Programme: £1.50, sold by an old boy outside the ground. An exceptional publication for this level, very professional looking and although heavy on adverts, has enough content to suggest that somebody takes great pride in producing it.

Floodlight pylons: 6

Parakeets: Just a couple of mallards startled by the generator

Toilets: Blocks on either side of the ground

Club shop: Well-stocked section of the tea-bar

Music the players run out to: A catchy ditty featuring a ‘Let’s Go’ chant.

Kop choir: Not really, more a mature chattering sort of audience

Away fans: None in evidence

What’s in a name? According to the programme, Rammy have two players called Joel Pilkington, one wearing 2 and t’other wearing 12. Maybe Mrs Pilkington only liked the name Joel when her twins arrived….

AFC Kempston Rovers – Saturday March 17th 2012 (484)

'There's been a marked reluctance amongst the home players to use the new outdoor hot tub, despite management assurances that it's the latest top-of-the-range model...'

When I was a kid everybody had two names. I don’t mean your ‘given’ and ‘family’ names, I mean the ‘nick’ name that we all had. I was pretty good at dishing them out and making them stick. Indeed there are probably fully grown adults wandering around today still suffering the moniker I inflicted upon them more than a generation ago. Likewise both my kids are refered to by myself with a name not listed on their birth certificates. One of ‘em even answers to it.

My son has a friend called Patrick McKensie or something similar. “Ah, Paddy Mac”, I proclaim. My son gives me a bemused look and says “Nobody calls him that…”. No, well they wouldn’t would they, not in this day and age.

Of course most football teams have always had two names. At least two. When I worked in Wolverhampton, it was generally accepted that their main rivals West Bromwich actually had four. The Albion, the Throstles, the Baggies, and – according to Wolves fans – the Shit. Must have taken them ages to come up with the last one.

There has been a bit of a trend for clubs in recent times to play around with long-standing names, especially if there is a convenient reason for doing so. I remember a good few years back when Leyton Orient ditched the first part of their historic title and became just ‘The Orient’. It didn’t last too long. Likewise Bournemouth & Boscombe FC  thought that was too much of a mouthful and adopted AFC Bournemouth as being much snappier. Unwittingly, they set the ball rolling, especially amongst so-called ‘phoenix’ clubs, starting up from the ashes of liquidation, or simply established by fans as local rivals to their seemingly friendless big brothers.

We’ve already had AFC Wimbledon and AFC Telford. What price an AFC Kettering, or an AFC Portsmouth even.

I’m off to an AFC today. It’s a change of plan due to my wife having cracked a bone in her foot and needing a chauffeur for six weeks. So instead of taking a train to West Yorkshire and sampling the beery delights of Leeds and Keighley, I’m looking for a ground which I can easily drive to after dropping off the missus and kids at the mother-in-law’s. A scan of the Step 5 fixtures reveals an intriguing encounter in the United Counties Premier, where league leaders King’s Lynn Town are visiting seventh place AFC Kempston Rovers.

Curiously, of these two teams it is King’s Lynn Town who are the ‘phoenix’ club, having been set up a couple of years ago when predecessors King’s Lynn FC folded. Commendably they decided not to go with the modern flow when setting up the new structure, and settled for adding a traditional suffix to the name. They have also inherited the stadium, which is up to Conference standard, much of the former fan-base, and are the “Manchester United’ of this division. So to a club like AFC Kempston – who are not a new club, but simply use the prefix as an ‘umbrella’ for the various organisations operating from their Hillgrounds Road home – a visit from KLT means a chance to make some dosh.

Part of the covered terracing has been turned into an impromptu barbecue, where a handful of expectant serving lads and lasses are poised to dish out a never-ending flow of hot dogs and meaty burgers to a ravenous procession of punters. It doesn’t quite work out like that, as all they seem to succeed in doing is driving most of the crowd to the other end of the stand, thanks to the eye-stinging smoke emanating from the ‘barbie’ for much of the afternoon. They get a bit of a helping hand from the staff in the spacious clubhouse bar, who despite having a selection of pies on offer, sadly neglected to switch the pie-warmer on early enough, so promising potential customers a half-hour wait. At a quarter to three that’s not really an option.

A plus-point is the availability of a hand-pumped ale. Geography students – or just knowledgeable footy fans – will know that Kempston is a suburb of Bedford, a traditional brewing town, and home to the Charles Wells brewery. Their Eagle IPA, a 3.6% session bitter, is the brew on offer and I sample a swift half prior to the game. Very enjoyable it is too. The lack of any veggie food – in the bar or on the barbecue – means I settle for a Snickers bar as my half-time repast.

Kempston’s ground consists primarily of a large modern clubhouse/admin/changing room complex, with covered terracing and seats to the fore, which runs for much of the length of one side of the ground. The other three sides are flat standing. As with Tipton last week, visibility from outside the stadium is good, so a considerable amount of screening work would need to be undertaken before the Rovers could ascend the football pyramid. The pitch has a decided end-to-end slope, albeit not one of Berwick Rangers proportions.

With visiting fans making up probably two-thirds of a 200-or-so crowd, it’s like a home game for King’s Lynn, who proceed to baffle neutral onlookers by looking nothing like a table-topping side for much of the first half. The home team aren’t a lot better and a dire half is only enlivened by a flurry of goalmouth activity at the end. The fickle Lynn fans who gather round me for the second period are not slow to voice their one-sided opinions of their opponents ‘time-wasting’ tactics (it’s 0-0 with 40 minutes to go), the officials’ obvious bias (they’re having a sound game apart from awarding a free kick for a trip that was a good yard into the box), and their own players’ shortcomings (they really begin to put in a good shift after the break). As a neutral I can afford a wry smile. I AM that kind of fan when I’m watching Forest.

The winning goal when it comes is a disaster for Rovers, but typifies the sort of luck you need to win a championship. With barely five minutes left, a low cross loops high off a home defender onto the post and into the net via the keeper. There’s barely time for Kempston to cap the defeat by having a man sent off – it has been a niggly game right from the start – before the whistle is blown and the fickle fans celebrate.

At least they have the satisfaction of seeing their team on the way back up, after all those dark days of not so long ago. Proving that there is indeed life after death and encouraging fans of those clubs – like Darlington and Port Vale – who are currently going through that pain. And the main lesson? You don’t necessarily have to saddle your re-born club with an ‘AFC’.

AFC Glasgow Rangers? or Clyde Valley Royals, anyone…..

Programme: £1 from the man on the gate. A little thin and badly stapled.

Floodlight pylons: 8

Parakeets: None seem to have traveled this far north via Thameslink

Toilets: Right on the far end of the stand, through the smoke haze from the terrace barbecue

Club shop: No:

Music the players run out to: Right Here Right Now (wow, that’s original….)

Kop choir: Home fans very inconspicuous

Away fans: About 120 or so, including 30 odd stood behind the goal.

What’s in a name? Wonder if Kempston’s Aaron Bodger doubles as the club’s Maintenance Man

Tipton Town – Saturday March 10th 2012 (483)

'Aspiring to a higher level of European football, Tipton become the first ground in England to introduce a Dutch Eredivisie-style Away Fan security pen behind one goal...'

I think we’d all agree there’s no place like home. But if you’re like me you’ve probably got one or two other locations that could easily pass as a ‘home-from-home’, parts of the country – the world even – where you tend to feel most comfortable, and look to go back to as often as possible. I must confess to having one or two, but a particular area of the UK to which I have a certain affinity is the Black Country.

For a village-loving boy brought up on climbing trees, going fishing and birds-nesting, this grimy industrial region to the west of Brum shouldn’t tick an awful lot of boxes. But having had the good fortune to spend a year working there in the late 1980s – and making life-long friends in the process – I immediately took a shine to the place. Maybe it was the sheer number of good pubs, the balti houses, Desperate Dan Cow Pies, the endearing local accent, the fact that nowhere was too far away. For whatever reason, I loved the place.

As a guy charged with the task of selling beer to pubs, my working day often continued into the evening, propping up the bar in some boozy hostelry or other, before venturing into Lye or even Birmingham for a damn good balti. We were in Azim’s on the Lozells Road not long after the Handsworth riots, marveling at how his premises had survived the wrecking spree. Come to think about it, they weren’t that daft – even rioters have to eat, and where better than Azim’s?

So a rare excuse to go back to the Black Country for the day – aside from an occasional trip to watch the Wolves – is always most welcome.

My target ground today is Tipton Town, not far off the pace towards the top of the Midland Football Alliance, facing a stiff task at home to league leaders Westfields, the Hereford-based outfit. My first port-of-call is central Birmingham, where a Wetherspoons brekky is in order. A quick look into the Briar Rose, where it’s two-deep at the bar, means I have to call the ‘Spoons Ap on my iphone into action, directing me towards the Square Peg on nearby Corporation Street. It’s busy here too, but I manage to get served and settle down with a pint of Purity Ubu, their token – but tasty – malty brew. A sign near the door says average food waiting time this week is 9.49 minutes. Mine arrives in 29.49 minutes, but at least it gives my next pub, the Post Office Vaults, time to open.

Normally I wouldn’t visit Brum without going into the Wellington. But having checked their online beer-board, and noted that 15 of the 16 beers on offer are rated as A or B (gold or gold-ish) I don’t think I’ll bother. Surely offering a ‘range’ of beers should be just that – a range of different styles. It’s just about as bad as going into your typical city centre ‘style’ bar and looking at all those foreign bottles in the fridge – every one of them based on the pilsner style. A wide choice but no choice.

So I seek out the Post Office Vaults, which shares an owner with the Wellington, but is smaller and stocks a wider range of imported bottled beers, and not just pilsners! I go for one of the half-dozen cask ales on handpump, an excellent pint of Hobson’s award-winning Mild, and listen to the landlord – who seems very keen if a little fond of himself – telling anyone who cares to listen his views on all things beer and the world.

Train time, and the half-hour sprint from Birmingham New Street to Cozeley. From the latter station it’s about a 30 minutes trek east to the Tipton Sports Academy, home of Tipton Town FC, but first I have a mission to walk a similar distance west to the Beacon Hotel, Sedgeley, exalted home of the Sarah Hughes brewery. I was in here on the night in 1987 when Sarah’s grandson John Hughes officially re-opened the brewhouse after 30 years in mothballs. The only home-brew at that time was Dark Ruby, a powerful mild based on the original 6.0%abv recipe, and a pint I have enjoyed several times since whenever I – and my wife, equally a Dark Ruby fan – can get back here.

As I arrive, I marvel at the fact that the place still hasn’t changed. OK, they have built a new toilet block out back – the old one was in all honesty a tad basic – but the pub itself is still intact… multi-room, wood panels, that back-breaking low serving hatch, customers from all walks of life – some of whom are delivering an impromptu barbershop ditty as I take my seat – and the Dark Ruby itself. What a beer, and what a pub. They just don’t build them like this anymore.

So I have set myself a 50-minute three-mile walk from the Beacon Hotel to the Tipton Sports Academy, which I accomplish with the help of a couple of comfort stops along the way (the downside of a fondness for the ale) before arriving at the ground with a half-hour to spare. The first thing that strikes me as I approach the stadium is that it is possible to watch the match from the road overlooking the ground, not to mention an almost grandstand view from the adjacent Asda car park. I presume this would prove a serious drawback to any Tipton aspirations for a higher level of football. The ground itself is a multi-purpose sports stadium, home of the famous Tipton Harriers Athletic club, and boasting a smart grandstand but very little else for the spectator.

The bar is outside the ground and although spacious has a predictable line in drinks, so I don’t dally. The snack bar opens around kick-off time and although doing a roaring trade in meaty burgers has nothing for me, so I pig out on the two Porkless Pies I bought from Holland & Barrett earlier, for just such an eventuality.

It’s a relatively mild day save for a strong chill wind blowing from right to left, and when it gets up the corner flags are really giving it some. It might also explain why most of the play in the first half is heading downwind towards the Westfields goal, as the league leaders show little of the form that has presumably served them well thus far this season. The home side have much the better of the play but are wantonly wasteful in the final quarter, resulting in them facing a single goal deficit at the break courtesy of a goalkeeping fumble. Westfields don’t really deserve to be ahead, but it’s all about taking your chances.

But after the break, my wind theory is blown right out of the water as Tipton – now kicking into it – continue to dominate and manage to equalize through the persistence of the substitute winger, who follows up his own parried shot to score. And from here to the close, much of the play is in the Westfields half, but solid defending keeps the home team at bay. In fact, I watch the last five minutes from the road overlooking the ground, as I have a tight train schedule to whisk me back to the only place that competes with a home-from-home. And that’s home.

Programme: On the gate, presumably £1 unless given away as part of a £6 entrance fee. Pretty basic.

Floodlight pylons: 7

Parakeets: Surprisingly none

Club shop: err, no

Toilets: A portakabin to the side of the stand.

Music the players walk out to: Parklife by Blur, for some strange reason.

Kop choir: No

Away fans: A few chaps in claret and blue coats, but quite quiet on the basis of not having much to shout about.

What’s in a name: Wonder if Tipton use Max ‘Bex’ Bissell in a sweeper role? and does Westfield’s Jamie Cuss get booked a lot for inappropriate language? Presumably Westfield’s Matt Gwynne and Sam Gwynne have a sister called Nell…

Glossop North End – Saturday March 3rd 2012 (482)

'The club's innovative link-up with the local electricity board and pie makers is hailed a success as the club opens a chicken coup where the birds are able to cook themselves....'

I’ve no idea who first coined the expression ‘Bouncebackability’ – somebody who works on Soccer AM I suspect – but it certainly sums up a positive attitude in some football clubs. Even when times look grim, as they do in a number of Football League and Conference clubs currently, it helps to look longer term. Almost like a love affair that’s run its course – it hurts plenty right now, but you know it’s going to be all right further down the line.

Whether fans of Portsmouth, Stockport, Kettering, Darlo and a few others see it like that at this moment in time is questionable, but football history is littered with clubs that have hit dire straights, but their names have survived to once again grace the pools coupons. I’m thinking here of the likes of Accrington Stanley, Wimbledon, Brighton, Bristol Rovers … clubs that have each hit a crisis point at some stage of their history but have still lived to fight another day. And I suppose, maybe to a lesser extent, you can include Glossop North End in that category.

Less than a century ago Glossop was a Football League town. The smallest town to ever have this honour, so legend has it. Backed by the financial clout of Sir Samuel Hill-Wood, whose patronage was later to transform Arsenal’s fortunes, the ‘Hillmen’ spent several years in Division 2 – plus one memorable season in the top flight, during which they had the temerity to beat Forest 3-0 – before failing to win re-election as the First World War kicked in. About 90 years as a ‘wilderness’ club followed before a Wembley date in 2008 in the FA Vase final saw the club’s name back on the national map. And this season there is serious optimism that promotion to the Northern Premier League can be achieved. Still four steps away from the Football League, maybe, but it’s all pointing in the right direction.

My day starts with the ‘cattle truck’ that is the Derby to Stoke-on-Trent train, before switching to Virgin at Stoke and heading into Manchester. I have my heart set on a Wetherspoons brekky so my first port-of-call is the Waterhouse where I wash it down with an excellent pint of Peerless Paxton’s Peculiar, a traditional malty bitter just as I like ‘em! From here I walk up Fountain Street to the Arndale Centre where the 2012 Good Beer Guide tells me there is a place called the Micro Bar, a rare outlet for Boggart beers.

Sure enough, as I pick my way through several niche eateries,I stumble upon the afore-mentioned bar complete with its four handpumps, a beer shop featuring a wide selection of British and foreign bottled brews, and a small cafe-style seating area. How quaint! I browse the goods whilst enjoying a swift half of Boggart’s Ruby Porter, a 6.3%abv delight I’d fallen in love with at the Derby Winter Ales Festival a couple of weeks back. Just a short walk from here is the Hare & Hounds on Shudehill, and probably my favourite Manchester pub. It’s a no-nonsense, multi-room city centre boozer where you probably wouldn’t take your new girlfriend (or boyfriend if you like). There’s so much character the place doesn’t need the music that’s playing. The banter is coarse, vulgar and openly sexist, but that’s from both sides. The cracking beer is Holts Bitter. Enough said!

I’ve just time to nip into No57 Thomas Street, which is the latest offering from the Marble Brewery. Save for a few easy chairs, there’s just one long table so you need to be a gregarious sort of fellow to drink here. There’s a wide range of strong – and expensive – bottled beers, plus casks of the Marble brews sitting on the bar. My Chocolate Marble is a delight on the tongue.

The 30-minute rail journey from Piccadilly to Glossop takes in some dramatic Peak District scenery and my journey is shared with enthusiastic outdoor types mainly equipped with bikes. We go our separate ways on arrival, as I head up the hill to a part of town known as Old Glossop, past charming stone cottages, ancient churches, trees full of bickering rooks, a Robinson’s pub and then the Wheatsheaf, understated tap-house of the Howard Town Brewery. I’m guessing the terms of the lease doesn’t allow unrestricted promotion, as there are no signs to this effect, and there’s only one Howard Town beer on the bar, the 4.2% Wren’s Nest, described as ‘light and hoppy’, sadly two words that when linked to a beer description are anathema to this scribe.

Back down into town I call into the Star Inn, directly opposite the rail station, where the five-beer range features a couple of Scottish delights, including Orkney Dark Island, one of my personal ‘faves’. It would be rude not to drink one. There’s a bloke sitting near the bar who seems to be smoking a cigarette. Unusual to be flouting the law right in front of the landlady, I muse. However, judging by the lack of reaction from fellow customers, plus the fact my specially trained nose can’t detect any stinky nicotine odours, I’m guessing he’s got one of those fancy electronic cigarettes. Wonder if I can get myself an electronic pipe!

Time’s cracking on but I still have enough for a brisk walk south of the town centre – past a Holts pub, I must be mad! – to the Crown Inn, a traditional Sam. Smiths multi-room local where the Old Brewery Bitter is just £1.59 a pint. OBB is a bit sweet to my tastes but at that price, who’s complaining?

On the way into Glossop, the train affords a great view of the town’s cricket ground, the south-east corner of which was known as North Road, the home of Glossop F.C. during their Football League days. Although there is no apparent evidence of its former glory, at least the land is still available for recreational use and not buried under bricks and morter. North End’s new Surrey Street ground is another couple of hundred yards west and although hardly palatial, is promising work-in-progress.

Behind one goal is a large admin block which provides club house and changing room facilities. The spacious clubhouse seems especially popular with the punters, and the hand-pumped Howard Town Longdendale Lights doesn’t last the day. Next door the snack hatch is legendary for its locally-made award-winning Mettricks pies and I’m extremely happy to see a Cheese & Onion variant amongst all the other delicacies. Despite being already well stuffed thanks to my ‘spoons brekky and a fair few pints, I feel obliged to add one to the mix. I survey the spectator facilities which consist of a covered terrace behind the same goal as the clubhouse, a ‘scratching shed’ along one side, and a compact main stand opposite.

And so to the action, between promotion-chasing North End and mid-table visitors Ashton Athletic. While never being a classic, the game is entertaining enough, with the home side having the attacking edge and nosing into a two-goal lead by the hour mark. An Ashton reply with 25 minutes left reminds the home crowd that it’s not a given three-pointer, but to be honest it never really looks like the visitors have enough ‘bouncebackability’, and so 2-1 it finishes.

Whether or not this turns out to be a promotion season for Glossop North End – 6 points off the top with games in hand on most of their rivals – remains to be seen, and it would be a real visionary who could foresee another spell in the big time for this small town club, but a day at Surrey Street certainly tops my table. Real ale, cheese & onion pies, attacking football and some good banter – what more could a man want?

Programme: £1 on the turnstile. Not a bad little prog, lots of stats and league website stuff, but quite a bit in there.

Floodlight pylons: 8

Parakeets: Curiously there’s an article in the programme regarding the origins of the phrase ‘Sick As A Parrot’. Just about as close as you’d get in a region where the crow, rook and jackdaw hold sway.

Club Shop: A few items on sale at the snack bar.

Toilets: By the side of the changing rooms. The paper-thin walls afford you all the delights of the Away Manager’s team talk as you go about your business.

Teams run out to… Enthusiastic applause

Kop choir: Strike up late in the day and appear to consist of the flat-cap brigade, but did manage a few choruses of ‘Glos..sop!’

Away fans: None evident

What’s In A Name? Nothing inspring

Great Yarmouth Town – Saturday February 25th 2012 (481)

"Rumours that a major Irish airline might be moving some of its flights to Yarmouth take on more credence as mysterious ladders turn up at the Wellesley..."

Just lately I’ve been starting to think of myself as a sort of groundhopping Kate Adie. She’s the former BBC correspondent who tended to get despatched to any potential trouble spot to cover the story. The joke was that people really didn’t know how bad the situation was – Kosovo, the Gulf, Rwanda – until they saw Kate turn up. Then they knew they were in real bother.

My recent itinerary has taken in Walton & Hersham (fighting to keep their ground), and Darlington (fighting to stay in existence). Today I’m heading for Great Yarmouth Town, rock bottom of Eastern Counties Premier, with fellow clubs pitching in to raise funds for them to be able to complete the season, and hopefully come back stronger next year.  It could be a tough ask.

To be perfectly honest, my visit also has a selfish overtone. I’ve read that the main stand at The Wellesley – as Town’s stadium is grandly monickered – is the oldest spectator structure currently at use in any football ground in the country, maybe the world. And if the resident club was to go out of business, I might be kicking myself in future seasons for not having ever sat in it to watch a game of footy. A cheap rail deal from Nottingham to Norwich – £5 each way – also does a lot to bring my plans to fruition.

As usual it’s an early start and I land in Norwich at around 10.30am. For once my philosophy of avoiding a ‘lack of forward planning’ is found wanting as my map is wholly inadequate and I have also failed to note pub opening times. So at my first two ports of call I find closed doors in otherwise buzzing shopping streets. It seems Norwich publicans like to open at midday, no matter how much early doors trade could be lost. An exception is the Ribs of Beef, a pub I know well from my days as a budding real ale wholesaler in the 1980s. I drop in for a pint of Elgood’s Black Dog – “it’s a dark beer, y’know” says the landlady, “I am aware of that” is my know-all reply – and then move a hundred yards or so to a hostelry known as No.5. The earthy interior features bare floorboards and an haphazard collection of furniture. Of the four beers on offer I go for a Humpty Dumpty Swallowtail, a swilling bitter with no real bite although it does boast a pleasant aftertaste.

Having wasted some time wandering aimlessly around the city, I decide to head back to the station in good time for the 12.36 to Great Yarmouth, and a good number of my fellow passengers are Man United fans who have arrived a day early for the Sunday game with the local Canaries. Doubtless there’ll be some fun and frivolity in the bars of ‘Nar’ch’ and Yarmouth this very night.

My first pub in Yarmouth is the St John’s Head where I chat with the Landlord and one of his customers as five Manure fans swig Stella and make mucho noise around the pool table. He has a number of cask beers including the latest of a stream – judging by the pump clip collection – of beers from Burton Bridge Brewery, about 20 miles from where I live. You come all this way!

Next I head off to the Mariner’s Tavern which is a lot busier and is showing the rugby until some pleb decides he wants the racing on. There is an array of cask ale on tap although sadly not a lot of local stuff. I decide on a Milton Nero – brewed in Cambridge – which is a tasty, 5% dark brew. But I’m really looking for Blackfriars beer – the Yarmouth brewery – and I find it at my last pub, the Oliver Twist, which has a couple of their beers on. I go for a Blackfriars Bitter, enjoy some of the loud music flooding the pub (some Sex Pistols, Bollocks era) and admire the collection of Vespa artifacts, even though I was always a Lambretta man.

From here it’s about a ten minutes walk to the ground, which is just off the sea front surrounded by hotels, many closed for the winter. The football pitch is set in the middle of an athletics track, with spectator accommodation restricted to a low covered terrace running down one side, and the exquisite Victorian main stand, which has been recently given a spruce-up and lick of paint by the local council. There’s also a clubhouse bar which sadly is devoid of anything of interest to the discriminating beer drinker, and a snackbar which offers the same level of attraction to the practicing vegetarian.

I decide that, having come all this way to experience it, I will spend the whole of the game in the comfort of the main stand, where I soon make the acquaintance of some local veterans who tell me of good old times when several thousand crammed into the ground for some FA cup tie or other, as well as a more recent FA Vase match which attracted 4,500. Today there are 73 paying customers, with about 15 of us in the old stand.

The home side’s collection of journeymen and youngsters put up a good fight but don’t create anything of note, and having nosed in front on 40 minutes, visiting mid-table Haverhill Rovers are never really under threat. Two more goals after the break merely emphasise the hopelessness of Town’s league position, and it’s not until the last five minutes that they can muster an attack of any real merit. It ends 0-3.

Having experienced the tremendous groundswell of support for troubled Darlington in recent weeks, it’s disappointing to see Town’s plight largely ignored by the local populace. The club maybe also missed a trick today, with all these Man United fans in town. A bit of posting on a United forum might have attracted a few of them down to the Wellesley on their free afternoon. If nothing else, it would have boosted sales in the bar.

Maybe Kate Adie rolling into town might do a bit to stir up local enthusiasm. Sadly I doubt it. They’ll just have to make do with me.

Programme: £1 on the gate. An attractive cover customised for each game, but the interior is a little thin on content and heavy on advertising which I suppose, given the club’s financial woes, is no bad thing.

Floodlight pylons: 6

Parakeets: Not in the land of the seagull

Club shop: Didn’t see one

Toilets: Excellent old-fashioned type of men’s urinal immediately behind the stand. A real blast from the past!

Teams run out to: An enthusiastic tannoy chap who never stops talking!

Kop choir: No

Away fans: One or two in the stand near us.

What’s in a Name? I suspect Haverhill’s Joe Boreham’s team talks might be a little less than inspiring….

Alfreton Town – Saturday February 18th 2012

Just occasionally on this blog I feel the need to post even if it’s a ground I’ve previously visited. Today is such a day, mainly because it’s a match that – a little over three weeks ago – didn’t look as if it would be taking place. That’s because today’s visitors to this non-touristy part of rural Derbyshire are the erstwhile Football League team Darlington, who actually stopped breathing on Wednesday January 18th, only to be resuscitated a few minutes later.

Having covered the trials and tribulations a couple of posts back, I’ll just pause at this point to say that the patient is still alive, but in need of the kind of expensive surgery not available on the football NHS. In the meantime an embargo on transfers means that teenagers are obliged to turn out against seasoned pros, and occasionally it’s not a pretty sight.

I’ve had this game in my diary for a while, having bumped into an old associate at the Nottingham Beer Festival last October. Nottinghamshire-based, Colin has followed Darlo for as long as I’ve been a fan, and is an active member of DAFTS. To understand what that is all about, visit www.dafts.co.uk and discover what a useful resource that site can be to a groundhopper. Colin is also fond of his real ale, to the point of fanaticism. I recall one time at Shrewsbury when a Darlo away game coincided with the local CAMRA beer festival. Colin proceeded to sample a few, and those he couldn’t polish off were consigned to labeled bottles and deposited in his ruck-sack. Heaven knows what the match stewards would have made of it had they deemed to search his bag on entry to Gay Meadow.

We’ve also had the odd laugh at Colin’s expense, particularly the time at Boston where he decided to go for a leek just as the train pulled in, loaded up and zoomed out. We all gave him a cheery wave from the window as he stumbled onto the platform, gesticulating forlornly down the track as we vanished into the distance.

Today I meet him on the train at Langley Mill and we get off next stop intent on discovering the delights of Alfreton. Actually, my day starts an hour or so earlier in Nottingham, with a Wetherspoon’s Veggie Brekkie at the Roebuck on St James Street, washed down with an excellent pint of Grafton’s Dark Lady. I’m always a bit wary about this pub, having once been refused entry for wearing an England football shirt. Approximately half an hour earlier David Beckham had buried the ball in the back of the Greek net, people were leaping gleefully in and out of the Grand Union Canal, and the whole city was rocking. Sadly in those days, Wetherspoon’s didn’t feel the vibe.

According to the DAFTs website, Alfreton town centre has just 7 pubs (less than my local village) and one of them, the Station, is a keg-palace en route into town from the station. A quarter of a mile further on, in the town centre, is the Pub People-owned King Alfred, promising a selection of beers. Sadly, as we arrive, the Blue Monkey 99 Red Baboons goes off, and the remaining choice is less inspiring, with Doom Bar, Fullers London Pride (which I like but would prefer to drink in London) and a couple of Abbeydale beers. The latter name conjures up images of very pale golden citrussy beers which I generally avoid, so it’s the Fullers for me. The Red Baboons is eventually replaced with BG Sips – another golden ale – so my intended session fizzles out. Down by the ground, a ten-minute walk from the town centre, is the Victoria which is advertising its guest beers as ‘Ruddles & Greene King’. 35 years ago I’d have journeyed for days for that kind of offering. How times change.

At the ground we are helpfully pointed in the direction of the away end, which turns out to be a sectioned-off third of the semi-covered terrace formerly used by home fans. Our bit has no cover, although the stewards do take pity on us as a mini-snowstorm blights the start of the second half, and a couple of hundred away fans surge through the open fencing and cram under the cover of the central section.

By then the game is nearly over, despite Alfreton being down to ten men. A bright first half in which both sides enjoy periods of dominance ends with a goal apiece, but as soon as the home team take an early second half lead before being swiftly reduced in numbers, it’s over as a contest. With the few experienced heads in the Darlo ranks making little contribution, the seven willing but naive teenagers in the visiting line-up are up against hard-nut defenders like the much-traveled Darren Kempson. It’s a no-contest scenario. Men against boys. It finishes 3-1.

The general feeling around me is that, poor as Darlo are in the second half, it still deserves a round of applause. Because the Conference’s viewpoint is that it’s acceptable for inexperienced boys to be asked to do a man’s job. So we applaud them for that, as well as the acceptance that the game very nearly didn’t take place. If Darlo are back here next season – no matter in what division – it will be an achievement.

Runcorn Town – Saturday February 11th 2012 (480)

'For anyone doubting the sheer power but general inaccuracy of the star striker's shooting, the evidence was there for all to see...'

I can’t pretend to be any kind of expert on the implications of global warming, but I sort of see where Jeremy Clarkson is coming from when he pontificates from his soapbox about the ‘benefits’ of it. I suppose the plus side is that we’ll get no more mornings like today! That is, scouring the lower league fixtures in the hope that some club within reach can get a game on.

When the weather forecast for the weekend was showing very little promise earlier in the week, I stared mournfully at the prognosis for Scotland which – unusually for the UK – was expecting milder temperatures. A quick check of the Virgin rail fares soon ruled out a trip north of the border. Then I remembered that, whenever you see a national weather forecast on the TV, there always seems to be a slightly milder ‘halo’ around the country’s coastline, as if every cold front likes to venture a few miles inland before it cuts up rough.

So after perusing all the step 4 & 5 leagues within rail-day-trip distance of HQ, my attention was drawn to Runcorn Town’s home game against Congleton in the North West Counties Premier. With Town’s Pavilions ground effectively on the ‘coast’, a gut feeling convinced me that this match might be the one to beat the freeze.

Despite a battery of information vehicles on the Runcorn Town website – News bar, Facebook & Twitter – nobody seems to be updating any of it, and Congleton’s site is no help either. As usual I email the home club asking about the chances of the game being on but get no reply. Other league websites – the Northern Counties East for example – are way ahead when it comes to providing up-to-date information like kick-off times and postponements, but that of the NWC is usually late to the party. And when they do get round to telling you what’s off, it never occurs to them to let you know what is definitely ON!

So on Saturday morning I am resigned to another match-day sat in front of the telly, with the promise of Saurez v Evra and England chasing eggs in Rome. Then I spot that something finally has been posted on Runcorn’s site – the game looks like it could well be on. My hunch has proved to be well-founded. Within the hour I am wrapped up for Arctic survival, and standing at Long Eaton station waiting for the train that will whisk me to Crewe. That latter station is a god-send for me. I can get there for under a tenner return, and it’s a great jumping off point for anywhere north and west, including Liverpool, usually for less than another ten pound note. Admittedly, the Derby to Crewe train is hardly the Tokyo Bullet, but you do get there eventually, and quite cozily whenever Stoke happen to be at home, or there’s a race meeting at Uttoxeter. Neither is occurring today, so it’s just grizzling kids and competing buzzing headphones serving to disrupt the serenity.

I decide to take a stopover in Crewe to buy some time on the off-chance that the game is subject to a late postponement. So I walk the mile or so to the Borough Arms, on the outskirts of the town centre, which is a neat and tidy little local that doubles as a Belgian-style beer cafe. Most of the punters are gathered in the ‘real ale’ room where a row of a half-score or so handpumps and live TV footy form the joint attractions. The beer choice is from far and wide,  which I suppose is handy if it’s your regular haunt because you get to try a lot of different ales. As a visitor to the town though, I would be expecting to see a few more of the local brews, including those of the nearby Off Beat brewery. Sadly I am disappointed on that score although I have to say that the Borough Porter – brewed onsite I believe – is excellent.

Suitably refreshed, I’m back at Crewe station for the 20-minute journey that takes me to Runcorn. As I get nearer the lying snow fades and it’s looking very green everywhere. Promising, even though it’s still bloody cold! Pausing just briefly to check out the Railway pub close to Runcorn station – sadly keg only – I take a 25-minute walk in the direction of a large industrial complex in the shadow of which lies Pavilions, home ground for Runcorn Town FC.

Pavilions is slightly unusual in that it actually hosts two floodlit grounds, each used by a different club. Neither is what you would exactly call a state-of-the-art stadium, with each boasting an element of spectator cover that doesn’t really maximise it’s potential. At least the larger of the grounds, that used by Runcorn Town, also has a seated main stand, with the additional benefit that you can peer over the wall and watch the players of Runcorn Albion go about their Warrington & District Premier league business courtesy of their 2.30 kick-off, to save on floodlight electricity.

Inside the Runcorn Town ground, signs direct me to the bar and lounge which is a bit of a misnomer as it is actually just a tea-room. The gentleman behind the counter looks a bit club-officialish and having spotted the Castle Rock Brewery logo on my hat – I picked the wooliest one I could find this morning – enquires what brings me all the way to Runcorn this good day. The chance of some football I explain, following up by expressing my surprise that the match is actually on. Ah yes, he says, we don’t usually have a problem, being so close to the ICI factory. He points out the giant chimney opposite which looks capable of belching out some serious stuff. It usually means game on, the ‘plus’ side of global warming!

According to my new friend, the club is to feature on an upcoming TV programme about ‘quirky’ grounds. I can see why – two games for the price of one, a bar and lounge that doesn’t sell any beer, a covered terrace reminiscent of an unused garage, and oversoil heating provided by ICI. They sure don’t build em like this any more!

And so to the game, against Cheshire neighbours Congleton, a town famous for only three things. One, it has a bear; two, it has a brewery (Beartown, quite coincidentally) and three, it was once the source of an outbreak of Congleton Sock Mania. The fact that virtually every resident of Congleton wouldn’t know this is because it was only ever featured in Bill Tidy’s ‘Fosdyke Saga’ strip cartoon in the Daily Mirror in the 1970s. Hey, I remembered it!

The home side are having a good season – higher in the league than better-known local rivals Runcorn Linnets, points out the man in the tea-bar. They have a front three well capable of scoring goals and go into the match against mid-table Congleton in 5th spot, with a chance today to go up to 4th, as no-one else is playing. And they start off brightly, with a goal after 10. Although frost-free, the pitch is providing an uneven bounce, and a lot of good work by both sides falls down where a good first touch and an accurate pass is required. The visitors are briefly level before Runcorn edge ahead again, and they have the better of the first half.

After the break Congleton come much more into it, and deservedly equalize on 65. And they have the better of the chances as the game opens up and becomes an entertaining spectacle. You suspect only a great strike or a bit of luck will settle it, and that’s how it turns out as a speculative through-ball finds the Congleton defence wanting and the bemused Runcorn striker recovers his composure to find the empty net. Harsh on the visitors but that’s football.

And so I get my footy ‘fix’ on a day where I suspect I will be in the minority amongst the groundhopping fraternity. Smug satisfaction about that is only tempered by a realisation that I’m so cold I might fearfully break out into a chronic shiver, despite the layers of clothing I bestowed on myself earlier in the day. To hell with global warming, what I really need now is some central heating – where’s the nearest pub!?

Programme: £1.50 on the turnstile. Not bad, quite stat. heavy but obviously some time has been spent on it.

Pylons: 6 (neighbours Runcorn Albion have 8)

Parakeets: Just wheeling and whirling shite-hawks

Club shop: Didn’t see one.

Toilets: In the tea-room

Players run out to: Noise from the match next door

Kop Choir: No

Away support: Half a dozen behind the goal and a few others dotted around the ground. No singing though.

What’s in a name? Presumably after any inept defensive display, Runcorn defenders Dalton and Grant would be for the high jump…..

Darlington – Saturday January 28th 2012

'Can't think of anything remotely funny to say about this...'

…and so it comes to pass that I do the right and proper thing on Saturday January 28th, becoming a ‘No-Show’ on the National Express from Loughborough to London, and very possibly disappointing hoards of Enfield Town fans curious to know how a ‘groundhopper’ might view their club.

Instead I encourage the lad to get out of his pit and switch off his X-Box, we commandeer the wife’s motor (more economical than mine) and set off on our two-hour, 130-mile motorway jaunt to the North-East of England, to do our bit for a desperate football club.

A bit of history. Back in the late 1990s, after leaving the last of the pubs I was running and gulping the fresh air of freedom, I decided to rekindle a passing interest I had in Darlington Football Club. This in itself went back to 1988 when, in one of my earlier spells of serial groundhopping, I had chanced upon Feethams where the bottom-of-Division-Four home team were up against division higher Oldham in the League Cup. The ground was buzzing, as were Darlo, who won 2-0. I vowed to return, and did so later that season amongst a crowd of 7,000 or so only to see them lose to relegation rivals Colchester and head unerringly for the Football League trapdoor.

Several years later, and free of the shackles of the pubs, I turned up at an away game at Doncaster’s Belle Vue, had a chat with Steve Harland, the guy who produced the legendary Mission Impossible fanzine, and was put in touch with a gang who regularly motored up to Feethams from the Midlands. And for several seasons I more or less became a Darlo fanatic, going home and away, including frosty January night games. The arrival of kids slowed me down a tad, but I was still active when George Reynolds pitched up and moved the club out of town. Maybe we thought it might be a good thing. Doesn’t look quite so good now.

Having stopped breathing on ‘Black’ Wednesday January 18th, the application of some financial CPR has fed some life back into the ‘corpse’ and the club gets to live – or die – another day. Last Saturday about 5,500 (official figures) answered the call against Fleetwood. Today we intend to be amongst the second wave to see Darlo take on York.

We arrive outside the stadium at around 12.15 and get the pick of the car park. There’s already a fair few folk buzzing around, but we take advantage of the early arrival to buy tickets, have a quick look round the club shop – understandably low on stock given the uncertain future – before walking the mile and a half or so into town to take in the old sights, and treat the lad to the Wetherspoons lunch which was part of the deal to entice him out of the house. The William Stead is just off the town centre, and is pretty busy, but we grab a window seat and I sample a pint of Blindmans Mine Beer, not exactly a LocAle brew (from Somerset), but pleasant enough to wash down a Veggie Brunch.

Before taking the free bus (courtesy of Arriva) back to the stadium, we do a bit of sightseeing, past the Pennyweight pub in the Market Place, which was our watering hole in Feethams days, and then the 200-yard walk down to the cricket ground, which has outlived its footballing neighbour. Through gaps in the fence I point out the Tin Shed, the covered terrace which still survives to preside over a blank space where once traditional floodlight towers, an uncovered bank of terracing, a £3.2m stand, and a host of memories used to live. Oh, and the grottiest toilets in the football league, who could forget those?

Nostalgia trip over, we catch the bus back to the Arena, and take a tour of the outside of the ground, noting how quickly the car park seems to have filled. Once inside, we feel for the single chap manning the drinks bar, hoping that just occasionally the queue will come to an end. It doesn’t. We take our seats, and admire the contours of the Arena, which apart from some boxes in the South stand, is pretty symetrical all round. Exactly half of the ground is open, and nearly 7,000 punters – including lots of youngsters and nearly 1,500 fans from visitors York – are in residence.

I remember going with Darlo to York shortly after George Reynolds had taken over. We were ‘Loadsamoney’ but struggling City were introducing their own ‘saviour’ to the crowd, a racing tycoon called John Batchelor, as I recall. Things didn’t work out exactly as planned. You can read more about this period in York City’s life by putting the above key words into Wikipedia. Little wonder that the visiting York fans have some sympathy for their Darlo counterparts today. We’ve all been there!

Darlo start the game with more than half of the squad aged under 19. When they have the ball their attacks are incisive but high-flying York are jealous of possession and much of the first half is uninspiring. That is until a free kick is turned into the York net just before the interval and the home fans build up a head of steam. A second, by 19-year old John McReady, early in the second half, puts Darlo further in the driving seat, but York step up the pace, notch two in a minute, and have the better of the closing stages. Most home fans are happy with the point.

As we pick our way out of the car park, the underlying question is ‘Will we ever be doing this again.’ There’s a plan on the table that would see the club stay at the Arena. My personal feeling is this should only be a short term measure, and that all interested parties must thrash out a strategy that would see the stadium site redeveloped, a new more-manageable ground built for Darlo (back at Feethams? We can dream) and the club live within its means. Oh, and be part-owned by the supporters.

Although I’m first-and-foremost a Forest fan – and we have our own problems – I’m sure I’d buy into that.

Walton & Hersham – Saturday January 21st 2012 (479)

'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!

Burnham – Saturday January 7th 2012 (478)

'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….