From Despair To Where? Hungerford at Home.

Taunton Town 1 -3 Weymouth

Monday 19 September 2011
FA Cup 1st Qualifying Round Replay
Wordsworth Drive, Taunton
Attendance: 270

Saturday's 0-0 draw with Taunton Town in the 1st Qualifying Round of the FA Cup has been described as dismal, diabolical, absolute crap, terrible, awful, depressing and nicely summed up as "Low on excitement, low on inspiration, low on fans. Terrible."

The magic of the FA Cup hey.

Even the most dedicated fans are turning their backs on the club. This quote from 'Rob' on the Terras Talk forum offering a brilliant summation of the way most fans approach matches now " I've currently a lethargy towards the club at the moment. The memories of jitters and nerves when trying to hang on to a lead are long gone, as are the feelings of jubilation and joy when we scored. We've barely a player that we can connect with - especially since they don't seem to last that long - and the management team fills me with no enthusiasm whatsoever. It's all so dull."

Depressing times then, not that it's affected me in the slightest though.

In preparation for the replay I spent the day alone in a disused and dank church basement dressed as Joel Kitamirike and watching a three hour looped VHS recording of Andy Harris' header on a flickering black and white TV. Occasionally I stopped to flagellate myself with one of Stuart Douglas' dreadlocks, adorned with sharpened rusty barbed wire, discuss the early EP's of Interpol with the ghost of Jefferson Louis, carve the word CU*TIS into a starving rat before finally subjecting a rudimentary voodoo doll of an unspecified businessman from the Cambridgeshire area (made from half a rake handle, a fire damaged medicine ball, three quarters of a mouldy quiche, several abandoned spiders webs and the evil imagination of a disturbed mind) to a relentless period of water boarding.

I said young man, there's no need to feel down.

There is.

If I was looking for omens (which I was) that could also double up as some weak thread for this blog (which I was) then AC/DC's ‘Highway to Hell’ booming out on arrival to the ground was one I'd be clinging to. The fact it was played again just before kick off had me rubbing my hands with bloggy glee. Consider the depressing scene darkly set.

Taunton Town HQ (really - there's a sign out front that says so) contains a superb boardroom facility. I say facility, I mean shipping container. The partly open door offering a tantalising glimpse into the prawn sandwich world us mortals can only dream of. Well dream no longer tinpot fans as I am able to reveal it contains a massive lampshade, the size of Jorge Diaz, and a 1970s style tattered armchair which means the 'Boardroom' and looks very much like the Duckworth's living room, if they’d lived in a shipping container in Somerset.

2 doors down from the Duckworth's. Mavis & Derek's maybe?

Both teams walk through the farmyard gate that separates the dressing room complex, I say dressing room complex I mean Portakabin, from the pitch and Weymouth immediately start by knocking it round nicely and we look like a team playing a lower league side. I'm shocked. As the sun descends the fog of depression lifts further when Sam Malsom spins and thumps home the first goal after 12 minutes. Soon after though some more shocking defending sees Taunton equalise and the surely the rest of this miserable drivel will now write itself and lead to a 'Black Swan' style conclusion?

Release the cattle.

Well, no. Thankfully not. The first half is enjoyable, with some decent football, a competitive spirit, crunching tackles, both teams wasting chances and this feels like a proper football match. This feeling is increased by a superbly ramshackle old ground that resonates atmosphere, unlike the muted dull surroundings of last week at Cirencester.

Sadly a fire in the Taunton Town HQ Clubhouse during the summer has meant the toilets are out of bounds and that means one horrific thing – the overused football ground portaloo. After the half time rush...well I’m not saying they stank but the Glastonbury Festival phoned up to complain about the stench.

Token match shot.

The second half is, unlike my earlier water boarding session, keenly fought. Weymouth hit the bar from a free kick and the resulting break away leaves us two on two at the back, thankfully we don’t concede but goalkeeper Tom Manley almost combusts at the lack of defensive cover. Thankfully Malsom manages to slot home a second on 62 minutes and half the team pile on him in celebration. A Taunton full back sees these as the opportune time to pick a fight with one of our players and only a swift “fucking get in there” full in his defeated face from one of our players stops him pursuing his act of folly even further.

Turn on the Bright Lights.

Malsom gets his hat trick before the end and then the last few minutes are almost like old times, the ball is passed around crisply, ole football almost, the opposition is beaten and Weymouth walk back through the farm gate to a hero’s ovation and the evening’s anti-depressant medicine has been successfully administered.

Now, someone fetch me an old cereal box, cardboard, tinfoil, scissors and a picture of the FA Cup. We are going to Wembley!

Nurse!!

The medication is wearing off!! He’s asking when Steve Claridge is coming round to rotate the shin pads and shouting that he is Narada Barnard’s dog. Nurse! NURSE!!

From Floodlit Dreams to 'Who owns the floodlights?'

When the boys over at Dutch website Doing The 116 ask you to write an article for their website you immediately schtop everything and get writing. The fact they'd requested an article on my specialist subject 'The Life and Times of Chaka Demus & Pliers' Weymouth FC meant I was only too pleased to help.

If you can read Dutch, well done, crack open a Grolsch and have a read here. If not, nevermind, it's a frankly weird language anyway, get a brew and a Rich Tea and have a read below.

Whenever I tell people I'm a Weymouth fan they know that Ian Ridley was Chairman and Steve Claridge was manager, but this is normally followed by the question “what happened”. Yeah, good one. This is my take on it, a simple take, an idiot's guide. And I must be an idiot to still be a Weymouth fan!

Ian Ridley’s book ‘Floodlit Dreams’ ends with Weymouth beating Lewes to gain promotion to the Conference National in 2006, an event leading to an almighty celebration followed by a nagging headache about how any of this dream was financially sustainable.

As with any hangover, you hope for a swift end to the discomfort and after 10 seconds of the new season, when Ben Smith scored the opening goal in a 3-1 win at Tamworth, the tonic was administered and everyone was delighted. Three successive victories later, over 5000 in the ground for a game against Oxford United, an FA Cup game live on the BBC, a league game on SKY (check out this goal from Ben Smith) and it was clear to see Weymouth FC were going to piss this tinpot league and destined for the Premiership!

Eh, no.

That changed drastically on the 9th January 2007 when owner Martyn Harrison announced he had “got a bit carried away”; and the money had run out. Most of the squad left, manager Garry Hill went and the dream was over. The nightmare had begun. Someone wake me up when it's over.

Ridley offered to return with Claridge but was turned down, at the time stating “my fear is the land is sold along with the club." Wise words Ian, wise words. Defender Jason Tindall was appointed manager, and immediately became the most fake tanned football manager ever. We finished the season in 11^th place, with a team of heroes, in some instances, and some absolute jokers – some of whom even the most dedicated of Weymouth fans wouldn't recall - and suffered our worst ever defeat in the Conference, 7-0 at Cambridge United. During these dark days there were some bright spots. Stuart Beavon (now at Wycombe Wanderers) was signed from Didcot FC and went on to become one of the greatest players I've seen in the claret and blue and our goalkeeper Super Jason Matthews belted in this goal. I'll admit it, I love Super Jason Matthews more than my own mother.

In June 2007, Harrison sold the club to music promoter Mel Bush, who was also Tindall's Father in Law. Bush came in with the usual stuff about making the club financially stable and “a well-run community club” By October Bush was gone, leaving the club apparently debt free, and uhhh....it hurts me to type this guy's name, Malcolm Curtis took over. Cu*tis, or to give him his full title, property developer Malcolm Cu*tis, took control and stated he was going to put “some stability back in this club” and announcing that "I am not an asset stripper”. By February 2008 Cu*tis had sold the land surrounding the Wessex Stadium to his company Wessex Park Limited for £550,000, a figure seen as spectacularly low at the time and it's legality questioned.

In January 2008 Tindall's sun bed bills were crippling the club and poor results were used as an excuse to sack him. He was replaced by ex Chelsea manager John Hollins who somehow managed to keep us in the Conference.

In August 2008 Cu*tis unveiled plans for a new Community Sports Stadium, to be built by 2012 on the site of the town's Rugby Club. Also in Cu*tis' briefcase that day was a pig which he planned to launch into intergalactic orbit.

Two months later Cu*tis announced he wanted out of the, now apparently debt ridden, club due to “the amount of hand grenades that are being thrown at me.” Sadly he was only speaking metaphorically but the financial concerns led to a number of departures and the fans scrambling round desperately to save the club. Cu*tis was perfectly clear a month later when it was announced the ownership of the land surrounding the Wessex Stadium has been sold again, this time to Wessex Delivery Partnership LLP, a partnership between Cu*tis' Wessex Park Limited and property developers Morgan Sindall Ltd. As part of the deal the club would continue to play at the Wessex Stadium with Cur*is stating “The Wessex Delivery Partnership will only be able to call on the option to build on the site when they have consent on a new stadium for the club."

In December 2008 the well liked Hollins was fired and replaced by assistant Alan Lewer and by now every day seemingly brought a new low. December also saw Cu*tis state “administration or winding up may be my only options.” The following month he left, leaving his shares in a holding company, but not before branding Weymouth “the Afghanistan of non-League football” and with the club still facing the very real threat of liquidation. Great. Cheers Malc! Once again the fans were forced to scramble round for some spare change to keep the club going and this video still makes me a little sniffy.

February 2009 saw us forced to play our youth team in a league match as the majority of the squad issued 14 days notice period due to unpaid wages and, apparently, were not covered with full medical insurance. Unsurprisingly we got hammered by Rushden & Diamonds, losing 0-9. However, the emotions on that day were something else, a stirring sense of pride at the brave players who wore the claret and blue, mixed with the rage of seeing my club on it's knees like this. I'll admit it, I cried on the terraces that day, it seemed like the end. The result also aroused the attention of the FA, due to the amount of betting on the game – I'll leave that one there I think.

Want another low point? Go on then!! Heard the one about the daytime TV addict, who lived in a council house, who had £20,000 worth of debts yet offered to donate £300,000 to a struggling non league team, only to spell the club's name wrong on the cheque and then have a stroke at a press conference to announce his donation. No, really – this happened. Embarrassing.

In March 2009 Ian Ridley returned to the club as Chairman, leading a consortium of local businessmen. He immediately looked to reduce the debts, of around £500,000, by launching a share issue and shortly after replaced manager Alan Lewer with ex Wales manager Bobby Gould. Defeat to York City on the penultimate round of fixtures saw the club relegated to the Blue Square South.

Gould left at the end of the season and was replaced by former player Matt Hale, a man whose car I once had a nose bleed in on the way back from a game against Yeovil! With the club under local control and a former player at the helm things looked, well not good, but certainly less crap than for a while.

WRONG AGAIN! The club was still desperately short of money, £50,000 was raised by fans in less than two weeks, Steve Claridge played for us in a 5-1 home defeat to Bromley, as we attempted to raise publicity of our financial plight, Hale resigned in October after presiding over a few thumpings (including one against Bishop’s Stortford (6-2), a game in which Teddy Sheringham's son, Charlie scored five), Ridley resigned to battle cancer, and Cur*tis resurfaced with threats to call in a loan of over £200,000, which led to the club giving notice to appoint administrators. This then led to two bids for the club, both as appealing as an epileptic lobster inserted up your anus but certainly more appealing than the end of 119 years of Weymouth FC, and eventually this led to former Cambridge United Chairman George Rolls taking control of the club.

By December 2009 debts had apparently reached over £700,000 and in January 2010 the manager, and club legend, Ian Hutchinson was fired. He was replaced by Jerry Gill, who resigned after 44 days (including one defeat against Basingstoke in which Mitchell Bryant scored all six of Basingstoke's goals). He was replaced by the returning Hutchinson in March with the debt now over apparently at £900,000. By the end of April this figure was reduced dramatically with the club entering into a Company Voluntary Arrangement (CVA), an arrangement that that saw us, (by now relegated from Conference South), start the 2010/11 season in the Zamaretto Premier League on minus ten points.

For some more in depth reading into the controversial CVA, and a bunch of very generous mysterious Lithuanian's putting £290,000 into the club (hmm), then have a read here.

Shortly before the start of the 2010/11 season, the Wessex Stadium was renamed the Bob Lucas Stadium, in recognition of the sterling service given to the club by Lucas, who died in August at the age of 85. He was our goalkeeper for two years and was man of the match in a third round FA Cup tie against Matt Busby’s Manchester United at Old Trafford before going on to be club physio for 32 years and club President. Bob was a man who symbolised all that was good about the club and always represented it with dignity and pride, traits sadly lacking by many others around the club in this period.

The 10/11 season wasn't a great one, the odd 9-0 loss, the close 7-2 defeat but by the end of it we had overturned the ten point deficit and avoided relegation, thanks to the guidance of manager Martyn Rogers, who replaced Hutchinson in January 2011. Off the pitch Rolls transferred the remaining shares in the club's holding company to his name, meaning “Weymouth FC and the ground is now owned by two separate concerns who don’t care about the club”, before resigning from the Board of Directors in February 2011. The transfer of shares importantly means that Rolls gets the right to oversee any negotiations related to the options agreement with Wessex Delivery Partnership LLP for any sale of the stadium, and do as he sees fit with any money. I think. For the average supporter, hello, it makes the brain hurt.

On the pitch the 2011/12 season has started pretty badly with, of course, a new manager. No paragraph is complete without mention of a new manager, another ex-player, Brendan King, and we currently stand 21^st in the 22^nd team division and with an average attendance of around 1/10th of that that turned up for the game against Oxford United only five years ago, with many staying away in protest at Rolls' running of the club. (Oh, hi George – I know you'll be reading this you greasy div) For just a handful of the reasons why Rolls' isn't liked start here and then read any sentence anyone's ever written about the man since, or before actually.

Our Board of Directors is now made up of George's wife, his Mum and his Dad! However it's George that continues to rule over the Bob Lucas Stadium, distrust of him is high, his motives and intentions unclear and the club is left with little to call it's own and any new ground further away than ever (as long as you discount the threat of ground share at Dorchester). The fan base is dispirited after years of defeats and an ongoing battle to keep the club alive; but we're still here, the fans pay the wages of some players and as long as the WFC flag is flying from one of the floodlight's, there's still the dream we can win our club back and have a successful Weymouth FC to shout for!

Up the Terras!

The Green Green Grass Of Away

Cirencester Town 0-1 Weymouth
Tuesday 13th September 2011
Evostik Southern League
Corinium Stadium, Cirencester
Attendance: 121

Cirencester Town v Weymouth 2010/11

Reports before the big (arf) match showed a Cirencester Town manager angry that his players had lost on Saturday after “rolling over and having our tummy tickled” (aww-bless) and Weymouth's Byron Napper struggling with an infected grass burn (jeez!); which made manager Brendan King's observation that Weymouth weren't getting the "rub of the green" seem a little unfounded.

The green. Ready rubbed.

We arrived just before kick off, not beating the hordes to get in, not just in time to savour the atmosphere and not to take in the roar of the crowd as the teams lined up, as there is none of the above. However there is a man sporting a khaki jacket, whispy beard and a beret though (What a powerfully look that is sir. Rugged yet demonstrating a softer side to your personality. A doff of the new AiT beret to you.)

The first half was dire. Absolute shite from sliced kick off to over hit pass conclusion. No wonder these teams are stuck fast at the bottom of the Evostik Premier. It's going to take more than a tube of Evostik's finest Hard & Fast Metal Epoxy Putty to keep these teams in the league come May. The muted response to the game, from the few people there, is broken by the occasional shouts from the Cirencester manager, "ahhh that fucking fat linesman again", (he was fat - not quite as fat Kev over at Nailsea though), the proverbial howls of derision from the shivering supporters at numerous shocking shots on goal and the loud chime of realisation that another forty five minutes of this dross awaits. When an non playing (obviously) Cirencester player tweets saying “Worst game I've ever watched” you know it's pretty pretty pretty pretty bad.

Foreground, rubbish.
Background, rubbish.

To the bar!! Where everyone agreed that we should probably just lock the doors, move all the furniture in front of the doors, pull down the blind, whack on a box set of Midsomer Murders, open some packets of Cheese Savouries and not bother going out for the second half.

Token match shot.

Dear AiT reader. I'm sure you're familiar with the alcoholic tipple Aftershock. You must have even tried it? Possibly while trying to pull in the early hours of the morning in the dance floor section of a Walkabout pub, situated in a medium sized market town. The red one probably? Maybe even the blue? But did you know there's also an orange and a sliver one? No! Me neither. So, this trip offered an education in brain rotting alcoholic snifters if nothing else. Get yourself to the Corinium stadium in Cirencester, they've succeeded in accessing the secret codes for two previously undiscovered flavours of Aftershock. Ill take one of each and rinse it down with some Blackcurrant Chewits cheers landlord; a slightly odd choice of bar snack there Cirencester but good work on the Aftershock's.

Christmas 2009. Great times, great memories (except for one person, top left)

Second half then.

*sigh*

Well, someone lobbed a couple of traffic cones onto the pitch from outside the ground, narrowly missing some players - that was bizarre and outrageously tinpot. Yoofs probably. Hoodies. Probably off their minds on a violent cocktail of silver Aftershock and Chewits. Bring back the birch I say. *shakes angry fist*

Weymouth started to make half chances, from nowhere some chanting started and as a football fan you start to get that feeling that there might be a winner in this for us. Obviously, as a Weymouth fan that feeling is usually unfounded and easily diagnosed as a gaseous build up in the gastrointestinal tract but NO, not tonight.

Too much greasy food can cause bloating and excessive gas.

Tonight is all about the last minute winner, that stupendous feeling. Your team have battled for 89 minutes, you've stood watching pish in the cold for 89 minutes and then the ball is cleared, then oddly chipped back up the sloping pitch by Marshallsay, your mate turns to you and says "what the fuck was that" and before you can lazily agree the ball slows in the grass ,gets caught under the defender's feet, Warren Byerley has snuck the ball under the keeper and WE'RE GOING MENTAL AT A LAST MINUTE WINNER, the team have piled on top of each other in celebration, I've done some weird air punchy thing, let out a little gas in excitement (oh, it was gas all along) and tonight we've not only got the rub of the green we've picked up the green and rubbed it in the defeated faces of Cirencester Town and every miserable pissing nano second of the excruciating previous 89 minutes is instantly forgotten!!

Then we went home. The end. Never speak of this match again.

FIN.

Wagon Wheels Fall Off As Cwmbran Flakes.

Cwmbran Celtic 2-2 Goytre United
Saturday 27th August 2011
Welsh Football League Division One
Celtic Park, Cwmbran
Attendance: 45(ish)

Goytre United are the team everyone aspires to be. They combine skillful players with investment in their facilities. Not my words Carol, the words of the Barry & District News.

It seems odd that everyone would aspire to be a football team from a tiny welsh village, a village so small that if you lay it's minimalistic Wikipedia entry from end to end it would cover the main street of the town. T'internet research reveals the undoubted qualities of the ground, it includes a horse riding school (of course a horse riding school!) and backs onto the River Ffrwdwyllt, a river that floods annually and washes away all the vowels in it's path.

Cwmbran is where Jammy Dodger's and Wagon Wheels are made. Amazing.

Fair point.

The ground, Celtic Park, is tiny and like it's Scottish namesake won't be hosting European football this season. There is one building that houses the changing rooms, pictures of teams gone by posing outside a terraced house (eh?) and a refreshments kiosk, advertised in the programme thusly; "Rosie invites you to sample her wares at the hatch....a visit to Celtic Park would not be complete without tasting one of her famous baps." I had a nibble on one of her baps, bit too soft for my liking. Maytrrrrron.

One famous bap. Ham and tomato. Average.

Team photo outside a terraced house. Obviously. I'm sure there is a perfectly legitimate reason for this.

The Celtic warm up commences with a fantastically innovative keepy-uppy routine, with the person responsible for letting the ball drop being forced to crawl through a huddle of players, whilst doing an impression of an animal. The routine was sadly curtailed by more traditional warm up routines and the team didn't get chance impersonate enough animals to fill Noah's Arc and had to settle for a small dinghy setting sail with a dog, a cat, a cow, a pig and a chicken.

Celtic are managed by ANDY DIBBLE'S DAD, ANDY DIBBLE'S DAD! Ladies and gentlemen please be upstanding for ANDY DIBBLE'S DAD. A round of applause, come on, ANDY DIBBLE'S DAD.

Do you know who I am son?

ANDY DIBBLE'S DAD is a man with an obsession. ANDY DIBBLE'S DAD is a man who knows how he wants his team to play, he likes to keep the animal theme going and is a fan of the hoof, “Don't pick anyone out, clear your lines” being one bit of ungulate advice from ANDY DIBBLE'S DAD. Like a fat man let loose on all you can eat Pizza Hut buffet he is a massive fan of “seconds.” ANDY DIBBLE'S DAD repeats it constantly and occasionally with such force that he releases a torrential downpour of spittle onto the pitch below, which should be honoured to receive ANDY DIBBLE'S DAD's spit to be honest.

I'M ANDY DIBBLE'S DAD ME!!!

I'd pay £4 just to say I'd been in the same football ground as ANDY DIBBLE'S DAD, sadly not everyone has the same thought. About ten people watched the match through a fence behind one of the goals. When it was dry they stood atop a mud bank and when it rained they retreated into their cars and watched the match from there, while performing a ridiculous synchronised windscreen wiper routine. Tight bugers! I hope their windscreen wipers emit a high pitched squeak.

Token crowd shot.

The first half is crap, so two early goals for Celtic early in the second half are as unexpected as Gary Crosby appearing behind you when keeping goal for Man City. They were two really well worked goals, the first coming after some great wing play and a header from Celtic's striker “Ginge”. Both strikes sent ANDY DIBBLE'S DAD into a state of untold delirium and some Celtic players into an half baked 'Inbetweeners' movie dance routine celebration. This is then followed by a nervous few minutes as Goytre pile the pressure on and ANDY DIBBLE'S DAD is forced to chant the phrase “see this spell out”, like an agitated Grotbags trying to reverse a particularly vengeful hex.

ANDY DIBBLE'S DAD'S HQ

As he patrols the right hand side of the dugout, he's clearly a man in a world of turmoil. To the left hand side of the dugout a much more serene story develops as a small girl counts excitedly to ten in a competitive game of hide and seek. One, Two, Three, Four, Five, JEEEESSSSUUS, FUCKING CHRIST HEY....SHIT, coming ready or not!!! Goytre have scored and a five year girl joyfully bounds off, completely unaware of the barrage of obscenities and blasphemy that just drowned out her countdown.

Token match shot.

After a solid display and completely baffling the opposition for long period the inevitable happens, the little boy is captured. Oh and Goytre equalise, much to ANDY DIBBLE'S DAD's disgust. The home crowd are also disappointed, the chance for three points is lost, the time for hide and seek is over and only one guy doesn't let the conclusion of the action phase him as he remains casually picking berries from the bushes surrounding the ground.

ANDY DIBBLE'S DAD fact – his name is Alan. I prefer ANDY DIBBLE'S DAD.

Down is the new up.

Odd Down 2-2 Brislington
Tuesday 23th August 2011
Toolstation Premier League
Lew Hill Memorial Ground, Odd Down, Bath
Attendance: 45(ish)

They're a competitive bunch at Odd Down.

To my left a lone man repeatedly throws arrows at one of the three darts boards and a kid makes arrangements for someone else to do his match report, so he can participate in tonight's pool tournament. On my right three arcade machines flicker manically, behind me a skittles alley, buzzing all round me a women collecting money for the raffle, (The prizes are: one Quality Street, one Roses, four cans of Becks, four John Smiths - I'm presuming this is a roll over) and on the walls around me posters imploring the locals to part with their cash for a fantasy football competition and an upcoming quiz night.

Arf!

This place is so competitive I was only granted access to the toilet after winning a best of three, which inevitably became a best of five, game of Paper-Scissors-Stone and even in there was a poster for another card game called Click.

*makes note in diary for 11th March*

However it was in front of me that the extremely competitive nature of this part of Bath revealed itself. Slowly, and methodically, a man wearing all black (including braces), sunglasses indoors and a moustache, delivered straight from 1983, sets up a poker table.

The gambler's face cracks into a grin as he lays down the king of spades.

As the darts team wanders in, the card shark is joined by his companions who are all greeted with a steely stare. I think this place is what is referred to as the “hub of the community”, but after noticing the dodgy Italian football** on the big screen (complete with Paula Radcliffe a like) I'm left wondering if there's is some moonshine being brewed out the back along with a lucrative sideline in killer whale smuggling.

The dealer just stares, there's something wrong here he thinks.

They were so into gambling at this club that even the pitch was a lottery. Rubbish gag – it deserves this.

Not every competition goes ahead then. Although, that is a pretty impressive carp that fella is holding. Give him a prize someone!

Tinpot player profiles are always something special. In keeping with the competitive spirit of the place Odd Down's have clearly been written for a bet, on a computer with a bust full stop button. Please observe my personal highlight:

Dan Straffen (Straff) Midfield
Previous clubs Larkhall Straff was the driving force behind the Reserves promotion last season and came into the first team like a whirlwind hitting a skyscraper

Sorry! A whirlwind hitting a skyscraper?? What?

Token match shot.

The first half was tentative, both sets of side seemingly waiting for the inevitable "mysterious" floodlight failure. Brislington manager, Jeff Meacham scribbles tactical notes into a notepad, well I presume he does. He could have been doing a word search, or losing a solo game of noughts and crosses. I'm sticking with tactics though, most of them aimed at, and ignored by, his keeper.

Act One:

Meacham: (To keeper). "Hit the area for Frank! (Points to diminutive winger busy hugging the touchline)

Keeper hoofs the ball straight down the middle of the pitch.

Meacham: (to self, mumbled forlornly) Or kick it straight down the fucking middle then.

Act Two:

Meacham: (To keeper) Try putting it out there. (Points widely to right wing)

Keeper: I'm trying!!

Meacham: Well try fucking harder!

Keeper slices the ball widely into touch

"Keeper.....kick ball....wing"

At half time Ray Winstone appears as a floating hologram in the middle of the pitch and barks something about it being "all about the in play.” Back in the bar a bare knuckle boxing bout is taking place, to my right two blood hungry chickens snarl at each other cheered on by a group of sportswear clad males and I'm even challenged to a game of strip poker before I can order my pie and Bovril.

Or, if you prefer the truth, I got a brew in a mug and watched as an argument broke out over timing of the raffle draw!

A group of tinpot enthusiasts were irate after finding out that the winning ticket would only be revealed after the match. “We've got to get the players and the ref” (to buy tickets) are met with pleas of “we've got to be off straight after.” Tough shit lads. Snooze you lose round here.

The magic of the cup mug.

Odd Down's competitive spirit is shown in the second half as they grant Brislington a 2-0 lead with about 25 minutes left.

How will this match end now? Odd Down? Brislington? Odd Down? Brislington? Place bet now!! BET! BET! BET!

BETTING ENDS *BONG*

After giving the guests a 2-0 goal head start the The Down's competitive spirit appears and they flood into the opposition half, meaning the Brislington half suddenly contains more Down than a luxury pillow stuffing factory. They score two goals, both from looping headers and Meacham is furious, “ We gotta learn to fucking mark” and the game ends 2-2.

If you said no one win, you the winner!

If you bought raffle tickets and left straight after the final whistle, you the loser!


** Today's AiT Italian place name lesson is: Zurigo - Zurich.