Dorchester Town 2 Havant & Waterlooville 1 + Havant & Waterlooville 4 Carshalton Athletic 1

Conference South
Avenue Stadium att. 853
West Leigh Park att. 546

Hobo Tread prides itself on offering a relatively unbiased sketch of the grounds, supporters and games. Of course, when it comes to Havant & Waterlooville, I cannot pretend I can offer the same ethical service.

I love going home at Easter, as this allows games at home and away in a short space of time before I have to wind my way back to Liverpool and the working life.

Now, I've been to Dorchester Town twice before, but it's a very tidy ground, built fairly recently (1990) with a great deal of architectural input from Prince Charles (being that it was built on land owned by the Duchy of Cornwall). Tesco took over the original ground and a superstore sits right next to the new stadium, but a new ground for Dorch was part of the deal, and they've done well out of it. I particularly like the twin 'towers', if you will, of their turnstiles.

Dorch is always favoured by Havant & Waterlooville fans for having massive beano potential, while not being as reviled by H&W fans as their near neighbours Weymouth. As such around 100 Hawks made the Good Friday trip along the coast.

I came to the game having seen 5 H&W games previously this season, 4 of which were defeats, the other a draw, but I came to his with my beloved club on a run of 7 games unbeaten, including 6 wins. Needless to say I kept my status as the bastard exile Jonah, as the Hawks succumbed to an 87th minute winner following our equaliser two minutes prior. They came at us with the long ball game, and it worked.

Thankfully, we had a chance to get back on track just 3 days later on Easter Monday as Carshalton Athletic, another side in form but still looking over their shoulders at the relegation shake-up, visited WLP.

I said before in my last missives from Havant that I really love our ground. You might expect that but when I first started following the club it was a flea pit of a place, but looks beautiful now (to my conception of a football ground anyway). Felt great to be back and with a smattering of sun on the place. Breathe it in - this is my Mecca!

We took the game straight to them, with plenty of chances, long-time terrace hero 'Super' Jimmy Taylor giving it his best guppy in the pic below, as the ball sails wide of the post. Although they made our keeper Gareth Howells work, making several quality saves during the course of the match.

1-0 up at half-time, thanks to Dean Holdsworth's penalty (see below) things got a lot more comfortable in the second half as they fell apart at the back. Didn't help that they had a player sent off, but we'd taken control by then.

After their player was tunneled, their number 5 tried his best to get 'Supes' Taylor sent off by screaming and wriggling around like a loon. This made him an object of terrace derision for the remaining half hour or so, and rightly so (see what I mean about bias). Our centre-half Neil Sharp popped up with a couple of goals, the second one of the softest trickles over the line you'll see from a set-piece/header. This was bookended by Dean Holdsworth's second, which he can be seen celebrating with Jamie Campbell and Peter Fear in the pic below.

This wasn't half as good as the celebration of the penalty though. Responding to regular taunts from the crowd about the blinding whiteness of his teeth, he stood proudly in the back of the net pointing gleefully at his ivories. Hero!

Anyway, my first Hawk win of the season and the curse has been beaten! Hurrah. Two more Hawk fixtures for me before the season is out, hopefully they will be as joyful as this one, with a result leaning more towards this than the Dorchy effort.

p.s. apologies for the rushed nature of this report, not up to standard, but I is a busy chap. Hopefully normal service resumed next week.

Cambridge United 2 Wycombe Wanderers 1

League Two
Att. 4649

Walking out onto the Habbin Terrace, it can be felt straight away. A heady atmosphere cascades like ceiling sprinklers, dampening the raging flame of potential expiration that threatens to engulf Cambridge United. Today will not see it put out though, the fight will need to continue beyond these 90 minutes. Expect it to be fought until the last. Financial troubles may threaten to take their club, but the spirit of the loyal fans never drains away as quickly as ill-spent cash.

Today is the day they open up their struggle to outsiders. A Fans United day where supporters of all hues are invited to come together and add much needed moolah to the gate receipts, as well as generally show solidarity with their brothers and sisters in football. It’s a utopian vision but this, to me, is what football should be about. Too often it is an agent of division when it could and should be a catalyst for unison. Tribalism ain’t pretty, nor particularly useful, seems to me anyhow.

Certainly you’d like to think everyone who has come to the Abbey Stadium today does so with pure intent, rather than to ghoulishly gawp at a club potentially on its last legs. Can I claim though that my motives for attending were entirely altruistic? Of course not, and for several reasons.

Firstly, having developed a thing for, err…, stadium appreciation, during my exile from WLP it is an opportunity to add to the ever-growing list of clubs visited. By the way, I realise that my euphemism used there is a bit like a trainspotter rebranding themselves ‘locomotive number enthusiast’, and similarly fails to disguise the obsessional trait that is intrinsic to these behaviours. Beats vegging in front of the telly though (he said by way of weak defence).

Secondly, it gives me a chance to hook up with a pal of mine, now resident in Cambridge, that I’ve not seen for a couple of years.

Thirdly, if the ego ever needs a shot in the arm, you have got to come to these things prominently displaying your ‘neutral’ colours. It is the equivalent of wearing a big sign round your neck reading ‘Love Me. I’M HELPING YOU!’, a neon arrow flickering beneath your chin, pointing the way to your empathic mush.

Finally, the atmosphere, as I have hinted above, is always pretty special at these events. Today really is no exception, the air full of hope and made extra vivid by the rainbow of colours dotted around. It helps if the home side win the game on these occasions, particularly if they have withstood some hectic pressure before the end. Today’s game lives up to billing, and I even found myself joining in with chants of ‘Yelloooows’ and ‘Iwwwwwwan’. It is very easy to get wrapped up in the emotions of others.

Certainly Iwan Roberts deserved the acclaim, scoring what was to be the winner in the 38th minute with a typically deft curled flick through the tightest of gaps between keeper’s paw and post. This came after Tesfaye Bramble's amazing 25 yard dipping effort, Wycombe’s stubborn ping-pong-in-the-box equaliser 5 minutes later and prior to the expected battering during the second half, in the latter stages of which the bar rescues both sides.

Talking of atmosphere, it is also notable that Steve Claridge’s entrance into the game in the second half for Wycombe is met with even greater acclaim from the Cambridge sides of the ground than from his own fans. The memories of their flirtation with promotion to the inaugural Premiership 13 years ago, during which Claridge led the attack, is still vivid in the collective memory of the U’s. Sadly it is in stark contrast to their current position at the foot of the Football League, 6 points adrift despite today’s win.

Bearing in mind the 4 reasons listed above for non-altruistic action, when the call came at half time for all those in neutral colours to assemble on the pitch for a group photo, I was in two minds as to whether to go, feeling slightly like a fraud. After all, it’s easy for me to take time out from watching my regular team as, being an exile, I sadly so rarely do. Had I still been resident in Bedhampton, it may well have been a different story. Although I wouldn’t think twice, after today, about hooking up with the Fans United ranks again.

I eventually decided to join in the pitch party, if only to make sure Havant & Waterlooville FC were visible amongst the more recognisable names. I did feel a tad underdressed though as while nearly all the others were sporting a shirt, I was making do with just a scarf. To explain, I no longer own a H&W shirt, having donated all my sporting jerseys to a charity that dishes them out to underprivileged kids abroad for whom to own a strip would be a significant morale boost. I can’t help thinking though that, however impoverished or malnourished they might be, with their mates running about in Arsenal and Man United livery, the kid who ends up swimming in my XL gold Hawk away shirt might consider themselves to have drawn the short straw somewhat. Again though this distribution of my old gear was not fully without self-motive as I had realised that wearing replica shirts does make me look a little misshapen or, in more gritty parlance, a bit of a lumpy tw*t.

So anyway, there I am walking the perimeter of the Abbey Stadium back and forth from the photo shoot with guys from Brighton, Sunderland, Plymouth, Newcastle, Doncaster, Ipswich, Norwich, Notts County, too may to list really (although the Cambridge Fans United page has given it a stab), and we’re being given a standing ovation. I’ll admit it brought a lump to my throat, even though I did feel as though I, in particular, didn’t really deserve the praise. However, just to see what it felt like, I did the old hands-above-head clap back, to acknowledge their appreciation and their efforts in keeping their football team alive.

Of course, it was nice to receive terrace affection rather than give it, but it was certainly a very humbling experience, really. I imagine I looked a little sheepish, although most of the Cambridge supporters likely didn’t notice as they tried to work out who the hell HWFC were.

A couple of guys shook my hand, while another asked which team I followed, before offering his heartfelt thanks. While it was a long old day out (beginning with a 4:15am alarm on Saturday morning and ending back in Liverpool 26 hours later on the overnight coach from London), I’m not sure my £18 across match ticket, merch and the change thrown in the bin will do much to cover their financial problems. Hopefully though all the extra coinage created by we ‘foreigners’ are enough to get a decent acorn planted. No club should be allowed to fade out.

So for a day, I was a Cambridge United fan, they won and earnt a few quid. Ideal.

Then the text came through saying the Hawks had won 2-1 against Eastbourne. Back to the day job and idealerer still.

NEWI Cefn Druids 0 Haverfordwest County 2

Welsh Premier League
Att. 70

So, 150 grounds up for me. Quite a milestone, really, but how to celebrate? The bottom club in the League of Wales is an option. Not for me a fanfare reception at a pro ground, waving to four disinterested stands from the centre-circle as I accept a signed ball from the local radio breakfast DJ who doubles as matchday announcer. Mind you, I can’t imagine any club offering that (1000 grounds maybe?), so I stick with the trip to the land of my fathers, or more accurately, the land of my maternal grandmothers, for while my old man was born in Bangor, he’s about as Welsh as a minimalist kabuki. My Nan though, proper Welsh, but I’ll bang on about my vague Welshness at some other stage. For now, let me tell you about ‘the Ancients’.

Cefn Mawr, a tiny village south of Wrexham, is eerily deserted on a Saturday afternoon, a situation substantially mirrored on the terraces of their football club. Perhaps this is partly due to the bursts of hail that come shooting in sideways from the North, the almost perfectly spherical bullets causing a rush during the game for the little cover that the Plaskynaston Lane ground provides. However there is an odd feeling about the place, like a piper’s been through, y’know.

However, it should not be forgotten that this village houses a team that has played in the Welsh Premier League for six seasons. What is on show before us today is the highest level of football administered by the Football Association of Wales (we’ll ignore the six ‘rebels’ competing in the English pyramid), and therefore allows entry into Europe. Indeed Haverfordwest County played in this season’s UEFA Cup having finished 3rd in the Welsh Premier League last year. Heady stuff for a league often derided in England.

It is easy to get above yourself in this league though. Barry Town turned professional a few years back, sailing through several championships, and even finding themselves playing Porto on one European adventure. Indeed, Barry won the home leg 3-1, after being thrashed away. While Porto’s progress in the Champion League wasn’t thwarted at that juncture, the humiliation was the beginning of the end for their manager, who was eventually replaced by Jose Mourinho. The rest, as they say…

But for Barry, it was not to be so sweet in the following years. John Fashanu came onto the club’s board with big ideas of sorting Nigerian TV deals and striving to get the club to act as a leg up for European-bound African prodigies, but the money had already begun to drain out of the club and Fash could only chase it down the plughole. So, after several LoW winning seasons, Barry finished rock bottom last season, playing mostly as amateurs, and were relegated to the Welsh Alliance. Their manager last season David Hughes famously ranted to BBC Wales after one heavy defeat that “I said to them at half time in there, nobody else wants 'em - that's why they're playing for us, because of our situation. I certainly wouldn't want them in the Welsh Alliance, let alone the League of Wales. They'll be playing for the 'Dog And Duck' on a Sunday.”

Owing to a dispute over their council-owned Jenner Park stadium, they now also find themselves homeless and nomadic, turning out for ‘home’ games wherever they can. A sad tale indeed.

To give an idea of how hard money is to come by in Welsh football, it seems that now having a company’s name on your shirt is no longer enough, the combined forces of Llansantffraid and Oswestry Town now competing as Total Network Solutions for example. Very successfully though, I might add, sitting atop the League of Wales as I write.

Cefn Druids seemingly walk around Wrexham high street of a weekday with a sandwich board proclaiming ‘Prefix For Hire’. Having united Cefn Albion and Druids United in 1992, they added local firm Flexys to the top of their moniker at the start of 1998. The cash influx must have helped as they were promoted to the Welsh Premier League from the Cymru Alliance the following season and have remained their since, although with precious little of this season remaining, relegation has begun to fold itself around their legs like particularly vicious quicksand.

You might draw a comparison from this practice to the recent naming of new stadiums by Leicester and Arsenal solely after a sponsor, which you might say eats away at the soul and identity of a club (although I’m sure the clubs mentioned can cope).

You can’t begrudge clubs like Cefn these initiatives though as while comparison may be drawn in the means of their money making, the ends are as polarised as it is possible to be. In financial dealings, clubs like Cefn are like a raggy old dog, head drooped forlornly over a paw, lying next to a threadbare, upturned flatcap littered with coppers and foreign coins. Your Arsenal’s are more your rotund felines in top hats smoking cigars. A 10 pence cup of tea is certainly not their poison.

Nowadays Cefn Druids have repainted all livery to read NEWI, as they have struck a deal with the North East Wales Institute of Higher Education. It appears to be a reciprocal arrangement with resources made available to the Ancients and footballing opportunities given to students at the Wrexham based college. One such example of this two-way deal is Angel Jiminez, a Spanish-born midfielder who appears as a substitute in the second half. While his fellow countryman Juan Uguarte makes headlines up the road at the Racecourse Ground (scoring 5 goals in a game for Wrexham away at Hartlepool the previous week), Jiminez bottles tackles and falls over a bit. It is perhaps an adequate summary of their season and it is certainly no surprise that Haverfordwest County hardly break sweat in completing a 2-0 victory.

Haverfordwest strike me as a club with too many syllables, making terrace chants a bit too much like hard work. Not that their support numbered many, let alone attempt to prick the peacefulness enveloping Plaskynaston Lane, but then the home side were not exactly packing them in either. In fairness no clubs in the League of Wales have set any world attendance records recently, but dipping below 100 is a rare thing in the Welsh top flight.

However support needn’t be just about quantity, as of the 70 punters dotted around the ground, around 10 have travelled up from Exeter to watch their team. Well, their second team, perhaps third team, but don’t doubt their commitment. The students from Mardon Hall at Exeter University are on their 4th annual pilgrimage to Cefn Mawr and to a man are kitted out in the black and white stripes of the Ancients. They chant, they banter with the opposition keeper and generally have a grand old time. Their website also tells tales of drunken nights out in Chester and Wrexham bookending this fixture. It appears that a ‘Druids Til I Die’ competition has also been started by the 8 ever-presents thus far, with any trip missed resulting in them no longer being ‘alive’ in the contest.

I’m liking the basic concept here. Get together with a group of mates, who all follow different clubs, and pick an easily accessible ‘foreign’ team you can all get behind.

Perhaps we could apply this globally and end all racism and xenophobia as we all, as a species, pull together behind NEWI Cefn Druids. However I’m guessing that while 70 bods rattle around a bit inside Plaskynaston Lane, it’s not quite yet been granted the sufficient safety certificate to house the entire human race.

I’m led to believe that Manchester United considered applying for that one though.

Morecambe 0 Aldershot Town 0

Conference
Att. 1108

So, yeah, one of my motives in legging it away from the posh gaff was to make use of Morecambe’s close proximity to Lancaster, where I was attending a 2 day training conference. I hadn’t realised just how close until I stood on Lancaster station, which affords a view into Lancaster City’s Giant Axe ground, and noticed the floodlights of Christie Park burning like agitated fireflies in the distance, 4 skinny lighthouses beckoning this ship onto the rocks.

On walking up toward the ground, the looming North Stand beckons you in, and it is where the majority of Morecambe’s fans congregate. They make a fair bit of noise, but the most regular tune tonight is ‘….you’re not very, you’re not very, you’re not very good, in fact you’rrrrrre shit and you know you are, you’re shit…”, a nice segue, but a bit limp in the banter stakes. They don’t face great competition though as, understandably, few Aldershot fans have made their long midweek trip. However someone has rounded up the collected bedsheets and flags of the team’s sizeable regular support, chucked them in their van and now hung then in a long line across the unfussy South terrace. It appears the supporter to flag ratio is roughly 1:2.94, not even English cricket’s Barmy Army can compete with that liberal distribution of George crosses and proud banners, man for man (and flag for flag).

Morecambe fight acres of cloth with the sound of music. Not only is there a drummer positioned at the tip of their hardcore gathering on the North Stand, but he is surrounded by fellows troubadour hammering at a couple of cowbells. I knew about the seafood, but a bovine association I was unaware of. In addition to the Waits-like junkyard orchestra at the back of the stand, there’s the nicely eclectic selection of tuneage booming out of the PA prior to kick off . Amongst it is a tune seemingly entitled ‘It’s Morecambe FC’ (Yeaaaaaah, yeaaaaaah, yeaaaaaah). Some of the fluffiest pub-indie you’ll hear but breezily recorded. Not sure it has the same intimidating effect as an All-Black haka though, all the warpaint in the world couldn’t make it sound anything other than anaemic.

That’s the problem with footy songs though, especially those about one club. I mean, how far can they go lyrically, apart from to say ‘our teams great, innit’ in a variety of corny ways. Like football chants, they are unlikely to provide a dichotomy of the social ills of the time or, say, a lyrical history of the overthrow of Batista. Billy Bragg could always mix his themes pretty well in this way, but not in amongst an ode to the general goodness of a Nationwide Conference side.

Anyway, the chance to appreciate some vacuous soccer poetry aside, another reason for coming tonight is my hope that Morecambe (Yeaaa…, OK I’ll stop now) can put a dent into Aldershot’s play-off challenge. Usually I am not the sort of numbskull to develop a hatred for any club simply because of a rivalry with one’s own, or for any other reason. Banter is fine, but despising clubs and opposition supporters simply ‘cos’ has always been anathema to my polite sensibilities.

But then there’s Aldershot. I don’t hate them, but there’s something that makes me want them to lose (although, in fairness, I am not overly bothered when they don’t). Maybe it’s that I’m jealous, as an H&W supporter, of the size of crowds they can command. Maybe I don’t like the fact they have an element of their support which is a little unsavoury. Or maybe it’s because every time my team plays them, including in showpiece county cup finals at St Mary’s, they always win. The fuckers.

So, as I say, for illogical reasons, and reasons which shame me, I wanted Morecambe to inflict some pain. As it was they applied a very thorough anaesthetic, but couldn’t make the vital incision. After an uneventful 1st half, where the only real chance of note went to Morecambe (a case of the ol’ Toblerone boots causing the ball to spin toward the corner flag), the Shrimps were firmly in control in the second, battering the Aldershot goalmouth, with crosses and shots while running rings around the defence. The Aldershot keeper was forced into more than one panicky punch, but Morecambe could not break down the resolute defending to score.

With virtually the final kick of the game, Aldershot almost achieve the height of the offensively Turpin-esque, as they hit the back of the net on a rare break. For the sake of all that is good and pure, it is disallowed. A player being offside may also have played a part. Either way Aldershot can have few complaints of leaving Lancashire with a point.

Blackpool 2 Walsall 0

League One
Att: 6844.

That King George V apparently proclaimed ‘Bugger Bognor’ as his last words is well documented. If he had lived for 10 more seconds or so, he may well have added ‘and Blackpool can do one as well’.

I’ve always had a morbid curiosity about Blackpool without having any pressing desire to spend any quality time there and certainly not to make a special trip. An hour or two based around a visit to Bloomfield Road seemed just about enough, and so it proved.

What do we think of, when we think of Blackpool? Perhaps booze? Bawdy postcards? Bingo? Oh, and perhaps the beach, if the summer is being kind, with a traditional and triumphantly tacky promenade very much in place. Alongside the shellfish and slots though is a fair amount of sleaze; for example, gelatine ‘wobbly willies’ on prominent display within a child's easy reach. Just down the way the ‘Kiss me quick, squeeze me slowly’ hats are rendered quite quaint and archaic by the ‘If it’s got tits or wheels, it’ll be trouble’ t-shirts stocked adjacently. High class, you will note.

Amongst all of this are a fair amount of mystics and palm-readers on the seaside strip, including 2 booths for Gypsy Petulengro who has been in place (well, places I guess) for over 40 years. Her vestibules are littered with 10x8’s of the Gyspy herself with her more famous clients. These pictures give an insight into the cultural life of Blackpool, as Russ Abbott rubs black and white shoulders with Roy Walker, Isla Fisher and Keith Chegwin. Blackpool, it seems, fell into a black hole in the early 80’s and for this reason, it is a town that allows Cannon & Ball regular work. End of the pier comedy occurs in seaside ‘resorts’ all around our island nation, but yer Jimmy Cricket’s, Bernie Clifton’s and the like surely take time before shows in Bournemouth, Skegness, Great Yarmouth or wherever, to place down their prayer mat and genuflect towards the north west.

I am also amazed by the clusterfuck of shops, all elbows in their jostling for position in the tightly packed town centre. The famous Tower looks down upon all of his, like a monolithic all-seeing ‘I’ above the messy, scribbly paragraph that is Blackpool. Can you tell yet that I’m not a fan?

Blackpool FC’s stewards are similarly not fond of my goodself either as I was asked to stop taking pictures about half way through the opening period, as I had not paid for press accreditation. Fair enough as it does say ‘no recording’ on the back of the ticket, so I stopped, but those I had taken were not deleted. I should point out that I did not require to gaffa tape my camera to my stomach or wedge it between my arsecheeks on exiting the scene to bring these pictures to you, but they are contraband nonetheless. It’s not quite smuggling footage of human rights abuses out of a war torn state, I grant you, and I’m not expecting to be head hunted by ITN any time soon.

So half the amount of usual snaps, but then there is effectively only half a ground now at Bloomfield Road. An impressive structure that curves round the north west corner admittedly, but to the East, there is an uncovered golf tournament style stretch of terracing, for away fans to get nice and wet in the winter. To the South, there is nothing at all, except the Bloomfield Road bridge replacement works and, in the distance, the curve of the Pleasure Beach ‘Big One’ rollercoaster rising into the skyline, although not so terrifying as it might normally be when only taking up an inch of distant perspective.

The Blackpool crowd are in good voice and seem very keen on their new gaffer Colin Hendry. They are his tangerine army and point this out regularly. It is clear though that he is a recent recruit to managerial ranks as when a ball spoons up and off towards the dugouts, rather than grab for it, he goes for the big defensive header. Well, that is the intention. A distinguished playing career such as his should not though be measured by a clumsy loop back skywards via a bonk on the tip of his bonce. He was possibly rendered slightly off balance by his three quarter length thin leather coat, which also manages to give him the look of a career spiv circa 1989.

It is unsurprising that the Blackpool faithful have plenty to sing about as their team today come straight out of the blocks with some exciting attacking play. Walsall look fairly lacklustre by comparison, and not just in terms of their kit colour. Indeed, the contact of bright sunshine upon the blistering iridescent tangerine that is Blackpool’s home kit means that like a lampshade bound moth, my retinas are due for a solid burning this afternoon. The spots may take days to fade.

If there wasn’t enough to keep us interested on the pitch, infighting begins in my section, with 2 eventually led away. Rumour has it one has revealed himself as a Preston fan. Considering the Lancashire rivalry, he is perhaps to be thought of a little foolish, his Icarian wings now nelsoned behind his back and hampered by steel cuffs. Needless to say, I decided to play the H&W cards close to my chest, not that there is a bitter rivalry there. I certainly did not want to create one though and continued to sit silently taking in the Blackpool’s momentum.

The balance of play continues for much of the first half as the irresistible force of the Seasiders meets the immovable object of Walsall’s resolute defence. However, a twist is to come as we enter the 3 minutes of added time designated for the end of the first half, as Walsall go on a break that eventually requires a last-ditch goal-line clearance. From the corner, too much space is given at the back post and an easy header is pushed towards goal only for it to strike the upper arm/shoulder region of Richie Wellens, defending on the line, which results in a Walsall penalty and a slightly harsh red-card for the owner of the offending limb. Lee Jones makes an excellent save from the penalty, though I think to myself, with their player deficit, can Blackpool keep up their attacking pressure now?

As if to stick a mid-digit in my doubting direction, Blackpool go straight up the other end and earn a penalty of their own. Walsall keeper Joe Murphy, believing the fall to have been perhaps a little soft, raises his hands to Kiegan Parker, which leads to 21-man handbags. Only the quick action of stewards and police prevent the majority of North stand piling in as well. As the dust settles Murphy is rightly tunnelled, levelling things at 10 men per side. The first action sub keeper Dean Coleman is fairly heroic as he matches the efforts of the opposing custodian, diving full length to keep the ball out.

And all this in added time! The most eventful three minutes of my trips around the grounds thus far this season, I’d say.

It remains then 0-0 as the half-time whistle blows, but while Walsall create more at the start of the second period, it is Blackpool who open the scoring, John Murphy slotting it calmly away into the top corner with bodies all around. With 25 minutes to go, Walsall player-boss Paul Merson brings himself on, and while he shows glimpses of his mercurial talent, they are fleeting and lead to no real opportunities. ‘Merson is an alcy’ sing the crowd, mocking even more when Blackpool increase their lead through the 3rd penalty of the game, which again is saved, but the ball rebounds invitingly straight for Keith Southern to immediately atone for his errors.

The Walsall fans stream out and they miss nothing in the final twenty that would make their trip to Blackpool seem any the better. The Seasiders might remain beneath Walsall in the League One table as I write but on this showing, they’ll be playing leap-frog quite soon.

I expect Gypsy Petulengro could tell us exactly when that might be, but not being a celebrity from a couple of decades ago, I’m not sure she’d even entertain my question. The shutters are up on her kiosk as I pass by again, so we may never know.