Garforth Town 2 Penrith 0

19aug06
FA Cup Extra Preliminary Round
Wheatley Park, Cedar Ridge, Garforth
att. 86

Everyone has their own ideas as to when the FA Cup starts. January, November, maybe September, but in truth no sooner is the season underway than we’re into the genuine kick-off point. With entries increasing year by year, even a preliminary round is not enough, and as such the Road to (hopefully) Wembley begins here with the Extra Preliminary contenders, still two victories away from the qualifying rounds, and six from the first round ‘proper’. That is not completely out of reach, of course, as Chasetown and Harrogate Railway have got themselves on the telly from a prelim start in recent memory. For most, it is a case of trying to accumulate as much prize money as possible. Today’s dangled carrot? A monkey in rolled up fivers, secreted away from Brian Barwick’s grooming budget.

Mind you, Garforth aren’t exactly short of a bob or two, or at least their owner isn’t. Simon Clifford probably wouldn’t notice if £500 fell out of his pocket, dropped onto his foot and broke his toe. He is a self made millionaire, football entrepreneur, a former primary school teacher who wormed his way into Juninho’s social circle by harassing his Dad at Middlesbrough games and becoming his unofficial PA. Taught by Juninho about Futebal de Salão, an indoor form of the game in Brazil that uses a heavier, but smaller ball that does not bounce, his interest grew to the extent that within three years he had had quit his job and set up the International Confederation of Futebal de Salão, and began running Brazilian Soccer Schools, with now over 600 franchises for these, and the SOCATOTS equivalent for toddlers, around the world.

Simon Clifford, it is fair to say, is the most self-assured man since Canute the Dane started showing off to a group of beauty therapy students on his beach holiday. As he told journalist Alex Bellos, “In the last decade no one has done as much as me for the grassroots game in this country. People will be shocked with what I achieve.” He has major plans for Garforth Town too, having purchased the club in 2003, with the plan that the side will be the home of the best of the Futebal de Salão graduates as and when they get old enough. Some people in football have crashed and burned on 5 year plans, and even with his 25 year time frame, Clifford could perhaps be called overambitious.

The initial outlook seems vaguely realistic, with his idea that Garforth, with the graduates on board, will win the Conference by 2013. Being a Northern Counties East Division One side at the time of this claim, this would therefore be a sixth promotion in nine years, and two years down the line, they are one level closer to their goal. It is the next bit which might get people wiggling their fingers on their lips, as Clifford reckons it will then take only seven further years to ascend to the Premiership, with the title being theirs within the next eight. Well, we shall see.

One thing you can’t take away from Clifford though is his ability to get people on board, notably his successful efforts to attract Socrates, Careca and, on a slightly more permanent basis, Lee Sharpe. All for publicity of course, and certainly very successful in the case of the Socrates: medical man, chain smoker and legend of the ’82 Brazil squad whose appearance, for a first class flight and a good dinner apparently, meant that Leeds Metropolitan University were able to award him an honorary doctorate, presumably for services to freezing his c*** off on a bench just outside the city, while he was around. As it happened, that same day was when I had to don the ol’ mortarboard at Leeds Met to be confirmed as a ‘Master of Science’. Anyone who was at school with me and remembers my questionable dexterity with a Bunsen burner will know just how ludicrous a concept that is but still, I graduated with Socrates, and you can’t take that away from me, even if a thorough exam paper audit one day might.

Anyway, like I say these pro/celebrity appearances certainly can’t have hurt Garforth’s financial programme, which they’ll need to get a League standard ground. At the minute it’s one handsome stand and social facility, a couple of small Futebal de Salão courts either side of it and f***-all else. Pretty good for the NCEL, but will limit their ambitions even in the short-term. Indeed, his efforts have even seen Lego throw their entire advertising budget at his ventures. Certainly suggests young Simon, well he's still only 33, is a charismatic individual.

However with charisma often comes over-confidence and he certainly managed to rub Dave Bassett and several senior Southampton players up the wrong way in his brief spell at the New Delli as head of sports science beneath his line manager, rugby’s famous Sir Clive Woodward. As a result, he was gone even before Redknapp decided to quit the only football management job ever taken for reasons of spite alone.

As a result he now has more time to devote to the Garforth project, indeed it was not long after he assumed ownership that he took on the management of the club, currently assisted by Vernol Blair and Steve Nichol, who take their place on the touchline, while Clifford spends the first half wandering up, down and across the stand, trying out a variety of vantage points, like an OCD-afflicted Where’s Wally trying to straighten a picture frame.

Although he may appear to be ambling like someone trying to retrace their steps on pursuit of a lost watch, he must be doing something right, as his team take the lead in the first five minutes, Penrith keeper James Holland aiming a limp punch at a floated free-kick, the ball dropping to Shane Kelsey who dances through prostrate bodies to slot the ball home with ease.

Five minutes later, another Garforth free-kick causes trouble, Holland tipping onto the bar (see photo) and Kelsey’s follow up header bringing a last ditch clearance as the ball bobbled towards an open goal. There is brief uproar in the stand on the half-hour, as the ref stops play to award a free-kick to Penrith due to a Garforth player coming back on the field after an injury to take a pass. “You waved him on” is the vociferous shout, in a variety of pitches and tones, and indeed he had, one indignant child shouting, pretty accurately, “you forgetful old man.” Still, it’s not long before they’ve forgotten all about it, as Garforth were awarded a penalty. Penrith’s Martin Kirkby, having thus far displayed all the speed of a burnt out chassis of a 1979 Austin Allegro, manages to finally get back to his own box but manages only to pole-axe Brett Renshaw. Kelsey steps up and scuffs it down the middle, but with Holland committed to a left-ward leap, the ball trickles in.

During the second half it becomes increasingly clear that Penrith have only late-tackling in their arsenal but this eventually beats Garforth into a semi-submission where they don’t add any more goals in keeping with their dominance. However they do manage one final close chance as Andy Rowan beats the offside, takes the ball to the byline and delivers a cross, from which Ben Small’s triple-jump header crashes back off the post.

No more goals, but Garforth’s fans appear more than happy with what they have seen. “What do want?”. “Five hundred quid”. “When do we want it?”. “Now”. So sing the happy hardcore of about eight stood on the shallow terrace in front of the stand assuming, it would appear, that FA prize money is given to the more vocal supporters for a quality beer night. Prior to that, a rhetorical signal of “Can I feel an ‘Amarillo’ coming on?” from one of their number merely highlights that whatever radar properties are in his water are slightly off today, and we are spared their version of the only song John Motson has apparently ever heard of. Still, they get their five hundred sheets, and a home tie with former Conference side Chorley, as not long after the jolly boys’ request for financial assistance, the final whistle blows.

References:
Bellos, Alex (2004) Pelé school. Daily Telegraph
Bellos, Alex (2005) Carry On Doctor. FourFourTwo, 128, pp. 96-100

Links
Garforth Town website
Alex Bellos' 'Pele school' article

Road to Wembley
F: Manchester United 0 Chelsea 1 aet (att. 89,826)
SF: Watford 1 Manchester United 4 (att. 37,425)
QF: Plymouth Argyle 0 Watford 1 (att. 20,652)
5R: Plymouth Argyle 2 Derby County 0 (att. 18,026)
4R: Barnet 0 Plymouth Argyle 2 (att. 5,204)
3R: Barnet 2 Colchester United 1 (att. 3,075)
2R: Barnet 4 Northampton Town 1 (att. 2,786)
1R: Gainsborough Trinity 1 Barnet 3 (att. 1,914)
4QR: Gainsborough Trinity 2 Whitley Bay 0 (att. 780)
3QRr: Blyth Spartans 1 Whitley Bay 2 (att. 1,697)
3QR: Whitley Bay 2 Blyth Spartans 2 (att. 2,023)
2QR: North Ferriby United 0 Whitley Bay 2 (att. 174)
1QR: Chorley 1 North Ferriby United 3 (att. 242)
PR: Garforth Town 1 Chorley 2 (att. 122)
EXP: Garforth Town 2 Penrith 0

Stenhousemuir 5 Montrose 0

12aug06
Scottish League Division Three
Ochilview Park, Stenhousemuir
att. 417

Welcome to a new hobo season ladies and gents. You’ll have to excuse this campaign’s opening sketch, as this game was squeezed in during yet another hectic Edinburgh Fringe show schedule, and as a result I don’t feel I really got to know the town of Stenhousemuir or, indeed, neighbouring Larbert. I like to think I have a decent excuse, though, for not getting there early enough. See, I was trapped in a performance of Hamlet. A Hamlet that was staged entirely on a bouncy castle. Believe me, like Chelsea winning the Premier League, the novelty soon wears off.

Tactically, I realise it was a mistake to sit on the opposite side of the venue to the exit door, on the wall end of a row that then filled up with five other mug punters. Wouldn’t have been so bad if the only exit strategy available didn’t require clambering over four steep rows of chairs and then a quick bounce past an angry Laertes.

Still, I think its fair to say that most of us in the audience were there through curiosity or just to be able to say we’d seen the Bard done on inflated rubber. Certainly, if you were an aficionado, the lead actors many forgotten lines, the drowning out of the speech by the generator and the appearance of a blow-up sex doll in the role of the old King’s ghost, may have been quite the disappointment. Thank Christ for that doll though (well, and the chap in charge of supplying its voice), for getting us through the Prince of Denmark’s many dry moments with some very nice ad-libs. Problem is, and I blame the directors, they didn’t really know whether they wanted to put on a serious rendition, or the ramshackle farce it descended into. This will be a similar scene to one Montrose fans have been familiar with of late.

Now, one thing you should know about me is that when it comes to football teams, I have more soft spots than an armadillo’s underbelly. If I find myself in front of a vide-printer, I will likely have a mostly unclear interest in pretty much every result that comes through. Some people do the 92 by visiting all the league grounds. I do it by establishing a vague association with clubs throughout the world. Go Slavoj Cesky Krumlov. Go Pontypridd. And go Montrose.

My interest in a club representing a town I’ve not only never visited but also never gone anywhere near is simply thanks to Gable End Graffiti, a blog I’ve plugged often on this site for the sheer quality of the writing. Indeed, Steeplejack (who be the scribbler) has just this week published a vigorous polemic on the proposed second tier for the Scottish Premier League and what the means for clubs like Montrose, who have kicked around the lower tiers, usually the lowest, of Scottish football since entering the league in 1929. Not only a recommendation, but a very necessary read. As a result of work such as this, it has come to the point where I have even been known to let out a “yes” under my breath in club bars when a positive final score from Scots Div 3 comes through. Not that I’ve had much cause for that.

This is what I’ve gathered from GEG over the last year or so. Last season was a pretty poor campaign, but things appeared to look up with the appointment of a young, forward-thinking coach, Eddie Wolecki, from his position at junior league side Lochee United. However, with not much room to manoeuvre transfer-wise, the season pretty much fizzled out early. During the close season, all sorts went on at Links Park, with some of Wolecki’s coaching staff laid off, not to mention the parachuting in of a co-manager, David Robertson. Meanwhile, Montrose players are apparently training in small groups in Aberdeen, Glasgow and Dundee. Always good for team-spirit.

So, with Wolecki having both supporters and detractors amongst the fans and, it appears, in the boardroom, Montrose find themselves in some kind of limbo state, between paths. The on-field performance here at Ochilview gives as much away, looking wetter than a sunken Rich Tea in an ‘I Love Kittens’ mug. Stenhousemuir, by contrast, look strong and organised from the get-go, particularly Mark Cowan performing a Kilcline-like role at the back, wearing a plaster on his eyebrow like Nelly giving his grazed-face-chic a piratey spin.

That said, it takes the home side a fair while to get going themselves, for the first half hour the most interesting action, for those of us sat in the one open side of the ground, comes from the wisps of soot-like substance ploofing knee-high-wards anytime a ball or foot comes into contact with Ochilview's newly-laid FIFA 2-star standard artificial surface. The first real moment of danger for the Gable Endies comes when David Murie sends a floating shot from outside box just wide of the far post, keeper Andy Reid’s silent-movie backward-stumble suggesting a scampish apparition had knelt down behind him, for giggles like. When Stenny’s opener comes ten minutes later, it is Reid’s special awareness again that features, as his punch comes a little too late, Gareth Hutchinson meeting Kevin Mcleish’s corner before the fist, with the ball dropping in like a punctured lung. “1-0 to the Warriors” sings one home fan, stumbling after the numbers, as it becomes clear he is to remain unaccompanied in chant, but gamely finishes his line.

Not long after, Chris McLeod follows the high back spin of the ball like it’s an errant fete balloon and is easily robbed by Stenny’s John Baird, who backheels to shiny imp Brian McLaughlin, whose subsequent cross-shot deflects to Paul Murphy, who thunders just past the far post.

The first half finishes with Montrose just about having soaked up the pressure, despite an apparently unfit and out of position trialist (Jered Stirling) at centre-half; a profound lackadaisicality in midfield and precious little thought towards any up field momentum. Apart from that, all good. However it is only four minutes after the interval that Stenny increase their lead, easily breaching the Montrose defence, Hutchinson having plenty of time to steady himself two feet from the by-line and shoot just inside the opposite post.

This briefly enlivens Montrose, Paul Walker unleashing a shot, albeit straight at keeper Willie McCulloch. On the hour though, Stenhousemuir put all thoughts of a Montrose comeback to bed, John Baird receiving on the edge of the box, swivelling and curving the ball into the top corner. By this stage the Montrose defence are looking about as alert as a koala, seven hours into a ‘My Hero’ DVD marathon, and it is no surprise that they ship another within a couple of minutes, Baird scoring again, despite looking significantly offside, before going one-on-one with Reid and arrogantly slotting the ball in the narrow near-side gap. “Absolute joke linesman” is the indignant shout from the travelling support.

Ten minutes later, Montrose’s afternoon takes another turn for the worse as after David Templeton sends a high lobbed pass into the centre, he is clattered by a flying, committed Reid, the ref blowing for a penalty before Ian Diack heads the ball into the empty net. Reid is necessarily tunnelled, sub keeper John Farquhar replaces the effectively redundant striker Scott Michie, and is immediately beaten by Kevin Mcleish’s spot-kick.

And that’s how it finishes. Not exactly a lucky charm for my abstractedly adopted Scottish side am I? A Montrose supporter bellows “get it sorted” as the beleaguered Wolecki saunters past, and it is clear that the club need to get their house in order on and off the pitch, if they are not to spend the season playing pass-the-suspiciously-wooden-spoon-shaped-parcel with East Stirling and Elgin.

ADDENDUM:

Perhaps an early season gubbing was just what the doctor ordered, as Montrose’s following results were both 2-0 victories over the Fishy Jailers and Hellgin Academy Sixth Form.

Mmm, think I may have been reading GEG a bit too avidly.

Links
Stenhousemuir website
Montrose website
Gable End Graffiti's view from Estonia

Bouncy Castle Hamlet picture by Jenny Gilroy.

England v Pakistan

05-06aug06
nPower 3rd Test
Headingley Carnegie, Leeds

England 515 (Pietersen 135, Bell 119, Gul 5-123)
Pakistan 538 (Yousuf 192, Younis 173, Panesar 3-127)
England 345 (Strauss 116, Read 55, Nazir 3-32)
Pakistan 155 (Younis 45, Mahmood 4-22, Panesar 3-39)

England win by 167 runs


Day 2:
‘Uncle’ Peter leaves his seat for about the eight time today. As he makes his way to the staircase down to the concession stands and lavatories, he is saluted with “Peeeeeeeteeeerrrr, Peeeeeteeeerrrrr”. For the eighth time today. What makes Uncle Peter so popular here? Perhaps it is the fact he is clad in what one must assume to be his wife’s coffee-morning best, as well as a wig and a rather fetching hat.

This being the traditional fancy dress Saturday at the Test, this get-up is perhaps to be expected, but Peeeeeeteeeerrrrr has the in-built trump card in these situations of being not only in female get up, but also in being both a pipe smoker and wearer of a frothy autumnal beard. Legend for the day, and that takes some doing when those supplying the as-clockwork laudation include the Cheeky Girls, Marilyn Monroe and all five Spices, with not a genuine breast between them.

The two vicars sat amongst this collection would, you might think, look down on such temporary gender-bending. Not a bit of it though. And I should know. I was one of them. Just over to our left, we have six blue-haired mermaids. Slightly nearer is a man in a heavy-duty support brace on his lower left limb to which he has attached a makeshift sign to indicate that he has come dressed as a leg-break. Approaching Uncle Peter levels of genius there, but not quite enough to nudge the veteran off top-spot. It could have been so different too. All it needed was for our clumsy (or over-committed) hero to add the kind of curly tobacco conduit that wouldn’t look out of place in a Sherlock Holmes silhouette to his orthopaedic ensemble. So close. He’ll be disappointed with that.

Over to our right is a collection of superheroes and, all told, it is a very high concentration of fancy dress in our little section. Remarkable when most of these groups clearly did not book together (what with not knowing each other and that), and also for the fact that we are in the traditionally sedate north-eastern curva of Headingley’s redeveloped seating. Well, traditionally sedate compared to the Western terrace anyhow, the usual home for outlandish costume, the Mexican wave starting pistol and many a soiled underpant, no doubt.

Our opposite numbers are not letting the side down however, with a cave-filling cordon of Fred Flintstones, a veritable cave-ceiling of Batmen (and just about the requisite amount of Robins), not to mention a couple of Daleks. Amongst this outbreak of gay sartorial abandon, a Test match occurs, and with England batting well on a helpful wicket, there is plenty to arrest the attention until the beer kicks in, or a Pakistani partnership builds, whichever comes the sooner. The days first successfully kick-started Mexican occurs well before Mohammed Yousuf and Younis Khan begin their record 3rd wicket partnership, so we can assume the former.

The spirits are high until those two begin to dig in, with Ian Bell reaching a third consecutive ton, Steve Harmison and Sajid Mahmood showing that England tails can still wag despite the bunny shooting gallery image Duncan Fletcher would like to have the Australians believe. Harmy particularly entertains with his usual 1-in-10 innings gung-ho thrashabout, and the mere glimpse of the tail of Monty’s patka peeking from beneath a batting helmet as he strides out last is enough to send the crowd into a frenzy. Mahmood’s cameo ends before Monty’s can really begin, but it’s another not out for the Field Marshall, who seems to be taking the back-door approach to a healthy batting average.

After a couple of early Pakistani wickets fall, including a run out courtesy some very alert fielding from Kevin Pietersen, the immovable object partnership grinds away, and doesn’t get anywhere close to the respect that it deserves as neighbouring sections compete in a beer-glass snake-off (which grabs umpire Billy Doctrove’s befuddled attention - see above; it’s his first Test in England as an Elite Panel ump so I imagine he’ll get used to it in time), and further Mexicans sees papers and beer holders flung airborn in the most extensive display of littering since the general strike. The only thing noisier than the myriad “Way-hays” emanating from the cheap, and not-quite-as-cheap seats, is the sound of Christopher Martin-Jenkins’ teeth grinding like a hammer mill.

There is also, apparently, consternation in the TMS box about fielders on the boundary taking time while the ball is dead to sign some autographs. The thing that strikes me most, though, is that autographs are collected on such ephemeral items these days. I used to race on before, and at close of, play with my mini-bats. These days, a bent and soggy nPower 4/6 card will suffice. No grandeur, no thought for preservation and display. Perhaps that’s the librarian in me speaking and is, I grant you, a bit harsh on the chap who manages to gather Saj Mahmood’s insignia on his prosthetic leg. He also manages to get Kevin Pietersen to add his name to his detached shin. KP appears unruffled by this, but seems bit more wary when he is requested to perform a similar task on the tyre of someone’s wheelchair. Press-ganging chants of “sign the wheel” eventually get their way.

At the close of the England innings, 515 looked a very decent total particularly after an early flounder at 110-3, but come the end of the day, the combined efforts of Yousuf and Younis make a “that’s not a knife…” style statement of total confidence.

Day 3:
Sunday, as you might, expect, will always been the more sedate day of a Test matches weekend activity. There are still costumes, but not so many in number, and the Mexican waves peter out a lot more rapidly. Yesterday, one chap was seen at Leeds station wearing one of those Velcro t-shirts that allowed him to display Friday’s close of play score. I was hoping to find him to see if he had updated it for today and to discover whether or not he was doing a ball-by-ball update. Sadly, he was not to be found.

Pakistan began Sunday in very much the same way as they had finished Saturday, the two batsmen continuing to baffle the England pace bowling, while Monty Panesar patiently tied up the rugby stand end, his economy rate, consistency and accuracy a joy to behold in amongst a pretty tepid England bowling performance.

Pakistan seem to do alright by me. The one time I have seen them in a first class game prior to this was at Northlands Road, Southampton (now a housing estate), as they took on Hampshire in a tour match. I went for the first day of this, Pakistan batting first and throughout the day finishing on about 400-1, Javed Miandad and one of his colleagues both having retired bored. So it was with that same admiration and frustration that I watched here as the partnership broke through the previous 3rd wicket best of 180 (Mudassar Nazar and Harron Rashid at Lahore in 77/78 just so you know) and beyond 300, seemingly eternal. To try and escape it for a while, after an unsuccessful attempt to head off a four, Alistair Cook throws himself into metal fence hidden behind the boundary hoardings. As the crowd gasp, and his team-mates begin to rush toward him, his head pops up from behind the advertising like a careless sentry scouting for marauding Jerry. As a result, Beardface has to wait to celebrate his 150.

This gives the England performance an adrenaline shot, as Harmison then proceeds to deliver an over of more menace than anything the bowling attack could muster combined hitherto. Yousuf still crashes 2 boundaries off it, one streaky, one divine, but the step up in gears is noticeable. Eventually the crowd are able to leap off their feet at the fall of Yousuf’s wicket, and they remain standing to acknowledge a wonderful if understated innings. Not once did he go after the bowlers, but dominant he surely was, keeping the scoring rate deceptively high despite the lack of big hitting.

As the hysteria calmed down, it was evident that things weren’t going to get an easier as the Inzamam’s nonchalant gait brought him to the wicket. Indeed he rumbled out of the tunnel like a WWE super-villain, smacking two fours arrogantly off his first two balls. However, the seal had been broken in the Pakistan innings and soon Younis was run out, followed next ball by Faisal Iqbal who became Paul Collingwood’s first Test match victim. Despite the natural euphoria of Collingwood (Ginger Wildheart sans the pirate beard and dreads), this single wicket now means he also has a Test bowling average. And 216 don’t make for pretty reading.

For the remainder of the day, England’s attempts to arrest Pakistan’s development of a first innings lead make for fascinating viewing. With their gander up, and Monty’s doggedness eating away at the Pakistani tail, the wickets begin to tumble with comparative alacrity, despite several of their supposed bunnies reaching double figures. Inzi makes it to 26, before Monty causes one to rip into his well-dinnered tub. In an effort to fend it off, la Patata Grande pirouettes like a drugged rhino woken by the lick of the first flames from the spit on his back, barrelling over his own stumps in a fashion akin to a rusty, out-of-control combine harvester phut-phutting to an eventual stop. There is laughter. And lots of it.

Pakistan eventually pull themselves up to a lead of 23, mainly thanks to a devilish effort at the end from Danish Kaneria who manages to welt Panesar for a six before the Mont has him caught at slip. It is not the only participation our new favourite finger spinner has in the fall of the final three wickets, he also removes Mohammed Sami, caught by Steve Harmison. In addition to that, Umar Gul's wicket is taken as he attempts to hook Sajid Mahmood. The ball skies high in the air and underneath it, at long leg, is Panesar. With the confidence that one has in a 3 year old in a similar situation, the collective intake of breath from the crowd appears to suck the ball into Monty’s hitherto hapless palms. It is a stunning catch regardless of his previous. Needless to say, the West Terrace, in front of whom it takes place, are quite pleased with it. Are you watching Duncan Fletcher?

Strauss and Trescothick see out the 3 remaining overs of the day with little trouble as so that's as much as I can tell you by first hand account.

England won though, just so you know.

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'Kevin Pietersen signs the wheel' picture by Rev. Andrew McDevitt