Sporting Bengal United 0 Erith & Belvedere 5

11nov06
Kent League
Mile End Stadium, Mile End
att. 35

A turnstile feels a little obsolete when sited next to an open gate. It may even feel a little unloved, if its yer sensitive sort of turnstile. Alternatively, if it’s your white van, Nuts-on-the-dash turnstile, it may simply feel like it’s being cheated out of some quality frottage. Just ask celebrity grinder Moby how he feels when he’s prowling a dancefloor that ain’t ever going to get close to being packed. Either way, your turnstile is missing out on human contact in one way or another. After all, who pushes through when you can continue your stride uninterrupted?

Yer football fan, that’s who. Well certainly me, anyway, and who better from whom to generalise, eh? Saturday afternoons haven’t really begun until that click and a whirr that says “well, yer names not down, but your moneys good here son”. Mind you, here the turnstile is just the first bit of a short assault course that also requires one to traverse a set of automatic doors. “Open sesame” is apparently the key here, and you know what, a booming exclamation of that in front of these sorts of sturdy glass dividers has never failed me. All this before I’ve even paid too.

The turnstile (or open gate for those with a blackened heart) is merely situated next to a non-plussed leisure centre attendant. The financial transaction takes place beyond the magic doors, where stands a man. Just the one, behind a trestle table, beaming an eager but nervous smile, like a village fair stallholder selling nothing but a mandarin and pickled radish preserve. When it’s six notes for yer in and a thin programme, the facilities numbering two broken Coke machines and the nearest tea-bar being at Leyton Orient (I imagine), you can understand the hint of awkwardness in his cheekbones.

Welcome to the Mile End Stadium, home of several runners, Sporting Bengal and Essex Senior Leaguers Beaumont Athletic on alternate weekends and, for one night only in 1995, Blur. Furthermore, welcome to the Kent League. Only we’re not in Kent. Welcome to football (to translate from the impenetrable German). Only it’s in a run-down, austere athletics stadium, tucked away amongst the hanging gardens of Tower Hamlets.

To cut it short, not a lot of love abounds here at the Mile End. The team representing the Bangladesh Football Association (UK) doesn’t appear to have captured the imagination of the ex-pats. Maybe it’s the location, but it could just be as a result of the results. Wins are few and far between, and the demoralising hammerings more than occasional. It appears to also be affecting attendance on the bench too, theirs being as empty as a peapod freshly addled by Etiella moth larvae. For some managers, strength in depth and player selection make it hard to avoid sharp headaches. Luckily for SBU gaffer Sana Miah, he just needs to take it easy with the Häagen-Dazs

Of the 35 in the crowd today, the best part of them are here with Erith & Belvedere, recent drop outs from the Southern League after 23 years of service, and resplendent today in red and white quarters that you might normally expect to find wafting from the mast of a regatta skiff (no relation). After a third minute scuffed shot from Ahmed Salvador, it is the visitors who expectedly make the early pace, a cross skimming the crossbar as early as the second minute. To make himself heard over the athletics track, our gateman/programme seller/#1 fan is raising his voice regularly, his attention particularly directed at an “Abdul!” Which of the three, he doesn’t appear to specify.

A cross from the lively Mark Nougher finds Steve White unmarked six yards from goal, but he somehow manages to drop it over the bar. For all E&B’s massive possession differential, the flailing, desperate legs of the Bangladeshi side manage to hold out for the first half hour. Having unsuccessfully thrown so many balls in the direction of the target, the visitors nevertheless press on with the same determination as a shy teenager on a fairground first date with three coconuts, a giant cuddly tiger and the potential of an over-the-jumper fumble behind the hall of mirrors, in his sights.

Rather than giving up and going two’s-up on a toffee apple (and settling for holdings hands on the walk home), Erith & Belvedere’s focus and determination finally pays off in the 32nd minute. Score! Matt Bedford skips a challenge on the right flank, and the linesman flags like someone shaking their umbrella to try and attract the attention of an erstwhile colleague through the shut lower-deck window of a packed rush-hour bus. The alert referee bellows a baritone ‘Advantaaaaaaage’ as though alerting distant Atlantic shipping to a submerged rock hazard, holding the final syllable of “aaaaage” like a Brazilian commentator trying forlornly to prevent the running over of a beloved family pet might shout ‘No’. Before he can complete the call, Bedford’s cross has been flicked in by Glenn McTaggart, on debut, and never has a ref looked so please with himself, although he does resist the obvious temptation to undertake a Robbie Keane-esque somersault/bow-and-arrow ping in the direction of his assessor.

There is precious little strength in Sporting Bengal’s play, their midfield showing all the alertness of an ageing bloodhound five seconds out of an interrupted Sunday lie-in, and it is easy for the Erith side to barge through their defences, despite Hamza Sadouk’s lone show of resistance at centre-half. However, he is let down by his partner, captain Abdul Khair on the stroke of half-time, as three Erith players are played onside and find themselves bearing down on keeper Pape Diagne. Tom Maycock keeps the ball and finds the top corner with ease. “A good fucking five yards off lino, all three of them” says blame-game player Shahid Ali who, rather ironically, finds himself replaced at half-time.

After the break, as the players mill about on the field awaiting the officials, Mark Nougher finds time to chat to some of the travelling support. As he peels away, shuffling toward the pitch, he catches a stud on the lip of the running track and collapses as though targeted by sniper. Laughter envelopes his team and their support. Sporting Bengal, however, are struggling to find anything funny right now as they are not known for turning around deficits of a single goal, let alone two.

Within a couple of minutes of the restart, it becomes three, Erith captain Steve White easily bustling through the clearly uninspired SBU defence and beating Diagne from close range. The passing and clearances from the home side are too panic-stricken, one snatched pass slicing in the direction of the E&B coach who stops it with his thigh somewhere between a camp long-barrier, and a genteel curtsy.

Not that SBU go through the game chanceless as Sadique Ali and Saim Uddin around the hour mark make sure Neil Murray in the Erith goal didn’t go through the game with only hypothermia to concern himself with. However with twenty minutes to go, SBU show again why they make it easy for teams to score against them as substitute Adrian Deane scores an almost a carbon copy of his captain’s goal, crashing a shot from the edge of the area in off the far post.

In fairness, while SBU do collapse it could well have been a lot worse and its not backs-to-the-wall stuff. Beneath the sight of the light pipping from the tip of Canary Wharf over to our right, Sadouk forces Murray to save with his legs with ten minutes to go. Not long after though, E&B complete their rout, White again collecting a pass and powering through, drawing the defence and allowing him to find Deane unmarked at the far post, who volleys home.

The final chance of the game, kinda sweetly, falls to the home side, a wayward backpass allowing Rashel Rahman to scoop the ball from in front of the keepers hands, but cruelly the ball rolls down the net having just cleared the crossbar. So sparks of fight in the Bangladeshi side until the end, but too many periods of play where the players seem to accept they were second best.

Someone needs to love them. Get behind them, and make their players believe in themselves a bit. I could try, but then I’m already in love with another, and I’m in no mind to cheat. I could try to like them a fair bit, spend a bit of time with them, getting to know them. Maybe. Let’s just say for now that this site will almost certainly catch up with them on their travels at some point in the future.

Yeah. You be excited.

Links
Bangladesh Football Association UK website
Sporting Bengal United @ Wikipedia
Erith & Belvedere website
Kent Senior League website

Havant & Waterlooville 1 Millwall 2

13nov06
FA Cup 1st Round
Fratton Park, Portsmouth
att. 5,793

After Brackley, eventually, I found out our draw. Like I said, my initial feeling wasn’t the one I’d expected upon the picking out of our first FA Cup meeting with a league club, particularly one that contested the final of the damn shebang two years ago. It was a slight sense of foreboding, and I’ll admit this was perhaps based on a prejudice based on my previous dealings with our randomly chosen opponent’s support.

However, come the next day, the idea of us playing a League One side had won me over. ‘IT’S GOING TO BE BRILLIANT’ I think I signed off with after the Brackley sketch, but with the caveat that I could edit that later with the benefit of hindsight. Well, I won’t do that but turns out my first instinct might have been the better to trust. The last two weeks in the life of Havant & Waterlooville Football Club have been long and stressful. I’m just thankful, in a way, that I’ve not been in the region to take in the day to day hype.

Would have been great if that hype could have centred on us playing league opposition at West Leigh Park; the possibility of an upset; just generally putting the word out to the local populous that we don’t get our team out the boozer. Mind you, The News (South east Hampshire’s local rag) did do the usual ‘what their day jobs are’ feature as part of their coverage but when this comes as part of an eight page pullout on the day of the game, you can ignore the fact the unmasking does strip away the mystique a bit. More on that later though.

However, the majority of the coverage, which even hit the national press and radio, centred on the fact that I was not the only one with a sense of foreboding. Hampshire Police Force, bless ‘em, were more than a little anxious by the usual stuck-in-the-70s bullshitters giving it all that on the Millwall and Portsmouth web fora. Thanks to them (and I would digress here into a tirade about the mass of hoolie-porn that litters the sports shelves in bookshops nationwide, but this past 15 days has seen enough heads banging against brick walls), the ol’ Bill told us our big cup tie we’d long dreamed of, could not take place in our ground.

Some lacking possession of the full facts might assume that we’ve squandered money on ex-pro star names but, just so you know, West Leigh Park is perfectly sufficient for hosting all of the League One and Two clubs in the FA Cup. Except one.

Sadly, Portsmouth and Millwall’s ‘past’ meant the game was moving further and further away from being anything about us. Except in the fact that Hampshire Police decided that Millwall fans being let loose in the wilds of Leigh Park wasn’t something they wanted to deal with. So our home cup tie would have to be moved. Gutted. All round.

To Fratton Park then. At our cost. And a complement of 110 officers and seniors. At our cost. Little Havant & ‘Ville v Millwall. A category C game, apparently, one down from an international, and a bill for policing that mirrored almost exactly the invoice that would have landed at Soho Square after last summer’s Cup final. Thirty-five grand. Ker-ching. 7,800 tickets would need to be sold for us to break even. As it turns out, we fell short, well Millwall only brought 411 in the end (nice friendly getting-to-know-you ratio with the cop turnout there), but not as short as I’d feared. Still though, the best part of a ten grand loss from our best ever cup run. Really not the way it’s supposed to work. Especially as for the second year running, one of our local rivals has pulled Nottingham Forest out of the hat. Humph. Y’know, if Santa came down the chimney, bitch-slapped your Nan and nicked your wallet, you’d struggle to keep hold of a sense of magic there too.

Yet, I remain enraptured by the FA Cup. Yeah. Can’t help myself. I thought I’d get all the bad stuff out the way first so I could tell you about the best night of my Hawk-supporting life. And it ranks pretty highly in the overall table too. Like I said, “it’ll be brilliant”. And it was, after it had been shit. Then it was brilliant again, and I guess a bit shit at the end but, it was brilliant, and all because of twenty minutes. Not long in the overall scheme, considering I’ve lived for approximately 15,024,300 of them prior to the final whistle, but after two weeks that really dragged, we deserved those twenty minutes. Those twenty minutes that, frankly, went too quick. I personally think we deserved more. But I would do.

But yeah, once the starting pistol had fired, it did turn a bit poo quite quickly. Sod the fear of hooliganism ruining the night, or finances tearing our club apart, my pressing fear here was the tanking, when semi-pro clubs don’t manage to do their ranks proud. After all, only two days before, Northwich Victoria, from a level above ours, got rolled over for eight at the Withdean. Mind you, on the other hand, Basingstoke, bottom of our league, did for regular Premiership scalpers Chesterfield. What to flippin’ fink, eh? Eh? Think those in my company might well have got a little hacked off with my over-active nerves. Travelling down from London with Millwall and, from Havant onwards, several police on board didn’t help them shakes, and neither did a 5th minute goal for Millwall that betrayed, amongst the H&’Dub side, some nerves of their own. So soft was it, you could have marketed it as high quality toilet tissue.

For the remainder of the first half we put up a creditable fight, but Millwall’s route one, counter attacking effort was certainly testing our defence. Segregation not being so familiar to us, I’m not used to watching our defence at work at such close quarters, and I’m not sure I like it. Furthermore, our boys didn’t seem to be reading the game particularly well, anticipation of the dropping ball being a little lax. However, we made it to half time without any further damage, and with the promise of a half spent attacking the goal beneath our vocal support in the Fratton End. Some Pompey fans probably did join in with our tried and tested material, and it did sound good to be amongst the singing, but it was therefore difficult to tell how many of the 5300 were getting amongst it wiv us herberts. Certainly at the back of the Fratton End stand, pockets of the curious broke into chants of ‘Play Up Havant’ of their own. Is it wrong that I should wince at that? After all, these were the people we needed to turn out, and spend their hard-earned. If they have only one tune down pat, shouldn’t I award at least marks for effort? At least it wasn’t the baffling ‘Play Up Pompey’ that some had promised us. Like I say, these were the good guys. Turned up, and certainly wanted us to win and, around about the 65th minute, they also BELIEVED we blinkin’ WOULD.

Five minutes earlier, we’d scored, see. Rocky Baptiste (well, who else) tapping in after a majestic move that allowed Mo Harkin to dart along the touchline and make it nice and easy for our net-troubling hero. There it was. The best moment of Hawkdom. Ever ever. 1-1 each with Millwall of League One. This was the twenty minutes. We battered ‘em. Luke Byles tested Lenny Pidgeley. A Richard Pacquette header was pawed away. It was something else, the atmosphere was awesome and when the goal went in. Oh my oh my. Apparently BBC Radio Five Live were covering the second half (just when I thought things couldn’t get any more unreal). They chose the right half.

The twenty minutes ended though. All good things do. Mere seconds after that close call from big Richard in fact. Alan Dunne belted in a brilliant 25 yard shot through Shane Gore’s hands and into the top corner. Against the run of play. Cruel. Well, anything more certainly would have been but our Shane produced a series of remarkable saves, including an astonishing double stop at his near post. And then it slipped away, but for all the fiscal worries, we could forget about them for that little bit, because through the expectant roar, as well as the prolonged, beyond ecstatic, goal cheer that it followed, the Hawks and the curious came together to believe. Really believe.

That’s the magic of it.

Road to Wembley
F: Manchester United 0 Chelsea 1 aet (att. 89,826)
SF: Blackburn Rovers 1 Chelsea 2 aet (att. 50,559)
QFr: Tottenham Hotspur 1 Chelsea 2 (att. 35,519)
QF: Chelsea 3 Tottenham Hotspur 3 (att. 41,517)
5R: Fulham 0 Tottenham Hotspur 4 (att. 18,655)
4R: Fulham 3 Stoke City 0 (att. 11,059)
3R: Stoke City 2 Millwall 0 (att. 8,024)
2Rr: Millwall 1 Bradford City 0 a.e.t. (att. 3,220)
2R: Bradford City 0 Millwall 0 (att. 4,346)
1R: Havant & Waterlooville 1 Millwall 2
4QR: Brackley Town 0 Havant & Waterlooville 2 (att. 505) [HOBO]
3QR: Havant & Waterlooville 2 Carshalton Athletic 0 (att. 241)
2QR: Havant & Waterlooville 3 Team Bath 1 (att. 281) [HOBO]

Links
Havant & Waterlooville website
Millwall website
Guardian report
Times report
Independent report
Jon Hall's photos from the game

Radcliffe Borough 1 Stamford 2

04nov06
FA Trophy 2nd Qualifying Round
Stainton Park, Radcliffe
att. 156

Situated just south of Bury, just east of Bolton and a short tram ride from Manchester, it is perhaps unsurprising that there is hardly anyone filling the seats in the stand which stretches the length of the Bury End of the ground behind the goal. Mind you, it appears the FA Trophy magic generally ain’t packin’ ‘em in in Greater Manc., as todays attendance is fewer than turned up on a cold Tuesday night ten days ago to watch them lose to Maine Road in the Manchester Premier Cup.

Perhaps it was that cup defeat that caused an ennui to set in, a sense of gloomy inevitability in knockout tournaments. After all Radcliffe’s FA Cup challenge fell over Skelmersdale’s trip-wire first time out n’all, not to mention their extra-time dispatching from the Unibond League Challenge Cup by Bamber Bridge this past midweek. Would that feeling be trapped in the player’s legs today? One would hope not, particularly when facing an unfamiliar opponent such as this. With Stamford being part of the Southern League set-up, and Radcliffe the Northern Premier, chances for these sides to tussle are few and far between and this, to me, is the appeal of the Trophy. Mind you, there is still regionalisation of the draw for the qualifying and early rounds, so a pairing such as this isn’t exactly usual, hence my raising of the attendance from a meagre 155 to a mammoth 156.

I can understand why the Trophy doesn’t capture the imagination of others though, as it another player-sapping tournament for which most sides have precious little chance of winning and doesn’t offer the same potential fiscal rewards as the FA Cup. Still, having seen my side reach the semi-finals, which saw us take both a trip into Northern Premier League territory (Colwyn Bay) and a Conference National scalp en route, the idea of going on the same dizzying ride again, particularly with the added carrot of a trip to the new Wembley, well, I’d take that over a kick in the cock, certainly.

Am sure there are at least a few Radcliffe fans who would fancy that kind of thrill too. Although mostly a quiet bunch, amongst their number are a pocket of five middle-aged fans trying to inject some atmosphere of their own. One of them carries a loudhailer which, despite managing to muffle the user’s voice to a point where a library whisper might carry further, is a bit European, particularly in the context of the rattle he wields with his other hand. It’s a bit of a beast, and appears to have seen better days, looking like it’s been fashioned from a length of old fence that’s sat behind the shed since the 50’s.

It’s a good visual metaphor for Radcliffe Borough really, appearing at every level to be a working man’s kinda club, both in terms of their social set up and their ground as a whole. As such Bernard Manning being the entertainment at their next quiz makes sense, as does the fact he’s their president (son Bernard Jr. being chairman here) and, in keeping with Mr President’s liberal thinking, on one side of the pitch is a large hoarding reading “Give racism the red card”. Pleasing to see at least one Radcliffe supporter wearing a 'Kick It Out' sticker too. Given my preconceptions a good slap anyway.

The Radcliffe side begin the game slowly, with Stamford controlling the first five minutes. However, it is the home side who score first, Martyn Forrest meeting a cross from Lee Duffy on the right flank at a point somewhere between his brow and nostrils. Untidy maybe, but effective. Stamford do not lie down though and, despite looking fairly ordinary in the final third, equalise in the 19th minute. A free kick is floated in by Scott Taylor and Radcliffe keeper Danny Hurst running out is beaten by the head of Gareth Pritchard. Within six minutes, Pritchard scores again, this time from the penalty spot after Stuart Wilson’s legs are whipped away illegally by Tony Whealing. For his inauspicious efforts, keeper Hurst finds himself replaced at half time.

Come the second half and Radcliffe up their game in search of an equaliser. They force an early corner, which is played into the near post, Andy Heald appearing to try to angle the ball in with his wang. It doesn’t work. The angle. It is one of a number of Radcliffe crosses that incisively split the Stamford defence throughout the half but the killer touch isn’t at all apparent.

To gee up their players, Radcliffe’s bonsai orchestra, now behind the club shop end goal, get amongst it once more with the loudhailer. Like I say though, it has precisely the same range as a plimsole-stuffed tannoy speaker at a decommissioned branch-line station. This does though make it competitive in the intelligibility stakes with the club’s own PA set up, a system best appreciated from the bottom left hand corner of the car park. In fact it probably beats the in-house kit, as I can at least make out the odd statement that crackles from the tiny megaphone. For example, “Get that number 5 off. What a dog. Woof woof.”

For the remainder of the game, as the Radcliffe sky turns to a foreboding purple and the odd premature firework sails toward it, the attacking pressure remains largely with the home side as they push Stamford deeper and deeper. However with hard-working Radcliffe players stretched, Stamford are able to launch the odd counter attack. The best chance, tough, is Radcliffe’s, as the impressive Lee Duffy races towards the edge of the box. Seeing the huge gap in the far corner, he sends in a pinpoint shot, only to see Ian Pledger swoop down to scoop it away. It falls, however, into the path of Heald but, under pressure from a defender, he can only knee it over the bar.

So, 45 minutes of momentum and endeavour ultimately aren’t enough to rescue Radcliffe from their slack ten minutes in the first quarter of the game, and depart the competition as they every other, at the first hurdle. The second half would suggest that ennui in the legs was not to blame and they’ll probably now tell you that this blessing allows them to concentrate on the league. Currently occupying a relegation position, they will need to give it their urgent, and upmost, attention.

Addendum:

07nov06
Lancashire Senior Cup
Radcliffe Borough 4 Atherton LR 5 (a.e.t.)

Welcome to Radcliffe. Cup defeats a speciality.

Road to Wembley
F: Kidderminster Harriers 2 Stevenage Borough 3 (att. 53,262)
SF2: Northwich Victoria 3 Kidderminster Harriers 2 (att. 2,129)
SF1: Kidderminster Harriers 2 Northwich Victoria 0 (att. 2,383)
4R: Northwich Victoria 3 Gravesend & Northfleet 0 (att. 810)
3R: Gravesend & Northfleet 2 Rushden & Diamonds 1 (att. 1,127)
2R: Witton Albion 0 Rushden & Diamonds 1 (att. 602)
1R: Woodley Sports 1 Witton Albion 3 (att. 195)
3QR: Stamford 0 Witton Albion 3 (att. 306)
2QR: Radcliffe Borough 1 Stamford 2
1QR: Radcliffe Borough 3 Leek Town 2 (att. 163)
1QR: Bridlington Town 2 Stamford 4 (att. 199)

Links
Radcliffe Borough website
Stamford website

Bamber Bridge 3 Clitheroe 1

24oct06
Northern Premier League Division One
Irongate, Bamber Bridge
att. 231

With my time in the North West now drawing to a close, it is time to right any of my wrongs associated with the region. Being relatively near to the National Football Museum and not visiting it, considering, would seem foolish, particularly when it’s gratis in. The museum is built into one corner of Preston North End’s ground but I’d forgotten about this when turning up, twenty minutes before kick-off, at Deepdale two pre-seasons ago. This ghastly oversight was compounded by the fact that the game itself was possibly the most insipid and meaningless in the history of the sport. In fact, my desire to return to take in the museum was largely motivated by a keenness to discover whether it had been commemorated as such. Sadly, no plaque nor trinket is yet on show to make some sense of those ninety minutes which, quite frankly, I won’t be getting back. No sculpture of a fan arched backwards over their seat, fast asleep. No painting of a stand full of heavy eyelids. Nothing.

Still it’s a pretty good way to spend a couple of hours but, yer hobo being, well, me, might as well combine football’s past with its present and, thus, Preston’s satellite town of Bamber Bridge seems best bet, for a Unibond League Division One derby n’all. Well, it sort of is, the two Lancashire sides having only met ten times, mostly in local cups. It’s only just over a fortnight since their last meeting though, in the FA Trophy, with Clitheroe coming from two down at Shawe View to win 3-2. No doubt tonight’s game will be tastier for that immediate previous than for any other prior encounter.

Certainly from what I see on getting to the ground unusually early, the Clitheroe support seem quite keen on it. Several, clad in away-day orange, are so well-established inside the Irongate bar as to appear at some distinct risk of developing a form of trenchfoot. This is not to suggest a messy social facility, indeed while most of the ground betrays the fact they are only sixteen years out of the Preston & District League, the shiny lounge bar and the stand that rises up in front of the railway line highlight how far they’ve come. Less impressive, I guess, is the club shop that struggles on with barely one working lightbulb, the large programme archive largely lost to the dank. Also not quite sure what to make of the waste bins around the ground that have “toxic waste” still clearly stencilled on the side, or indeed the filing cabinet stood at one end of the urinal in the gents, forced to face the wall like it’s pulled its sisters hair or something.

Behind the far goal, a group of about twenty young fellas are gathered, and they represent Bamber Bridge in song. “When the bridge go marching in” they chirp, which might highlight a poor grasp of English grammar, a startling feat of architectural engineering, or neither. Thank goodness for the football context, the great exception to all linguistic convention.

From the kick-off it is Clitheroe who look the stronger, but it is the home side who take the lead after eleven minutes. A long, log flume of a throw down the left flank beats a sleepy Jamie Nay. This allows Greg Brickell to break and play a quick ball across the box for Alex Porter, who rifles past the magnificently vast afro between the sticks, as well as the spindly keeper beneath it. It would appear that in a disco outfitters somewhere there is a pristine square. A square vivid in its cleanliness amongst the dusty, faded lino, particularly when lit by the sun through the adjacent window. A window which now displays a card reading “Reward offered for return of ‘the funky mannequin’”.

Actually, that previous analogy doesn’t quite work, as mannequins don’t tend to flap as much as your man here, and frankly given the choice between the Clitheroe keeper and a dummy from the Marks and Sparks underwear section when it comes to dealing with crosses, you’d plump for Bra and Pants Annie everytime. Indeed, seven minutes later, he almost gifts Bamber a fortuitous second. A curling cross eludes everyone and our man merely shrugs, before flinching in that resigned way as though a glass of red wine is just passing the midway point on its descent from a cluttered mantle to an off-white fur rug, as the ball brushes the outside of the post.

Clitheroe however then push forward, but perilously. A flicked header is slightly misdirected and the miss is pounced upon by the home side as they race forward, Paul Roberts unleashing a shot that brings a, credit where its due, terrific flying stop from Clitheroe’s now far more alert Ray Frances.

Back at the other end a regulation flying catch from Bamber’s gloveman David Newnes earns him an “England’s number one” chant, with the kids almost speaking too soon as he not long after misjudges a bounce that requires him to grab it at full stretch on the goal-line. He isn’t tested often though, one particularly misjudged cross from a Clitheroe midfielder going stupidly high before dropping idly over. The ball eventually comes down on the edge of a bin, sending it up in the air again where, on its second descent, a Clitheroe supporter attempts to belt it back onto the pitch but only succeeds in spooning it over his own head, the pavilion behind the goal (the tallest part of the ground, mind you) and into the car park. It is metaphor for Clitheroe’s first half showing. One step forwards, two steps back.

Some of the vocal lads decide to experience some on-field action as the teams come back from their break, and while the PA announcer eventually thanks them for their support whilst attempting to shoo them off, he possibly over-eggs his initial warning a touch, “For health and safety reasons, would all spectators leave the ground.” Had this announcement comes across during the interval in that Preston friendly, I can guarantee you I would not have needed asking twice.

In the tea bar queue, one of the Bamber youngsters is taking issue with the opposition’s away colours, “You’d be embarrassed to wear orange” he says, without checking around for any Dutch, adding quite emphatically, “I pity the fool who wear orange.” He eventually reaches the head of the queue and settles on some crisps, flavoured of course, as he clearly wouldn’t go for the plain. Sucker.

After six minutes of the second half, Bamber Bridge make it two, a corner floated in over Clitheroe’s once again seemingly stoned keeper, and Brickell aims an ungraceful but effective header down onto the line and up into the roof. Four minutes later, Brown welts a free-kick from the right and it is an entirely coincidental appearance of the keeper’s fist in the right place that sends it over. You might think that’s a little harsh, but he then proceeds to drop the ensuing corner. In fairness though, he does make a vital fingertip save moments later.

Come the hour mark and the Clitheroe defence has taken on the mannerisms of their keeper, looking tired and leggy, and Carl Noon easily outpaces them and just gets his cross in from the byline under pressure. Brickell gathers, turns and curves a quality shot just inside the far post to make it three.

With fifteen minutes to go, Clitheroe claw one back, Paul Lamb receiving a deflection before calmly depositing the ball past Newnes and escorting the ball quickly back to the halfway line. With five minutes to go, Clitheroe’s Simon Garner is tunnelled following some Greco-Roman wrestling in the centre circle, which ends up involving most of the players, and with him go his teams chances of rescuing another seemingly lost cause against the Bridge.

Links
Bamber Bridge website
Clitheroe website