Stratford Town 2 Coleshill Town 3

27sep08
Midland Alliance
Knights Lane, Tiddington
att. 184

To cite the old Field of Dreams thing about “if you build it, they will come” might be overstretching it when Stratford Town have merely added roughly 30 or 40 to their gate since moving out of their old Masons Road ground. However when you consider that they were previously nearer to the train station and the town centre (albeit within an industrial far from in keeping with the town’s tourist-pulling quaintness), it certainly bodes well for the future.

On arriving at the ground, built with Football Foundation assistance, the car park is gleaming and packed with cars. Not that the two-mile stroll from Stratford suggests this will the ideal place to attract new football followers. The Tiddington road contains a succession of manor houses with driveways that have their own roundabouts, the kind of place you imagine the squire greeting you at the door with a Terry-Thomas ‘tache and gap-toothed grin and saying “I say, come on in. You couldn’t possibly help us with these dashed molehills on the croquet lawn, could you? Can’t seem to shift the blighters.”

Still, despite being outside the main strip, Stratford are certainly getting some of the bigger crowds in the Midland Alliance, today’s attendance as good as double the next highest of the days fixtures - the 94 at Barwell vs. Causeway. Perhaps it is the combination of the sparkly and new with the familiar, one first timer at the tea bar noting that the new ground is just like “a modern version of the old Town ground.” He’s right really, all the facilities being on one side, beside and beneath the stand.

One old chap reveals he’s come to every home game at Knights Lane thus far not despite his wife’s illness, but because of it; the doctor prescribing a couple of hours of Saturday absence as being potentially beneficial to his other half’s convalescence. Or at least that’s the way the tenner in the GP’s top pocket tells it.

So Stratford have an audience and will be keen to improve on it. However, they’ve been stuck in the Midland Alliance since becoming founder members in 1994, and they’ve not exactly got off to a flier this season, hovering around mid-table albeit with several games in hand due to progress in the FA Cup up to the 1st Qualifying Round. Coleshill were also occupying a mid-table berth but probably more grateful for it as they were initially refused promotion from the Midland Combination, even as champions, at the end of last season due to ground-grading issues. In the end the threat of a lawsuit, and possibly the suggestion that they might ‘send round some geezers’, was enough for the Midland Alliance to throw the floral garlands around their neck and let them into their party.

Judging by the start they made to this game, they are certainly not overawed by the step-up or the larger attendances. After only six minutes, James Dance flicked on an eyebrows header for himself, shimmied to the by-line and cut the ball back for Lee Bloxham to sidefoot powerfully into the top corner, much to the steaming annoyance of Micky Love, Stratford captain and a man who’s name would almost certainly be found in an out-of-context-League-of-Gentleman-quotes word search.

The home side were quick to respond however, Jozsef Jakab getting inside the box, holding the ball up, turning inside his marker and studding the ball beneath the keeper into the corner of the net. This was met by the kind of quiet but sustained applause you would usually associate with a dogged 50 scored by a second XI no-mark on a county match Thursday. It soon became clear as to why as the tannoy announced it to be the one thousandth goal scored by Stratford Town in the Midland Alliance, becoming the first team to achieve this milestone, a stat which betrays their Rochdale-esque longevity within this single division league.

Five minutes prior to half time, after plenty of good Stratford stuff ultimately signifying nothing, and a whole host of decisions going their way, Coleshill got their best chance since the goal, Matty Robinson broke behind Richard Robinson who misjudged the bouncing ball, but Robinson M’s strong lob over oncoming keeper Simon Lynn had just a little too much by way of legs, dropping onto the roof of the net. However given a similar opportunity two minutes later, Robinson made no mistake, turning and firing a shot that bowed like the earth over Lynn into the far top corner.

Neither side started the second half in too bright a fashion, a midfield battle being the only sound heard, at least until the hour mark when the sound of running water became apparent, a Coleshill substitute taking the opportunity to duck under the pitch-side railing and rinse the boundary wall with a weighty Niagara of piss.

Similar relief came to all of his team-mates three minutes later when James Dance sashayed past opera-house haunting, beret-sporting left back Michael Crawford and calmly slotted the ball beneath Lynn to establish a two goal lead.

This appeared to signal the end of Stratford’s challenge. However in the 82nd minute, a cross came into the box and a Stratford shot was pushed athletically onto the bar. In the melee a dishonest hand was deemed to have popped out, and a penalty was awarded. David Foy’s kick was saved by former Stratford keeper Craig Johnson, with Jakab firing the rebound wide. However as the Coleshill team celebrated, the linesman drew his flag once more across his chest, as though it were his thumb across his throat, having spotted Johnson coming off his line. The keeper came even further off his line for Foy’s re-take but this time got nowhere near it. So that’s alright then.

The wind was now in Stratford’s sails but they were unable to use it to make any further headway and 3-2 it remained, both sides leaving the pitch knowing they would meet again in the same venue the following week for an FA Vase tie. Despite the indications one could take from this game, Stratford won that tie 6-0, Coleshill now able to concentrate on keeping afloat in the Midland Alliance.

Links
Stratford Town website
Coleshill Town website

Havant & Waterlooville 1 Newport County 1

15nov08
Conference South
Westleigh Park, Havant
att. 601

Theoretically, it was the right team at the right team. Newport couldn’t have looked in more disarray if they’d all turned up paralysed from the waist down and having to drag themselves from the coach to the dressing rooms on a fleet of skateboards.

With only a threadbare squad, and having to play some kids, not to mention the fact that Newport fans have been calling for Dean Holdsworth’s head since about five minutes after it popped around the dressing room door, saying “Alright fellas. I’m Dean. You might recognise me from ITV2’s ‘Deadline’”, it appeared they were there for the taking.

Dean, of course, is a former player of ours, his goals virtually single-handedly ensuring we didn’t get relegated in the first season of the Conference South. He then went off to join Phil Brown for an ill-fated spell as assistant manager at Derby County, before returning to us a year later via Weymouth.

However by this point, as I wrote at the time, his team-shirt had begun to fall around his body in much the same way as a pair of tights settles around a bank-robber’s face. Nonetheless, for his thirty-three goals two seasons prior, he has remained fondly thought of. Well, those and his blindingly white teeth, which he was requested to show off whenever scoring.

Naturally, we hoped those gleaming ivories would remain firmly under wraps today. We didn’t want to kick our old chum whilst he was down. No, we needed to kick our old chum while he was down. The Cup guff now being over, a rebuilding of confidence was required for the league, particularly after five consecutive defeats.

It all started pretty well too, looking lively, getting width with the return of Charlie Henry and Brett Poate to the starting line-up, and Robbie Matthews, newly arrived on loan from Salisbury, looking just the big, physical presence we needed up front. However, all it took was for Newport to convert the first chance they had, and it all dissolved like rice paper in the rain.

The second half we hoped, apropos of little, would see us come out all guns blazing. As it was we came out largely with empty holsters, and those that did brings guns were just click-clicking round the empty chambers whilst holding the barrel up to their eyes to see if there was a clog.

However, a late equaliser was got, Paul Booth getting a spongy touch on a pass from Jamie Collins that then trickled into the far corner like a dying stream in a drought. We celebrated, but with a hint of realism. Even with Ian Simpemba and Craig Watkins missing sitters, Newport might well feel that they’d been robbed.

This just turns up the pressure on the manager just that little bit more. I would hate to see a good man, who gave us some of our best times, hounded out of the club with taunts from the terraces. However there is only so much people can take without getting frustrated. It must look even bleaker to those who didn’t get to Chelmsford or Crawley, but perhaps those performances are the exception that proves a rather depressing rule.

Even I, trying to keep a rose-tinted rictus grin on my face through league defeat after league defeat, have found some selectorial and tactical decisions baffling. There are one or two players that have struggled on like wounded animals to the point where it wouldn’t be too shocking to turn up to West Leigh Park to find Shaun Gale rubbing their belly fur and weeping softly, whilst behind him a vet was flicking a syringe. Instead, they have tended to get a first team start.

However, for all the gallows humour (if you can call it that), perhaps the good fortune of a point against our fellow underachievers can represent the start of something and hopefully, oooooh-oi, it’ll be something good that’s going to happen.

Next Sunday we go to our Conference South chums Fisher in the FA Trophy, another club with sapped morale, the money having disappeared forcing them to field an amateur side. However, an away win for them this weekend at Bishop’s Stortford will prove that such adversity can seal a battling bond. As our game with Newport has proved, there are never any easy tasks, especially when we retain the ability to make things hard for ourselves.

Yet, if we translate our twenty-minute start today into a ninety-minute tour-de-force, then something good will happen.

Havant & Waterlooville 1 Brentford 3

08nov08
FA Cup 1st Round
West Leigh Park, Havant
att. 1,631

Reasons why Havant & Waterlooville FC is the same as Nellie the Elephant…*

Both have had experience of a circus. Let me explain…

In Nellie's case the circus was the big-top and acrobats type; clowns, monkey in a fez, all that game. In H&W's, it was an FA-cup inspired media circus. What differs, you could argue (ignoring the obvious), is the manner of departure. Nellie left of her own accord, turning on a sixpence (as much as an elephant can) and doing one out the door, whereas our circus eventually upped sticks and left us, reportedly seen in February heading off in the direction of Barnsley.

However, despite our expectation, the circus has come to find us again, TV crews once again queuing up to film our bar, our club shop and our players at work, at their other work (if it provides a suitable visual metaphor) and at play. You might argue then that the Hawks and old Nell are not the same at all, but the way I see it, both have been the masters of their own destiny. Nellie fancied doing the off, and did so, whilst we fancied being centre of attention again, so went out and grabbed it at Crawley despite form, despite a lack of confidence and despite the strength of the opposition.

Semi-professional footballers rarely get the limelight so you can imagine they love it when it comes and although we may only have four fellas left from our previous trip to the circus, you can tell they got a taste for the 15 minutes+. In fact, our lot have been getting so used to the featurette appearances on sports programmes and the general showbiz lifestyle that part of last years cup run money had to be spent on a giant mirror surrounded by light bulbs for the changing room.

So, let me tell you a bit about the return of our circus. Pushing through the turnstile an hour prior to kick off, one of the first faces I saw walking around our gradually-filling ground was Clive Tyldesley’s, and it was wearing a look that said “Are you sure about this? I’ve done Champions League finals.” Not long after, Andy Townsend strolled out, caked in so much make-up he appeared to have mistaken being at the game for being on it. I half expected him to give those of us standing nearby a cheeky wink before inhaling sharply through his nostrils and proclaiming “the smell of the greasepaint, dear, smell of the greasepaint” like a semi-retired ham pining for the music hall.

Joining Andy in the shed-on-stilts that was the pundits lounge was Steve Rider, a man so slick you would usually find him coating sea-mammals next to a stricken tanker, and Martin Allen, borrowing Deirdre Barlow’s larynx for the occasion. Elsewhere, a weather-beaten Ned Boulting was being sent to explore the nooks and crannies of West Leigh Park, sneaking a look at the player’s willies over Shaun Gale’s shoulder in the dressing room, and loading the pockets of his winter coat with coronation chicken sarnies whilst chatting to our chairman in the board room.

Everyman Andy, being a dogger that turned out for Weymouth and Welling in his distant past (before going on to be a dogger at a much higher level) was sent down to join Ned on the pitch and try to remember if he turned out for his early clubs on it. Given WLP would have looked a lot different when he was a nipper, you can forgive his struggling memory. Chances are he probably didn’t, given Havant Town were in the Hampshire League at the time. Indeed, he reacted to, and banged on so much about the slope in one of our corners, that I’ve barely noticed in watching 170-odd games there, it was not so much like a man who has never been there before so much as a man who really, really doesn’t fancy a skiing holiday.

Anyway, I’m droning on about the telly coverage like I was sitting at home flicking between the ITV build-up and the EastEnders omnibus. I was there though, and I’ll happily bore you to tears by fast-forwarding-a-bit-then-rewinding-a-ooh-nearly-there-yeah-ah-just-missed-it-there-THERE-just-behind-that-guy-in-the-clown-wig-no-not-that-guy-in-the-clown-wig-the-other-guy-in-the-clown-wig-ing you through my video of the entire three hour broadcast to prove it.

It says something about our club, or perhaps about our recently acquired collective hubris, that we can react to a defeat by a league side with some degree of disappointed disbelief. Let’s face it, ITV were here for our ‘form’ in this area, and it had got to the point where we feared not Football League and Premiership giants, only Conference South strugglers, amongst whose number, I should add, we have recently arrived.

However the protective bubble of the cup has now evaporated, as have the talismanic powers of Young Adrian’s lucky hat. It was rubbed, as tradition dictated, but still we lost. I do hope Adrian’s mother can knit something new up for next season, as I will need something to rub, and I’d really feel disloyal and wrong if it wasn’t attached to Adrian’s head at the time.

So we’re disappointed, after all we gave it a good go, particularly in the second half, and had we been able to convert something from the six-yard-box scramble at 2-1 down in the 81st minute, we’d likely have had a draw, or more, to celebrate. As it is, we suffered the old, old story: boy meets girl / girl meets boy / team going gung-ho for equaliser get caught on the break.

We can’t be too mopey though, especially given our pre-Crawley gloom and the sense that defeat would be inevitable. Besides, every other non-league club would queue up to spit in our faces if we started to moan about anything. So here are some reasons to be cheerful:

*Not getting mullered in front of a national TV audience
*Scoring when the game wasn’t already gone
*Another heap of foldin’ money in the tin for giving ITV the keys for the week
*The director-of-football’s one-year-old grand-daughter trying to eat Ned Boulting’s microphone then being carried out by captain Jamie Collins for the handshakes and the toss as if to say “you can beat us Brentford, but you’ll be breaking this little girl’s heart. Look into those innocent eyes. Honestly, could you live with yourselves?”

So, another memorable cup campaign. However with that bubble gone all pop, we now (unless we can get a run going in the FA Trophy – which might be nice in the sense that we can keep singing “Wem-ber-lee, Wem-ber-lee…” for a little while longer – but otherwise might be too much of a distraction) have to focus on our league form. Five defeats on the spin ain’t pretty, in fact it’s as gruesome as a pancake-faced Andy Townsend.

For next weekend’s match against Newport County, with whom we are currently wrestling for the ‘Biggest Underachievers’ trophy (there is a trophy too, a pewter figurine, atop a little wooden base, of an unshaven man in a three-sizes-too-small vest and ragged pants asleep in an armchair), and who are managed by former Hawk Dean Holdsworth, we will need to get our feet back on the ground quickly, and for them to be running as they hit.

*Reasons why Havant & Waterlooville FC is NOT the same as Nellie the Elephant…

1. H&W aren't about to slip of their iron chains and run off to the Hindustan, never to be see again. At least one would hope.

2. Brentford might not have hit the net three times if Nellie had been parked in front of it.

3. One is football club, one is ephelant. QED.

Road to Wembley
F: Everton 1 Chelsea 2 (att. 89,931)
SF: Manchester United 0 Everton 0 [2-4 pens] (att. 88,141)
6R: Everton 2 Middlesbrough 1 (att. 37,856)
5Rr: Middlesbrough 2 West Ham United 0 (att. 15,602)
5R: West Ham United 1 Middlesbrough 1 (att. 33,658)
4R: Wolverhampton Wanderers 1 Middlesbrough 2 (att. 18,013)
3R: Middlesbrough 2 Barrow 1 (att. 25,132)
2R: Barrow 2 Brentford 1 (att. 3,532)
1R: Havant & Waterlooville 1 Brentford 3
4QR: Crawley Town 0 Havant & Waterlooville 3 [dubSteps]
3QR: Havant & Waterlooville 2 Godalming Town 1 (att. 462) [BM87]
2QRr: Shortwood United 0 Havant & Waterlooville 1 (att. 310) [dubSteps]
2QR: Havant & Waterlooville 2 Shortwood United 2 (att. 422)

Links
Havant & Waterlooville website
Brentford website

guestSteps: Cardiff City 1 Wolverhampton Wanderers 2

01nov08
Championship
Ninian Park, Cardiff
att. 17,734

guestSteps, eh? You wait ages and then two come along at once, rather like…like… you know I can’t think of an analogy. This week, our chum and Newcastle fan Ben, author of Black & White & Read All Over and Silent Words Speak Loudest, takes us for a rare trip into the Championship.

My mission, should I choose to accept it (and I did – I’d come up with the idea, after all): to brave the anti-English sentiment and infiltrate the massed ranks of Cardiff fans on the Popular Bank Terrace for the clash with Championship table-toppers Wolves, relying on my diehard Bluebirds-supporting companion and trusty Spillers Records T-shirt for defence.

Cardiff are one of the very few Championship clubs with special dispensation to have standing sections – special dispensation the FA were no doubt only too happy to grant them when confronted by a bunch of Grange End regulars. As far as I can recall, my last experience of standing proper (rather than of stubbornly standing en masse in away ends despite the presence of seats) was over 16 years ago, at St James’s Park in September 1992, when we beat Bristol City 5-0 thanks in part to two dubiously-awarded Gavin Peacock penalties and a Franz Carr cross that sailed in at the far post to record our seventh successive win since the start of the season. Would the home side be so fortunate this time?

The terrace being uncovered, and this being Wales, there’s a sign at the turnstiles warning that in order to protect everyone’s line of sight umbrellas aren’t allowed. Good – no chance of bumping into Steve McClaren, then.

Attempting to rouse the crowd with a shout of “MAKE … SOME … NOISE!” which owes a clear debt to Martin Fitzmaurice’s “LET’S … PLAY … DARTS!”, the stadium announcer reminds us that the game’s being beamed out live on Sky so we should show the world how vociferously we can back the Bluebirds – forgetting, perhaps, that the world, if it is watching football at all, is rather more likely to be tuned in to Spurs v Liverpool. Still, any concerns I may have had that I might struggle to get behind the home side are dispelled at the realisation that Mackem muppet Michael Gray will be tarting about in a gold shirt right in front of us for the first half.

Passing a bookmakers earlier in the afternoon, I noticed them offering reasonable odds on a 2-1 home win with City striker Jay Bothroyd first scorer against his former club. Ten minutes in and any betting slips for that particular outcome will have found themselves turned into confetti: Bothroyd’s retired hurt and horrible mistakes from first Roger Johnson and then his centre-back partner Darren Purse in the fourth and eighth minutes have handed opportunities to the opposition’s two deadliest players Chris Iwelumo and Sylvain Ebanks-Blake. Iwelumo may have stared fixedly into the gob of a gift horse when making his debut for Scotland last month, but no such luck for the Bluebirds here and the ball hit the back of the net, just as it did shortly afterwards from the boot of Ebanks-Blake.

The evening was originally conceived as a kind of respite from the travails of watching Newcastle of late, but here City are seemingly adopting the very same cunning tactic of giving the opposition a two goal headstart. Leading goalscorer Ross McCormack might reply quickly with a neat control and finish from substitute Miguel Comminges’s left wing cross, my companion timing his return from the burger van to perfection, but they fail to build on it and all impetus is lost. For all the incisive runs of grey-haired right-back Kevin McNaughton – who’ll I’ll admit on this evidence does bear a passing resemblance to yours truly – it’s Wolves who continue to look the more dangerous side. The sight of arch threat Ebanks-Blake sprawled on the turf prompts the home fans into a cheery “Let him die, let him die, let him die!” and the rather less charming “Rent boy!”, but the stocky former Man Utd striker disappears off down the tunnel at half-time satisfied that it’s his goal that separates the teams.

During the interval I blow my cover in spectacular style with a whoop of delight and exaggerated punch of the air at the news that Sunderland have been trounced by Chelsea. With the wind blowing in the opposite direction, down towards the Grange End, the chances of any of the six Corner Kick Challenge participants managing to scoop the £400 rolling prize fund by curling the ball into the net are slimmer than a steamrollered Victoria Beckham.

This being Cardiff’s final season at the corrugated carbuncle that is Ninian Park before moving over the road to the brand spanking new stadium, they’re wheeling out former heroes at the break in every home game. Today’s pair sign so many autographs and ruffle the hair of so many pre-prubescent heads that they barely make it half way round the perimeter of the pitch before the players are ready to come back on.

The first real opportunity of the second period falls to McCormack, who takes advantage of indecision from the otherwise excellent Richard Stearman and Chelsea loanee Michael Mancienne to lob in a shot under pressure. Sadly for Cardiff that’s his last significant contribution, a second twanged hamstring of the evening robbing the Bluebirds of their one real threat. On comes Eddie Johnson, on loan from Fulham, to the beered-up American frat-boy’s chant of choice, “USA! USA!”, and proceeds to give a Shola Ameobi-esque demonstration of a player who barely looks to be in control of his own legs, let alone the ball.

As it starts to spit with rain, a spell of moderate pressure from the home side comes to naught with Roger Johnson heading wide from a good position, while the fans’ low-level grumbling is only interrupted when makeshift striker Paul Parry shoulder-charges his unsuspecting marker to the deck like an American footballer prompts guffaws of laughter from the terraces. The only other consolation seems to be the innovative chant “Oh wanky wanky, wanky wanky wanky wanky Wanderers”. Wanky Wanderers it is who come closest to scoring the game’s fourth goal, substitute Andy Keogh firing selfishly across goal when his team-mates are better placed, but such is the ineffectuality of the Cardiff strike force that they only force Carl Ikeme into one save late on, and that from Eddie Johnson in injury time.

The final whistle blows, to everyone’s scoffing incredulity Joe Ledley is rewarded with the sponsor’s man of the match award for petulantly throwing his hands in the air and giving up the ghost every time he was challenged (not, I imagine, the sort of thing his rumoured suitors Everton, Spurs and Bolton are particularly looking for), and the umbrellas go up for the wet walk home. To be honest, the vast majority of those present would have been glad had their line of sight been obscured by a brolly or two…

Ben Woolhead

guestSteps: Down at ring-side

Young Adrian's world tour continues, this time in Japan. Some football stuff will follow next month but for now Adrian delves, possibly a bit too closely, into the world of sumo.

26sep08
2008 September Grand Sumo Tournament - Day 26
Ryogoku Kokugikan, Tokyo

It’s 6:30am and I’m about to board a subway train to somewhere I’m not really sure the train goes to. There are few things that would motivate me enough to get out of bed this early whilst on holiday, however one of those things is sumo wrestling.

Having negotiated my way from my hotel to the arena, via getting briefly lost coming out of the subway station (how I managed this having seen the arena as the train pulled in I don’t know), I found myself at the Ryogoku Kokugikan, Tokyo’s 13,000 capacity sumo arena. It was 7:30am and the queue for same day tickets was already forming along the pavement next to the colourful banners displaying the names of the wrestlers. In my experience for queuing for tickets, it is usual for the ticket kiosk shutters to open up and sales begin without any grandeur. In Japan however, to announce that tickets are now available, drums are played from the top of a wooden tower overlooking the line of weary looking patrons. A nice touch I feel.

Entering the arena nice and early gave the opportunity for a good wander around. The upper balcony contained ordinary theatre seats, but it was the lower floor where the charm of the arena lay. No seats- just cushions. In the floor area immediately beside the ring were simple cushions placed neatly with space beside for you to take off your shoes. Moving up from the floor were what can almost be described as boxes, but in reality groups of four cushions sectioned off by an ankle height bar, with each box containing a small tray of teacups. The ring itself was also quite elaborate, being housed under what looked like a barn roof with tassels dangling from it.

Arriving early gave Manouk and myself the opportunity to sample the front row seats, or cushions if you will. Having met her only moments before, I had already been roped into a photo of her strangling me in a wrestling pose in front of the large paintings outside the arena. I really should work on my first impressions. The arrangement with the expensive cushions at the very front of the arena was that you were welcome to use them until the actual ticket holders arrived. So during the morning when the amateur sumos were in action we got to witness the bouts from touching distance.



The amateurs were of varying sizes, some colossal, and some juniors more my size (see ironing board reference, York City away). The other interesting thing with the amateurs was that boys as young as fifteen were up against fully bulked out wrestlers. Initially the fights mainly involved grappling and tussling, followed by the victor defeating his opponent in one of 82 winning techniques. With the increase in seniority through the ranks, and possibly the motivation to rise through those ranks, the amateur fights became less about the wrestling and more about beating the opponent in any way possible. The phrase “schoolboy tactics” springs to mind. One fight became an over enthusiastic game of slaps, with the wrestlers swinging palms like angry wives in a cheap soap opera, meanwhile another fight became all about the wedge. Rather than try and win in the intended fashion, these two guys were more about the wedgies and ensuring the other returned to the sumo stables unable to be put out to stud. At one horrific point in the wedge-fest, let’s just say the curtains closed and the trunks were out of sight.


Taking a stroll around the concourse at lunchtime we were fortunate enough to bump into some of the wrestlers on their way to prepare for their bouts. The friendly giants kindly agreed to a photo, and with plenty of bowing later they were on their way. Manouk and I then decided to sample some Chanko, the potpourri stew used by the wrestlers to bulk up. More like a thin soup than a stew it contained chunks of chicken and every vegetable known to man, all goodness that makes a sumo grow up big and strong. It was one of those foods I ate to be polite, but wouldn’t have again.

It was then time to head to our cheap seats. With the ticket being completely in Japanese, a steward not only told us where our seats were, but walk us all the way. Japanese hospitality is the best in the world. The professional wrestlers were now on, and the arena was filling up. The wrestlers came on to a brief opening ceremony wearing their fancy aprons, some with gold and silver thread, some with diamonds and gems embedded. Another impressive thing at the event was the complete lack of any advertising or sponsorship, no build up music, no “let’s get ready to rumble”, all fights conducted in the traditional and ancient way.



The majority of fights were conducted in the proper sumo manner, with tremendous respect and honour displayed by all. At the start of a bout they would only begin once both contenders were ready. Salt was thrown to cast away bad spirits, feet were stomped to drive those spirits away, and water was sipped to purify the wrestler. As soon as a clear winner was known, wrestlers smiled at each other and help the defeated to his feet. No taunting, no jubilation, all very dignified.

The final bouts of the day drew the biggest crowds and the wildest atmosphere, with the final fight involving one of the tournament favourites. After several false starts, the bout was under way with the people’s favourite coming out on top. The arena erupted and it was time to leave. On leaving the arena I saw some wrestlers waiting for a train at the subway stop, no celebrity status, no wags, just good honest sumo wrestlers.

Adrian Lord