NK Trnje 0 NK Ponikve 1

02mar08
Četvrta Hrvatska Nogometna Liga (4.HNL) Središte podskupine ‘A’
Trg Kardinala Šepera, Zagreb
att. 90 (approx.)

Yes, the Četvrta Hrvatska Nogometna Liga Središte podskupine ‘A’ or, if you like, the Croatian National League Fourth Division Central Group A. Regular readers might be thinking that I’m just being wilfully obscure now, and you’d be right. This is one of eight leagues at this level; two groups each in the north, south and in the centre and one each for the clubs in the east and west. Only the top three levels in the country are organised by the Croatian Football Federation, so I guess you might call this ‘non-league’ if we follow the English pattern.

It’s fairly simple to find a game in Zagreb on any given weekend: two clubs in the First (Premier) League, one in the second league and five in the third, along with the ten in Središte podskupina A. On top of that, at the fifth level, there are nineteen leagues, one of which covers Zagreb County, another catering for Zagreb itself. Saying that, trying to find fixture lists in advance isn’t the easiest task, particularly without a command of the Croatian language.

However, being a librarian by trade and this being the twenty-first century, interweb search strategies should indeed be my game, and eventually NK Maksimir’s website delivers the goods. Having a great deal of information for their league in general was particularly useful considering that most clubs don’t appear to have a website of their own.

With NK Zagreb already booked in for the Saturday, and me leaving the country the following afternoon, I’d been hoping for a Friday evening kick-off somewhere but, as it turned out, NK Trnje regularly play their homes games at 10am on a Sunday morning. Considering their location very near the centre of Zagreb, and the fact that the Prva Liga sides will usually be playing on weekend afternoons, this is no doubt a gambit to draw in a few extra punters.

On arriving at the ground, the entry fee hadn’t been written up anywhere so I just handed over a 20 kuna note and, gaining no reaction, kept handing over coinage until the gateman’s face took on a bewildered “Who is this mysterious unshaven tycoon. And what does he want?” look. After doing my famous “Engleski” bit, he gave me a confused, but financially happy grin, shepherded me through the collection of fellas by the turnstile, then pointed me in the direction of the “tribune”, a collection of 200 prefab seats down the nearside touchline on the other side of the dressing rooms.

The Sunday morning kick-off time clearly works best when playing other teams in their league from the Zagreb conurbation, as was the case today. An acne of teenagers with squeaky horns from Ponikve gathered at the far end of the seating, perched on the fence that runs behind it. Before kick off they began singing their songs, some of which appeared to be about Dinamo Zagreb - one assumes in a positive sense.

Their version of ‘Guantanamera’ did, however, appear to reference “Ponikve Zagreb”, while another chant followed the tune of Auld Lang Syne. Another chant seemed to be “Tony Greig, Tony Greig” but I’m assuming that’s down to my tinnitus-pinched hearing rather than the South Africa-leavin’, West Indies-baitin’, “wilcome to ah telecawst”-sayin’ former England cricket captain actually being a major celebrity out here.

The teams came out and, as is the European style, lined up together as one single string. However rather than face the stand, they stood looking straight into the eyes of those on the dug-out benches on the far-side, those whose starting places they have commandeered. Given this stand-off, it’s a genuine surprise that they don’t start flicking V’s and bogies at each other.

The teams then did their intros, with high fives all round. At this point, several faces appeared over the far-side wall, it being shallow enough at points to not even require a box for standing on. Inside the ground, some paying spectators choose to eschew the seats, still wet from the previous days rain, and stand behind the gate-end goal, faces pressed up against the fencing, thus running the significant risk of getting some reverb squarely in the mush from the kids booting a football repeatedly against the far end of it.

As might be expected at this level, it’s pretty physical and while generally the pace of the Croatian game is somewhere between measured Italian and frantic British, you can be sure of a few good old doggers in the lower leagues wherever you go, with plenty of ankle-tapping going on in the early stages.

Four guys went to stand near the teenage away support to bellow a few songs of their own. Two nippers, both about the size of an office fire extinguisher, stood with them to join, one of them by rapping on a toy snare drum tied round his neck with string, the other by blowing on a kazoo/comb n’ paper-like instrument that looked like a toppled beer can.

On the field, both sides looked to be having some trouble getting into the game, giving the ball away on a regular basis. There were no real chances until the 22nd minute when a Trnje centre-half powered a header wide. At this point a Trnje fan borrowed the kid’s can-horn thing, leant over the fence and blew it right into the passing linesman’s ear.

Chances came at both ends prior to half-time, with the home side largely having the better of it; the Ponikve keeper having to make a couple of fine saves. The second half began much as the first had finished; a Trnje striker breaking through the defence, rounded the keeper but had been drawn wide so that after firing into the mix, the ball was easily cleared. Trnje’s momentum was building, passing the ball around with confidence, one shot from twenty yards curving wide of the far post, another causing the keeper to athletically tip the ball over (see picture above).

Shots were flying in from all over, but to no avail as against the run of play, Ponikve stormed straight up the other end and placed the ball past the keeper to take an unexpected lead. Now bristling with confidence themselves, Ponikve then began to press for a second. Their tall left-back, apparently Cristiano Ronaldo after an overdose of growth hormones, capitalised on a slip before executing a handsome outside-of-the-boot lob that was heading for the top corner before the keeper managed to get back and paw the ball away.

It was the keepers who were to remain at centre stage as the Ponikve keeper had to achieve similar acrobatics two minutes later. Yet his team almost wrapped it up in the last moments with Trnje stretched, a midfielder speeding into the box before sidefooting a shot that spun across goal and wide.

Thus, 1-0 to the away side it finished; one of the small boys that had been kicking around behind the goal forlornly climbing the ladder up the side of the clubhouse to pack away the scoreboard numbers. Trnje aren’t safe from relegation yet, only five points ahead of Klanjec and Schiedel in the zone, which may explain the rather gloomy statement graffitied onto a side gate (see above).

My friend on the gate doesn’t seem too perturbed though, giving my shoulder a hearty slap on my way out and asking “good?” “Yeah, good” I say, assuming we’re talking about the general NK Trnje experience. If we’re talking about the result, I may just have broken his heart.

ds 80s/90s: Alan McLoughlin

First in a new feature. Before I was hooked by Havant & Waterlooville back in 1999, I had spent several years notionally following Southampton, for reasons I will go into at a later date.

When I was a kid, between the ages of 8 and 14, I was quite fervorous about it, despite only going to The Dell once or twice a season on average. Nowadays I care not a jot about them Saints having totally moved on, which does call into question that initial 'passion'. Not that I regret it, I just wish I'd discovered H&W , or rather Havant Town as it would have been, a lot earlier.

Living in Havant, life would have been much easier if I'd followed Portsmouth, but then again if I followed that path, I probably wouldn't be following H&W now, so perhaps it was part of some kind of grand scheme.

However, it was quite an obsession back in the mid-to-late 80's and early 90's; keeping scrapbooks and all sorts. One regular gambit of mine was to badger players with questionairres and requests for autographs. Having rediscovered these in a the back of dusty cupboard recently, its time they were put to some vague use.

These will appear every now and then, giving you the opportunity to delve into the psyche of pre-Premier League top-flight footballers, or at the very least realise that, even from that early age, it was very clear that I was not cut out for incisive journalism.

However, you will find out that Iain Dowie equated his Masters degree to the goal he scored against Crystal Palace that enabled Luton to avoid relegation; that Jimmy Case liked to call Tim Flowers 'George from Blackadder' and that Neil Ruddock hated Orville, but liked writing with a thick permanent marker.

You will also come to realise that I found the fact that Saints had two Russians in their squad almost mystically exotic. Which is quite revealing, I guess, when you consider the average Premiership squad nowadays.

To begin with though, we've gone with a man who played for both Southampton and Portsmouth (as well as the Rep of Ireland of course), Alan McLoughlin. What made him tick in December 1990?

Would you still have joined Saints if Swindon hadn't been in financial difficulties?
Yes, because Southampton is a very good attractive attacking First Division side, which will hopefully fit in well with my style of football.

Who signed you for Swindon?
Lou Macari

Who was your favourite player asa [sic] lad?
Asa Hartford, Stuart Pearson.

Favourite team?
2 teams. Man Utd & City.

Did you like playing under Ossie Ardiles?
Yes, very much.

What were yout thoughts when you were picked to go to Italy?
Excitement at going to the greatest footballing venue in the world.

Do you collect football memorobelia [sic]?
Yes

What other sports do you like to watch?
Everything apart from show-jumping

What do you think of the price you were bought for [£1m]?
I don't take to [sic] much notice of the price, that is resolved by the two clubs. I will concentrate on performing well for Saints.

How did it feel to be let go by Manchester United?
Naturally disappointing but realised at the time, I was not good enough to make it into the first team.

Who do you look forward to playing with at The Dell?
All the staff of players.

Do you have a collection of opposing shirts from big games?
Yes

Do you keep a personal record of your performances?
No

How will it feel linking up with Russians (Alexei Cherednik and Sergei Gotsmanov)?
[Unanswered]

What is your favourite TV programme?
Too many to mention.

Do you like to see videos of your performances?
Only if they are good games, but its good to look at your nightmare games and try to learn from all the mistakes you made.

Would you have liked to play for England?
Opportunity never arose, never was selected for England Youth trials etc

Did you want to leave Swindon?
Yes, at some stage of my career, of course.

Have you ever wanted to play abroad?
No, not really.

Thanks Alan

from Skiffoid Action, aged 12

Alan McLoughlin @ Wikipedia

Marathon

I’ve never really understood why people would go to watch Formula 1 motor racing. The cars whip past at outrageous-mph and they’re gone as soon as they’ve arrived, albeit about seventy times in succession. I’ve had much the same thought about cycling and distance running and, yet, being here in London has afforded me several opportunities to test my prejudice since I’ve been here.

Firstly, the Tour de France came through, I popped down, the peloton passed in about twenty seconds, and I went home. Then the Olympic Torch came over Tower Bridge just as I happened to be passing. Suppressing the apparently natural urge to ditch my shopping and wrestle it from the hands of the carrier I watched for twenty seconds, sighed, and went home.

So, I wouldn’t ordinarily have turned out for the marathon but seeing as I was living, at the time, about fifty yards from the Highway, it would have been particularly stubborn of me not to have a look, particularly as one of my Hawk chums was undertaking it. At least at this point you get to see two lanes worth of runners, being the main point where the route comes back on itself.

Thus if you miss the man dressed as a toilet as he heads east towards Limehouse at mile 13, you might at least catch him coming back towards the City at mile 22.

This is where the marathon is different. The star names are not really the big deal. It’s mainly about it being amateur hour, everyday folks undergoing a raw test of endurance and stamina. I can barely run twenty-six feet before collapsing in a sodden heap, so to see these folks running, often because they want to help lever a few quid in a charity bin, is quite inspiring.

Certainly, after the elite have passed, an espirit du corps appears to envelop both the runners and those watching from the sidelines. We cheer on uncelebrated Sunday joggers we’ve never met nor will again simply because they’ve Tippexed the name ‘Justin’ onto their blue running top. Know the name, connect with the person.

It is why those running for Macmillan have their green t-shirts whitewashed with the name in huge letters; their support group screaming and cheering for them individually as they pass. It is the presence of the boisterous Macmillan support group that makes the atmosphere, down around the Cannon Street Road turn off on the Highway, all the more captivating. I had intended to pop-out for half an hour, but ended up staying for two.

Keeping things interesting are the more outlandish types, peppered throughout the more commonly dressed runners to keep things visually interesting: The Masai warriors gambolling along in a weightless fashion, like a family of goats chasing after a bus; a guy wearing just underpants and a bow-tie running as though trying to keep a bead of back sweat from dribbling down his rectal cleft; rhino after rhino and that toilet-attired man running for Water Aid.

The time flies by watching all this, and when watching the non-elite, it’s not about seeing a winner or a battle, it’s about doffing a cap to human spirit. Not that every sight you see is particularly edifying. I had been well aware of the concept of chapped lips and joggers nipple. However, I had never really considered the concept of joggers cock.

Standing in the middle or the road, between the two streams of runners were a number of St John’s Ambulance workers fingers outstretched with blobs of Vaseline for people to swipe as they passed should they need to. Most of the female runners used it to sort out their lips. One guy though, a big ball of a man, in short shorts that revealed exactly which way he dressed, as they would have done had they been sported by an ant, decided to sort out his chaffage round the, err, home counties in full view of everyone. Even the Macmillan team quietened down a little as he reached down inside his get-up not gingerely and discreetly, but like a drawmaster attempting to play-fair in a high-stakes tombola raffle or perhaps someone trying to retrieve a sock from behind a radiator.

Still, for every glimpse of the male pubic tuft, there’s something quite inspiring about witnessing the marathon. After all, where else in life would one get to shout, “Go giant pasty! Go!”

Cambridge University Blues 4 Territorial Army 0

24feb08
Friendly
Grange Road, Cambridge
att. 10 (approx.)

Hobo in my pocket #18


>>new music stuff, also appearing on the Art of Noise

High Places.
Dalston Café OTO. 31may08.

Behind their trestle table console, Rob Barber can relatively calmly jep and bwat at his electro-drum box, and Mary Pearson, stood close by singing softly, is also caught within a tranquil twitch.

High Places’ percussive bent is certainly the first impression they emboss upon an audience, the polyrhythms created by Barber’s beats and the gentle rattle of the backing tracks intertwining like competing vines adopting different spirals to ascend the same drainpipe.

Pearson adds to the shake and shickle with a bracelet of bells and while her contributions, including a yielding but deadpan vocal that merges seamlessly with the general ethereality, are festive and fairytale, the combination with beats of tribal repetition as well as of Soca-like steel-drum abandon make their set like the early stages of some enchanted freakout.

High Places’ sound is both of land and sea. When watery, they are like a depth-diluted Coral Reef Cantina Band, the vocals often largely hidden in the mix due to the rippling belly-splash of the drum-work. At other times, it has a sprightly seclusion, like an isolated forest, but one that has not been naturally created; a kind of woodland mechanics where dandelion seeds tickle like toddlers yet also scrape the skin like bright new pins.


New Bloods.
Dalston Barden’s Boudoir. 24may08.

It is with a juvenescent coyness that New Bloods assume their positions, circling around one mic to the left of the stage, like a young, feminine Travelling Wilburys given to hanging around the kids playground after dark for exclusive use of the swings.

They begin with a short acapella number that barely acknowledges its audience, butyet instantly captures their attention. Perhaps it is the frailty and the honesty of the human voice working alone, or in delicate harmony, that makes it so much harder to ignore than instruments amplified to inner-ear troubling levels. To open with this suggests New Bloods know how to pace a set.

Falling into their more usual role as players, they still use their three voices to good effect, working with and against each other as each situation sees fit. However it is bassist Cassia Gammill who is the regular lead immersing a robust vocal anchor to the click and flip rhythms that smooth the serrations of post-punk and dub-soul and slides them alongside the unpolluted, endeavour-driven folk-funk.

They are a school assembly !!!; a Gil Scot Heron if he was to become sonneteer-in-residence at K Records; an Electrelane for a relatively sedate venture scout campfire freakout. While the non-linear escapades of Adee Robertson’s drumming and the keen sweep of Osa Atoe’s violin might occasionally start to blur songs together, they have a sound which can fuse the responses of the head, heart and feet, which is by no means an easy combination to get right.

High Places @ MySpace
New Bloods @ MySpace