Dinamo Zagreb
graffiti courtesy the 'Bad Blue Boys' of the Trnje district

Hobo in my pocket #27


from the Vanity Project archive (#15, August 2005)

a.P.A.t.T. – (L.P.) (Lowsley Sound/Apehat)
Hidden well beyond the main body of this debut long-player, around track 66, after a number of short and silent pieces (things are too deliberate and heavy on the mise en scene in the a.P.A.t.T. world for these to be referred to as gaps), is around half an hour of haunted chanting that echoes off the cold stone floors of the cathedral but also captures the spiriting power of deepest African vocal ceremony en route. It is mesmerising, particularly after the J-pop, post-rock, glam-booted, hardwarin’, hardcore, lounge funk suffocating, homicidal frenzied, Ubu-dub, Dali-esque death metal juxtapositions of ‘(L.P.)’ Proper. Some might have it that this is music off the beaten track but, if anything, these tracks are often beaten, cuffed and slapped into serene obedience. At one moment it can be lucid and collected, at another panicked into extreme violence. This machine takes hostages.

guestSteps: Heart of Midlothian 0 Hibernian 1

07may09
Scottish Premier League
Tynecastle Stadium, Edinburgh
att. 14,781

A dubSteps debut! We like to blood the new boys in pre-season. Then again, our author today has made several appearances in these pages before. When I write about things I have discussed with, or have been said by, a Mr Ketchup, I am referring to m’ very good Hawk chum Mark Cooper. Now, for the first time, without misrepresentation by me, you get Mr Ketchup in the raw. Enjoy.

Having booked what has become an annual trip to Scotland for the week following the end of the Conference South season, safe in the knowledge that the Hawks were out of play-off contention (we booked this back in February). Mind you, I missed our play off first leg against Braintree two seasons ago and last season there was always the chance that we would succeed in our late charge for the top five with booked onto the sleeper coming home from Inverness on play-off final evening. As such, I was determined to find some football to watch whilst on our travels this time.

Having scoured various Scottish non-league websites I was beginning the despair, but thankfully the much maligned (and rightly so) Setanta came to my rescue. Whilst watching their news channel, the rolling ticker revealed that yet again they were messing around with the fixture list and had moved the last Edinburgh derby of the season to the traditional football evening of Thursday. The Thursday we were in Edinburgh. Result.

The only thing now was to persuade my long suffering wife that this would be a cracking way to spend the last evening of our break. After a lot of hard work and no little help from various people in the tourist information office and the Hearts club shop, she was finally won over and two £30 seats in the Wheatfield stand were purchased.

Tynecastle is situated in the Grogie area of Auld Reekie, a thirty minute walk to the south west of the city centre, trying not to look too much like a tourist. I’d sussed out the route and fortunately we soon spotted people wearing colours who seem to be heading the same way to we found the ground without too much trouble.

Tynecastle’s record crowd is 53,000, obviously this was pre-Taylor and apparently it was a pretty basic ground with a main stand, a standing paddock in front and three sides of open terracing. The three open sides have now been replaced by three identical all-seat stands, the most noticeable thing was the rake of the seats, and without doubt the steepest stand I have ever been in. The advantage of this being that the view is superb.

I must now confess that I have always had a soft spot for Hibs, mainly because I always, as a child, had a keen interest in football shirts. Arsenal shirts in green and white were certainly that.

As we entered the ground the thing that struck me was the noise, and it was LOUD, and without the use of an annoying tannoy to try to whip things up either. I doubt this game needs that. As the teams were read out the Hearts fans were particularly keen to let the Hibs centre-forward Derek Riordan have a welcome.

The game got underway with Hearts dominating the early exchanges but the Hibs keeper, the marvellously named Yves Ma-Kalamby, kept them out. Yves was on the end of some banter as he had by all accounts gifted Hearts a win at Easter Road in the Scottish Cup earlier in the season and at times seemed to want to do the same thing again with some hairy penalty area dribbling and some ‘interesting’ clearances. However, Hearts couldn’t make the breakthrough and Hibs, who were missing 10 first choice players, started to grow in confidence and could have taken the lead through the much abused Riordan, whose run and curling shot brought the save of the game from Marian Kello in the Hearts goal.

It was not really a surprise that half time was reached goalless as Hearts had decided that they were going to play like a Conference South side for the evening. I don’t wish to be hyper critical but surely players in the country’s Premier division should be able to trap the ball as Hearts’ Bruno Aguiar failed to do on no less than three occasions, and he was one of their better players. The full back Eggert Jonsson lasted 33 minutes before he was hooked off.

The second half continued in the same vain for the home team, but Hibs worked out that the game was there for the taking and looked the most likely scorers, attacking the end where their 1500 or so fans were gathered. These fans had been singing when we got into the ground at 7:25 and were still going strong 15 minutes after the final whistle. They didn’t bother stopping at half time either.

They got the winner with 12 minutes to go when much to the chagrin of the home fans Riordan got through on goal and was brought down by Karipidis, one of the Hearts’ Lithuanian contingent, a penalty was awarded and Karipidis tunnelled. Riordan stepped up and sent Kello the wrong way.

Then it all started, having given his own fans a wave, Riordan then headed for the stand we were in and gave the Jambo’s the finger over the lip. Three Hearts fans got onto the pitch to discuss things with him. Two were grabbed before they got him, but the other managed to land one on the ref who was trying to get the miscreant Hibee away to restart the game. The local paper went to town on them the following morning.

I’m surprised the Hearts fans saw this as such a crime as going back to the late 80’s/early 90’s they gave hero status to a signing they made from England who did the same thing having grabbed the winner at Easter Road. Then again, Ian Baird never did have any class.

Mark Cooper

Heart of Midlothian website
Hibernian website

guestSteps: Abingdon Town 0 Winchester City 2

28mar09
Southern League Division 1 South & West
Northcourt Stadium, Abingdon
att. 101*

Ben, our Newcastle-supporting chum currently exiled in Oxfordshire, threw himself into the Southern League Scarf & Vest again back in March, having not been put off by his first go, and once again comes across a former Hawk. This time it was Chris Tardif who appeared briefly in the 1999/2000 season on loan from Portsmouth. Thus our terrace chant “One f’n Tardif, There’s Only One F In Tardif” has re-entered my mind’s ear. So, thanks to Ben for that, and another excellent read.

My second skinny-dip into the murky pool of the Southern League Division 1 South & West this season, and once again it’s a case of inopportune timing. Having decided to pay a visit to Didcot Town’s Loop Meadow stadium in early November for what turned out to be a 0-1 home defeat to Totton, I missed out on the thrilling derby match against Abingdon Utd a couple of weeks later, which ended 5-4 to Town. And now here I am at United to discover I’ve missed the return fixture by a week – a 2-2 draw, with the home side fighting back thanks to a dodgy penalty according to the Town website. Strangely, the United website makes no mention of there being any controversy…

Oh well, you take what you’re given – and in this case that’s the visit of Winchester City, bottom of the league and largely expected to be easy pickings for lower-mid-table United even without their leading scorer Anaclet Odhiambo. It doesn’t quite pan out that way.

United can hardly be accused of complacency, as City don’t even allow them the luxury of catching their breath from kick-off and have a header chalked off for offside within the first ten minutes. That said, the visitors may be sporting black and red stripes made famous by AC Milan (did the Italians borrow the design just as Juventus took inspiration from Notts County, I wonder?) but the two sides couldn’t be easily confused, and the game settles into more of a shouting contest than a football match.

City’s left-back is so youthful he’s swamped in his full-size shirt and looks in constant danger of tripping over his umbilical cord, but thankfully for him one of the centre-halves is on hand, telling him constantly where to be and what to do like a well-meaning but overbearing parent. I half expect him to come over at one point, rub the corner of the wee mite’s mouth with a handkerchief and ask him if he’s got his dinner money.

The two ‘keepers briefly take centre stage – City’s ex Oxford Utd custodian Chris Tardif smothering a trundling shot and his opposite number Sam Warrell lucky to get away with making trying to catch a routine corner look like trying to catch a Teflon-coated eel – but then the weather takes over. The game may have kicked off in bright spring sunshine, but now we get wind, then rain, and then a flurry of hailstones so large that the players could be forgiven for thinking its multi-ball. Us hardy few in the stands shuffle into the central area and huddle together to avoid the elements, the hail rattling on the corrugated metal roof so loudly that it drowns out even the players’ shouts.

When the storm subsides, the playing surface is left greasier than an estate agent dipped in chip fat, and it’s City who capitalise, a low shot from John Docker skidding underneath Warrell and into the back of the net. This is the alarm call United needed and they belatedly wake up, but their crossing is poor and City remain the more threatening side on the break.

I head into the clubhouse at half-time for a swift pint, parting with the princely sum of £3.45 and admiring all the memorabilia that adorns the walls – signed shirts, pictures, scarves and pendants relating to the England ’66 squad, Aston Villa, Arsenal, Pele, Beckham, Juninho, Jimmy Greaves, Pat Jennings and, er, local lad Matt Taylor. As the start of the second period draws near, a couple of older gents rearrange the chairs in the window so they can sit and watch the rest of the game in warmth and comfort, like knotted-hankied pensioners looking out to sea at Bournemouth.

Early United pressure subsides and, with the game reverting back to being the very epitome of short-on-goalmouth-incident, the home side make a double substitution. One of the players hauled off is no surprise, the lanky striker having shown as much grasp of the offside rule as Joey Barton has of professionalism.

Two players to catch the eye are no-nonsense United defender Richard Peirson, who has a solidity that isn’t fatness and who looks like a gentle giant of a farm labourer, and the City midfielder referred to as “Pedro” by his team-mates, a stocky and creative dynamo with flowing locks and a headband who counterbalances the tricksy Docker on the other flank and who’s unlucky to see his hooked left-foot shot drift wide.

Arguably United’s best chance of the afternoon falls to young sub Pablo Haysham, but he clips his close-range shot straight into Tardif's arms. (Later, in the bar, I’ll hear him telling his mates it was his first shot on target for the first team, and that he didn’t realise it was such a good opportunity.)

To my left, I notice a man in a deerstalker scribbling notes – presumably for the report which will appear on one of the clubs’ sites. Lacking any headgear at all, I feel shamefully underdressed. Meanwhile, behind me and to the right is a City supporter who seems to have a curious and immensely irritating form of Tourettes whereby he can’t utter a sentence without tacking the word “mush” onto the end of it. Even though I’m nominally rooting for United, it comes as something of a blessed relief when the visitors get the killer second – a fluent move involving Pedro finished off with a neat turn and shot by Jones Awuah – and he buggers off, satisfied the game’s won.

Peirson is pushed up front for the final few minutes but to no avail, and the rowdier elements among the home support console themselves by chanting “Going down, going down, going down” at the visitors. Not if they can notch up a few more comfortable victories like this they won’t be.**

No post-match Lucozade Sport for the players – it’s straight on the beers in the clubhouse. Peirson has a pint of Guinness waiting for him on the bar in time for the kick-off of the England v Slovakia friendly. Bar snacks arrive on cue too – given the price of the lager, I’ve been anticipating prawn sandwiches and antipasti, but no, it seems someone at the club has a soft spot for Kerry Katona because the onion bhajis, spring rolls and cream-cheese-filled jalapenos in breadcrumbs all have the unmistakeable air of Iceland about them.

A lively debate about the David Beckham “roadshow” erupts next to me, one bloke making the argument-winning claim that “he’s only in the squad because he’s got a haircut”; someone I could swear is Ron Mael of Sparks turns up to contemplate others’ conversations in silence; there’s a cheer for another chap who comes in with his dog, announcing triumphantly “She’s gone into hospital early so I’m free to do what I want”. I leave them settling in for the night and head out the door, reflecting on the fact that Abingdon Utd can be added to Cardiff, Didcot Town, Gillingham and Newcastle in the list of clubs I’ve managed to curse by my mere presence this season.

* Just to clarify, the attendees were all humans, not dalmations.

** Er, they were.

Ben Woolhead

Links
Abingdon Town website
Winchester City website

guestSteps: CSKA Moscow 1 Shakhtar Donetsk 0

12mar09
UEFA Cup Round of 16
Luzhniki Stadium, Moscow
Att. 19,700

Adrian has been on his travels again, and he rubs our noses in it once more with this fine report from the UEFA Cup's Round of 16, a title that manages to be both portentous and modest all at once.

As we set off for the Luzhniki I was rubbing my hands together for two reasons: firstly at the prospect of a classic encounter of European football, secondly, because I was so, so, cold. And it was only -5c.

The subway journey across rush hour Moscow was an experience in itself. We had our map, we knew where we wanted to go, and we knew where to change. The only problem was that it was all in Cyrillic. I had a nice subway map with colour coding and stations in Cyrillic and Roman text, but no, all logic was thrown to one side on realisation that there was no colour coding inside the subway, and that each colour (which we couldn’t read) had a corresponding line number. So it was time for a fun game of match the symbols. “If we take the line where the first stop has the first letter which looks like a beta but with a line through it...” This wasn’t helped by the mass overcrowding on the platforms and carriages. Russians being just as cold as their weather when it comes to hospitality meant that there was plenty of barging and pushing with no regard for anyone’s personal space, and that was just the elderly women. Surprisingly we were ruthlessly efficient and got to the Luzhniki with ease.

As we stepped into the bitterly cold evening from the subway station we were greeted by security. Big Russian military security, with the traditional fur hat and trench coat combo. That was frisk number one. In our clan was myself, Tracy the Kiwi, and Joe and Rick from Romford. Tracy and I had already bought tickets earlier in the day for the bargain price of £8 (yes my friends, UEFA Cup action for less than an in at Havant & ‘Ville), so we waited for Joe and Rick to queue for theirs. I scoped out the people around me, expecting to see gnarly Russian men out for a brawl with some unwilling Ukrainians, but I was wrong. There were women, hot women; trophy wives no doubt, and a lot of them. I thought football in Russia would be a male dominated affair, but women and children were in abundance.

It was then time for more frisking. As we entered a barrier channel there was more frisking from a big Ruski, and then further frisking at the end of the channel. A short walk later and we were greeted with more frisking at the turnstiles, by this time I just said, “Awww, who’s for a hug?” that guy certainly was. Fumbling our way through the electronic turnstile we found ourselves inside the warmth of the stadium concourse. Desperate for something warm to eat or drink, I looked at the food available and nothing in particular looked too appealing, until a small crowd caught my eye. Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce to you, corn on the cob at football. Good times.

We then climbed the steps to take our seats, and it was time for the fifth and final frisking. I thought this club was about the Vagner Love, not the man love. I had high expectations of the atmosphere. CSKA actually stands for “Central Sports Club of the Army”, which conjured up visions of military like crowds chanting passionately in unison. Nope. Reading a match preview, Moscow midfielder Evgeni Aldonin was quoted as saying: "Russia against Ukraine is a big football rivalry and the Luzhniki game will be no exception." Hmm, perhaps there are some exceptions Evgeni? To be fair, creating an atmosphere in a 78,000 capacity stadium with an attendance of around 20,000 was always going to be a tall order. Perhaps the CSKA fans decided it was so tall an order, they wouldn’t bother in the first place.

The game kicked off and was almost as stale as the atmosphere. Few chances to speak of and very little to get excited about. I tell a lie- half time was worth getting excited about. I was so cold it hurt; half time would provide an opportunity to shiver in the concourse and huddle together with my comrades. It seemed protocol, as most of the supporters followed suit. The second half showed promise with Vagner Love striking a penalty on 50min after Răzvan Raţ fouled Miloš Krasić inside the box. The promise then diminished into another dreary spell of football, in the icy cold. Did I mention it was cold?

The referee blew for full time and that was that. Moscow would take a 1-0 lead to the Ukraine for the return leg. As with sports events at home, I was expecting the departing crowd to be filtered into the subway by metal crash barriers. Russia uses a similar concept. However, rather than using barriers the Luzhniki used military personnel. F***ing scary military personal. Lines and lines of trench coats with mighty batons tucked inside their belts fed the supporters on their way, with their piercing eyes staring dead ahead. They were young, probably on national service, but you would never want to mess with these mother truckers. Needless to say everyone behaved exquisitely.

Adrian Lord

Cambridge University Press 4 Littleport Town 1

02may09
Cambridgeshire County League
The CASS Centre, Cambridge
att. 28*

As you sweep into Cambridge station, you pass the massive buildings of the Cambridge University Press lining the track. Clearly, this is not a couple-of-dusty-old-fellas-in-moon-spectacles-working-away-on-a-Gutenberg kind of operation. Indeed, the Press is celebrating its 425th anniversary in 2009. This is the anniversary of continuous publishing anyway, it being 475 years since King Henry VIII stopped divorcin’ and beheadin’ long enough to sign off a ‘Letters Patent’ to the University allowing them to print “all manner of books”. Wikipedia ends its quote from the original Patent document there, missing out the King's all important addendum ‘(preferably filthy)’.

It is in the grounds behind these buildings, in the large Wonka-esque walled community, that Cambridge University Press FC play, in a modern facility built for purpose. The CASS Centre’s glass heavy pavilion is a little removed from the pitch, largely because the field is also used for cricket meaning the football arena is half-permanent-barriered, and half-roped-off.

Coming into the grounds through the ostentatious gates, the CASS being a bit further along behind some buildings, the rest of this Vatican City of print is tranquil and a little eerie for it. It is as if someone had once shouted “STOP THE PRESSES!” and all the workers took this as their cue to flee Cambridgeshire. Turning the corner to the sports arena, there were a few cars around, and the teams were beginning their warm-ups.

As I climbed the steps up to the empty bar, CUP officials were working through the fees and mileage claims of the referee and his assistants. Beneath the balcony someone was asking if anyone fancied a game of cricket the next day. There is a distinct ‘club’ atmosphere about the place certainly, like those involved have been around since old King ‘Enery last contemplated a ‘naughty’ parchment. Or at least since the club’s formation in 1893.

“Got any match balls”, asked one of the linesmen. “Yeah we’ve got two” replied a Press official, “we did have three but Ely [City Reserves] nicked our other one”. As a result of this, throughout the game, the Press assistant manager constantly had to run behind the far goal to retrieve the strays, after quickly throwing on the spare.

Based on this, you’d imagine the Cambridgeshire League wasn’t exactly high octane. Had you watched the first half an hour of the game, which went by chanceless, you’d have rubber-stamped that first thought as hard fact. Perhaps this is what this level (step seven of the pyramid, thus the eleventh of English football overall) is supposed to be about: leafy environs; a transient crowd that dribbles in and out (this game having a crowd fluctuating between about 25 and 45); the sound of a successful appeal in a cricket match happening a couple of fields along; and a league from which ‘promotion’ is rare and thus naturally less intense.

The last team to be accepted by the Eastern Counties League Division One were Fulbourn Institute in 2005 but they only lasted a season before withdrawing over ground-grading issues and dropping to the Cambridgeshire League’s second tier. However, they have worked their way back up and are this years Premier Division champions. Whether they are yet ready or willing to have another crack at Step 6 is not yet clear.

So, with not much to play for in this game, aside from the home side looking to pip Lakenheath to second place, it all made for a relaxing neutral watch, but we can partly blame the ever present sunshine for that. I bet this place, without any cover or hard standing, doesn’t feel anywhere near as hospitable in mid January but I’m a sucker for the lower rungs when it’s May and pleasantly balmy. Ordinarily I wouldn’t watch football at this level, particularly in a pyramid league which contains (*cough, spit*) reserve teams (this division housing Histon A, as well as Ely and Newmarket’s stiffs) but there’s something about a team named after an academic book publishers that has long intrigued me.

In the end, the Press were good for their clear dominance and better standard of play. They finally broke the deadlock after 35 minutes, and in fine style. Caught in the corner, a Press midfielder impressively flipped the ball up over the defenders allowing substitute Lee Crick to knock it forward with an outstretched toe. With space on his side he was able to tap it past the keeper.

Within a minute of that, they’d made it two, a shot from the edge of the box curving past the keeper’s dive. Following this a group of shirtless blokes turned up tapping a few balls around. It turned out these were members of Cambridge’s reserve side who would start their match against Fowlmere, in the Cambridgeshire League’s Division 2 A, on the pitch the moment the first team had cleared off. There was still a further 45 to get through though, but it all passed comfortably for the home side. After a brief period of Littleport pressure, the away side were suckered by a 50th minute third, Press’ bustling, heavy-duty midfielder crashing through before threading a pass that could be slotted comparatively easily home.

Not long after Press’s left back crashed a rocket shot against the underside of the bar which bounced up and hit Littleport’s keeper but, luckily for him, spun wide of the post. Undeterred, Littleport did manage to pull one back against the run of play on the hour. A lovely cross was levered in with an outstretched foot, to the sound of much moaning about off-side.

CUPFC’s sealer came in the 64th minute and in comical fashion. Press’s right back strolled into the box before threading a pass across the six yard area. Not that any of his team-mates got anywhere near the ball, Littleport’s keeper having got their first to artfully palm it in through his own legs. A 4-1 win wasn’t good enough to lift them to second however, Lakenheath having won their final game against Waterbeach 3-2.

Press’ reserves also, I gather, won emphatically in their game afterwards, their score being 5-2. This was a result to be celebrated by football fans everywhere if only for the fact that Fowlmere had turned up in a kit that had had all the life Persilled out of it and which suggested they had taken a photograph of Peter Shilton’s crinkle cut neon-yellow and black jersey from the 1988 European Championships into their local strip wholesaler and asked, “now, we like this, but have you got anything slightly less tasteful?”

Mind you, Littleport turned up in a rather elegant green, and took a similar beating. It seems it doesn’t matter what you wear, just as long as you are there. For the majority of this game, Littleport didn’t appear to be in the vicinity at all, allowing CUPFC to just walk through them. Their players would have done well to take some inspiration, prior to kick off, from the Chinese government. Those fellas wouldn’t have allowed the Press anywhere near as much freedom.

*rough guess which takes into consideration the club officials and reserve team players turning up for their game.

Links
Cambridge University Press FC website
Littleport Town website