Swindon Town vs Leyton Orient

Swindon Town 2 - 2 Leyton Orient   (3.5.2015)

In all my travels, I have never found myself in a settlement as unappealingly glum as Swindon. It could not possibly be as bad as everyone says, I naively thought. The town of which I have heard universally bad things, alas, lives up to its ugly reputation.

The County Ground itself, home of the Robins (the third club I have recently visited with the same nickname), is a solidly respectable structure, yet on its doorstep lies endless rows of featureless suburban terracing. Even from the initial sight of the central train station - which appears to have taken a wrong turn from its rightful home in 1950s Yugoslavia - any travelling supporter can experience first-hand how privileged they are to originate from anywhere other than here. It is this characterless corner of Wiltshire to which successive governments, and any right-minded civilian, have averted their gaze and left it to ruin.

Believe it or not, Premier League football once graced this dire dwelling and even, no matter how improbably, entertained the indulgent finesse of Glenn Hoddle as player-manager. A 2-2 scoreline with champions Manchester United was one of the few highlights in a season where the team conceded 100 goals and immediately descended back to the lower reaches.

Despite far more modest fare in recent times, the club is currently riding a crest towards the upper tiers. Mark Cooper’s squad entered this final contest of the regular season with a play-off spot already secured. Visitors Leyton Orient, on the other hand, had their survival in League One at stake, with only a win enough to keep them up depending on results elsewhere.

As it was, Swindon started with a weakened team ahead of their crucial clash with Sheffield United and got what they deserved for their complacency. After endless attempts at the fruitless endeavour of passing across their back line, the home side were caught out on numerous occasions by elementary forward pressing. The Orient strikers didn’t need to be Alan Turing to break this goal kick code, and so it proved when possession was lost and the onrushing forward was brought down by ‘keeper Tyrell Belford.

Once the obvious penalty was given and guilty culprit rightfully dismissed, a quick substitution replaced one Belford for another. Cameron spared his brother’s blushes by saving the ensuing spot kick from Lloyd James, leaving the Londoners to rue their wastefulness. Spurred on by their predicament, the visitors continued to dominate and missed a flurry of ribbon-tied opportunities until Dean Cox eventually struck from a rare piece of fluent football.

This warning wound remained untreated by the higher-placed team, who continued to fanny about with the ball in their most vulnerable area of the pitch. Veteran defender Sam Ricketts, to whom the words ‘ace dribbler’ have never been ascribed, found the ball perilously at his feet more often than anyone else. In fairness, the Bolton loanee has been one of Town’s star performers this season but any tactical nouse in how he is deployed appears non-existent.

After the break, more pseudo-Barca’ trampling created unnecessary pressure, ultimately leading to the away side’s second. Chris Dagnall, who had continually danced across the red-jersey lines but delivered little of substance, suddenly found a spark of quality long enough to bury the ball in the netting and double the advantage.

Long before then, the gloating of the disappointed Swindon support had begun towards their doomed opponents. In football grounds across the globe you have to put up with a certain level of idiocy from fellow fans; sometimes they genuinely can’t help it. But, here I was, surrounded by needlessly smug fools who felt the need to incessantly taunt the away section with celebrations of their likely demise, in spite of the situation on the field.

Although some punters will argue that this was merely traditional ‘banter’, the obvious note of childish, petulant relish was obvious to my neutral sensibilities. Malice and ignorance serve to reflect whatever bad grace inflicts this fan base. If it was local rivals Oxford United I would understand; how cash-strapped Orient deserve such humiliation in these parts is anyone’s guess.

Glenn Hoddle: his haircut never matches its surroundings.

By some unfortunate mistake, I had found myself in the supposed ultras section of the stadium for the first time. I did have one close call before then in Newport, where overhearing the words “When does the drummer get here?” mercifully saved me from a potentially migraine-inducing experience. Indeed, a quick twenty yard glide across a terrace can usually make a surprising difference.

It is a requirement for everyone to sit for the duration of the match, announced the tannoy system prior to kick off at the County Ground.  Well, not a single person in the Town End lowered themselves to their plastic chairs in the entire ninety minutes. Is there a point, therefore, in maintaining seating behind the goal where I was situated? Without safe terracing a certain casual joy is lost within that abstract notion which corporate-types tend to label ‘the matchday experience’. This all-seater venue remains a token relic of the post-Hillsborough changes to top-flight sport. Now that the ground plays host to much less enthusiastic gates, however, the system is pointless and outdated.

Back on the pitch, ten-man Swindon brought themselves level in the second half with goals from Anton Rodgers and Andy Williams. Two substitutions led to their dramatic improvement, so much so that, by the concluding stages, the cockney travellers were relieved to be going down without a departing defeat.

By the end of this Sunday lunchtime fixture, my sympathies were firmly rooted with the demoted club. When the time comes that Swindon once more follow a descent in soccer’s fatefully cyclical lifespan, my sense of justice hopes they taste retribution in the form of the familiar catcalls to which they addressed their opposite numbers. As John Lennon once sang, instant karma’s going to get you – even if you did once tie with Manchester United.

Newport County vs Dagenham and Redbridge

Newport County 2 - 3 Dagenham and Redbridge   (18.4.2015)

There is an appreciation in Newport that things could always be worse. The Welsh border city is the sort of place where alcohol-grizzled, soulful men in their mid-fifties can remember all the words to In the Ghetto and sing it with the sincerity that only raw experience can harbour. This section of the River Usk may never be a beauty spot but the general vibe along its muddy banks is one of thanks for the notable signs of redevelopment.

Supporters of the football club can also be grateful for improved fortunes in recent times. At the end of their second season in League Two since promotion, the club remain competitive, stable and healthy. Most pleasing of all, these happy days have not allowed anyone to forget the tough times in exile, an experience from which the club famously takes its nickname.

Backed by the surprisingly grounded ambition of owner Les Scadding - who earned his fortune from a EuroMillions lottery win in 2009 - their gradual rise from the seventh tier remains financially sustainable. It is a fantastic, though too often neglected, story of a community club benefiting from an unexpected resurgence, all without losing its humility.

I can't deny that I have fallen misty-eyed into the sub-plots of this romantic tale. Here is a place among the football standings where the overall attitude is spot-on. When the feelings and sentiments of a town are so closely matched by its sporting institutions, it is too hard not to be reminded of what this game should, and perhaps used, to be. 

Flicking through the pages of my match programme, previous seasons outside the 92 were recounted with a distinct lack of nostalgia, but neither was there a belittling of that turbulent history. As an aside, £3.50 for a collection of local adverts and ghost written propaganda pieces is extortionate to say the least. Nevertheless, there was a clear sense in its articles that these past 24 months were the reward for years of toil and solidarity on the terraces when hope was lacking.

Newport RFC's Rodney Parade has provided a home for its footballing cousins since their return to the Football League. Uncovered stands and its varying density of standing spectators testifies to the fact that this arena was never designed for soccer. Even with its flaws, however, the riverside venue benefits the average punter and, with a ten year lease signed in 2013, will remain a ground share for the foreseeable future.    

On this spring day, a defeat to Dagenham was enough to realistically end County's play-off chances. With the loss of the popular manager Justin Edinburgh mid-season to Gillingham, the team's morale has failed to recover; the Daggers becoming the fourth team to defeat the tangerine shirts in a row.

For the most part, it looked as though Newport were missing Chris Zebroski's pace up front. A day before kick-off the striker was jailed for an attack on a taxi driver in a case of miserably destructive road rage. Disciplinary issues had similarly depleted the visitors, with Joss Labadie beginning a six month suspension for biting an opponent (his second offence of that nature in the same number of years). Neither story makes for a particularly favourable advertisement of either club, despite both players being clear exceptions. In this encounter either side showed their greater virtues, although ruthlessness was not one for the home side. 

Mark Cousins in the Dagenham goal, perhaps powered by his mighty beard, produced a number of phenomenal reaction saves to deny the hosts a string of obvious chances. In the face of these balletic reflexes between the woodwork, all excitement looked to be subsiding. That is until five clinical strikes were made in the last 12 minutes to flatter the attacking credentials of both teams.

Rodney Parade on another day.

Even though the evergreen Jamie Cureton appeared off-colour, goals from Ashley Hemmings, Christian Doidge and Alex Jakubiak came and went for the London club like a ten minute binge on dandelion and burdock. This unforeseen sugar rush left Rodney Parade mumbling its discontent. A quick response from Cardiff loanee David Tutonda and Aaron O'Connor at the other end stemmed the worst of frustrated grunting in my vicinity but did little to change the overall outcome.

Twenty-two year old Doidge had originally been on trial with the Gwent side during the close season after hitting the net regularly for Carmarthen Town. The former policeman didn't exactly milk his celebrations against the club that had rejected him but his revenge was certainly noted by the local regulars around me.

As Newport's season effectively drew to a close, the only outstanding issues on the club's mind are who should still be representing the team from August. Another defeat did little to buoy anyone's enthusiasm over interim manager Jimmy Dack's future, or indeed those of certain serving players, but one thought remains fresh in everyone's considerations: with a top nine finish in sight and plenty of faces still filling the stands, things could be a whole lot worse. 

North Shields vs Whitley Bay

North Shields 3-0 Whitley Bay  (8.4.2015)

By some force of unnatural magic, I have managed to escape North Shields for the past four years. But when my nomadic adventure eventually finishes, my old stomping ground will come to reclaim my soul and ambitions. Owing to a NE29 postcode, though, I had the benefits of growing up as a Whitley Bay supporter rather than the club resident within NE30. Such are the fine margins of football loyalties. Its not quite the local factionalism of downtown LA but these distinctions are still important in the northern badlands.

Throughout my life the town has gone by its own idiosyncratic rules. Aside from the weather, the settlement could easily double for the location of a Mad Max film. Just last week me and my mates were introduced to 'Big Bad John' - an OAP with surprisingly good arm wrestling skills but lacking the logical faculties when drunk to put his coat on properly. He was a nice guy.

The rough old fishing port, as ever, is going through a difficult time. The economic depression in the area has become so toxic that even the town's McDonalds branch, a mainstay of the local high street since my birth, has closed down. Amongst the usual desolation, however, lies a resurgent force in the shape of the football team, now home to a flourishing Tyneside counter-culture. This niche vibe combines unwavering left wing loyalties, alternative regional music and a growing dissatisfaction with the nefarious greed of the Premier League, as represented by Mike Ashley's regime at Newcastle United. 

A new fanzine for the semi-professional club, titled Harvest From the Deep, is devoted to this terrace ethos. Hopefully the efforts of these local writers will continue beyond their successful first issue. Home and away, the team is also backed by an ever-expanding legion of supporters. At their core is the 'Ultras', most of whom were banned from St James' Park long before the Magpies' current turmoil.

Recent results have also brought an upturn in fortunes for North Shields. Last season's promotion to the Northern League Division One has since been bettered by a forthcoming appearance at Wembley in the FA Vase Final - formerly the Amateurs Cup, which the Robins last won in 1969.

A large portion of the credit must go to manager Graham Fenton (he who famously ended the title hopes of Kevin Keegan's 'Entertainers' with two late goals at Ewood Park). Since his appointment two seasons ago, the club has been transformed with a decent footballing ethos among his players and suitable ambition from the boardroom. Nobody is getting carried away here but the Geordie's team could be a force at this level for some time. 

For this Wednesday night game, the home side faced another historic club in the derby dubbed 'El Coastico' by people who ought to know better. While Shields' fortunes have risen, the former strength of neighbours Whitley Bay has rapidly dwindled. Only four years ago the Seahorses had won their third Vase final in a row and were the region's dominant non-league side. Apparently, I was even on the front cover of their matchday programme for an entire season, although I've yet to see the evidence.

Yet, despite some investment in bricks and mortar, Whitley's riches in prize money were squandered on inflated player wages to the point of, as accountants technically describe it, 'being broke'. For the past couple of seasons, the entire squad has been uncertain of any sustainable future; star players have departed, so too the manager Ian Chandler, and replacements have been added with the brevity of a merry-go-round. Not even the most regular observer can recognise the eleven faces in the club's blue and white stripes any more.

Shields seek to avoid that example by making firm financial commitments to improving their ground with a portion of the revenues from their trip to Wembley. Ralph Gardner Park, with its two tiny terrace sheds and a changing rooms, certainly requires updating. But at least the playing surface itself is flat and free of litter. It is a clear step up from the days when the club first arrived at its modern home, in the wake of financial mismanagement bringing it to the brink of collapse. At that time players still changed in the back seat of their cars and dog turds needed to be plucked from the pitch. Even now, snacks are sold from a trolley pushed around the perimeter fence by two elderly volunteers.

As far as mid-week matches in the Northern league go, this was another scrappy affair punctuated by my own crushing realisation that all endeavours are futile. I never have been able to watch live football in the evenings without feeling gloomy. Perhaps Albert Camus' existentialist writings were inspired by similar thoughts when he played in goal.

Camus considers the virtues of playing three centre backs.

Shields proved comfortably superior. They scored two cracking goals shortly after a bludgeoned first, all before the end of the opening half. In the concluding session, the despairing visitors controlled the ball but to little effect. With plenty of fixtures still to play before their big day in the capital, Shields cruised towards the final whistle and safeguarded their advantage. Good order was maintained by a no-nonsense referee with the demeanour of a pub landlord. Aside from a couple of bookings, the derby remained an amicable occasion. 

Sporting victory for this small town is important. In this tiny, deprived, and politically ignored dump (I say with affection), a rebel voice is sounding. Long may it thrive besides a football club which truly reflects the qualities of the people connected to it, from boardroom level to fanbase. The once-almighty Newcastle United cannot say the same.

Fan Salute to Retiring Dan

Outside of rugby union, sport in New Zealand rarely reaches a glorious conclusion. The end to Daniel Vettori’s career, after nearly twenty years as an international cricketer, was never going to be showered in the cool splashes of celebratory champagne. The Kiwis had a World Cup for the whole nation to be proud of but, when their Hollywood moment finally arrived in the March final, the richer, more powerful, and glamorous Aussies (as ever) broke hearts across the Tasman Sea.

As such, the Black Caps’ most successful spinner never had his rose-sprinkled final bow. Instead, his farewell from the sport was more typical of a New Zealand sportsman – modest, understated and with a faint whiff of a John Ford western; the quiet, unrepentant hero riding alone into the sunset.

If it had not been for the unrepeatable exploits of Richard Hadlee, his bespectacled successor in the Kiwi test match side would surely be regarded as the greatest cricketer New Zealand has ever produced. Few pundits speak of the veteran left-arm spinner as one of the sport’s dominant figures but for me, as a teenage fan spellbound by his team’s plucky spirit during their 2008 tour of England, he can be rated as one of the greats, even beyond his peers from the Antipodes islands.

Having made his debut for the Black Caps as a seventeen year old, Vettori went on to claim a staggering 705 wickets across all forms of the game spanning over 300 total appearances. After years of batting at the bottom order, he also developed into a consistent all-rounder, amassing 4531 Test runs, including six centuries.

Even in his 37^th year, the returning stalwart played a key part in his team’s path to the World Cup climax, not for the first time proving to be one of the world’s most economical bowlers. Although his career Test bowling average of 34.46 may seem inflated to modern fans, considering he spent almost two decades toiling through long spells in often unfavourable conditions for his orthodox turn, and without consistent support from a frontline pace attack, his statistics clearly do not tell the whole story of his contribution at the crease.

As captain from 2007-2011, his successes were more limited, especially in the longer format. Nevertheless, compared to arguably higher achieving skippers such as Brendon McCullum and Stephen Fleming, Vettori could marshal his colleagues to dare for over-achievement against any of the seemingly stronger nations.

Without ever gaining a reputation for a troublesome personality, Vettori’s naturally outspoken competitiveness allowed him to cause a stir when his squad were treated with injustice. One such occasion was a heated exchange from The Oval balcony after a controversial (that is to say unsporting) run out after a trip by England’s Ryan Sidebottom. Too often the supposed minnows of sport are meant to suffer wrongdoing in silence, yet this strong-willed leader was stubborn enough to cry foul against the ‘big boys’.  

After resigning the burden of captaincy, Vettori’s later efforts were curtailed by chronic injury. If it had not been for these setbacks he could have easily become the first New Zealander to achieve the combined landmark of making 4000 Test runs and 400 wickets.

Wisden may never fully acknowledge Vettori’s steady contribution in the early twenty-first century, particularly when pitted against the likes of Shane Warne and Muttiah Muralitharan in the typically pointless Best XI lists, but he is a character who leaves the sport weaker without him. Vettori’s country will never again produce another cricketer of his sort, calibre and style. That final match in Adelaide merely serves as the last ‘if’ moment in his phenomenal, though unrewarded, career.

Cheltenham Town vs Plymouth Argyle

Cheltenham Town 0 - 3 Plymouth Argyle   (28.3.2015)

From the old wooden seats of the Jelfry stand any distracted spectator can look out over the lumbering slopes of Gloucestershire fields. Fans of Cheltenham Town may be forgiven for staring into the surrounding cider country more so than at the sport being played for their pleasure this season.

With one win in ten games, the Robins find themselves at the bottom of the Football League. “We’re all in this together,” reads the sign outside the railway station, accompanied by a photo of the players in a team huddle above the ominous slogan. Another billboard in sight of Whaddon Road boastfully declares “Better than Manchester United – at least we beat Cambridge.”

These adverts were paid for by supporters but if the descent towards the Conference continues few individuals will feel their investment was well spent. At the relatively cheap price of £9 for a student ticket, the club already seem rather desperate for bodies to fill the ground.

With fellow strugglers Hartlepool United resurrected by a miraculous run of form in recent weeks, Cheltenham seem doomed to a period of exile from the prestigious 92 for the first time in 16 years. At least this genteel community can realistically survive the dip in soccer pedigree, whereas the likes of other League Two minnows would find the experience socially crippling. This spa town, of course, can still attract annual visitors and the hubbub of an active sporting life through its races, boarding schools (rugger and jolly hockey!) and calm pastoral hinterland. The likes of Tranmere cannot compete with that.

Without doubt, however, there is no way to disguise the disarray of this once-stalwart football team. So far this season it’s seen three managers at the helm, over 40 players used in total and yet, despite a six game unbeaten run at the start of August, all have failed to steer the ship from perilous inadequacy. After 39 games, the team’s top scorer still only has four goals to their name.

Whaddon Road’s pitch is also making no effort to hide its tired wear. Both goalmouths, evidently feeling the effects of another year groundsharing with Gloucester City, have the look of sandboxes. A resultant drop in revenues from relegation would only deteriorate the condition of the turf further next year. After five seasons of the neighbouring rivals staking a joint claim on the stadium’s modest resources, it looks like the uncomfortable cooperation between clubs will continue indefinitely.   

By late March, the usual point when fans resign themselves to disappointment before the inevitable optimism of the summer holidays, the atmosphere in the stands has settled into the pangs of lethargic hopelessness. With solid professionals of proven lower league calibre like Matt Richards on the books, the side can appear deceptively competent for long stretches. Once they are faced with any amount of skill, though, the red and white shirts flounder. Such was the case when Plymouth defender Carl McHugh strolled through a number of sleeping opponents to slide Ruben Reid through to score with the simplest of passes. As the group of typical terrace blokes sitting behind me pointed out, travelling teams such as Argyll can snatch the points at this beleaguered site without straining above third gear. A double from the muscular centre forward was enough to destroy any confidence remaining among the home side, leaving substitute Zak Ansah to mark a resounding victory with a deft header as the final whistle beckoned.

A three goal margin showed the Devon side handing their south-west counterparts the dreaded Black Spot, much to the amusement of a spiteful minority amongst the massive away support (1400 in all – covering over a third of the total attendance) who chanted “You’re going down” to no tune in particular. Lone voices offered the only retort to the Green Army’s taunts. A plain fact is hard to argue with, I suppose.

Indeed, the spirit of Cheltenham’s advertised rallying call was lost on the disaffected home mass, which appeared largely docile across the ninety minutes. A year outside the pyramid has seemingly been accepted as a certainty. Even so, at least the club’s board remain fighting – appointing ex-Yeovil boss Gary Johnson as manager within 48 hours of the defeat. If, for the sake of pragmatics, this friendly community club does get relegated, they will have to prepare for a long struggle in the wilderness. They need only ask fans of Wrexham, Lincoln and Grimsby how that feels.  

Bristol Rovers vs Lincoln City

Bristol Rovers 2 - 0 Lincoln City   (7.2.2015)

It has been an age since my last post on football in this cosy corner of England. Part of the blame lies in my increasingly manic workload. Who knew learning to teach could be so tough? On the other hand, Rovers have been starved of a game at the Mem' for an inconveniently long time. The lower down the divisions you go, the more fractured the fixture list becomes, as can be testified by a run of three away matches for the Pirates on the trot.

Despite their recent travels, the Gas remain on full throttle, slowly pulling back Conference leaders Barnet after remaining unbeaten for 16 games. So far the divide between the two league leaders has been reduced to five points.

At this stage of the season, Darrell Clarke's side deserve to overtake their London rivals. Their level of play is a step above this division and another comfortable victory on Saturday afternoon showed how wide that margin of superiority has become. 

At no stage did the journeyers from the eastern shires threaten an upset. Whereas earlier in the year, the Rovers players might have been thrown  by typical non-league plodders, they now gobble up this type of opposition with confident ease. 

Although the Lincoln 'keeper managed to produce a series of miraculous saves worthy of Gordon Banks across the ninety minutes, he could do nothing to stop a brilliant set piece goal from Lee Brown and a Nathan Blissett tap-in. Whether by shin, heel or a full-facial block, the Imps' man between the sticks did his all to keep the ball out of his net. Yet by half time the result had effectively been decided, leaving Lincoln to limp aimlessly onwards after their return to the field.

I saw the visitors, a former league club (there are few teams in the Conference who weren't members at some point in their history), ten months ago against Gateshead. Over that period of time, they have not improved in the slightest. If anything, they were poor then and even more lacklustre now. Based on my observations, therefore, Grimsby are Lincolnshire's only hope of a return to the glitzy world of the 92, where a visit by Mark Clemmit or Manish Bhasin acts as a ceremony of supreme soccer status.

Bristol Rovers are now daring to dream of a return to that glorious pyramid, having finally found the right recipe for scoring goals. An ability to kill teams off is still a missing ingredient but, in the energetic Clarke, the club has a manager well-versed in simple logic. This is his side now and they are beginning to play with a professional swagger too often lacking outside of the top tiers.   

Finding a strategy in the signing of Jermaine Easter, however, is a harder task. If failure to attain promotion strikes (always a possibility in the unpredictable play-offs) then the gamble on wages for this new intake could be shown up as plain, unsustainable arrogance. Is it even possible for a non-league club to make a marquee signing? It certainly looks that way.

In their humiliated opposition, Rovers can see how easy it might still be to dwell in the lower rungs without any hope of a foreseeable exit.  

Bristol Rovers vs Welling United

Bristol Rovers 2 - 0 Welling United   (29.11.2014)

You won't hear any more moaning from me. No way. Not at all. Nada peep! On Saturday afternoon a fresh and confident Bristol Rovers team swept Welling aside in a performance of total dominance. After a frustrating goalless opening 45 minutes, Darrell Clarke's introduction of Nathan Blissett and Angelo Balanta sparked the Pirates into some bouts of thrilling football.

Like Elizabeth Taylor in her prime, Rovers' play had an awesome glamour which consumed the crowd in appreciative gasps. For the first time this season, the Blues looked like they deserved to play in a higher division. In the face of this flirtatious onslaught, Welling's tired defenders had nothing to offer in return.

Both substitutes combined to open the scoring when Balanta played a perfectly-weighted pass behind the opposing back four. Blissett charged onto the through ball and bundled the ball beyond the 'keeper. Welling's misery was compounded a few minutes later when Jake Gallagher was shown a red card for a rough foul on Lee Mansell. From then on, the Kentish club were powerless to restrict the home side's controlling play. A Matty Taylor penalty effectively ended the contest inside the last 20 minutes and only then did the pressure begin to ease on the visitors.

The deficit remained two goals through mercy more than anything else. Once again the strict conversion of goal opportunities eluded the Gas, in particular, Taylor failing to complete his brace when gifted a one-on-one chance.

Suddenly, from perpetual doom and gloom, a buoyant sense of optimism has nested itself in North Bristol. One defeat in their last sixteen league games shows that even without reaching top gear, Rovers are a dominant team in this league. Now, with a lethal burgeoning pairing of Blissett and Taylor up front, they could take this competition by storm. Balanta and Lyle Della Verde - a loanee from Fulham - are also a step above this level and could prove to be major assets.

In the aftermath of Tuesday's downpour, the sun is shining on the Memorial Stadium. Will it last? Until Santa has been and gone over the next month, it is too hard even for my mystical powers to foresee.