Dagenham and Redbridge 0 Plymouth Argyle 0

The year is 2002, the month is March. Depressingly, Will Young is top of the charts with ‘Anything is Possible’ but the lovely Shakira is second with the catchy ‘Whenever, Wherever.’ At the cinema, we are about to have our IQ lowered by Ali G Indahouse and the headlines are dominated by the invasion of Afghanistan. 

Meanwhile, two teams are neck-and-neck in the race to claim the sole promotion place from the Conference to the Football League. They meet before the Sky TV cameras on a Monday night in East London. In a scrappy game, one side does just enough to claim a 1-0 win. The result is crucial, it puts them seven points clear in the table. Thinking it’s all done and dusted, the home side perform a lap of honour, celebrating as though it’s all over. It is a fatal mistake. 

The teams are, as i’m sure you worked just after the bit about Ali G, Dagenham and Redbridge and Boston United. The respective bosses are Garry Hill and S**ve E**ns. They absolutely hate each other, their war of words creating a thoroughly entertaining sub-plot to a championship battle as tight as Shakira’s backside. in the end, United were motivated by that lap of honour more than anything E**ns could ever say or bribe and they went on to win the title on the last day. 

So, fast forwarding to the present, and my first visit to Dagenham and (*takes deep breath*) The London Borough of Barking and Dagenham Stadium is not one to be taken lightly. I’m pretty sure they still hate Boston for cheating to beat them into the league, even though both managers are long gone and the sides have now swapped places. 

A well-known Boston sports reporter described my visit there as the “ultimate sin” (move over, Eve) and many cautioned against a trip to the Eastern hinterlands of London on the ground that it was quite a long way for a Tuesday night and the Tube would be really, really busy. 

But at least I could visit with ‘Pilgrims’ solidarity, for Plymouth were appearing there and my online colleague Rob was going. And boy it was a long way, 27 stops on the rush hour district line from High Street Kensington to Dagenham East (could they sound any more different?) 

The ground sounds like one long Freedom of Information request (Rob’s observation) and is about as dull as one. It’s a bad sign when a club gives the best stand over to the away fans and the excellent 500-plus following from the Westcountry had a good stab at filling it. They were loud throughout despite having minimal hopes for the season.

The rest of the ground belongs in the non-league I’m afraid, as do their attendances and most of the football we saw. It was a much better goalless draw that many I’ve seen in the past, but only the home side actually looked like scoring. 

If it hadn’t been for a succession of great saves from Jake Cole and a big dollop of good fortune, Plymouth would have been dead and buried by half-time. The first of the saves, from Dwight Gayle’s top corner-bound shot, was the pick, while cross after cross flew across goal begging for a touch. 

Late in the half, Plymouth could have gained an unlikely lead when Conor Hourihane picked out Matt Lecointe, only for the England Under-18 international to drag his shot badly wide. 

The second-half was very poor, with chances at a premium. The Plymouth defence held firm, throwing bodies on the line to block the dangerous supply of crosses. In fact, the highlight, like Saturday at Droylsden, came from the PA announcer, who asked the crowd to stop using flash photography as it was ‘distracting’ the players. Tom Daley has set an annoying precedent here. 

The response from the away end was sparkling Westcountry wit: “We’ll flash when we want, we’ll flash when we want, we’re Plymouth Argyle, we’ll flash when we want.” Just wonderful. 

Drifting out into the East End night, a home fan had a pop at us for putting the players off with our incessant photography as though Dagenham might break out the tiki-taka as long as nobody knows about it. He was walking on a crutch so thankfully we could walk quicker than he could! 

And moments before, I glanced up as I walked out and couldn’t help but giggle - yes, Dagenham were doing a bloody lap of honour.

Next Match: Free-scoring Boston are at home again, so looking at Barnet v York City

   

  

  

Droylsden 0 Boston United 1

I should have felt like a small child who’s run downstairs on Christmas morning and spied a bicycle-shaped present next to the tree. I actually felt like Bradley Wiggins had untied the bow, attached one end to the rear bumper, the other to my neck and dragged me around all 3,000km of the Tour De France ringing the bell in my ear the entire way. 

Oh yes, the football season was definitely back. The ears had that kind of distant hum, the bleary eyes had restricted vision, the legs were full of lactic and the mouth a heady mixture of hops, barley and regret. There were drops of anonymous takeaway juice on my work shoes, my tie was draped over the windowsill and it was necessary to check seven times that my wallet was still there and in credit. 

There’s only one thing that can arose you from such a hellish hangover - the thought that at a nearby station, a seat on a train awaits. A train that will whisk you away to some destination, the match and your football team, your pride and joy and guilty passion. 

It is the greatest day of the year - you are once more the small child who realises that Santa has been - and the concourse at Euston was swarming with fans of a dozen or more clubs - a quite glorious sight. They were chugging off in infinite directions, to all corners of the nation, but on this glorious summer’s morning each and every one of them, regardless of their natural place on the glass half full scale, carried the same heady hopes and expectations. 

And as I sat there watching them, sipping Irn-Bru and swallowing Anadin, I felt no different. For we are greedy and this is to be OUR season, not theirs. This is to be our time, our unbeaten run, our silverware. At least I walked back across that concourse ten hours later feeling no different. 

There was a delicate balance with this opening afternoon visit to Droylsden - we rarely do well there and my last visit in 2010 ended in a miserable 4-0 defeat which dynamited a long-standing unbeaten run. But on the other hand, we have won each and every opening game since returning to the non-league in 2007. Swings and roundabouts. Thin margins. 

It was wonderful to be re-acquainted with familiar faces and United had travelled in fantastic numbers. There were amber and black shirts on all four sides of the ground and the locals were undoubtedly outnumbered in a crowd of 344. Droylsden strikes me as a friendly club, but the area is so saturated with clubs it must be tremendously difficult to drum up a following. 

Lawson Jr was also drumming and as we worked through our repertoire of songs for the first time this season, it didn’t take long for my vocal chords, already assaulted with lager and fags the night before, to pack up. Next year, I will put them through pre-season training to avoid such croaky embarrassment, perhaps in the shower or simply out the window. 

One man who wasn’t lacking in voice was the tannoy announcer. Droylsden didn’t print enough programmes (hence the lack of a scan) but they do have a good PA system and it was employed, with increasing impatience, to track down the owner of a blue Toyota Yaris blocking the exit. There must have been six or seven announcements through the game, each more desperate than the last, to get someone to shift it. 

In the end, we just sang: “We’re Boston United, we’ll park where we want” to great titters of laughter. 

On the field, United’s mixture of old and new were blending quite beautifully. Droylsden’s defence looked as vulnerable as a packet of Ryvita being tipped into an industrial cement mixer and their policy of passing the ball out of defence, something clearly instilled into them during the off-season, was folly. 

The winner came early and easy - Mark Jones, who will be henceforth known as Jonah the Whale (his nickname, I’m not saying he’s fat), slipped the ball into Marc Newsham who made no mistake in the one-on-one. Newsham is genuinely on fire, as the song suggests, and he now has six competitive goals this season. Admittedly five came in the John Deere Tractors Lincolnshire Tinpot Shield against Lincoln United, Stamford, the Dog and Duck and Old Linconians Veterans XI. 

There were a couple of tense moments as the half wore on when Droylsden cut loose. They may play at the Butcher’s Arms but their strikers had the cutting edge of a bendy straw and Dan Haystead was relatively untroubled in goal. Kern Miller, who was making his league debut at centre-half, was unflappable and will be henceforth called the Kern-el (Colonel).

United expertly ran down the clock in the corners, much to the anger of the home players who started going in with some meaty challenges. It’s obviously because the town’s long-anticipated tram link into central Manchester is still not complete. Obviously. 

We greeted the final whistle in exuberant fashion, launching into the standard rendition of ‘We’re singing in the sun,’ which had the new players watching on in utter bemusement as they warmed down. What an excellent start and perfect day out - the best hangover cure. 

Next Match: Watching the other Pilgrims, Plymouth Argyle, at Dagenham and Redbridge on Tuesday night.

  

Chelmsford City 2 Boston United 0

Four-pager, 20p. Boston's
history weirdly stopped
in 1934!

DISCLAIMER: If you have stumbled on to this blog post because I’ve gone and written some kind of clever Twitter tag like ‘The Only Way is Essex’ please be incredibly disappointed to learn that it contains no reference to the popular county-specific television series. You will not find any advice on male chest waxing, my top ten vajazzle colour preferences, designer chihuahuas, fake tittery, fake tannery or how to look Reem when walking down Braintree High Street. It’s also likely that this blog will contain words and themes you won’t understand so please hit the ‘Back‘ button (the one at the top left of the screen) now. Or you could refresh Mail Online. This is about a football match played in Essex and not a lot else. LOLZ. 

After four random football matches this pre-season, it was time to actually check-in with my team and see whether the new campaign is likely to bring me sunshine or showers. You’re looking for that precious something to cling on to as you once again board the rollercoaster - the new winger with the electric turn of pace, the centre-half with the commanding leap or the forward with a knack of being in the right place at the right time. 

You look at the team before you, which is being pain-stakingly slotted together like a 2,000-piece jigsaw in time for the new season, and you sort, shuffle and sift the players. In your waters, you know who will work - and who won’t. 

We are just seven days away now from the opening day assignment at Droylsden and, I must say, on today’s form United look 90 per cent of the way there. Sure, they were beaten at Chelmsford City but there wasn’t a lot to lose sleep over. 

This was a starting XI shorn of five or six first-team regulars who should fill in what was missing and those who did play deserved one goal at least, if not a share of the negligible spoils on offer. 

If nothing else, we’re all feeling a damn sight better than this time last year when we were facing the start of the season with a front-line of Julian Joachim (old, slow, disinterested), Mickey Stones (young, terrible) and Gaffer Lee (old, slowing, balding, only showing occasional glimpses of once great talent) and a defence with an average age of 74. 

This time, we definitely have a lot more in Spencer Weir-Daley (whose football is often like his gangsta rap - sick), Marc Newsham (who is owning the Lincolnshire Senior Shield) and Mark Jones (the best thing to come out of Corby since Louise Mensch MP). With Dan Haystead returning to York Street for the 34th time and Nathan Stainsfield looking solid, the back end isn’t bad either. 

Sadly, I don’t think Korey Dyer-Stewart will be joining them. He is allegedly a relation of ex-pro Bruce Dyer but as he limped off in the second-half sadly bore more of a resemblance to Kieron Dyer. After a sub-par display, he is unlikely to be offered a shirt number. I’m also slightly uncomfortable about supporting someone whose name would be more at home in a magazine for American teenage girls. 

Talking of shirts, I was able to collect my new amber and black pride and joy at the match. Having not bothered for a couple of years, I decided to splash out after really liking the design. The stripes have returned, with a kind of amber sash on the shoulder/upper left pectoral/moob area featuring the club crest. It looks as smart as bumble bee chic can be. To make it all the more special, I decided to have a name on the back. 

This is fraught with difficulty. There is an inevitability that if you pick a player’s name and number - obviously we all have our faves, even though we support the team as a whole - that they will then be sold and you’ve fed forty notes into the drain as people snigger at you. 

So, the only safe bet is to get your own name on it. I therefore have a worryingly snug (I’ve been on the McDonalds shakes too much, clearly) replica shirt with ‘SHERGOLD 5‘ on the reverse.

Shergold I hope is self-explanatory. Five was the number I used to prefer during my glorious school playing career. An “uncompromising” and “tough-tackling” [sic] centre-half whose goal record for Boston Grammar School will forever be frozen in time on minus one. 

The own goal blunder came  sometime in 2006 when Ben Edwards, in goal, blasted a clearance against my exposed shinpads and then looked on in agony as the ball looped back clean over his head and into the goal from 25 yards. Oh how I wanted to score at the right end to put that blemish right. I announced my retirement shortly afterwards. Anyway, thanks to Craig and the club for getting the shirt sorted.

Chelmsford’s Melbourne Park ground was an athletics stadium and they are a big pet hate of mine along with people who write on their matchday programme, deliberate diving and tourists who walk slowly. Athletics metaphors abounded among the knot of hardcore fans from Lincolnshire but the view was fairly good. 

Scotty, Shaun and I was reprimanded by a steward for walking around the far end of the ground. “We’ll get in trouble with the council if you walk round there,” he said. I’m sure our indiscretion has been minuted for the next full council committee meeting already. They also have very nice burgers.

On the pitch, the first half was played beneath crystal clear blue skies and as boring as hell. Nothing really happened as both sides cancelled each other out. In the second, the Conference South side won it when  Anthony Cook thrashed in a half-volley from the edge of the box on the hour mark and Cliff Akurang rose unmarked to double the lead in the last ten. 

United had some chances and were denied a clear penalty for handball in the second-half. But there was enough on show for me to approach next Saturday’s tour to Tameside - and season 2012-2013 - with a decent slice of optimism. 

Next Match: Aiming for a midweek match in London now the Capital One League Milk Cup and the Conference Premier are underway.

  

    

  

Mexico 4 Senegal 2

Tournament Programme

Oh, Olympics of London how I love you. This wonderful carnival of sport, here in the greatest country in the world. This showcase of the best of sport, the best of Britain and the best of humanity. 

Something has changed about Britain in these past two weeks and perhaps something has also changed about London. The capital unmistakably has a softer, friendlier visage now the whole world is looking at it. People have a spring in their step and a smile on their face, however fleeting. 

Maybe it is the apparently endless stream of British success, maybe it is the popular patriotism and pride in waving the Union flag, maybe it is the effortless organisation of everything, maybe it is the relief than nothing has gone wrong to spoil the show - but the feel-good barometer of city and country is off the chart. 

The Olympic naysayers have gone into hiding. They moaned about the cost and the hassle and the traffic and the stress - and now they have beat a hasty retreat. Who now would try and claim the Olympics have not made life better these last two weeks? 

I won’t be able to select a favourite moment from the Games of the 30th Summer Olympiad - there are simply too many. I choked up when Sir Chris Hoy took his curtain call on the Olympic stage, a gold round his neck and tears flooding from his eyes. I was delirious when Jessica Ennis won the heptathlon, even though I had watched the climax on an iPhone screen in a Honda Logo in the drop off area outside Sheffield Station. 

I was at Headingley cricket ground watching the torrential rain pour down on the Test Match on Sunday when  Andy Murray won at Wimbledon. The throng gathered around a tiny television screen behind the snack bar bounced when he delivered the coup de grace - an ace - to win gold, strangers embraced and all burst into a spontaneous rendition of the national anthem. 

There are many more tales to tell, many more ‘where were you?’ moments - everyone will have them. 

But I have been in an office for the most part, watching hawk-like and writing articles for the Mail Online. It has been a pleasure to write the first draft of history during these Olympics and share my joy in experiencing it through my words and choice of pictures. Such has been the British success that the whooping and unprompted applause that accompany every medal have become beautifully regular occurrences in the office. Etiquette and professionalism can go out the window, people beam with delight. 

I spend anything up to 16 hours each day watching, thinking about, talking, reading and writing about the Olympics and yet, writing this on Day 12, I don’t feel any fatigue. I’ve also been to five Olympic events - all for pleasure I add, the media accreditation was sorted out long before I arrived in London - and feel so immensely satisfied that I have been and witnessed it live. 

The fifth and final of my events (so far) was this football quarter-final between Mexico and Senegal on Saturday. There’s nothing new for me about visiting Wembley Stadium, of course, but there was a pleasantly different feel for the Olympics. 

Gone was the usual inherent tension of going to watch England - the stress of supporting such an under-achieving team - to be replaced by an easy-going, friendly atmosphere. Fans of myriad clubs and countries - I must have spotted shirts and flags of three dozen football sides walking down Wembley Way - mingled happily and all enjoyed the occasion. 

I was an honorary member of Clan Searles for the day after my good mate James invited me along. And quite a clan it was - a collection of parents, aunties, uncles, cousins and siblings who had annexed off a entire row in the posh seats. They’re the ones who don’t come back after half-time. 

I think we’d all hoped that Great Britain would finish second in their group - i.e. do well but not too well - and we’d get to see them here, but as it transpired Mexico-Senegal was almost certainly a more entertaining game. 

Senegal were the more imposing team physically but handicapped themselves with shoddy defending, allowing Mexico, who could string plenty of passes together, to take control. They struck the crossbar through Marco Fabian on three minutes and had the lead on ten when Jorge Enriquez was right place, right time to head home a cross from Giovani dos Santos. 

Unusually for a knockout tie, this game was  delightfully open. Both sides pinged sixty yard passes with abandon and worked the flanks, raining in teasing crosses. There were chances aplenty but no further goals before my half-time £5 bottle of Coca-Cola (no Pepsi, it’s been outlawed).

When Mexico, who were cheered on by a fairly noisy contingent of sombrero wearers even in the prawn sandwich seats, doubled their advantage on 63 minutes through Javier Aquino, my mind was already on the train to Sheffield I had to catch at half six. 

But Senegal rallied superbly and dragged themselves level. The lively Konate headed his fifth goal of the tournament (who says nobody takes it seriously) before Ibrahima Balde levelled with 14 to play. 

I left during stoppage time, dashing to Wembley Central to get a train back into central London. It was a shame because extra time was probably every bit as entertaining. In the end, Mexico gathered themselves and won 4-2 to reach the last four, with goals from Dos Santos and Hector Herrera.

Sure, it wasn’t the greatest Olympic moment of all time, but this game will always be lodged somewhere in my memory amid these golden days. 

Next Match: My first Boston United fixture of the season will be this Saturday (work permitting), a pre-season friendly at Chelmsford

  

St Albans City 2 Barnet 10 (ten)

Pre-season programme -
five games in one

One thing about the Olympics that hasn’t been widely publicised - and I should know since I’ve written every conceivable thing about the impending sport fest over the last month - is that regular football isn’t allowed in the Capital at the moment.

In the same way as Burger King, Pepsi and Virgin Airlines are currently outlawed because they’re not official sponsors, any football played within London that is not sanctioned by the IOC is likely to be met with a most severe punishment - like being made to work for G4S or going out on a candlelit dinner date with Wenlock and Mandeville. Mind you, the transport can be bad enough without football as well. 

So the third weekend of my pre-season frolics forced me to explore beyond the M25. The train pulled out of clean and clinical St Pancras and shot inexorably northwards through the underground tunnels that lie under foot in north London. Keeping the majestic sweep of the Wembley arch to our left, we passed sprawling leisure complexes and their car parks, homes of every size and description, beautiful parkland and a PC World in Brent Cross.

The train outsprinted motorists on the M1 making an early Olympics escape and then raced through the ‘Hollywood of Hertfordshire’ (i’ve just made that up) Borehamwood and Elstree, and the leafy middle class bubble of Radlett. Just ten minutes out of London’s infernal rush, we were in immaculate countryside, the enormous Norman nave of St Albans Cathedral getting nearer and nearer from the horizon. 

I knew I had chosen my action well. The parts of St Albans I saw were lovely, with the Clarence Park ground set in a very pleasant, erm, park and just a short step from the station. I knew the Southern Premier League club’s little ground was hidden somewhere in this park, but wasn’t entirely sure where. 

I first came across a busy children’s playground. This was not the ground. Then there was a group of Eastern European lads having a BBQ. This wasn’t the ground either. Then I found a nice cricket ground and their old wooden pavilion. This was bloody gorgeous BUT IT WASN’T THE GROUND.

Then I peered over a small privet hedge and found the ground. I later discovered there was a shortcut which would have taken me from train to terrace steps in about three minutes. You live and learn. 

On Saturdays when I’m not watching Boston United, it’s very rare I’m not attending a random game and, believe me, there have been some absolute rotters with about as much entertainment as a rainy afternoon in Milton Keynes. As the intelligent ones among you will already have deduced from the title, I felt pretty chuffed with my choice for once. 

Barnet - old rivals of Boston’s from back in the day who went massively up in my estimation when they sent Lincoln City down in 2011 - were an irresistible force in this match and St Albans an object only too happy to step aside and wave them cheerily on their way. 

On a bowling green surface, Barnet swarmed all over their opponents. Their wingers and strikers were very nimble, their passing sharp and sensible, and their chance conversion just about 100 per cent. Sure, there are three divisions between the sides and this was St Albans’ first pre-season outing, but Barnet look a team determined not to be once again struggling against relegation this time. 

The referee clearly had a date to keep and we started three minutes early, meaning by two past three the game was wrapped up. The St Albans wing backs were being torn a new one and goals from Mark Byrne and Mauro Vilhete (an excellent top corner finish) had the smattering of travelling fans applauding. 

With incredible intensity for this stage of the season, Barnet didn’t show any mercy and it was soon three, four, five and then six just before the break. Every goal was well-crafted and clinically finished. The bloke on the tannoy grew more and more embarrassed as the score grew to proportions of eight, nine and ten to one. 

For the record, the scorers were Byrne, Vilhete, Ricky Holmes, Jon Nurse (two), Ollie Lee, Andy Yiadom, Anthony Edgar (two) and Sakho Bakare. There was little atmosphere - this would have completely ruined the tranquility of the park on this nice summer’s afternoon - but a lone Barnet voice struck up with ‘No-one likes us’ after the eighth. 

Twelve goals and a lovely afternoon out - St Albans was certainly the right choice. In fact, it was one of the most ridiculous games I’ve ever witnessed - a goal factory. I deserve a pat on the back. 

Next Match: We’re only half-way through pre-season so plenty of friendly fun to come. 

Welling United 0 Charlton Athletic 4

That’s it, we’re back in business. No doubt about it. Sod the summer, domestic football is back. London was awash with pre-season action on Saturday - I could have travelled north, south, east or west and found a game to watch to my satisfaction. 

Boston don’t start their round of pre-season friendlies until Tuesday evening, so Saturday meant another blank cheque for random, loyalty-free football watching. I ducked south and east, heading about half an hour out of central London to the respectable environ of Welling for my second fix of the season.

There was a definite wish at the back of my mind to avoid the shambles of last Saturday, when I ended up watching what was essentially a park game and just felt a bit stupid and lost. With Welling hosting Charlton Athletic, or at least an XI representing their name, I knew at least it would take place in an actual ground and not on some dodgy college astroturf or overgrown meadow like many of the other friendlies going on. 

It is also time to get started on visiting a few more Conference South grounds. I’ve done the full tour of the Conference North clubs - and seen some, like Guiseley and Gainsborough, so often that I can practically describe every landmark from the station to the ground - and it was now time to compare them with their southern equivalents. Dartford (only a couple of stops on the train after Welling) and Boreham Wood are the only two visited already, so just the 20 to go!

As has become depressingly familiar in this lost summer, London was being pelted with rain as my train pulled across the Thames from Victoria. The apex of The Shard - which I’m convinced should hold Sauron’s all-seeing eye of evil - was coated in thick grey and it was no less moist upon arrival at Park View Road.

Welling’s home since 1977 was no different to many other grounds at this level, with seating on the two sides and large expanses of terracing behind both goals. The bigger of the stands thankfully had a big roof, which prevented me getting too soggy as the players warmed up. 

It was obvious that this annual fixture is a massive money-spinner for Welling, who defied expectation by reaching the play-off final last season, and they would have banked plenty of money for this season’s war chest from the 1,800-strong crowd here. Admission was £12 - way above average for pre-season - but this didn’t deter a large crowd who were predominantly backing Charlton, whose ground isn’t too many miles away. 

The majority had little to cheer in the first-half, played out on a super-slick playing surface. One debate between my Boston-supporting friends is whether the Conference South is more aesthetically pleasing than the North - whether the default setting for those in North is to bash the ball forward while the ‘silkier’ players in the Southern division prefer to pass. 

On this evidence, it’s true. Welling’s passing and movement was excellent and they found themselves in threatening positions just as often as their Championship opponents, who fielded all their first teamers at one point or another during the game. 

The only moment of anxiety for the hosts came when Danny Green picked out an unmarked Calum Harriott at the back post. The forward was clean through but connected with the slippery ball so wildly that it went out for a throw in, to more than a few tuts, groans and shouts of Taxi!’ from those in my vicinity. 

The second period was an entirely different affair. Chris ‘Nicest man in football’ Powell made wholesale changes and the replacements were much more ruthless. Chris Solly whipped in a dangerous cross from the left and Welling defender Joe Obersteller, on debut, spanked it past his own goalkeeper barely 90 seconds after the whistle. 

Michael Smith was then left unmarked to head a second goal and the risk of an undignified defeat for Charlton on their first outing of pre-season lifted. The away fans started to enjoy their afternoon and the rowdier elements started working through their repertoire of songs and chants, glad their Saturday afternoon were filled again. 

Welling struck the upright through Ross Lafayette but it wasn’t long before the Addicks put a more lopsided complexion on things. Danny Haynes pirouetted into the box and was brought down, with Jonnie Jackson converting the penalty for 3-0. 

The roles were reversed when Haynes added a fourth shortly before full-time, which sparked one of the most pointless pitch invasions you’ll ever see. It did bring a smile to my face, however, and if I wasn’t wearing smart but inappropriate footwear I certainly would have joined them. They’re always better with Boston though... 

Next Match: Likely to get to a match in midweek as there’s no shortage of options. Next Saturday sees potentially my first Boston away, but then it is at Rainworth Miners’ Welfare so frankly I’m in two minds... 

  

  

  

Wembley FC 1 Feltham FC 1

*There's no programme scan because there was no programme. The game took place on a park pitch for goodness sake...

The hilarious Mitchell and Webb parody of never-ending football seems truer than ever this summer. I counted a single Monday of genuine pre-season between Spain’s majestic performance in the final of the European Championships, and the start of qualifying for the Champions League, which technically marks the start of 2012-2013 for those sad enough to check the outcome of the titanic clash between the champions of Moldova and the Faroe Islands. 

One measly day to think about other things, one day to appreciate there are other sports, one day to exhale, one day for the millions of football widows across the country to get the spare room emulsioned and the lawns cut. I exaggerate, of course, because the real business is still weeks away, but the dividing line between one season and the next has withered to almost nought. 

Personally, I think it’s wonderful because, for all the enjoyable hours of watching Europe’s top class sides on television, there is no substitute for actually going to a game - especially a totally random one - and getting air in your lungs and a restoration of your faith that football can occur without NASA-style countdowns to kick-off, prima donnas and the sarcasm of Mark Lawrenson. 

I have escaped Glasgow and started a new placement on the sports desk at the Daily Mail and the Mail Online in London, an arrangement I will describe as absolutely spiffing. It is what I dreamed of when standing in the pissing rain watching the University of York women’s rugby seconds get tonked 87-0 for the sake of 500 words for the student paper - and it has happened. Hopefully it will last. 

Hence, my first post of the season being brought to you from a park pitch in desperate need of a trim somewhere in north-west London - and not a park pitch somewhere in Scotland. There wasn’t a great deal of local choice for my Saturday off, with most teams barely back into the brutal training regimes that mark the coming season, let alone match-fit. 

I chose to watch Wembley FC only because of the quite surreal events that have happened there over the summer. Sometime last year, in a meeting of the marketing department at Budweiser headquarters, some bright spark made the connection between the FA Cup, which they sponsor, and Wembley. Then, presumably after supping a few of the company’s narrow-necked nectars, they thought: ‘Hey, wouldn’t it be good if we tried to get Wembley FC actually to *hic* Wembley?’ 

So Budweiser came along and made some smart improvements to their Vale Farm ground, including a new clubhouse. They got their name emblazoned on the club’s red kit. Then, bizarrely, they persuaded former England manager Terry Venables to become technical director. Three weeks ago, the club announced that David Seaman had been appointed as goalkeeping coach and a quintet of ancient former internationals - Ray Parlour, Graeme Le Saux, Martin Keown, Claudio Caniggia and Brian McBride - will play in their FA Cup ties this season. 

“I jumped at the chance,” said Parlour, who was being glared at icily by a Budweiser PR executive. “These guys do it for the love of football,” added Seaman poignantly, as a film crew recorded the introduction to the documentary they’re making about it all. 

My default opinion would be against such blatant commercialism in the non-league, but i don’t blame Wembley FC for taking the proffered cash from Bud. What the coaches think about Venables wondering around and poking his nose in to team affairs I don’t know and it’s anyone’s guess what the players must make of being booted out of the first team for the biggest games of their season for a creaking ex-pro. 

But if the alternative is to continue to fester in the Combined Counties League and play in a ramshackle old ground, then at least it may give them a chance to better themselves. Why wouldn’t they take the money? They’re not being forced to re-write their history, change their name to Anheuser-Bush Athletic or play at the Bud Light with Citrus Lemon Arena after all.  

I arrived at Vale Farm about twenty to three and felt a little anxious that the goal nets were still tied up and nobody was warming up. One peril of pre-season is that friendlies can be cancelled and altered at the last minute, but I decided to have a drink and see what unfolded. The clubhouse could pass for a smart city saloon bar with it’s chrome beer taps, HD televisions and leather seats, and I bowed to pressure, ordered a Budweiser and waited to see what would happen. (*I should point out here that other beers were available). 

Three o’clock passed and there remained a distinct lack of football on the perfectly manicured pitch outside, from which the sweep of the Wembley Arch could be seen in the distance. I’m sure this view will only inspire the collection of youth and veterans that will line up for them this coming season. 

Eventually I heard the unmistakable sound of players shouting from behind the main stand and toddled round to the Sunday League pitch where the game was actually taking place. I had missed about ten minutes through my own stupidity and Feltham - the Combined Counties League Division One side providing the opposition - had taken the lead through Liethan Brimah (or so their official website said). 

I pitched my umbrella in the soft ground near the corner flag, joining a motley assortment of genuine Wembley fans, obvious groundhoppers and interested passers-by in watching a game of three halves. Wembley’s coach Ian Bates had tweeted something earlier in the week about there being hundreds turning up for trials, and he chopped and changed the team at each 30 minute change-around.  

The match was evenly-balanced and surprisingly flowing for this stage of pre-season and the awful surface - some trialists were obviously keen to impress and break into the squad. In the middle half-hour, Wembley equalised from a penalty by the dreadlocked JJ Mitchell, but couldn’t find a winner. 

I didn’t know any of the other players’ names and since I didn’t have to file a match report, didn’t ask, but there were plenty of chances. A highlight came when I thought i spied Venables at the far end of the touchline. He’s more dedicated to this job than I ever imaged, I thought. But when the bloke walked nearer, it turned out not to be Venables but just someone with dyed blonde hair. Shame. 

My season is underway and I’ve set the bar at 60 matches for the season. Wonder how I’ll get on. 

Next Match: Pre-season moves up another gear next weekend and I’m spoilt for choice in the London area