As I mentioned previously in my recent blog post; last season was the most apathetic I have been about my club. It may have culminated in an amazing final couple of weeks, in which a Havant self-induced cock-up enabled us to sneak into the play-offs on goal difference in the 87th minute of the final game - before going onto winning the whole damn thing by smashing Sutton 4-1 on aggregate and then getting the better of our bitter Ebbsfleet foes for the third time of the campaign, in the most important occasion of all; the final.
A month on from that amazing day though it's hard to imagine how bad some of the previous 8 months had been. We were witnessing dreadful football at Crabble, nearly game after game, week after week. Crowds slumping to our worst average since the 1980's I do believe as people grew tired of paying a ridiculous £13 to watch us struggle in 6th tier football. It may seem melodramatic but I don't think I am overstating just how poor our brand of football was for most of the season at Crabble. Just to put it into perspective - we scored 22 goals across our 21 leagues games there - the 2nd fewest tally in the league after rock bottom Dorchester. While our 7 wins wasn't quite relegation fabric, you'd never expect a promoted side to pick up more defeats than wins in their home fixtures.
I know it sounds like I'm painting this situation far grimmer than was actually the case - after all our season was propped up by some exceptional away form and performances that occasionally served to remind us that some of our players were actually more than capable - but home is where the heart is and the apathy that bred apathy week after week from our performances meant that Crabble became an increasingly mortal experience. A culmination of 4 seasons straight of poor/indifferent home form had seen our average crowds nearly halve over that period.
Now, like many others - I gather - if they were being honest, I find myself in the extremely fickle situation where I am moistening with anticipation for the new season to begin and it's almost as if a few months ago I wasn't criticizing everything about the club left, right and centre. A situation where I wasn't trekking up to the other side of the country every Sunday morning to get a football fix elsewhere where I could release from the realms of dread that weekly Kinnearball would bring.
Because that's exactly what I did. I've always loved going to new places and visiting new stadia - but I only really turned it up a notch in 2014. Partly due to the DAFC related reasons above but also as a part due to my lifestyle changes. Where I have been drinking slightly less from my dieting, I have not been wasting as much of my hard earned crust on getting wankered to block out every miserable home game I'd just witnessed, enabling me to go out and actually do something proactive with my time and money. Sundays for me previously consisted of feeling sorry for myself in a hungover daze and/or going to work. But being in a situation fortunate enough where I have access to discounted rail fares, I finally eventually put that to use in the new calender year by attempting to tick off as many of the Great *91 as possible.
*Like most people, I fail to recognize Accrington Stanley as a proper footballing entity.
I've always seen many people denounce the experience of going to a football match as a neutral but I've always personally rather enjoyed it. It's nice to go a game devoid of feeling any pressure or anxiety. You can watch the game with an open mind, no tinted bias, and get on with watching and studying the game in more depth than you would with the distractions of watching your own club. For example, at Crabble we spend most of the time trying to get a cheap laugh out of our peers around us rather than concentrating on the game.
Of course, I'd rather watch a game with the feeling of something riding on for it me, but I don't see why you can't be able to enjoy both situations.
One thing I do dislike about groundhopping is the cliquey culture and traits associated that come with it. I feel ashamed when having to identify myself as a groundhopper and it always gives me a shudder. For example, I don't eat meat paste sandwiches on gluten & wheat-free organic bread, I don't own a thermal flask, I don't own a singular pin-badge other than a Hannover 96 one I bought from Herne Bay market as an 11 year old, I don't fill in sudoku and crossword puzzles on the train to games and I am certainly not a paedophile. You'll never see me searching the Wessex or South Paulton Sunday U-12 leagues just to "tick another one off" - after all - the purpose of my groundhopping is it visit impressive, bigger grounds that I'm highly unlikely to ever attend with Dover, plus witness the much higher standard of football than I'm used to that goes with it.
But despite deploring the stigma that comes with being a groundhopper it's difficult to keep up with the self-denial. After all, let's look at the facts; I'm single and am likely to remain that way. I'm socially inadequate in the wider grand scheme of things. I enjoy drinking real ale and craft beer. The Guardian is my newspaper of choice. I have a geeky, encyclopaedic knowledge of all things football which I don't fancy surrendering any time soon. I'd sooner rather visit Plovdiv and the roman architecture that comes with it (anyone been by the way??) than get on the E's in Ibiza. I have collected the 2014 world cup sticker album. Within the past 12 months I have played and enjoyed a pokemon game. I write a blog detailing my experiences of non-league football.
The list of social and societal failings expected of a 22 year old guy could carry on indefinitely here. So who am I trying to kid? If I am a groundhopper by definition then so be it. I'd prefer the term 'ground enthusiast' myself but you can call me whatever you want.
Now that I've got this rather extended prelude finished and out the way with, I'll crack on with attempting to provide a succinct narration of the games I have attended as a neutral in this calender year, with photos to go along with it. Fair play to any of you that haven't got bored and lost the will to live by reading through this already.
Rangers 3-2 Arbroath
Att: 41,207
Saturday 25th January
Due to a failed visit to a Dynamo Zagreb Europa League qualifier back in October, in which I arrived outside the ground on the evening of the game only to find the stadium completely empty due to the small matter of the game being played behind closed doors, this provided my first game of the season outside of the English pyramid.
And it came about because of my bravery in finally choosing to miss the horror of the most unappealing fixture in the non-league game; Boreham Wood away. I hadn't missed a league game at this point of the season so it came with a heavy heart, but I decided this would be the ideal opportunity what with me enjoying a rare Saturday morning off work. In the premature stages of my diet at this point I didn't want to be derailed by having to sink a glutful of beer in St Albans beforehand, which is the only saviour of the sour experience that a trip to Boring Wood brings. So instead I chose the opportunity to finally visit my beloved sister in Aberdeen, who has been residing up there over the past 18 months.
What with the Granite City being an enormous 606 mile jaunt from my Dover point of departure, I thought it would be best off breaking up this journey by factoring in a visit to one of the Glasgow superpowers, of where I would have to change anyway. And it turned out that unfortunately neither Celtic nor Partick Thistle were at home that weekend, so I would have to make-do with 3rd tier club Rangers, recently formed a few seasons ago after the previous club died due to lack of interest.
Exiting Dover Priory at 6:45am on the Saturday morning, I arrived into Glasgow Central at about 1:10pm; such are the wonders of some of the hi speed rail links this great island possesses. After successfully navigating myself to the Glasgow metro system and getting myself to Ibrox, despite already struggling to come to terms with the Glaswegian accents when requiring strangers assistance for directions, I plonked myself into browsing their club shop. Unfortunately I had to harbour the shame of further lining their pockets by splashing out a whole £3 on a new woolly hat (though I concede that is a vast amount of money north of the border) due to the stereotypes about Scotland being fucking freezing during the winter months turning out to be true.
I also bought a programme, which I later daftly left on my seat at the ground, something of which I have developed a habit for.
Upon entering the ground about an hour before kick off, I suffered the indignity of spilling a whole coffee over my hand in the concourse while failing a balancing act, thus burning the tips of my fingers. But on the bright side, it at least allowed some Scots to snigger at a 'wee cockney bastad'.
Now I'll enter a serious mode. Like most people who are neither side of the fence, I dislike both clubs as religion and politics have no place in football, regardless if they're factors that contribute towards some of the most notorious rivalries in club football. However, I've always found Rangers a tad less deplorable than the IRA-sympathising, war-fallen-mocking lot from the other side of the city. That's not to say that Rangers and their far right nationalism are any better than them, it's just a personal 'preference', though I say that in a similar vein to a discussion of what the best STI is.
However, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't impressed with Ibrox as a stadium. Ignoring the stuff about them being a newco club, it's a stadium entrenched with history and they are a genuinely humongous club, a household worldwide name. There were over 41 thousand for this game in the third division. And this was one of their smaller crowds. Against opposition who average lower gates than Dover Athletic. Their experience in the lower tiers must be completely surreal. It's like Newcastle playing in the Conference North.
That said, the astronomical gulf in size between the two clubs would not have been noticeable on an on-field basis. Indeed, Arbroath took the lead on two separate occasions. Their first came after just 2 minutes when the brilliantly named David Banjo sidefooted home from a deep cross with a smart finish to send their travelling 100 or so fans wild. They held that lead for 20 minutes before Rangers equalised through a Jon Daly header but they regained their advantage soon after the break, when Robert Linn raced through after an error on the half-way line and then coolly slotted the one-one-one with great composure.
Sadly, while secretly chuckling away with a wry smile in the home end, willing them on, they were unable to hold on. 2 goals in the final 20 minutes were Abroath's undoing. The first a decent solo goal from David Templeton, before the typical clichéd dodgy penalty in a big club's favour completely turned the tie, with ex-Wigan midfielder Lee McCulloch putting away from 12 yards.
Arbroath were hard done by while Rangers were just pure fucking dreadful. Their inability to hold possession for more than 5 seconds would not have looked out of place in the conference south and on a quality basis it certainly wasn't worth the £17 match fee, even if the entertainment value reached higher than the one-way traffic I was expecting. Many Rangers fans would have echoed my feelings - I had not seen set of more restless, whingeing fans up at this point. Considering their supposed £7million wage bill their walk through these divisions has been completely underwhelming - hilarious when you consider that fat wanker Ally McCoist has had the audacity to speak up of what a great achievement their rise through the leagues has been, without a hint of irony. How I would love one of the Edinburgh clubs to pip him to the title next season.
That said, I had been very impressed with the noise of Rangers home support, considering it must be hard for them to get motivated for playing sides that are not even a fraction of the size of them. When booking my tickets online I hadn't realised I would be right amongst Rangers' Union Bear ultra support - I just booked myself in a small row of three at the very end of the stand so I wouldn't have to be amongst many people. Instead I felt rather uncomfortable being the odd one out amongst their hardcore and feigned to join in with the songs so I didn't feel totally at unease.
Many people would have found it horrendously tinpot - they had a megaphone and waved lots of flags. But compared to a lot of the major stadiums I have visited recently, they create one of the better home atmospheres and it actually works to an extent, the megaphone, in getting people coherently to join in the same songs. During the goals and towards of the end of the game they were very loud.
Meanwhile, Dover's winless run against the Hertfordshire non-entities continued, albeit we managed to snag a late-ish equaliser in a 2-2 draw. But I didn't envy my friends getting soaked in that squalor while I enjoyed the luxury of seeing some of the forgotten bygones of my childhood - panda pops and golden wonder crisps - proof that Scotland really is stuck in the past.
Overall, on a serious note with piss-taking aside, I thoroughly enjoyed my short break in Scotland. Aberdeen was really nice and I managed to get a quick glance outside Pittodrie, but I was rather unfortunate that my planned visit to Dundee United on the Monday evening was voided by their inability to get any pitch covers on before the game - despite the fact that wet & windy forecasts are apparently common in that part of the Isles?
Anyway, I would love to squeeze in a visit to Edinburgh at some point. Would have definitely have been on the cards this season but it will might have to wait now what with the added expenditure of the small matter of DAFC's promotion to a national division.
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| It really was a good job I bought a padded new coat a day before. Possibly the coldest football experience I've ever endured. |
Watford 2-0 Brighton & Hove Albion
Att: 16,096
Sunday 2nd February
Hmmmm. Watford. Another one of those London overspill clubs that struggle to provoke a reaction out of you other than anything but indifference. When you think of Watford you think of Elton John, Graham Taylor, Luther Blissett and John Barnes and that vintage side of the 80's - but beyond that - there's very little to care of them. The only people who I am aware that are irked by their presence are bitter non-league Luton Town fans and my father, still bitter from them defeating Plymouth Argyle in the 1984 FA Cup semi-final.
My pre perception of Watford being an inoffensive club would later turn out to be emphatically true. Arriving at Vicarage Road about an hour before kick-off, I would become quite shocked at just how much of a placid, family-friendly, happy-clappy club Watford really are over the following hours. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing - after all - all people from different backgrounds should feel at ease and enjoy going to football. But it really was one of those strange, diluted experiences and glad that it's not one you have to be a regular part of.
I'd followed very little of Watford over the past few seasons. I knew that they were having a disappointing season, having slipped into lower mid-table, and won 1 out of their previous 15 going into this game, costing Gianfranco Zola his job after guiding them to the play-off final in the previous campaign. But reading their programme before kick-off I wasn't even aware of who their manager, Beppe Santino, was, and neither half of their players. As the vast majority of their squad are young and old Italians shipped in from Udinese, essentially becoming their B side. It's a very strange set up, one that helps further reliquinsh the Hornets' credibility.
Saying that, it was nice reading a Q & A in the match programme with a suave Italian centre-back, who unlike his stereotypical British counterparts, didn't name Nandos as his favourite cuisine or Marbella as his favourite holiday destination. Which by my definition actually makes him a cultured footballer. Halle-fucking-lujah!
I've got to say I did quite like Vicarage Road. It boasts two singular-tiered stands behind either goal and then a main stand that has two tiers and it quite unique in its design. Then the other side of the ground is completely desolute, which strangely gives it a more romantic feel. There are still some remains of the terrace and seated stands that used to be there which gives it a nice rusty feel. I have no idea why a club Watford's size haven't got around to replacing it yet but I like it the way it is.
I was sat near the corner flag, flanked by my 15 year old brother, towards the end where the 2000 Brighton fans were congregated in their sold out away end. The seagulls weren't too bad value for noise but were really repetitive with their songs (not an uncommon occurance with most UK fanbases) and quietened down as the game petered out with their team having put in a lacklustre display all afternoon.
Watford won the contest and in pretty comfortable fashion too. Their first coming after just 13 minutes when Ikecha Anya was fed on the left hand side of the box. Bamboozling past a couple of their defenders, he then drilled in a low shot across the goal and past Tomasz Kuszczak into the other corner. It was a tidy goal but question marks had to be asked of the Pole's inability to get down to the shot in time.
In one of the rare attacks Brighton had, the almost equalised when the somersaulting expert Kazenga Lua-Lua crashed a shot from outside onto the crossbar, but unfortunately we were denied seeing some acrobatic excellence. Brighton looked like one of those classic sides who are good in possession, knock the ball around nicely but are powderpuff when entering in the final third and struggle to create any real openings. Their Argentine striker Leonardo Ulloa is a really good Championships striker but he always looked way too isolated spearheading an attack on his own in a 4-2-3-1. To be honest, I'm a bit of a footballing dinosaur in that I generally prefer to have striking partnerships. The singular striker only works when the attacking midfielders link up well and always support the lone-man, but this was not the case in this game and evidently not in most games, going by the lack of goals Brighton scored this season.
Watford confirmed the points about 15 minutes into the second half. Brighton captain Gordon Greer, under pressure from being pressed, really under hit his backpass towards Kuszcsak, leaving the the talented Fernando Forieistiri to nip in, round the en-rushing Pole and tap into an empty net. Game over.
The rest was really elementary from then onwards. It was a really poor game overall in terms of attacking incidents. The final 15 minutes I had some random ponytailed bloke sitting nearby us come over and speak to me. He was puzzled why I was wearing a Rangers hat and we began speaking to me about football and life, explaining he was a Chelsea fan with a soft spot for Brighton but couldn't get a ticket into their end. He seemed like a nice fella although he was really intrusive with some of his questions - asking stuff about my personal life like my job occupation and family. I did ponder for a while afterwards if he was a KGB spy or something.
It wasn't a bad day out but it's not a club I'll be eager to return to in a hurry. Bare in mind this is a club who, during the game, rely on their mascot who sits pitchside to start up their songs with a drum. Yes, it really was that tinpot. And if that isn't bad enough, the mascot spends random periods of the game just breaking out into dance in front of the crowd. To be fair some of the shapes he pulled were superb - I was properly chuckling away at him - partly due to the sheer tinpottedness of it but also because I was entertained. But it's a football game - you're not there to watch somebody dance while a game is ongoing.
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| Looking chuffed with the exotic places I take him to. |
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| Yep. A mascot, beating a drum, during a game. Broken Britain 2014. |
Wycombe Wanderers 0-0 Accrington Stanley
Att: 3,073
Saturday 8th February
Secretly I was pleased that our game at Weston-Super-Mare had been postponed on the Friday evening, due to torrential rain which had been savaging non-league football with postponements during the winter months, raising the argument in favour of 3G pitches.
Although we had a decent "this place is so shit it's actually rather good" time there in our weekender at Weston a few seasons ago, it's a pretty shit away game for a day trip. It's essentially the Boreham Wood of the West Country. Bland, uninspiring ground with hardly any home supporters. So I was happy with the opportunity to tick off another ground. Myself, my brother, McGarrigle and Doddy booked our tickets for Brentford vs Crawley the following day with Griffin Park being a ground I've always wanted to get round to visiting.
But despite cocky reassurances from one of their PR types, that the game would not fall victim to the foul weather, that's exactly what happened on the morning of the game. POSTPONED. So this meant we'd have to find another back up option and sharp. Thankfully we noticed Wycombe were at home, their pitch had passed inspections and we could make the short-ish trip to South Bucks comfortably in time for kick-off. And as an added bonus, tickets were reduced to £10 for an adult with it being some sort of community day thing.
Instead we caught a taxi to Adams Park, which really is a trek outside the centre - must be a good couple of miles at least. It's right on the end of an industrial state in the middle of nowhere.
Their club social bar was pretty decent, aside from having only one poor overworked lass serving. We were able to catch Liverpool's mauling of Arsenal in the lunch-time kick-off, which is always interesting seeing the latter's lack of fight and fibre in any game of importance.
Unfortunately the real life game we would watch wouldn't be as decent. In fact, it's up there as one of the worst games I've ever had the misfortune of watching. An absolute stinker. And I wasn't alone in my appraisal of the 90 minutes of pure turgidness - I'd seen the words "the worst game in professional football I have ever seen" typed online afterwards, while the wording from Wycombe fans on their forum afterwards was of similar 'praise'.
It was up there with the most non-descript of goalless draws. There are two incidents in the entire game I can remember. Midway through the second half, Wycombe finally tested the Accrington goalkeeper with a driven shot outside the area. And 5 minutes from time, Accrington scored. But it was ruled offside. And it looked offside.
That's literally it. The rest of the game was a horrendous advert for professional football and reaffirmed my belief in League 2 being a poor-quality league. Both sides style of play almost made Dover look free-flowing. Neither could hold possession for more than 10 seconds. The raining conditions didn't help matters, but for fuck sake, you'd expect more from professional footballers.
Granted, I wasn't expecting a classic. After all, had they not beaten Torquay on the final day of the season I'd be going to Adams Park again next season - with Dover this time. But it really was one to forget.
Other than that though I enjoyed the day out. I quite liked the ground, which is shared with rugger buggers London Wasps. It's a bit too oversized for them but that's the case with virtually any club below the Championship. There's an impressive two-tier stand along one side of the pitch which holds the bulk of the ground's 10,300 capicity. Opposite that is a much smaller seated stand, which situated the Spaccrington tiny travelling contingent in one corner because they were too tinpot to be entered into the other seated stand behind the goal. While we stood on the Greene King terrace, behind the goal, with out little nonleaguer mentality of wanting to stand at football, despite other areas of the ground boasting better views.
Wycombe screamed out in a similar vein to Watford - another one of those inoffensive London overspill clubs who provide not much reason to get worked up about either way. Another bland, and some would say, tinpot club. Put it this way they have a drum and sing that god awful "since I was young" song, one of the worst phenomenons doing the rounds in the modern game. Up there with the dale cavese in terms of pure shitness.
As for Accrington, I've always held a (some would say irrational) intense dislike of them. They're just another one of those shitty nothing clubs polluting the Great 92, constantly get into debt by overspending on their playing staff, don't bring their ground up to football league standards, employ paedophile mascots and then get patronizing sympathy from the rest of the football world despite being utter cuntbags. And after bumping into some of their fans who wouldn't look out of place in The Hills Have Eyes, the stereotypes about them would indeed turn out to be true.
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| Huge travelling numbers. |
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| Playing flappy bird while the game was ongoing. Speaks volumes. |
Manchester United 2-2 Fulham
Att: 74,966
Sunday 9th February
I have always fucking detested Manchester United. Not really in much part due to the club itself, but mainly due to growing up in an era where you're surrounded by their fair-weather 'fans' who 'support' them despite living hundreds of miles away from the city and having no connection it either. I'd happily accept glory-hunting if they were honest about it but unfortunately the general types of Man United fans you get in this area are the cocky, gloating, in-your-face, know-fuck-all types who would list fosters as their favourite lager and think that Tim Lovejoy is a legend. Essentially; cunts.
However, as a fan of football I've always wanted to visit Old Trafford obviously as the biggest club venue in England home to one of the biggest clubs in the world, with so much history and tradition entrenched there. And the opportunity to go there was presented to me thanks to Fulham, another dull, inoffensive London club (are you getting as bored with this phrase as I am?) being tinpot enough to not sell their away allocation and thus were able to buy on general sale. The £36 match ticket for an 18-20 (to be fair, I weighed somewhere in that figure at that point so thus qualified) category was on the steep side but I didn't baulk at it. Instead the main point of concern for me would be getting home afterwards what with it being a 4.05pm kick off on a Sunday.
This would be a game I'd have to go on my lonesome, hungover after the brilliance of the Wycombe game and subsequent drinking escapades in Dover's flourishing nightlife scene.
But I don't mind long journeys - especially on virgin trains. The fact you can get from London-Manchester in just over a few hours and travel in such comfort of their brilliant trains means that I'm not really bothered about being on my own and having time to reflect on the world pondering on my own brilliant thoughts.
After arriving into Piccadilly I caught the football matchday special train to directly outside the stadium. Trains are only available on matchdays and timetables are only made available online a few days before. But it's pretty cool. The station is essentially one platform and you exit through some footballing style turnstile that directly lead you to right under the away end.
It's a pretty fantastic ground I have to be honest. Absolutely enormous, huge engulfed stands with so much to be in awe of. You look around the ground and realise how big a club they really are. The vast amount of banners around the ground, particularly the one detailing Sir Alex Ferguson and his ridiculous trophy haul. It's just really impressive. And I say that with honesty as as above, I've always really disliked them and have been enjoying their huge demise this season as much as anyone.
But then for all that the experience is dampened by the vast amount of Asian tourists everywhere taking a million different photographs on their 16mp camera phones that are still 9 months away from being released in the UK. I can't condemn them too much - after all - I'm as much as a football tourist as they are. But for fuck sake, don't want to come across as all UKIP here but support a team in your bloody country and league.
Quite amusingly there were also various Asian tourists in the away end alongside me, who had quite clearly used Fulham's tinpottedness for an easy ticket into the ground. Some feigned avoiding their Manchester United preferences quite efficiently - unless they truly are Cottagers who have latched onto the club as a result of Junichi Inamoto's spell them!
This was the game were Manchester United fan groups re-tested one of their singing section experiments, after an earlier attempt in the season for one of their Champions League group games. Despite being derided for it over social media for organically trying to create an atmosphere, I have to say it really did work well. Their fans were by far and away the best I've seen for one of the big UK clubs at home. And yeah, you could properly hear broad Mancunian accents in the south-west corner of the East stand, where I was situated with the small block of Fulham fans. I absolutely loved the Nemanja Vidic "he comes from Serbia, he'll focking murder ya" song. Not as much as I loved the over-the-hill Balkan's inept defending, which saw Fulham avoid defeat at Old Trafford for only the 2nd time in 51 years.
The game kicked off after a minute silence for the anniversairy of the Munich air disaster, which was sadly botched by the Stadium Announcer who hadn't realised the referee had whistled for it. A touching banner was passed around the Stretford End before kick-off honouring those who lost their lives but unfortunately the respect couldn't be shared by some of the tourists around me, who took photographs with the shutter sound still on during the silence.
Under the now departed dour Scot David Moyes's leadership, more misery got heaped on United in this game against the rock bottom Londoners. Despite spending the majority of the game inside their own half, Fulham took the lead on 19 minutes in one of their rare attacks. Lewis Holtby advanced into their half, noticing the run of dynamic Gingerian Steven Sidwell and floated a ball into the area. Evra and Vidic were hopefully out of position as he ghosted in to sidefoot the ball past De Gea with a sweet finish. Nice goal.
Fulham fans really did live up to their stereotype. Middle-class trainspotters who are afraid of any making any noise. Despite holding the lead for almost an hour of play, they only ever sporadically broke out into song - though they did sing a semi-amusing ditty about having won the intertoto cup one time.
And they should have been 2-0 up before half-time as well. This time, another counter attack as yet another one of United's set pieces failed to come to fruition. The ball eventually broke free to ex Red Devil Kieran Richardson, who sped past the lumbering Vidic, only to balloon shot well over the crossbar while free on goal. A dreadful miss from a dreadful player, who somehow used to make the England squads not a lifetime ago.
Untied were absolutely battering Fulham statual wise in everything bar the one that matters; goals scored. They boasted 75% of the possession, managed 81 crosses into Fulham's box, attempted 31 shots, but overall looked toothless and one dimensional. The players I had paid good money to see like Rooney, Mata and Van Persie were all under par. Their game plan was the same all game - get the ball out wide to Young and Rafael and watch on as the excellent Dan Burn and Johnny Heitenga were equal to nearly everything in the air. When not, Markus Stekleenburg was an excellent repellent in goal.
They did eventually break Fulham's resistance though and it came 12 minutes from time. The incompetent Moyes went gung-ho in an attempt to salvage the game and his substitutions looked to have won the game. Hernandez, Valencia and Januzaj came on and the new attacking impetus eventually paid off. Januzaj drilled a volley across the face of goal and Van Persie finally reminded me has playing, turning the ball in from close range.
And two minutes later the turnaround was complete. More desperate Fulham defending saw the ball cleared but only to Michael Carrick on the edge of the area. He bent a shot in, taking a hefty deflection and floated into the top corner. Harsh on Fulham, who had defended so valiantly, but the goal(s) had certainly been coming on balance of play.
I have to say when you're in a small section of the crowd and there's 73,000 fans going mental and marginalising you, it is quite impressive. The noise was quite deafening after those goals.
With 5 minutes to go though I exited the stadium. Partly because I was paranoid about missing the train due to heavy queuing traffic but also because I felt like I was going to collapse/faint. It was actually a really scary moment for me. I started feeling really shaky, freezing on the inside and feeling really unease both physically and in the mind. I'm not sure what is was, but after walking around the concourse for a few minutes in panic I eventually felt back to normal. It was bizarre. Unexplainable.
Anyway, on the train back I found out via the rough Mancunian skinhead sitting next to me, who was bemoaning about all the "Jackie Chans" around him that Fulham had equalised. In the 94th minute. Darren Bent. A soft headed goal after United were again badly exposed on a rare Fulham attack. Hilarious. I was gutted to miss out on it but leaving on or after full-time was always going to be a dangerous game with my engineer-work ridden train journey home from London to Kent.
I tried feigning disgust, and nervously listened on and nodded as he spoke about preferring to finish outside the Europa League qualifying spots as it meant he wouldn't have to spend money on travelling to unheard of shitholes in Romania and Moldova, while secretly pining for having the opportunity to do that.
Moyes was again panned and mocked in the aftermath of the game and I'm not at all surprised they decided to sack him. Why does everybody speak of the "poor, ageing squad" the poor ickle man has had to inherit? They won the league with 89 points last season for fuck sake. Players don't become that much significantly worse overnight. Yes the Ferguson factor obviously previously helped and yes some key positions do need revamping but it's not like he's not had the backing to do that - he spent over £60m on Fellaini and Mata alone! He was a man well out of his depth and his longevity in the Everton job only served to mask the averageness of his spell there.
Queens Park Rangers 1-3 Reading
Att: 16,522
Sunday 16th February
On the morning of this game I was actually due to head off to Liverpool for Everton's FA Cup game against Swansea. However, heavy torrential rain over the course of that weekend had messed up half of the country's rail network and the tight journey to the blue half of Merseyside in time for the 1:30pm kick off would be fucked up by the first train out from Dover being cancelled. Which I suppose was nice to get the disappointment out of the way nice and early rather than getting stuck somewhere after Euston. However though, this would turn out to be a blessing in disguise and I'd be able to tick off another London league club I'd never been to before, while my eventual visit to Goodison Park later in the season would be even more of a special occasion.
Having wasted £20 on the Everton ticket, thankfully the QPR replacement game came in pretty cheap at £15 for an under 21 - not bad for a match between two of the top 6 clubs (at that point) battling it out in a contest of the blue & white hoops. And that was despite my perception from the media that QPR grossly overprice their tickets in their current vile shit-or-bust spending regime.
Loftus Road is fairly unique for a London club in that from the walk from the underground station you don't have to pass acres of grim terraced housing and tower block flats. Though the vastly improved weather and an actual appearance sunshine may have clouded that judgement.
QPR are a club I know that most of the footballing world and you lot reading this find a deplorable, depressing indictment of modern football. Their astronomical net spend over the last few seasons (their wage bill is reportedly higher than Atletico Madrid's and Borussia Dortmund's) and subsequent humiliating relegation from the Premier League with piss-taking, cheque-grabbing mercenaries of theirs laughing along the way, was a source of joy to many. I do not disagree and cannot argue with these sentiments against QPR, however, I can't bring myself to get wound up by them as much as that various other bankrolled clubs across the pyramid.
I do however, harbour a very strong disliking for the crooked, saggy pug-faced, wheeling-dealing, cockney spiv cunt that is Harry Redknapp. This was around the time when he was in the press promoting his autobiography by whining about how he wasn't given the England job. I tell ya what, had he got the gig ahead of Hodgson like he and his mates in the press so desired then I would have completely abandoned my already extremely diminished allegiance towards our national side.
I did take great amusement in reading his programme notes before the game - reading him moan about their terrible luck with injuries and how depleted his striking options are. This despite having signed 3 loan strikers on deadline day with about another half a dozen out of favour or in the treatment table. I actually needed the programme to keep up with who actually plays for them nowadays as their squad is that massive. And he genuinely has the audacity to moan about lack of options in his squad. The bloke is a Grade A wanker.
Thankfully I'd be able to take joy in his team's ineptness on this enjoyable afternoon with an entertaining 90 minutes of football ahead. I was really liked Loftus Road as well despite regularly seeing it get derided. Yes, it is on the small size and could do with an expansion on its 18k capacity. But it's got that nice compact and proper feel to the stadium - the capacity is actually bigger than it looks if anything. But it's nice - you're so close to the pitch I could actually hear one of my football idols, Joseph Barton, bark away in his Scouse accent when they were defending from set-pieces.
I was sat behind the goal in the School End which, as the name would suggest, is the cheap area with all the families. There seemed to be a big representation of ethnic groups (hardly surprising in London, I know) and females around me. Just an observation.
The only downside to this stand was that I had no view of the 1000 or so Reading fans congregated in the tier above me. Over the next 90 minutes they wouldn't do much to dispel the perception of them having a rather tepid fanbase. Despite leading the majority of the match and eventually winning the game they weren't particularly loud nor did they have a varied repertoire of songs.
The football on the pitch however compensated for a lacklustre atmosphere with a classic blood and thunder Championship match. The first goal came after just 10 minutes with American international Daniel Williams netting for the visitors, an excellent header met from a deep Adam Le Fondre cross, finishing off an attack that he initiated with a cross field pass.
Despite their impressive start, they soon allowed the hosts a route back into the game with some absolutely dreadful defending from a set piece, which eventually saw the Irish superstar Kevin Doyle scramble a scrappy equaliser from close range.
The Biscuitmen regained their advantage soon into the second half with beastly centre half Alex Pearce bulleting in with his cannister from a corner. A proper centre-half goal celebrated with pure PASHUN by biting the inside of the net with his fist clenched towards the travelling contigent.
But it was their third goal, and match sealer, that was the type of strike that makes these pathetic groundhops so worthwhile. Take a bow, Mr Garath McLearly, the non-league boy who dun' good and goalscorer of probably the best goal I have seen live in 2014.
Picking the ball up inside his own half after a fruitless QPR attack fizzled out, he sprinted the entire length of the byline until the edge of the box, with Benoit Assou-Ekotto just backing off of him. But with another defender closing in and very little space to get a shot in, he unleashed a ridiculously fast drive that found the very top end of the corner in the space of no time after striking his boot. It was a stupendously well-struck shot and it's something that isn't alien to his game. A proper decent direct winger from what I have seen of him.
I genuinely started clapping it before realising "oh shit" and that I was amongst the home support. It was just that damn good.
Former QPR cult hero defender Kaspar Gorkss earned himself his marching orders on his return to his old stomping ground, thus accumulating some boos from the home fans with short memories at the club where he was instrumental in their promotion to the Premier League a few years back. His rash tackle was more mistimed that malicious but thankfully for him his team-mates stood strong as QPR were powderpuff in their attempts to salvage anything out of the game against a side content to sit on their lead.
Most curiously of all after witnessing that game, QPR somehow managed to get themselves promoted come the end of the season. Like Dover, and Chris Kinnear, they ultimately succeeded despite all the (not unjust) criticism aimed at them and being widely written off. Funny old game, is football.
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