Ground Number 184: Coach and Horses Ground
Sheffield FC 0-2 Leek Town
Tuesday 26th January 2016
Evo-Stick League Division One South
Attendance: 191
Admission: £4 (Student)
"To be totally honest with you, I don't actually like football that much. It's actually pretty boring".
The first time I met my friend Dan over a few craft beers in some swanky poncy bar in Berlin he uttered these words to me. Words that completely resonated and struck a cord with me. It seems like a totally bizarre connection for 2 young lads who have amassed over 600 football grounds between them to bond over, particularly as the pair of us had traveled independently to watch lower division football in the German capital that day (at Dynamo and Union respectively).
However, I know exactly what he meant and felt. To be fair, it's underselling myself a bit. Of course I enjoy watching football. It would be a lie to pretend otherwise. But I certainly don't harbour the passion and fervour for the game that I so vigorously expressed in my formative years. Like him, my main love for football these days lies within the matchday culture, the stadia, the supporters; all the minor or big idiosyncrasies that make watching the game live such a unique experience wherever you go.
When we agreed to renew our friendship last night at a Step Four non-league game last night, much of this appraisal from that night in Berlin was put into practice. We turned up to this pissing wet ground, walked a circle of the ground while photographing every aspect (like the sad losers we are), barely kept an eye on the game before retreating to the bar prior to half-time after witnessing the visitors take the lead with a neat breakaway goal. We didn't even emerge out to the ground in the second half. Apparently there was a floodlight failure and delay in the second half (so I found out this morning), which just goes to show how much attention we paid to a game we actively travelled out of our way to attend to.
I take very scant interest in non-league football nowadays but when Dan mentioned the pool of fixtures, Sheffield was one that made my ears prick up. Firstly, it's the best beer and music city in the country, and secondly, I knew the club was famed for it's claim to the be oldest existing football club in the world. The guests this evening would also be a household GM Vauxhall Conference name I recall from my youth, a club named after one of my favourite vegetables. One thing I didn't realise about Sheffield FC, however, is that the club's name is totally fraudulent. Firstly, the club isn't even situated in Sheffield, or even Yorkshire itself! The town of Dronfield, it emerges, actually lies within the boundaries of Derbyshire.
From what little attention I paid to the game there were two striking observations that I made:
The ground is smart and tidy enough for that level. The seated stand behind the goal is useful, the terrace on the side is cool and cosy. There's not an awful lot about it other than that. There could do with some more cover or elevation behind the goal but it's a useful enough place to watch football at that level. I have been to many better and many worse. Nothing striking about it.
Apart from the pub. Yes, the pub that the ground is name after. This Coach and Horses pub is actually built on the premises of the ground and is aligned to the club - they don't actually have a separate club bar and you can enter and exit from it at half-time. It is fantastic, affilitated to probably the best brewery in the country at the moment - Thornbridge, of course. Any of you fellow CAMRA card carrying members of our community will fully well know a sex dribble emerges in the undergarments at the slightest hint of the word 'Jaipur'. The pint of Jaipur was absolutely magnificent as ever, but more worrying was how easily the 7.4% imperial stout flowed down like a glass of water. Absolutely outstanding stuff. Brilliant beer menu, proper pub grub, and to cap things off the vast array of Indie cunty music we love by Arctic Monkeys, Oasis and Milburn et al were being played all evening. With all this bared in mind, plus the starry eyed nostalgia over our shagging antics in Macedonia last year, it should be easy to empathize why we failed to appear for another drenching 45 minutes of shit football.
For a Tuesday night spontaneous groundhop it's fair to say home I went home significantly more drunk than I had expected.
The first time I met my friend Dan over a few craft beers in some swanky poncy bar in Berlin he uttered these words to me. Words that completely resonated and struck a cord with me. It seems like a totally bizarre connection for 2 young lads who have amassed over 600 football grounds between them to bond over, particularly as the pair of us had traveled independently to watch lower division football in the German capital that day (at Dynamo and Union respectively).
However, I know exactly what he meant and felt. To be fair, it's underselling myself a bit. Of course I enjoy watching football. It would be a lie to pretend otherwise. But I certainly don't harbour the passion and fervour for the game that I so vigorously expressed in my formative years. Like him, my main love for football these days lies within the matchday culture, the stadia, the supporters; all the minor or big idiosyncrasies that make watching the game live such a unique experience wherever you go.
When we agreed to renew our friendship last night at a Step Four non-league game last night, much of this appraisal from that night in Berlin was put into practice. We turned up to this pissing wet ground, walked a circle of the ground while photographing every aspect (like the sad losers we are), barely kept an eye on the game before retreating to the bar prior to half-time after witnessing the visitors take the lead with a neat breakaway goal. We didn't even emerge out to the ground in the second half. Apparently there was a floodlight failure and delay in the second half (so I found out this morning), which just goes to show how much attention we paid to a game we actively travelled out of our way to attend to.
I take very scant interest in non-league football nowadays but when Dan mentioned the pool of fixtures, Sheffield was one that made my ears prick up. Firstly, it's the best beer and music city in the country, and secondly, I knew the club was famed for it's claim to the be oldest existing football club in the world. The guests this evening would also be a household GM Vauxhall Conference name I recall from my youth, a club named after one of my favourite vegetables. One thing I didn't realise about Sheffield FC, however, is that the club's name is totally fraudulent. Firstly, the club isn't even situated in Sheffield, or even Yorkshire itself! The town of Dronfield, it emerges, actually lies within the boundaries of Derbyshire.
From what little attention I paid to the game there were two striking observations that I made:
- I find it quite astonishing that Dover Athletic took a whole 3 seasons to get promoted from that level. Absolutely a complete world apart from the stuff we watch now - and I am no means a fan of Kinnearball.
- For all the romance of non-league being a game played by hard, honest and brutal men; there's an awful lot of crap boyband haircuts and multi-coloured boots on show.
The ground is smart and tidy enough for that level. The seated stand behind the goal is useful, the terrace on the side is cool and cosy. There's not an awful lot about it other than that. There could do with some more cover or elevation behind the goal but it's a useful enough place to watch football at that level. I have been to many better and many worse. Nothing striking about it.
Apart from the pub. Yes, the pub that the ground is name after. This Coach and Horses pub is actually built on the premises of the ground and is aligned to the club - they don't actually have a separate club bar and you can enter and exit from it at half-time. It is fantastic, affilitated to probably the best brewery in the country at the moment - Thornbridge, of course. Any of you fellow CAMRA card carrying members of our community will fully well know a sex dribble emerges in the undergarments at the slightest hint of the word 'Jaipur'. The pint of Jaipur was absolutely magnificent as ever, but more worrying was how easily the 7.4% imperial stout flowed down like a glass of water. Absolutely outstanding stuff. Brilliant beer menu, proper pub grub, and to cap things off the vast array of Indie cunty music we love by Arctic Monkeys, Oasis and Milburn et al were being played all evening. With all this bared in mind, plus the starry eyed nostalgia over our shagging antics in Macedonia last year, it should be easy to empathize why we failed to appear for another drenching 45 minutes of shit football.
For a Tuesday night spontaneous groundhop it's fair to say home I went home significantly more drunk than I had expected.
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| Porn. Otters Tears is an even better effort than Jaipur. |
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| "Oooh look. I have to take a cunty shot for my instagram page. #wanderlust" |
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| Some random cockney groundhopper we met on the train. Think he supported Millwall or some vermin. |
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