GROUNDHOPPING
Clive Hayward
@Byehorse
Clive looks back over his trip to Kent
TONBRIDGE (A)
Elements of Saturday’s trek to Kent could certainly feature in any volume of “Worst Days Out” but it’s important to keep a sense of humour if you support our glorious football club. It was a bit of a laugh!
DOGS:
My friend Andy inherited Ollie a couple of years ago, and they are very much best friends now. He (Andy) had been keen to bring Ollie along because he had heard that Tonbridge was a “dog friendly ground.” But there was a problem. Engineering works meant that Rail Replacement Buses were running between Newton Abbot and Exeter. This vexed Andy, because it was apparently unclear whether Ollie would be allowed. My suggestion that he could surely get a Rover Ticket was treated with the contempt it deserved!
As luck would have it, Last Tuesday’s capitulation at home to Taunton was enough to persuade Andy to bail out. He just couldn’t face it, and who am I to disapprove?
Although the Ollie Issue had become academic, canine events on Saturday were still amusing, and worth reporting.
My better half dropped me at Newton Abbot. A comfortable Taw and Torridge coach turned up and behind me in the queue was a gentleman carrying a large hound which looked to have a touch of Rottweiler about it. On they came, and nobody batted an eyelid.
So Ollie could have travelled. The only problem was that on arrival at Longmead there was a big sign to the left of the turnstiles explaining that, in fact, dogs were not allowed in!
RAILS AND ALES PART ONE
I have a weakness for the Waterloo line. It’s always a pleasant trip up from Exeter to the capital, and Saturday was no exception. Our resident train expert Chris Wade tells me that the rolling stock are 151s. What they lack in plug sockets they make up for in comfortable seats, and for most of my solitary journey I had a table to myself. I’d taken a book (political diaries, if you’re interested) and I arrived in the South Bank relaxed and in plenty of time for the next train, a Southeastern service down to Hastings.
Torquay showed little appetite for the battle of course, but I’m getting slightly ahead of myself.
There was a broad cross-section of people in my carriage. Behind me was a young girl form South East Asia who had got herself into a bit of a pickle. She fondly thought she would be able to “tap out” at Tonbridge. The guard was smashing with her. He explained that because she was travelling so far she needed to have a proper ticket. He sold her a return for £18 and let her know how she can claim a refund for the “non tapping out” from TFL.
The gentleman opposite me- also going to Tonbridge- were a different kettle of fish. They were what we used to call Hooray Henrys. Accents and attitudes straight out of the Bullingdon Club. One appeared to be a standard issue posh boy. Floppy blond hair, jeans, jacket and black brogues. The other was the more talkative. He sported a baseball cap and shades. He was deathly pale and sweating. If he had said he was recovering from a coke binge I wouldn’t have been surprised in the slightest. One of them related a recent jaunt around West London wearing dinner suits. “We thought we were going to get stabbed. Best case scenario was being abused by Chelsea Potters. Some of them did harangue us, so we had to have a little run.” A recent wedding reception also hadn’t gone awfully well. “They had Country Dancing. There were only 8 in our group, which wasn’t enough so we went and joined in with others. They weren’t very happy with us for some reason.” I could probably guess why, but I thought it best not to say! He went on to speak about a friend who has just set himself up in business with a stall selling bacon sandwiches with scallops. A trip to Cheltenham races last week hadn’t been a total success either. Super, super busy. He’d enjoyed it, but prefers a point to point. He wasn’t impressed that many racegoers were in “horrible tight grey Top Man suits” and the town after racing was “like Magaluf”.
I did my best to demonstrate my own oik credentials by drinking a couple of quick cans of Stella and pulling on my Torquay shirt. Matty had arrived in Tonbridge before me, and we met at Tonbridge Station. I had been messaging him with descriptions of the Hoorays’ ludicrous conversation, and pointed them out as we emerged, blinking, into the spring sunshine.
We walked across the River Medway and had a quick photo in front of the ruins of Tonbridge Castle. It’s made to look more attractive at this time tear by some inspired planting of drifts of primroses.
It was a relief to get back amongst people I like, and several of us rendezvoused at The Ivy House for a pleasant outdoor pint and and a Gulls natter.
We walked further up the main drag to The George and Dragon. There was a lively crowd in there- quite a lot of home fans- and a universal appreciation of the “limbs” when Coventry got their late winner in the FA Cup quarter final at Molyneux.
There is so much effort put in by clubs in National League South to give spectators a good experience. Tonbridge Angels are no exception. There are plenty of opportunities to have a pint and the general vibe of the place was spot on. Matty and I developed an appreciation for Birra Moretti on a family holiday a few years ago, and we didn’t need asking twice by the friendly ladies running the outdoor pumps. It helped us get through Torquay’s standard plastic pitch capitulation.
We spent much of the second half chatting with an old mate who has made one of his periodic returns from Canada. He had dragged along his friend and the friend’s daughter for what I think was her first Yellow Army experience. She was kind enough to laugh at all of my jokes. There really is a first time for everything!
We made our excuses and left about 7 minutes before the end. It was a fair old walk back and although, on the way, we had at the fourth attempt managed to get a taxi booked for after the game, we blew him out. Sorry about that!
RAILS AND ALES PART 2:
Back to London, and with plenty of spare time I had a pleasant amble to see The London Eye, which was beautifully illuminated. Sightseeing done, I gratefully took my seat on the not-too-busy return train to Exeter.
Shrugging off the disappointment of reading TT speculation that I might be related to Mel Hayman, I settled down for the journey. Without much remaining battery my plan was broadly: a couple more cans, eat my bodyweight in M & S chicken thighs and have a nice doze.
Not happening!.
I got chatting to some nice ladies opposite. Two friends (or possibly sisters) heading home to Exeter after a nice social day together, accompanied by their Mum. The feistier one of the youngsters had taken umbrage at having been told they would need to get themselves in the front three carriages in order to get any further west than Salisbury. Drink had been taken and a Thatchers Pear and gins in tins featured on their table.
Events took an unexpected turn when we were joined at (?) Basingstoke (?) by some similarly well-refreshed Yeovil fans. They of course “clocked” my Torquay shirt, and explained what a poor choice of football club I had made. It was relatively good natured and I explained how much I was looking forward to watching them stuff us in Good Friday. I said they should enjoy it whilst they can.
About 10 minutes later all hell broke loose. It was a good old-fashioned green on green Saturday night punch up. Two of the Somerset lads had clearly been “at” each other all day. It happened very fast. One of them went flying into the other, and quickly got him pinned into 2 of those comfy seats. He rained down several punches and one of the ladies screamed.
I thought I probably ought to do something, and I rode my luck. By the time I got to them the attacker had got off his mate, and I was able to get in between them. I managed to walk the slightly – bloodied Glover backwards and out of harm’s way. The guard hadn’t really wanted to get involved, but he baby-sat him until he got off at Yeovil. The others stayed on until Crewkerne, but by the time Honiton came into view the Devonians on the train were shaking our heads and muttering about the unpleasantness. I don’t blame the guard for keeping his distance really. He’s only Lapslie-sized and seems a lot less aggressive! He did thank me for helping him out.
That should have been that really, but the evening wasn’t quite over. There was no bus waiting and the bloke in charge explained that he had cancelled it because one of the GWR trains hadn’t run. Cheers mate!
I had 50 minutes to kill. It was raining steadily and I did what any self-respecting Yellow would do. Up the hill to Wetherspoons! There I nursed a final pint and watched the youth of Exeter University enjoying themselves.
Newton Abbot was finally reached after midnight. I wanted my kip by now and a damp bus stop had little appeal. I jumped in a taxi. The amiable old boy relieved me of £25 and drove me slowly home along the back road with a soundtrack of country music. I explained where I had been and he revealed that he is a Portsmouth fan.
And so to bed.
COYY – CLIVE
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