TT GROUNDHOPPING

Clive Hayward – @Byehorse

Clive discusses the away trip

BISHOPS CLEEVE (A)

I’ve got an old shirt. It’s one of my favourites. I bought it second hand from a charity shop in 2019 for a jaunt to Tenerife. It’s pink, roomy and gently falling apart. Like its current owner, perhaps. It bears a jokey/cringe-making message: “A bad day at the beach is better than a good day at the office.”

On reflection, that might be a good way to describe Bishops Cleeve (a), when Torquay were rabbits in the headlights of a “very well run club.”

There were highs and lows aplenty.

Plainmoor Lidl yielded the makings of some quite lovely tuna and red onion baguettes (elevated by some chopped olives). After a short drive to Newton I caught an annoyingly short train to Cheltenham.

Cross Country trains need the hairdryer treatment. Not because of their famously seawater-phobic fleet of Italian commuter trains punching well above their weight on such ludicrous journeys as Plymouth to Edinburgh or Newcastle to Penzance. Not because their toilets, whilst spacious, can be smelled from 1000 yards. No. What pisses everybody off about Cross Country Trains is their casual attitude to timetabling.

It’s getting ridiculous. Like an adolescent with hands-off parents. Paignton to Manchester? “Nah, can’t be arsed today.” Going past Bristol tonight? “Pfff. Rather not.” And what happens? I’ll tell you what. 9 carriage trains suddenly only have 4 cars. Seat reservations are as much use as tits on a chicken and the vestibules become a heaving, standing- room-only mass of phlegmatic long distance travellers. On my train between Taunton and Bristol on Saturday you had more chance of getting a timely hip replacement than a seat in Coach C. One lady, on her way to Wolverhampton and toting a suitcase the size of Dudley, proudly told me that: “I had a lovely sit down on the toilet for 10 minutes earlier”.

When I nabbed somewhere to rest my cheeks after Temple Meads I felt a mixture of elation and survivor’s guilt.

The bus service from Cheltenham Spa to Cup Heartbreak is reliable. But it’s also uncomfortable and tedious. You just don’t get much for £2 nowadays, do you? As low key sightseeing trips go, it was OK. In and out of the town centre, in and out of the racecourse park and ride (next meeting October 26th) and past the G&WSR steam trains, it was all happening. Bishops Cleeve rejoices in the title of “the biggest village in England” (take that, Kingsteignton). Regrettably I walked most of the way around it having missed the bus stop for the ground by about three quarters of a mile.

A sweaty perambulation around the perimeter, across some playing fields and past the cemetery brought me to the rubber crumb capital of the Cotswolds in time for a very average plastic pint of lager and some highly commended loaded fries.

With no terracing to be had, the view of the football wasn’t great. But in fact it was far too good, as we watched our heroes get comprehensively outplayed by the men in green. A jovial midlander enlisted our help in clambering atop a wheelie bin so he could make his Dubai-based son a video of first half proceedings. I know he meant well, but I honestly feel he would have been better climbing into the bin, closing the lid and filming from there.

The geography of the largest village in England confused many people. A lengthy search for a bus stop followed the final whistle, and Torquay fans finished the afternoon spread far and wide. Around every corner was another shelter with another half dozen shell-shocked Yellows.

It was a race against time to make what should have been a comfortable connection back at the Spa.

Can-less (such was my desperation to catch the train), I had reached the point where all I wanted was a bit of peace and quiet and a sit down. I’m sorry to say I sloped off on my own. I wouldn’t have been great company anyway! The journey down to Parkway was dominated by some good natured but absolutely steaming Leeds fans who had well and truly drowned their sorrows following the lunchtime defeat at home to Burnley.

There was a nice sunset as we funnelled down the peninsula, and a fullish moon over the Exe.

The bus back from Newton was fine, and I was in bed for a 8 hour kip before Match of the Day.

There were Torquay fans on other trains home. They fared far worse than me. Getting to Manchester (Matty) or the South East (Alan, Jules, Jonny, Tom) proved to be uniformly horrendous.

The best thing that can be said is that it would certainly have been more fun than riding the Argyle bus home.

Ah, the magic of the Cup!

And yet….it still knocks 7 bells out of Monday to Friday, doesn’t it!