TT BLOG

Clive Hayward – @Byehorse

Clive discusses the trip to Eastbourne

LET LOOSE THE MOOSE!

Eastbourne may be the NLS equivalent of a rainy night in Stoke. There are few similarities between shingly Sussex and the Five Towns of the Potteries, but Borough are clearly in a mood to rattle a few cages this season, and it felt like quite a tough away assignment on Saturday afternoon.

Northerners rightly moan about the poor rail links between their cities, but they should probably try long distance travel along the South Coast.

I went up the 303. Stonehenge was dark and brooding in the early morning murk. Despite having loaded up a few podcasts, it was Radio Two all the way, with Tony Blackburn in mid-season form on Sounds of the Sixties. Some of the jokes were dreadful, but the one about the bloke who had swallowed a bottle of invisible ink and then struggled to be seen in casualty made me laugh.

It is, of course, a Fair Old Poke, and you’d have to say our old ‘keeper Michael might have done better with the Eastbourne goal, Hamon being more moist and flappy than dry cured and robust.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I have had a hankering to see the site of the Battle of Hastings for a while, so I took myself over to Battle, a nice little town which publicists would probably describe as “quirky”. Without too much time to spare, I opted against giving English Heritage my custom, which meant the battlefield itself remained elusive. Battle Abbey looks nice though: an early monument to non-league Normans.

I got to Eastbourne at about 12.30. Time to scope out the hotel and the Seafront. Why the Victorians insisted on building resorts along uncomfortably stony beaches I will never know, but the old girl looked very similar to how she did on my first visit during the Buckle era.

Matty and I played the always entertaining phone game of: “Where are you? Ah, I think I can see you, MIND THAT BUS” and once reunited we taxied a couple of miles out to the ground. Mark Hirst was also dodging the traffic with us in Terminus Street, but opted for the unfeasibly long walk along the coast.

The Social Club at Eastbourne Borough is the vibrant, modern venue that we would all like to see Boots and Laces regenerated into. Matty made friends quickly before we hooked up (as it were) with Tom Kelly, who had beaten us to it, fresh from Easy Jet duties up the road at Crawley Airport. Tom was on Guinness Zero, whilst father and son attacked the traditional version for an hour or so.

Blocking out the Ibiza DJ wasn’t easy, but we took spots on the “Pop Side” in plenty of time.

The accursed artificial pitch gleaned whitely in the sunshine, and off we went. Eastbourne were big, strong and good at set pieces, and had a goal disallowed before deservedly taking the lead.

But, glory be, Torquay got at them straight away, and Fin Craske smashed in a well-worked equaliser. I celebrated loudly, and very much on my own, in the food-queue-that-I-mistook-for-a-beer-queue.

Half time, and via a pass-out stamp that I have still not quite managed to scrub from my hand, we went back to da club for refreshment.

The second half was more even, and Carson was briefly moved up to play on the left of a front three before being withdrawn for the Moose. I thought we finished the game the stronger team, and we looked more threatening as a 4-3-3 (Hasani also looked bright when he came on).

Matty antagonised some of the thinner-skinned locals with a rather pointed urinary epithet, but the fighting was kept on the plastic as both benches had a prolonged pop at each other after the final whistle.

“The Loop” is a bus service which, for £2, will show you all there is to see in the housing estates of East Eastbourne (not much). It deposited me near my hotel and Matty at the Station, whence he commenced what sounds like a draining trip back to the North West.

I had been up since 4.45am, so I wanted nothing more than a Spoons Chicken Jalfrezi and a hotel room picnic. By 9pm I was sound asleep. I woke up to see about 10 minutes of Match of the Day before another 7 hours of sleep that was more coma than doze.

The drive back on Sunday was wetter and windier than Norman St John-Stevas’ memoirs, but we live to fight another day.