TT GROUNDHOPPING

Clive Hayward – @Byehorse

Clive discusses his trip to Essex

AVELEY FC (A)

Just this once, I am going to start a blog by butchering a Blur song. As a Torquay fan, I feel it’s the least I can do after we rightly stopped playing their music to celebrate goals.

Here goes:

“I get up when I want except on Saturdays when I get rudely awakened by the need to go and watch the Yellows (Parkside) I put my trousers on, had a cup of tea and I thought about leaving the house (Parkside)

I got up there ridiculously early, & had a great afternoon with like-minded lunatics from all over the country. Cody bagged a late winner and the Gulls won away for the fourth time in a row. (Parkside)

It gives me a sense of enormous wellbeing and now I’m happy for the rest of the week

Safe in the knowledge there will always be a bit of my heart devoted to it (Parklife).”

Why Blur? Well, our opponents Aveley have really leant into the tenuous connection between the name of their Parkside ground and the Parklife song. They play it at every opportunity, as well as lots of Madness, Bad Manners and the Clash. It adds to the atmosphere at a friendly club who have enjoyed their meteoric rise through the divisions and seem to be regarding their now-confirmed relegation with admirable equanimity.

It was a solo road-trip for me. I’d not been to Aveley before but had heard enough stories about what a faff it is by public transport to decide that driving was a better plan. An early frost gave way to a beautiful Spring morning as I headed up the A303. Over the Blackdown Hills, along that daft bit before Yeovil where it switches from 1 lane to 2 every mile or so and past Stonehenge before a breakfast stop in Amesbury. In a former life I found a greasy spoon café there, and I’m delighted to report that it has survived Covid and everything Wetherspoons and the cost-of-living crisis have thrown at it. The fry-up was only moderate, but it did the job,

I certainly needed the sustenance for the M25, which continues to frustrate. I made my contribution to the Dartford Tunnel tailback but ultimately emerged blinking into the Essex sunlight just in time to get to a rendezvous with the lad at Rainham station.

It was 12.30, and Matty was on the same train as Bryn legend Simon Robinson and his Bromsgrove-supporting mate Shaun (or Sean: I didn’t ask!). They crammed into my Bentley* and despite having driven through Aveley about 10 minutes previously I nearly got us lost, saved only by an increasingly-frustrated Sat Nav and a nifty U-turn on a mini roundabout which drew gasps of appreciation from the back seat. Simon and I compared notes on Diego Maradona and I managed to get us to the gig with no casualties.

If the M25 isn’t big enough for all the vehicles that use it, the opposite is the case for Aveley’s car park. We had acres of tarmac to choose from.

Michael Westcott and family arrived just after us, having had what sounded like a rather smoother drive out from London. It was still very early. We could see people in the bar but despite our decades of experience and bags of initiative from Simon, we couldn’t work out how to get into the ground! Eventually we were directed through the turnstiles (none of us had thought of that!!). Michael kindly offered to take some father & son pictures and quite rightly gave my grubby phone screen a clean.

The pre-match was enjoyable. I worked my way through some alcohol-free options and to say Michael stood his round is like saying Robin Stubbs scored some goals. If Guinness ever go under it won’t be his fault. I would say he bought more beer for other people in an hour than Tim Martin does in a week!

Torquay songsmith, educator and media starlet Tom Diamond arrived, and we tried to keep him calm whilst he waited for his Radio Devon colleague Ahmed to arrive.

I don’t know who was on the remote control in the clubhouse, but they kept us very happy. Bored with sport, they switched over to Lingo on ITV. We shouted 4 letter words, got a few right, took the mickey out of the hapless contestants and generally enjoyed ourselves before the time came to watch the game.

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We headed to the left end of the ground. It looked as though we had guessed wrong, because Aveley’s drummer joined us and the Millers lined up to kick towards us. But we obviously won the toss, because we turned them around and the Sons of Aveley had to trudge down the far end. In doing so, they walked past the hilariously-titled Johnson Family Stand. It’s a structure ideal for scouting missions and for sitting around long after you have have outstayed your welcome elsewhere.

The least said about the first half the better. After a good chance missed early on, we struggled to break down a stubborn home side despite having loads of possession. Jack McDowell bravely took a ball to the side of the head and needed a long cold sponge session.

In the second half, McDowell went from seeing stars to seeing red, as Omar skipped past him (more like a gazelle than a moose) and the hapless youngster brought him down with one of the worst lion impressions I have ever seen.

But time was running out and although the subs were making a difference it was looking horribly like Aveley were going to celebrate their relegation with a hard-fought point. The sun went in and the wind off the Thames Estuary started to bite. No matter how hard we banged the advertising boards behind the Aveley goal, nothing would go in.

Until one did.

“Woo-hoo, Woo-hoo, Woo-hoo, Woo-hoo

It wasn’t easy, but nothing is, no”

I’ll leave it there. Nothing remained but to vox pop with Ahmed (top bloke!), chat to Paul Bastard about the M25 and to shake hands with Paul Wotton (I hugged him: he looked like he needed a lie down but I’m sure he will have enjoyed the ride home). I drove back to Devon with three more points tucked snugly into the glove compartment.