TT GROUNDHOPPING

Clive Hayward – @Byehorse

Clive discusses his trip to Chelmsford City

CHELMSFORD (A)

Another lovely, lovely win. It’s often the ones you don’t expect that you enjoy the most.

Some Torquay fans are more optimistic than me. A few tipped the Yellows to get three points on Saturday, but I couldn’t see it myself. Whether it was the Foyo debut in the depths of our despair or the squandering of a two-goal lead last season, the vibes just weren’t great. Chelmsford have now got pots of cash we can only dream of and have signed very good players. For al that their form has been inconsistent, I wasn’t anticipating a win.

Saturday dawned….at about 9 o’clock. It was dark and damp when we boarded the 7:31 at Newton. It didn’t get light any time soon, and in Kirsty’s memorable phrase: “We won’t be getting any Vitamin D today.”

We weren’t getting any tea either, because the buffet lady informed us- a little too cheerily for my taste- that there were “No hot drinks today.”

Sue didn’t care: she and her friends made an early start on their Prosecco. She was celebrating her 60^th, and Carriage G joined in to some extent, half-heartedly singing Happy Birthday. She had made a few too many beef and horseradish sandwiches, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Cakes were produced too, and the family opposite us tucked in: fuel for their visit to Winter Wonderland.

I read a few more pages of The Reverend Richard Coles’ autobiography (he hasn’t formed the Communards yet: he’s still mooning around at Public School), and we limped into Reading about 13 minutes late. Happily, the driver located the throttle and we flew past Maidenhead and into a very busy Paddington, where they located the brake and delivered us into the Capital safe & sound.

The Golden Girls went off to Abba Voyage, and we headed for the Lizzy Line. Keith ticked another train off his list: he’s hunting them down and only needs 5 for the full set now. Bond Street came and went, and in no time we were negotiating the massive, tiled hallways of Liverpool Street tube.

We surfaced in soggy East London and went straight to the pub. The Hamilton Hall is one of the original and best Wetherspoons, from the era when they re-purposed magnificent old buildings rather than moving into recently failed retail units. It’s a cracking venue, and over “Japanese” and Belgian beer we decided that a nice little 1-1 was the best we could hope for.

Matty joined us in time for a very quick second drink, and we got ourselves onto the 12:02 to Ipswich. Great Anglian trains are electric and quite nippy. We went past the Olympic Stadium, now better known as the unhappy new home of West Ham United and “the place where my son set a World Record for Screaming like a Year 7 on The Orbit Helterskelter aged 26.” We stopped at Shenfield (“Not a very good Enfield”), but we reached Chelmsford at about Five Pints to Kick Off.

A happy hour or so ensued. We piled into The Plough and got straight into the pre match rituals. Counting the Musketeers. Competing to remember our worst players. Necking the Stella. It’s often the best part of the day. Nothing has gone wrong. Optimism builds rapidly, and a shared endeavour is resumed.

The taxi drivers of Essex have made a few quid out of us over the years and Saturday was no exception. The outbound journey was uneventful, and we were soon into the soulless football vacuum that Chelmsford call home.

Away fans had been allocated a shed somewhere on the outskirts of Colchester offering a view of the pitch roughly equivalent to standing on Berry Head and trying to locate Weymouth. Chelmsford have decided that they will be in the Premier League by 2038. If they have serious ambitions to get into the non-PE Teacher echelons of the game they will surely need to relocate, because the Melbourne Stadium is about as much use as a football ground as a potato in a chocolate factory. I wouldn’t say we were a long way from the pitch, but in order to abuse the linesman we had to ask the ballboy to pass a message on!

There was a can bar, which helped a bit, and Kirsty’s one-woman coffee and cake mission was also successful. The first half was hard work. United defended for their lives, and we got to the interval on level terms. Last season we had whiled away some time racing the locals around the first bend, but my half time entertainment consisted of a piddle and then a quick chat with Simon Robinson.

We grew into the game in the second half, getting and keeping possession much better. The tide had turned by the time Exeter loanee Kieran Wilson got his chance. He came on to replace Dylan Morgan on the left wing and started well. He looked confident and soon started surging infield. In the 60^th minute he scored a goal he will remember all his life and I may recall on the last day of mine. He smashed in an unstoppable 25 yarder and before we could say: “You fancy Jordan Young from there” we doubled our lead: the man himself hitting a free kick of high quality into the other top bin.

The stuffing went out of the hosts quicker than a Stanley Knife can ruin a teddy bear.

A decent home crowd lost heart, and were out of the blocks like Linford Christie. They weren’t sneaking out: it was more like stampeding.

Taxi time. It could have gone better. We thought two were coming but only one showed. Having managed to calm down a few locals understandably aggrieved with that has been reported to be a nasty bit of bullying by Torquay kids who should know better, we were grateful to get back to the station.

On the platform was an unmistakeable figure. Looking sharp in his tracksuit, it was none other than our very own Denzel Akeampong! He had ubered it from the ground and was looking forward to a day off with his family before getting back to training on Monday. He had to endure people twice his age asking him what it’s like to be a professional footballer and asking him to rat on his teammates. He was the soul of discretion, and talked to us as far as Stratford, where he got off. Good luck, young man, and thanks for the chat.

We were cutting it fine to catch the 7:03, but we are old hands at this. A Sainsbury basket dash which made Supermarket Sweep look tame was followed by a light jog to Platform 10 and a journey home characterised by takeaway food, laughing at the results of Exeter, Argyle and Truro and some of us taking power naps.

I wondered if I dreamed the last part, but I’m certain that it is in fact true. When we arrived at Newton Abbot, three lads were walking around with a 3 foot plastic polar bear. Where it had come from, heaven only knows, but Keith read the situation. They were sorely tempted to sling it onto the tracks. It didn’t happen, and the railway staff have now acquired a new mascot.

Up the Gulls!

Clive.

Wilson, Kieran Wilson, all night long!