TT GROUNDHOPPING

Clive Hayward – @Byehorse

Clive discusses his trip to Totton

AFC TOTTON (A)

It might have happened before, and I can’t be bothered to check, but I can’t remember seeing the Yellows get beat on the same away ground twice before Christmas. So it might be that Saturday at AFC Totton was a first. Although it was of course the second, if you know what I mean.

Matty is back for Christmas, and his commitment to awaydays continues to burn bright. Four hours after the final whistle I turned to him as we were trying to shelter from a squall at a dark and borderline dangerous Starcross Railway Station (it was high tide and if you’d gone into the river your life expectancy would have been minutes). “Do you ever wonder why we do this?” “No, not really. I have got some friends who really don’t understand it though.”

It was a game we could have won, should have won, and a really disappointing outcome. I’ve been doing this a long time and objectively we have had many worse days (and usually far worse owners), so I can still see the funny side of it. Losing a game we dominated at a ground where the exit involved queuing in single file to go one at a time through a gate the like of which you would normally see on a coast path isn’t really my idea of fun, but I guess you either embrace it or spend a few more seasons squatting in a corner with your hands over your eyes. There was quite a lot to laugh about.

The Wades were good enough to give us a lift (which is why the day was book-ended by train trips to and from the Exe), and we arrived in Hampshire at the unfeasibly early time of 12 noon. After unsuccessfully attempting to blag our way into the car park we abandoned the people carrier on an industrial estate nearby, parking immediately behind other early-arriving Yellows.

Research had indicated that likely pre-match venues were The Saxon or the Testwood. We picked the wrong one. The Saxon is an estate pub where we stuck out like a sore thumb. Wade Senior took his life in his hands by enquiring whether they had any “proper beer.” They didn’t, so he had to make do with a pint of Canadian fizz. Matty and I opted for the black stuff, which is reliable nowadays and in fairness came in footballing toucan glasses which were the living embodiment of incitement to theft. If I had more room in my kitchen cabinet, I would have been sorely tempted to liberate one of them.

The locals were watching Saints v Coventry on the tellies, and Frank Lampard’s team’s failure to beat 10 men turned out to be the theme of the afternoon.

I returned from the Gents (which had some punchy anti-drugs notices which probably have as much influence on behaviour as the FA’s gambling education sessions) to find things getting much more interesting. We had been joined by about half a dozen thick set, balding gents in dressed in tight-fitting dark blue suits with red ties and buttonholes. Incredible to relate, a local couple had chosen the Saxon – a pub which makes Boots and Laces look like The Ritz- for their wedding reception.

The bride arrived -late fifties, bingo wings, full white wedding dress. She was loving her big day and immediately started swigging from a bottle of prosecco. She disappeared for a bit, into the beer garden, and the next thing I saw was her spraying bottle number two back though the door over some guests.

We stuck it out until about half one, before retracing our steps across the grass verges and cul- de-sacs to the ground. AFC Totton have a decent clubhouse. The main bar is a shrine to their recently-departed Chief Executive. He hasn’t died, happily: he has moved on to a job at Reading.

His framed shirts dominate two walls. It’s definitely Southampton heartland, and the early kick off at St Mary’s probably took a few off the gate. I chatted to the Bittlestones and did a circuit of the ground looking for my brother, who is another Hampshire resident. Having handed over a present for his grandson, we put the world to rights for a bit, and awaited kick off. The little fella won’t be reading this at 15 months old, so I can reveal that his gift is a mini Torquay kit. His Dad’s a Chelsea fan and his Mumma is Pompey through and through, so I feel it might be an uphill battle for us to keep him on the straight and yellow.

The first half was by no means the one-way traffic that some might have you believe. Although their keeper Knightsbridge made one terrific save and Louis Dennis uncharacteristically butchered a decent chance, James Hamon also saved smartly from Bournemouth loanee Ashley Clarke and the hosts hit the inside of the post, the ball rebounding back to the beaten keeper. Clarke was often given too much time and space, and although his final ball was often lacking he won the game with a cross which eluded Hamon and was converted by Brandon Haunstrup just before the break.

After an interesting chat about pitch maintenance, I went to watch the second half behind the far goal. Haunstrup’s second yellow (he’d had a strop about a free kick) was soon followed by a penalty to the Gulls. I was standing at the back and leaned forward to get a better view, hanging on to the netting that prevents balls from troubling the industrial estate. The netting did its job, as Jordan Young’s effort comfortably cleared the bar to the consternation of players and fans alike.

Callum Dolan spent the rest of the game continuing to try to win the game single-handed. He’s plenty good enough to do it and on another day (perhaps most other days) someone would have got on the end of one of his crosses. But nothing would go in. The manager screamed himself hoarse and I bit my tongue as best I could. Obviously they weren’t trying to cock it up, but a combination of lack of precision and excellent last ditch defending brought us to a second consecutive defeat against teams that should have been sent packing.

All things considered, the journey home was cheerful enough. Fuelled by lager (Haywards) and humbugs (Wades) we followed the progress of Spurs v Liverpool on our way to a McDonalds pitstop. The golden arches are on the outskirts of Dorchester and- to pinch a poor taste joke from The Thick of It- it was busier than the hedgehog carvery at a Gypsy Wedding. The service was- as usual- pretty efficient though, with teenagers earning sod all continuing to make billions for the corporation.

Fellow customers included a former Torquay United captain (quiet) and an industrious midfielder (happier to engage with Chris and Ben). They were clearly making their own way back. I’m not sure what the rest of the team were doing for food on the A35 trek, but they would certainly have struggled to get the bus into the tight car park.

There was a tyre pressure scare (unsurprising given the weight of the passengers!), but we were back in Starcross before 9 o’clock. We decided against The Atmospheric, opting instead for Platform 2, which offered some cover whilst we waited for the next train to Torre.

It was, overall, a disappointing day, but we made our own fun and if I’m honest I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.