TT GROUNDHOPPING

Clive Hayward – @Byehorse

Clive discusses his trip to Hornchurch

THE TRAVELS OF FELIX WHITE- Hornchurch(a)

I can write what I know about Felix White on the back of an Oyster Card. Musician with the just-reformed Maccabees. Loves his cricket (he’s part of the “Tailenders” podcast with Jimmy Anderson and Greg James). Lost his Mum to MS as a teenager: something which clearly hit him hard and about which he writes movingly.

To this, I think we can now add “gifted writer and football fan.” A man after my own heart!

His latest book, “Whatever Will Be Will Be” takes us through his odyssey around the country watching a game in every round of last season’s FA Cup. I have only read the first couple of chapters, but he evokes the sights, sounds and smells of grassroots football brilliantly as he tells us about an impulse trip to watch Penrith v Pickering Town in the Extra Preliminary Round, which he used as a few hours’ escape from the tour bus with his new band 86TVs.

The book was a Christmas present, and I took it with me to Hornchurch on Saturday. It is fairly miraculous that it made it home with me. I left it in the pub (retrieved by Ethan) and then entrusted it to Chris Wade (who looked after it until I retrieved it somewhere near Westbury on the return journey). I’m glad I’ve still got it, because it looks to be a cracking read.

Although I managed a few pages on the 07:31 from Newton I had no real need of it, because the conversation flowed amongst the seven regular travellers who formed the advance guard. The flooded fields of Somerset provided a pretty backdrop on a reasonable weather day: a couple of squalls had blown through when we arrived at Paddington just after 10 o’clock. We couldn’t remember the name of the block of flats which pre-match instructions had told us we would need to walk past to get into the game later. Suggestions varied between “Nelson Mandela House” and Kirsty’s memorable: “Probably something a bit Slavey”.

The capital was our lobster for a few hours, and the day was a bit of a throwback to away trips of yore. I teamed up with Andy, Ethan and Josh for a trip over to Charing Cross. The Elizabeth Line spoils you really: nowadays when you travel on the older parts of the Tube it really is like going back 30 years. The walk down the narrow corridor to the Bakerloo Line is as claustrophobic and unlovely as ever, and the creaking old train rattles and screeches through the central London underworld. A tall young lad struck up a conversation when he saw my Torquay badge.

He clearly knew quite a bit about the National League South. He revealed that his knowledge is based almost entirely on his avid viewing of Bunch of Amateurs! He was nothing if not open, revealing that he is an MK Dons fan but was on his way to a day “with the lads on the beers” before the Chelsea match. He also claimed to have played his school football in the same team as Sam Dreyer! Football can be a very small world. I explained patiently that Gulls Eye View is a superior podcast, and he seemed genuinely impressed when I told him Marc White had been on the show. He said he will definitely subscribe. We’re not proud: we’ll take anyone.

It was a relief to surface at Embankment and walk a couple of hundred yards uphill from the river to The Prince Of Wales, a Nicholsons boozer which sells expensive beer and great breakfasts. £30 for 4 pints isn’t exactly cheap, but a couple of Timothy Taylors and a good fry up was a nice start to Saturday’s festivities. I certainly enjoyed it more than the lentil and chia seed omelette that Andy espoused as his new favourite lunch.

I didn’t really fancy a trip to Mile End, so I struck out for Upminster, leaving Felix and the other lads behind. That’s the trouble with taking a carrier bag on an away day: there’s a perpetual 30% chance that I’m going to lose it!

It’s not exactly an ironman marathon, but the journey from Central London to the far end of the District Line is not to be underestimated. It takes the best part of an hour, and I settled in for the long haul. I whacked on a bit of Undr the Cosh and tried to look as much like a local as possible- headphones on, no eye contact- as we trundled through West Ham, Plaistow, East Ham and the rest. My train only went as far as Barking, and I hopped off just in time to see the one I needed disappear from the adjoining platform. This being London, however, there was a Southend train instantly available, and it worked out pretty well. I sat with some Torquay fans who had travelled up from Chichester and being a semi-fast service it was “next stop Upminster.” We got there in quick time.

It isn’t very far at all from Upminster to Upminster Bridge, but rather than walking it I jumped on another handily available tube to go back one stop, and emerged into the Havering lunchtime only three minutes on foot from the Windmill pub, which had been well-used last season and was most people’s first choice for pre match refreshment.

There was already a good contingent in there, which swelled over the next hour and a half. Greene King will be delighted when they see the bar takings on Monday morning. The Travel Club put in an appearance, and amid rumours of the away turnstiles being shut at 2.45 we reluctantly hastened to The Hornchurch Stadium. The rumours cannot have been true, not least because there wasn’t a turnstile in sight. The home club seems to have been in “we’ll make it up as we go along” mode, because our entry to the ground was via the flats (which are in fact named “Abraham Court”), past their lock-up garages and down a slope which was covered in extensive moss. As Blackadder might have said, it was mossier than Anton Mossiman’s best seller: “100 Moss Recipes with a foreword by Kate Moss.”

The small, open, restricted-view terrace was reached via a narrow path around the bend of Yet Another Bleddy Athletics Track. The twin portaloos were a nice touch. One of them was on a wobbly base which fans who shall not be named enjoyed rocking as I recycled some Guinness. You took your life in your hands walking past them. They were relatively fresh and the air was in any case full of char-grill smoke, but a swing of an opening door at the wrong time was liable to put you on your backside quicker than a David Sesay right hook!

The food trailer had an interesting Jamaican-style menu featuring jerk chicken and curried goat, but the van that pulled it had “Horse” emblazoned on its side, and this led to much speculation as to the actual contents of the grub.

Ethan tried the “goat” and enjoyed it, but he ended the evening in hospital. His condition is reported as “Stable”. (None of this is true- apart from the fact that he enjoyed the curry).

Nashe Sundire was excellent throughout the 90 minutes that followed. Having him back after his long injury almost feels like a new signing. We serenaded him with a song that goes to the tune of Tight Fit’s “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.” In brief:

He’s a bruiser

A Torquay bruiser

He comes from Zimbabwe.

By half time, my delight that Paul Wotton had had the same hunch as me, playing Kieran Wilson through the middle and relegating Cody to the bench, had faded slightly. Despite a couple of near-misses we trailed to an Angelo Balanta special. It was enough to put you right off roast horse.

Cooky was restored, Dylan Morgan sacrificed (a brave substitution) and we got right into them. Jordan Young nipped in for a coolly taken equaliser and shortly afterwards he had a chance to put us in front. A free kick in prime range. He took a deep breath. We took a deep breath. He hit it straight into the wall, and it felt like a great moment had passed. Not a bit of it. Straight away, he picked the ball up on the right with the Hornchurch defence stretched. He didn’t need asking twice. He cut inside and hit it sweet. We saw it all the way and were celebrating before it hit the net. Youngy Again, Ole Ole!

Eventually I untangled myself from Chris’ joyous embrace, and we got back to the business of cheering the Yellows on.

We were definitely the better side, but Hornchurch didn’t give it up. On came Henry Hearn, and he announced himself with a forearm smash that flattened Jordan Dyer and gave an opportunity for the normal chant when we play a team from a less southerly town than ours. It will never get old. Balanta continued to show his class & substitute Darren McQueen used his pace to get crosses in from the left. But the defence was solid and we were eventually able to celebrate a big three points.

I don’t see Hornchurch dropping out of the title race any time soon- there’s a lot to admire- but as I said on the Yellow Army podcast last week, this win was Torquay planting our flag and saying to the rest of the division: “We are here.”

The attendance of 1500 was, believe it or not, the largest league gate in Hornchurch’s history. There were only about 300 Yellows there, so it may be conclusive proof that we are a massive, massive draw! They missed a trick or two, though. Over the last few seasons we have got used to being able to have a beer in the away end, and they could have made good money by organising that. Similarly, the perverse decision not to sell us half time 50-50 tickets seems like a decision unmotivated by any commercial sense. Although their vocal support was decent for long periods, it was hilarious to hear that the focus of some of the songs was -wait for it- Aveley FC.

The “hard segregation” meant that home and away fans were situated a long way away from each other, so there was little need for any stewarding. It’s only fair to give the one steward that did man the athletics track in front of us due credit for a job well done though. He was massive, and looked fit- always a good start. He also had a ready smile, helped hang up the DHAS flag and facilitated a half time wee for Nina Peters. A solid afternoon from the big man.

And so the Post Match could begin. It was back to The Windmill for the “bounce in with massive grins: yes mate, I’ll have a pint of cider please” phase.

One thing led to another, and before I could say: “Yessir, Kieran Wilson” there was pavement beer garden singing and jubilant group photos. The Co-op across the road provided opportunities for the thirsty, and we headed for the tube. Back to Paddington via Whitechapel, Saino’s and the KFC. The 19:03 was waiting, and this week’s return journey went without a hitch.

There was time to unintentionally enrage a fellow passenger, as I plonked myself down in a seat and started to discuss West Ham’s unfortunate capitulation at Stamford Bridge. Apparently I should have asked him first who he supported and whether there were any results which he had been trying hard to avoid. Eventually he disappeared into the night, still chuntering. I had apologised for my error but it cut no ice. I was tempted to tell him he would be able to get to bed earlier now, with no need to tune in to Match of the Day, but discretion was the better part of valour.

We went our separate ways at Newton after a nightcap in the Railway Brewhouse: my Jail Ale a welcome final pint of another excellent awayday.