TT GROUNDHOPPING

Clive Hayward – @Byehorse

Clive discusses his trip to Eastbourne

EASTBOURNE (A)

When the fun stops, stop.

The slogan so beloved of gambling companies who would actually be horrified if too many people took that advice never felt more relevant than walking through the saturated streets of Eastbourne on Saturday night.

There isn’t any chance that Torquay fans will stop, of course. We’ve been through worse days than this, and some of us remember the bitterly cold first night we came here. Paul Buckle’s Blue Square title chasers shipped four goals that evening, too.

But this was bad. A sore one. A second half capitulation against the National League South’s bottom team. It’s hard to see how the status quo survives that.

Others will write more convincingly than me about the football. Behind the scenes, you have to imagine that wheels will be turning and heartbreakingly tough decisions considered. Torquay United will of course get through this, and in years to come Eastbourne Borough 4, Torquay United 2 will be something we can look back on with humour rather than anger or- dare I say it- grief.

When the fixtures came out, the back to back trips to Sussex had “ mini break” written all over them.

After finishing work in Torquay on Friday afternoon I jumped in the car and drove through the evening . I don’t mind my own company and the journey was fine. I smashed through half a dozen podcasts, two Snickers bars and a really nice chicken and chorizo sandwich from a Marks and Spencer garage at the far end of the A303.

The sat nav took me through some of the darker corners of Surrey and East Sussex, as I refreshed my knowledge of the darkness that descended on Germany in the 1930s. I drove tentatively through places like Nutley and along the unfathomable length of the Uckfield bypass before parking up on a largely deserted Eastbourne seafront at 9.30.

Straight into the hotel for a cup of tea and an early night.

Saturday morning dawned grey, dry and windy. I got some steps in, and a sweat on, walking to Holywell and back, and then along the pier, which was completely deserted other than a startled man hoovering the cafe.

I returned to the hotel for a shower and a shite, and after a bit of Brian Glanville I set off into town for some breakfast. The blue and white plate didn’t disappoint.

Matty’s train was on time, and as we hugged on the platform I thanked my lucky stars that my son is so sorted. He is relishing the career he always wanted and is so mental to want to come south every fortnight to watch some of the worst football in the country. Because that’s what United is about for me, now. Friends, families and a commitment to watch our team wherever fortune takes us.

The walk past the impressive but now largely overlooked tennis stadium was a chance to catch up before a search for the bus out to the ground.

Near the bus stop were a couple of old friends. Paigntonians like me, they are staunch supporters, currently to be found in Bristows most Saturdays. Teenage sweethearts, they settled down early and have morphed from late Bateson era away day legends into great parents. Their young son and daughter had had a great time on the pier, and proudly showed us their considerable haul of goodies. There was a snake, a yoyo and one of those springs that you can watch going down the stairs.

The bus journey out to Priory Lane was uneventful. It had started to rain, and the greyness did nothing to enhance the view of 3 miles of bungalows and tired estate corner shops. We hot off with a couole of Bexhill fans. Sorry, I need to rephrase that, don’t I! Let’s try again. As Matty and I got off the bus, we got talking to a couple of Bexhill fans. They told me that their team sit eighth in whatever league they play in, but that they were away to Haywards Heath, a trip they didn’t fancy. They had therefore decided to come and watch Eastbourne instead. They cautioned us that the hosts had had an awful season, had just sacked the manager and would probably be a pushover for any half-decent team.

We had been hoping it would go down like that too.

But, as we know, football can be a cruel mistress. After some enjoyable pints, we watched the first half on the covered terrace that runs down one side of Eastbourne’s shiny astroturf. The rain wasn’t heavy but the wind must have been nudging gale force, and it soaked everything it touched.

Torquay started the game in a wet fashion, conceding the traditional opener, before Lo Everton restored order. Level at the break with the strong wind at our backs for the second half. What could possibly go wrong. Apart from everything?

The post mortem was lengthy, and at least the booze flowed. I may never return to Eastbourne Borough. Despite having endured a staggeringly poor season the club stoll gives off huge “well run” vibes. Their fans and staff were unfailingly friendly, and some of them seemed as bewildered as us about the afternoons events.

I took part in and observed several earnest, honest and emotional conversations with the owners. If fronting up was an Olympic sport, Michael Westcott and Mark Bowes-Cavanagh would be gold medallists. Who really cares about curling, anyway?

People started to drift away. Some for a big night out. Some for a long ride home on a commandeered coach. Staff started to set up the main room for a wedding party. Matty and Karyss had an Uber off, and four of us found ourselves in a bar with celebrating Eastbourne players. I’m not especially proud of the next part, but it was funny. As the taxi arrived I congratulated the victors but reminded them they were still in a relegation battle. Somebody else told them they were still going down. We left sharpish, before they had time to consider their response, although I swear a local shouted “inbreds” as we scarpered into the rain.

The rest of the night- and it was a long one- can be summarised quickly. Pouring rain, and warm pub, a nice burger and enough Newcastle Brown to keep the spirits up, as Matty and I debated grim geopolitics, student finance and the ticking AI time bomb.

It takes your mind off the Yellows, I suppose. See you at Worthing.