TT GROUNDHOPPING

Clive Hayward – @Byehorse

Clive discusses his trip to Kent

TONBRIDGE ANGELS (A)

Just quietly, Tonbridge has found a place in my heart in recent years. Although The National Obsession’s “Tonbridge Angels Instead” brilliantly sums up the levels we sank to so quickly after the false dawn of Ashton Gate in 2021, the affluent Kent town has become a favourite away day.

It is quite a photogenic place, with the River Medway running past a ruined castle under a bridge where Matty and I have started an annual photograph tradition. We got our hat trick on Saturday.

Although dreams of an unlikely title win died last week with the Yellows’ home defeat to Hemel Hempstead, there was of course still plenty resting on this final league fixture of 2025/26. Going into Saturday, it was possible for Torquay to finish anywhere from second to about ninth: the best-casescenario being a home playoff semi-final and the unthinkable one being elimination from without a shot fired.

A 12.30 kick off to satisfy a Saudi TV company didn’t go down well with many, but every challenge is an opportunity, and Keith & Kirsty were all over this several weeks ago. We hatched a plan to travel up on Friday evening, stay within easier striking distance of Kent and to give our livers a right good kicking.

So it was that I got on a train at Torre in the late afternoon sunlight. My TUST colleague Joe Uglow was already on it. He is a man with his ear so close to the ground that he can probably predict Mark Bowes-Cavanagh’s bowel movements a week early, and we swopped TUFC gossip on the platform at Newton Abbot as we waited for our co-conspirators to arrive.

A lack of seat reservations on the 4.54 was no hardship, and everybody with a pressing need to “face the engine” was catered for. The loud playing of various media pissed us all off, but not quite enough for any of us to ask for it to be turned down! We downed a couple of liveners, saluted the Westbury White Horse and rolled into Reading more or less on time.

The Ibis was a 5-minute walk from the station, and after a quick turnaround we assembled in the lobby for a night out. The dance music in the “Irish” bar restricted conversation a little, but some decent chats were still had. We were joined by the Musketeers (Wills, Beddoes, Jones) making us 9 in total, and we caught the end of Happy Hour. I had half an eye on Leicester v Hull on the telly. Many of the home fans haddecided to do something less depressing following the confirmation of their relegation in midweek, and there were more empty seats than you would see at a Jimmy Savile tribute act. One of the other screens was showing Sunderland v Forest (a game that I had totally forgotten about, and which would have been much more entertaining).

It turned into a five-pint night, which I was later to describe as“sensible” but which another member of our party described as “heavy”. Perception is very much in the eye of the beholder.

I had a hot and imperfect night’s sleep, waking at 6 with absolutely no chance of getting back off. It took me a few seconds to work out where I was, and a lot longer to do an internal debrief on the last dream of the evening which had seen me standing on the Pop Side boring the Chairman of the Charlton Athletic Supporters Trust with tales from our end of season gala (which I didn’t actually go to). We were atfriendly which got cut short by a very unexpected hail shower. Neither Torquay nor Charlton were playing though, and, we worked out that for some reason the competitors were Stoke and Derby. I can only assume the Sunderland’s unexpected appearance in the pub had caused me to dream of red and white stripes!

The two hours before breakfast dragged a little, but when I emerged from the lift Keith had everyone in stitches with his explanation of “waffle-stomping”. Google it. Actually, maybe don’t google it!

A weekend away without a Spoons breakfast is like Morecambe without Wise, Hampton without Richmond or Epstein without Andy. Thus, we descended on The Hope Tap just after 8. There were some Reading fans in there, killing time before their train up to Rotherham for a game between the already-relegated Millers and their playoff-missing Royals. We had a chat, as you do, trying to find a bit of common ground. I’m not entirely sure they had heard of Reece Evans but I bigged him up anyway. One of them asked me with no apparent trace of irony if we were still in League Two!

We rendezvoused with Spoons-sceptics at the station, and got on a Paddington train. We had to stand, as most people seem to have to on that journey, but it was no hardship and we rolled into Platform 3 in no time. Onwards to the Bakerloo line via a new entrance and a hidden Sainsburys. We emerged at Charing Cross to be joined by a buoyant Matty, who had sailed through his driving test on Friday morning.

As we trundled over the Thames-Big Ben and the London Eyedominating the skyline- the cards came out. “Slip of the Tongue” is a game where you have to define a word without saying some of the more obvious clues. As we crossed over into Kent we played a Torquay United variant as best we could, and by about a quarter to eleven we found ourselves in Tonbridge.

We made our way down the High Street to the Ivy House, stopping en route for the bridge photos.

Andy had arrived about a week before and was comfortably ensconced in the beer garden with his crossword. He told tales of exploring the caves at Chislehurst, which apparently served as a massive air raid shelter in the terrible days of 1941.

We barely noticed how flat the lager was, because the company and the craic was great. With the early kick off we didn’t have time for a big session and we didn’t cut it too fine with the Ubers to the ground. Our driver was from Turkiye (as we must now call it) and she was apologetic for having taken too long to get to us (8 minutes: relax!!). She claimed to have had to navigate through some sort of sheep show to get to us. I wonder if something may have been lost in translation, but she was pretty adamant.

We rocked up at The Yeoman Community Stadium with about 15 to spare. The beer queue was slow, but positively rapid by the standards of Slough Town. There was a minute’s applause for an Angels fan who had died recently: he was obviously popular because the ladies in the hut made a point of joining in. Rest in Peace, whoever you were. A hug with Helen Chamberlain cheered me up.

Although there was no segregation, 75% of the Torquay fans made a beeline for the terrace behind the goal, where the roof allowed a good noise to be made. There wasn’t a whole lot to shout about in the first half, and I was grumbling a bit throughout the interval. John Cadigan was similarly underwhelmed, whilst his co commentator Harry Salvidge was a little more diplomatic. (Congratulations on your happy news by the way, Harry). Matty and Tom Diamond had come up with a Sunny-Blu chant. Whilst our Player of the Year definitely needs a good song, there were mixed reviews about whether this one will be good enough. Tom redeemed himself by bringing a blow-up Palm Tree, and our sense of deflation was rapidly dissipated by Torquay’s 2 goals in a minute early on the second half. I missed Tonbridge’s goal- a screamer- but we managed to avoid cocking it up too badly. Other results were kind (I think only we and Worthing actually won) and finishing the afternoon in third place was a brilliant outcome to what could have been a much more nervy day.

What early kick-offs lack in pre-match atmosphere and sleep for away fans they can repay in party opportunities through the afternoon- if you’ve won!

Tonbridge Angels, as Frank Gallagher might have said, certainly know how to throw a party! The sun was out and the cider was flowing for at least a couple of hours, as we serenaded Jimmy Ball, slaughtered Islands in the Stream and mixed happily with the friendly locals. A shout out to “Walshy” who filled me in on his love of the Gulls since 1989 and his recent medical history. All the best, mate.

The Rick Astley-bound co-chairs came over for a chat. Theyare keen on getting a venue and a payday which works for everyone if we are lucky enough to get to an away final, and it will be very interesting to see whether their powers of persuasion are strong enough to get us back into Brisbane Road a few years ahead of schedule!

It must have been about half four when the urge to have a kickabout became irresistible. There was a big, empty, unguarded rubber and plastic pitch behind us. We had the enthusiasm, but we needed to get a ball from somewhere. Keith sorted it, and we trotted out onto the the penalty area recently graced by Deon Moore and Dylan Morgan. Some of us scored our spot kicks and one of us saved a few. I don’t think anybody minded, and the young lad got his ball back.

Time to move on and start the homeward journey. Sometimes it’s your day, and this was certainly the case when a double decker hove into view after a very short walk.

A fan who shall remain nameless had earlier expressed the hope that: “If I’m awake today, I’ll be drinking.” We did him proud. There was still time to hit another beer garden, and it was the clearest example of Baby Guinness time you could ever wish to see. Train cans followed, and I may have been slightly less than coherent when Uggs and I shared some KFC back in the capital.

We played cards again on the joyful journey back. Some people might view getting the last train home after an early kick off as careless. We thought it was class!

We had given ourselves another chance of end of season glory. But next weekend can wait.