TT GROUNDHOPPING

Matty Hayward – @MattyHayward96

Matty discusses his trip to Kent

TONBRIDGE ANGELS (A)

My away day started with a minor crisis. Two of them, actually. Firstly, through nothing other than coincidence, I discovered that I’d booked not just onto the exact same train (08:44 from Stockport) as I’d travelled to London on the previous weekend for our humbling at Billericay, but that my seat reservation was also the same. I don’t know how these things work, but I assume that means it was the same livery too. I also don’t know how omens work, but it did feel a bit like tempting fate.

My bad luck and clumsiness were compounded within moments of boarding. As I hurriedly took my cursed seat, I first heard a crunch of plastic, then felt an explosion of wetness all over my backside. This was courtesy not of a serious medical condition, but my forgetfulness: I’d failed to remember that I had a bottle of water in my back pocket, and, in sitting down, had squashed it, expelling at least half of its contents onto the chair, other people’s chairs, and my arse.

Panicked apologies followed. A woman offered tissues. The chap next to me, my age, made an excuse about “actually having a reserved seat somewhere else” (a quite transparent lie) and moved away. While I was deeply embarrassed by this, it did mean I could shuffle away from the now-cursed-and-wet seat onto his drier one, and perhaps dispel the spectre of ‘Ricay 2.0.

Damp cheek aside, the journey was otherwise seamless, and I pulled into Euston with acres of time. With this in mind, I opted against the tube and in favour of an hour-long walk to London Bridge, my hot takes on which are thus:

– London is a beautiful city. If it was in Austria or Poland or Italy or some such place, we’d all be flocking there biennially and writing gushing travelogues about how beautiful it is. Even the non-descript central bit I walked through (your Russell Squares, your Holborns) was really nice.

– The Greggs:Pret ratio is shambolic, and is one of the many reasons I wouldn’t live in the south east of England even if you paid me

– If racing Google Maps expected walk times was a sport, I’d be an Olympian. It offered me an hour and three minutes for that journey, and I had completed it (and picked up some Tesco refreshments!) in 52. They just don’t teach you that at athletics school.

At Londy B, I bumped into Brynsman Simon Robinson. We discussed the previous week’s performance, team news speculation and my shirt. I was proud to be wearing the women’s shirt, on debut, yesterday. Proud because some of the proceeds from its purchase (or, actually, my dad’s purchase for which I’m yet to pay him back – but I will! I will!) went towards the Roxy Thomas fundraiser. Proud because the shirt symbolises our club taking women’s football seriously, having neglected it for so many years pre-takeover. And proud because it’s sponsored by the Forever Yellow fund: a pot of money raised by people like me, our community, to keep our football club afloat and hopefully thriving in future. Watching Torquay away has always been a communal pilgrimage, but it feels more collegiate than ever now.

Tonbridge is an easy place to get to, easier still when it’s your fifth time. I boarded the same train as my slightly-out-of-pocket old man, and we caught up over a sandwich and a European lager finely poised on one of those tiny little tables.

We headed, as we always do, to the now famous (among a very small circle of saddos) Bridge. I’ve written about this before so I’ll not labour the point, but we took our first selfie in front of the castle there in March 2024 – a day where there was a real possibility that our club wouldn’t survive the Spring, or the relegation drop, or both. The four one defeat flattered us.

Since, and this is a comment not on the lovely town of Tonbridge but the level of football we’re at, we’ve been back more times than we’d have liked. Both in March 2025 and April 2026, narrow wins looked like they could, just maybe, be steps on our route to promotion. Our return in August had a groundhog-day feel, and to be drawn there in the cup felt like the gods were taking the piss.

We opted for a different pub to usual – Ye Olde Chequers Inn – surely more tempting fate to eschew a the previously successful Ivy House as a pre-match watering hole. The Guinness in there was ok, the Halloween decorations were tedious, and the lunchtime kick off – Chesterfield against Tranmere – gave us opportunity aplenty to reminisce about playing against both sides when we used to be good.

Then it was go-time. Seasoned Yellowsman Tom Beddows was our primary companion for the afternoon: we were three of few in the empty stands behind the goals.

Matt Worthington, match-winner, twice called our 1-0 victory “probably not the nicest match to watch” in his post-match interview. He’s got a point. If either club were concerned about the dip in attendance for Saturday’s fixture, they certainly didn’t tell the players to turn on the style and make the game an advert for the level. Or maybe they did, but the pleas were ignored.

There are concurrent truths here. First, we’re still in the hat, the dream is still alive. The road to Wembley (or a lucrative first/third round tie) is paved with forgettable wins on plastic, as Samuel Johnson (presumably Chiori’s great uncle) once famously quipped. You don’t have to win the FA Cup well, you just have to win it.

Second, some will fairly argue that this was bound to be a difficult game. Our recent successes at Tonbridge’s ground have all involved hard-fought victories and strong defensive performances. It’s, plausibly, a good sign that we stuck it out, burgled the goal and left with our third clean sheet of the season. The tactical plan – picking five defenders and hoping to exploit their weaknesses on the break – worked!

However, it’s also fair to say that we were heavily reliant on our ‘keeper playing a blinder, that we didn’t actually defend that well (in terms of stopping chances) and we couldn’t have complained about being two down at half-time again. In fact, I thought we were pretty bad all-round, and Tonbridge will be feeling bereft about having been dumped out of the competition in such a fashion.

In fact, one fan was more than bereft: he was furious. Tonbridge has only ever been welcoming, almost relentlessly so, to us fans over the years, but this chap didn’t get that memo. He claimed that Torquay were a “big club coming round here”, implied that we’d bribed the ref, and repeatedly called me, to my face, a “cheating F-ing C”. He did not abbreviate as I have.

It’s genuinely amazing, isn’t it, that two people can watch the same game of football and draw such vastly different conclusions. I guess that’s part of the fun? He would’ve been at the other end, so maybe he had a view of some decisions that I didn’t, and it’s possible that he’d has less to drink than me (although I’m not sure!). From my perspective, the officials had done alright! I said as much, with a knowing smile, consoled his embarrassed-looked mate, and headed for the bus.

Thankfully, the return journey was without incident, and I remained dry-cheeked and un-verbally-abused throughout. We march on to Wembo, the men’s quadruple still within grasp, safe in the knowledge that all this omen-talk is probably nonsense. Well, fingers crossed!!