"I Still Haven't Found My Best Fountain Pen"

Dunkirk 1
Ashington Colliery 2

FA Vase 3rd Round

*editors note: In the course of this post, I will endevour to ensure there are no lazy puns based around the home teams name, and that no regional stereotypes be played upon.

BTFM. Topical AND satirical.

Third round day. Up and down the country doe-eyed young boys look up at their fathers and say "really Father, must we watch Leeds on ITV again?" Christmas scarves are donned, coats buttoned up, and entire towns uprooted for the excitement of a day out in Huddersfield. Or, in this case, the arse end of Nottingham.

But don't be fooled, dear reader. For this is not the standard tale of Cup Third Round Day. Oh no. For that is the reserve of other blogs. Today, we are savouring the Third Round of the FA Vase. The Step 4 and lower competition that lets the cliched postmen and school teachers actually dream of Cup glory. It was, in quainter times, known as the Amateur Cup.

And that's just the wine list

Down a uninspiring dead end, backing on to Beeston train station, sits the Victoria Hotel. Quite what the proprietors were thinking when they bought the place is anyone's guess. But, as the saying may go, if you make it good enough, they will come. And come they do. For the Victoria Hotel is an absolute gem, and worth getting off your train to Nottingham one stop early for. Mine's a pint of Theakers Perry, since you ask.

Who Is Benson McGarvey?

Ten minutes down the road sits Lenton Lane, home of Dunkirk FC. And Greenwood Meadows. And Pegasus Juniors. Not clubs sharing a ground. Three grounds, next to each other. Look. (for those unfamiliar with football at this level, there are no cantilever stands, or centrally heated carparks. Sorry)

I caught the last five minutes of Dirty Leeds' battle with the Arse, before heading into the ground. And then out again when informed the toilets were in the clubhouse. Suitably releived, I made my way past some temporary seating behind one goal, and was hit by the realisation that I had been parked in direct trajectory to any and all high wide and handsome efforts. Still, not to worry, there are no recorded instances of errant shots in this competition. The BoneShaker would be fine.

The dugout side and the far end were standard pitch-and-rail fayre, but on "my" side I encountered firstly a corrugated shed under which the Ashington Army had congregated. And then there was a regulation four-deep seated section that could hold about 80 or so. Only, there was no walk way at the front of these seats, so people were constantly wandering through the seats like a low-budget toilet escape at the cinema. "scuse me! Sorry! Ta" Still, it was all homely enough.

Probably too small to be of any use to anyone, I know

It is an on-going debate as to the comparative standard of the Northern League. A couple of clubs have recently been fast-tracked out of the leagues and into the national pyramid. But I think it is fair to say that it wasn't an unmitigated success. Newcastle Blue Star went under in their first season in the Unibond, whilst Durham ended their first season playing kids when their sponsors withdrew due to a ridiculous ruling on their artificial pitch. In truth, it's only really Blyth Spartans and Gateshead who have managed to survive "in the real world". Although there is a chance for Bedlington Terriers now.

All that said, it was clear from the outset that Ashington were the better team. Set up as a 4-4-2, they were bigger and stronger than most of the home team. They had a Peter Crouch-alike upfront, who was equally ineffective, but served as enough of a distraction to allow the tricky wingers on both sides time to bamboozle the Dunkirk fullbacks. The leftback in particular was to have a torrid day. Left backs do tend to be the weak link in many teams at this level, I find. Interesting insight, no? But try as they might, they could not breach the home defence.

If one man can make such a difference, then today his name was Marquin Smith. The Dunkirk number 8  is only about 24, and was playing Unibond Premier football last season with Retford, before moving to London and seemingly drifting off the footballing map. So to see him in Dunkirk red was something of a shock. I can only assume he was turning out as a favour to someone, as he was palpably better than anything else on show. Retford fans nick-named him "Tank" and today it was obvious why. Impossible to knock off the ball, he ran up and down the centre of the park all day, breaking up play, spreading the ball out wide and generally being everywhere.

So it was fitting that when the deadlock was finally broken, it was Smith who scored. Having  stood toe to toe with Ashington in their own half, Dunkirk had started to believe they could be a match for their opponents, and started to play football. It paid almost immediate dividends, as the visitors struggled to clear their box, and Smith picked up on a bobbling ball to bustle his way through a couple of defenders before slamming home. It wasn't a fair reflection of the game, but Dunkirk had defended doggedly, and for all their nice approach play, Ashington were yet to really test the keeper.

Got a monkey heed

Ashington came out for the second half all guns blazing.  Running at the home defence, and eager to make the most of the difference in ability. Barely three minutes in to the half, Dunkirk failed to deal with a ball played into the box in hope more than expectation, and it was tucked away by the nattily-attired Scott Blanford. Although quite why a Geordie should be seen playing football in gloves I do not know. Perhaps this was mentioned to him during his "I scored, yay me" goal celelbrations, as a melee ensued, the root, and indeed result, of which was unclear.

The game was sparked in to life by this, and it became a corset-ripping end-to-ender. Both sides wanted to keep the ball ont he floor as much as they could, and run at the defences. It made for cracking viewing. Dunkirk stuck with their 4-3-3 which gave them more opportunities to use the speed on their flanks, but left their shaky full backs exposed to the finer skills of the visitors.

Eventually the class of Ashington was going to pay off, and inevitably it came from a full-back howler. Reeling from the constant onslaught (albeit a largley toothless one) Dunkirk began to visibly tire. A failure to track back left the right back exposed, and he panicked, bringing down the impressive Jonny Godsmark. Peter Crouch's stunt double to put the ensuing penalty away. Both wingers were enjoying their day out, but Godsmark especially stood out. All of this is not to say that Dunkirk were without their merits.  Alongside the aforementioned Smith, the pace of the front line was enough to keep Ashington on ther toes. But ultimately, this was a step too far for the Central Midlands side.

So Ashington march on, further than they have ever been in the competition in it's current guise. It wasn't all bad for the North East this weekend. Just, y'know, only as far as the media could be bothered to look.

For a more professional, albeit slightly biased, look at the game, nip over to the New Post Leader.

Doesn't Smell Like Team Spirit

Thurnby Nirvana 1
Shifnal Town 2

AND just like that, the Beat The First Man football blog of indistinction is back. By dope demand, as King Bee might have it. And you thought there musical content was predictable. In yo' face, blogosphere.

I have been looking for an opportunity to visit Thurnby Nirvana ever since I learned that Thurnby Nirvana existed. They're called Thurnby Nirvana for crying out loud! Why would you not visit?

A Beer Bore's Delight

PREMATCH cocktails were taken in the Cow and Plough. Not really within walking distance, but such a cracking pub that you really should make the effort to visit if you ever find yourself in the Leicester area. Really, it is a stonker. And then it was off to Dakyn Road for some FA Vase action.

MY heart sank. If the name promised much, the approach did all it could to piss on my dreams. Set in the midst of a bleak housing estate that Mike Leigh might think twice about, it was as far mystical as Michael MacIntyre is from rib-tickling. The Bone Shaker shuddered to a halt on the road outside the ground, and I made my disheartened way inside.

I say "inside", but having navigated one of those queues they lay out in the Post Office, which wind hither and thither for half a mile for no discernible reason, I was greeted by a clubhouse you couldn't swing a kitten in. Inside a man grated cheese.

Got Crampons?

THE ground itself is about 400 metres below sea-level, meaning that spectators either enjoy panoramic views from what passes as an accidental sun terrace, negotiate their way down the Cresta Run, or opt for the most oddly positioned stand I have witnessed on my travels.

WITH hard standing on three sides, it seemed odd that so many folk congregated on the far side (this is of course a relative "so many") but once stood amongst them, it was apparent that this was Hopper Central. Tips  on comb-overs, memories of Aldi shopping bags, and experiences of the Sex Offenders Register all readily exchanged.

THE home side set themselves up 4-4-2, whilst Shifnal, celebrating their first mention in this post, opted for a slightly more unpredictable 5-3-2. Although a cynic might contend this was more of a 4-3-2, such was the ease with which Nirvana got down the right hand flank. They could have gone ahead in a matter of moments, when the first of many forrays down that wing saw a ball cut across the face of the goal, but the Nirvana strike force reluctant to break in to a sweat to get on the end of it.

AND so began the in-fighting. They say a team reflects it's manager, and never was this more self-evident than within the ranks of Thurnby Nirvana. Their manager, who's name I cannot fathom, does little on the sidelines other than bellow and berate. This attitude of impending failure carries itself through his team, as they heckle and cristicise each other at every opportunity. Misplaced passes, straying out of position, and all other standards of the non-league, and indeed the professional game, are highlighted. But the positives regularly pass by unheralded. It makes for an ugly and uninspiring team performance, and fairly stultifying viewing.

Some Grown Men, Running.

IN a rare moment of clarity, after 20 minutes, Jordan Smith, who could still be playing at a much higher level if he could arsed, worked his way into the Shifnal box, before chipping over the onrushing keeper. One nil, and, in the interests of balance, wholly deserved. Shifnal had offered little, looked horribly exposed on their left hand side, and really were there for the taking.

SO obviously Thurnby retreated in to their shells, and Shifnal began to work out how to play against them "Get it to Rico, and let him turn them" was the call. Rico thought he was good. He had highlights. And Fancy Dan boots. He had to be, surely?

WITH thoughts of halftime oranges in everyone's minds, Shifnal got themselves a corner. Perhaps thinking their manager needed something extra to bollock them for over the next fifteen minutes, Nirvana allowed the aforementioned Rico to ghost in towards the far post, and wallop, the BTFM Outside Broadcast Unit picks up the story:

SECOND half I figured I would take my leave of the corduroy set, and took up a vantage point on top of Alpe D'Huez. Having never scaled anything higher than a mole hill, I can only assume that the smell of weed is synonymous with lack of oxygen at such heights, and that seasoned mountaineers are used to the sensation.

AFTER an hour, Shifnal broke through the home defence, only for their previously anonymous striker to be hacked down ruthlessly. See the subsequent drama unfold below in substandard technicolour:

THERE now follows a confession. Halfway through the second half Thurnby had a player sent off. I have no idea what for, although I assume it was a bad tackle as there was a Shifnal bloke lying prone on the floor as he wandered off. He would have stayed on the pitch too, as the ref seemed to have neglected to pack that integral part of the refs armoury, the red card. Apparently, it needs brandishing, as simply saying "OFF!!" does not constitute correct procedure. If the lino hadn't rushed to his aide, we could have had all manner of hi-jinx.

DOWN to ten men, Nirvana were up against it. The managers insistence that they "delivah" whenever the ball crossed the half way line wasn't helping, as the Shifnal back three had no problems dealing with high balls. It was the only area of the pitch they had any physical presence, and yet Thurnby continued to play right in to their hands. They continued to get joy past both fullbacks, but lacked the killer ball. A shame, because with the right service one imagines their forwards would be a real threat. And hopefully more interested.

Something Dramatic Nearly Happens

THURNBY Nirvana's problem seems to be that they don't like each other. It is always someone else's fault when it goes wrong. The concept of The Team is a hard one to quantify, but on this showing it is something they are a long way from. At full time, the shouty gaffer cut a forlorn figure as he trudged back to the dressing room, no doubt to do some more shouting and swearing. I suppose you could argue that Kurt would be happy with such a carry on. He was never the happiest soul, and not even his mother would claim he had the voice of an angel. Ah well, nevermind.

More incompetent photographs

The One Where They All Came Out Of The Woodwork

Elvis Gresley. Truly.

It occurs to me as I write more of these entries, that the chances of people giving a rats ass about my opinion of the game are fairly slim. That, coupled with the fact that I often bore myself when writing them, means that the days of copious note-making have been eschewed, in place of, well, not very much, in truth. Less structure, if such a thing were possible.

So, the FA Vase eh? The FA Cup for clubs who aren't likely to ever win the FA Trophy. As a fan, it's one of those competitions that you could not care less about. And then, suddenly, you're playing at home, in the quarter finals, and Wembley is almost within touching distance.

Blankety Blank

As a side issue, have you been to Wembley recently? Sure the stadium is nice enough, if you like soulless corporate hellholes. But Wembley High Street? Sheesh. They should have spent the money just levelling that. I'm aware that this may make me sound like Nick Griffin, and that isn't my intention. If you haven't been, but you have experienced a British Seaside town's highstreet, you're halfway there. Just take away the glamour.

But I digress. I'd had today down for Willenhall v Chasetown, but the sexy allure of an afternoon in South Derbyshire / East Staffs was too much. After all, it's the glamour of the Cup.

There is no glamour to be found at Gresley.

There were a couple more of them by the time kick off came.

In another life I have had some good times, and some less good, down at The Moat. Others may speak less highly of their encounters with Gresley, but all I know is that my experience of the people there has been nothing less than top drawer, and it is a shame that their name isn't always well respected.

Witness a pre-game presentation saw the Supporters Club providing a cheque for £2000 (two THOUSAND pounds) to the football club, a continuation of the good relationship that has been forged between the two parties in the aftermath of years of mismanagement. Out of the phoenix and all that. And this on the day that FCUM held a rally focusing on football club debt.

George Paris, the Golden Retriever years

Today's visitors in the last eight were Whitehawk., Which sounds a bit like "shitehawk", and that pleases me no end. They'd travelled up from Brighton en masse. If, by en masse, you mean in a Bedford Rascal. They sit atop the Sussex County League, with games in hand on such luminaries as St Francis Rangers, who sound like a kids team, and Mile Oak, who sound like a pub.

There's not much too special about Whitehawk. The kit is fairly unimaginative, the following tiny, and their badge reminiscent of Crystal Palace's. They do, however, have George Paris as their manager. Fans of rubbish top flight players of the late-80's and early-90's will read this name and be transported in to a heady reverie no doubt. Well, dear reader, I am here to tell you he has dined well on your memories.

And he has assembled a side that on today's showing are a good bet for the silverware (he says with absolutely no knowledge of the other contenders). Big, combative and technically astute, they outclassed Gresley in every area. There was pace down both flanks, a stout defensive line, and upfront a bruiser of a centre forward who knew how to out-muscle his markers on the brink of the laws of the game.

But Gresley were not without their heroes. The midfield pairing were my stand-out players, and had they had equal quality around them, things could have been different. For Whitehawk, the right winger was a constant torment to the home left back, so much so that he was substituted by a more attack-minded full back. Which lead to the winger moving upfront and causing even more havoc. Some you win.

There should be video footage of Gresley's equaliser coming in hereabouts, but technical difficulties have meant I am thus far unable to upload it. Apologies. If I get it sorted, I'll ammend this post, but by then I imagine you'll all have lost interest.

Dressed for success

I can't let this report end without giving mention to the number of groundhoppers present. At times it seemed like a convention of the needy and the unwell. I know I can't mock, as I am one of them these days. But I think it is fair to say that the crowd of 800+ was swelled as much by interested locals, who had opted for some cup drama over the doubtless attraction of Rotherham being down the road at Burton, as it was by the great and the unwashed of the ground-hopping world. Wall charts and spread sheets up and down the country must today be seeing unprecedented action.