Hard Times of Old England

Two eventful moments in the history of English football happened to coincide on the same day today. Portsmouth FC entered administration (the first Premier League club to ever do this) and Chester City was ejected from the (non-league) Football Conference for various rules infractions rooted in serious financial problems. It is a tragedy for the supporters of both teams, who have innocently been paying their money to these clubs for years, only for the owners to.......

Sorry, I grew so bored with that opening paragraph I started yawning involuntarily.

I don't mean to be insensitive to the upset that Porstmouth and Chester supporters are no doubt feeling, but I just can't summon up the shock and outrage that other football commentators are today. There are two reasons for this.

One is that I read stories in the press about English clubs getting into financial problems with the same reaction my wife reads about Katie Price's life in the weekly glossies: it is titillating but stopped being surprising long ago. Today's events were unexpected only if you were a hermit or very, very forgetful. The only surprise to me is that it was the top bulletin in the news tonight.

The other reason is that as a non-league supporter I react to clubs going into administration, or being liquidated, the way a grizzled veteran sergeant reacts to a bullet cracking over his head. I've seen it too many times to get excited about it (and I've only been following non-league football for two years!). Last year the Conference South lost two clubs to financial problems (Fisher Athletic was wound up by the courts at the end of the season, and the unlamented Team Bath collapsed after swinging budget cuts by the University of Bath). This year newly demoted clubs Lewes and Weymouth have flirted with bankruptcy. Conference North side Farsley Celtic were wound up earlier this year, only to miraculously find the money to reopen their doors after only missing one match. Last year Bognor Regis Town may have set the record for the most calamitous season of all time last year by not only having a financial crisis, but also getting docked seven points for fielding an illegal player, having an arsonist burning down their clubhouse, going through three managers and fifty-four players, and, of course, relegation. When you get used to this sort of story it is hard to get excited about a simple case of administration.

In fact, if anything I feel sorry for the Portsmouth fans that their club only went into administration. There is a possibility that Portsmouth may shed its debt during the process, but not all of the people, like chief executive Peter Storrie, who were running the club as it spent itself into a big financial hole. Do Portsmouth supporters really want to pay their money at the turnstiles to fund the activities of the very same people who let them down the first time? How much better would it have been for the old club to be wound up, and a new, supporter-owned club to have risen from the ashes?

The brave supporters of Chester City have chosen the other path - effectively turfing the devil-they-know out on his ear. They will start a new club over the close season, starting near the bottom of the non-league pyramid. The only way this will succeed is if they all pull together and work very hard. This journey will lead them to new grounds of tiny clubs they are unfamiliar with, and possibly many years of frustration as they attempt to climb the slippery slope back into the Football League. How tragic? No. I say well done for accepting the challenge.

One thing I've learned this season in particular is that it is the supporters that make the club. Not the club itself, mind you, but the club as it is experienced. When the club is small, though, the lines between the supporters and the club itself are blurred. Tomorrow morning I will climb aboard a supporters coach headed for south-west London which will include the club program editor, the supporters club president, a director, and countless other volunteers who help keep the club ticking over. Being a supporter at this level is not just a matter of providing money as a customer. It often literally means supporting the club with your time, effort, and abilities. How much richer an experience is this than what any Premiership club fan will experience?

I know I shouldn't, but I struggle to find sympathy for Premiership fans who are up in arms about their club's finances. Go ahead and wear your green and gold, hold your protests, and moan about how the modern game is all about money. I wish you well (really). It is the non-league supporter, the ones that volunteer as program hawkers, operate turnstiles, spike the pitch on rainy days, and sweep the terraces on the days following matches that I will save my sympathy for. When their clubs go to the wall they don't face a points deduction, worry about relegation or suffer the indignity of playing in the Europa League. When their clubs are threatened they risk losing a bit of themselves. You see, in non-league football the game isn't all about money. Some day, if they are lucky, and their club is wound up, Premiership fans might get the chance to find this out for themselves.

Another Drum, Lava, and Three Precious Points

Bath City defeated lowly Weymouth 2-0 on Saturday. It was not the one-sided goalfest City supporters had been hoping for. In fact, for a while it looked like there would be no goals scored at all by either team. Weymouth gambled on a 0-0 draw, hoping to take at least a single point home with them. They played a scrappy game, mostly with all eleven players behind the ball. I suppose City should take this as a sort of compliment, but it was a compliment that failed to make the match any more pleasant to watch.

Unaware of what a tense, frustrating spectacle I was in store for later on, I set out for Twerton Park about an hour earlier than necessary. I had the two Nedved Juniors with me, and they enjoy going into the club bar (Charlie's), getting a Coke, and watching the last part of whatever Premiership match is on Sky before City's 3 o'clock kickoff. Actually, Big Nedved Junior enjoys watching the Premiership match. Little Nedved Junior enjoys slurping the Coke to see how big a burp he can manage.

As we stood queueing, and waiting for our carbonated, caramel-coloured joy in bottles, I noticed that at the other end of the bar stood City player Lewis Hogg nursing a pint. Having been injured in a vicious tackle by Weston player Josh Klein-Davies, and suspended for a straight red card for the fracas that followed the tackle, Hogg would only be watching the afternoon's match from the stands. His absence was a blow for the City team, of which he is an integral part, but a boon for us. I had in my pocket Big Nedved Junior's Lewis Hogg trading card, and here was my chance to get it autographed (for Big Nedved Junior, of course). I approached him with a pen in my extended hand, and he duly obliged. We chatted briefly about his injury (prospects look good for him being back on the squad for the Thurrock match), and whether or not he would immediately rejoin the starting lineup (I expressed my absolute conviction that he would). Despite my best efforts, neither Nedved Junior would come into the line of sight of their hero, preferring the safety of standing behind my legs.

After profuse thankyous to Lewis Hogg, we found seats and watched Everton score their second and third goals to defeat Manchester United. And Little Nedved Junior managed some spectacular belches. We drank up and headed for the turnstiles.

The boys and I headed over to what has become our normal spot on the terraces - near the giant white ensign where the burgeoning Bath City 'Ultras' gather. Some of the most vocal singers were already present, and it looked like we would be able to create a good atmosphere in Twerton Park. After the Havant match, where there had not been very many of us, and the Dover match, when the Dover fans stood right next to us and banged drums in our faces, everyone was hoping for a relaxed but spirited afternoon.

And then, much to my astonishment, a rowdy band of Weymouth supporters wandered over and began setting out their flags right next to us. And, they had a drum. I couldn't believe it. The coin-toss had not even taken place yet, so there was no way the Weymouth fans were positioning themselves to watch the Weymouth attack (assuming that there would be one). Being American, and therefore mercifully free of most social inhibitions, I decided to approach one of the Weymouth supporters and ask him, 'Just what the heck do you think you are doing?'

Actually, I said it much less confrontationally. I guess I do have some social inhibitions after all. I asked why they had chosen, of all the places in the ground, to come and stand right next to the noisiest group of City supporters. He said that they had originally gathered at the Bath End goal, and that a steward had told them to move here. This made no sense. Either the steward was totally ignorant of the makeup of the City crowd, or the Weymouth supporter had completely misunderstood what he had been told. The manner of the Weymouth supporter, which appeared to have been augmented by several adult beverages on the train ride north, made me think it was the latter. There was no aggression in his unfocused expression, though. I tried explaining, as he stood tying Weymouth banners in front of City's most hardcore support, why this didn't seem like a good idea to me. He shrugged his shoulders, either in indifference or incomprehension, and continued setting out his blue and terracotta flags.

The Weymouth crowd were unruly, crude, and hostile. Well....sort of. They swore a blue streak throughout the match, and they took long sips from the cans of lager they had brought into the ground. They were, however, in all honesty, pretty good fun. Their club has been the laughing stock of non-league football for over a year, and their team is almost certain to face a second successive relegation. Their prospects for victory against Bath, or against anyone really, were low. And still they came, and still they were determined to be noisy and support 'the lads.' You had to admire them, even if you didn't want to get too close. Their single drum didn't even bother me so much.

And then came a moment, unexpectedly, when both sets of 'ultras' found something in common to support. As I wrote about previously, former Bath City manager Brian Godfrey passed away on 11 February. After leading City to the Southern League Championship in 1977 he left for Exeter City and then spent four years managing Weymouth. A minute's applause was held before kickoff to celebrate his life, and remember his time leading both clubs.Unexpectedly, someone behind me started up 'There's Only One Brian Godfrey!' This was immediately taken up by the Weymouth fans as well. And then it was sung again, and again by all of us until the ref blew the whistle for the game to start. It was remarkable not only for the unified display by rival supporters, but also because very few of the people singing would have been old enough to remember Brian Godfrey as a manager. Hardly any of the Bath City Ultras were even born before 1977. To me it was testimony to the strong sense of community that exists among football supporters - so much so that there appears to be a sort of communal memory. And, I'll admit, it brought a big lump to my throat.

The match kicked off to a terrific roar from the whole ground. A victory, which seemed likely at the outset, could potentially put City among the playoff spots. Weymouth had lost their previous match by six goals. Surely this was the moment with City finally crashed the top places in the table and took their rightful (so we think, anyway) place among the top teams in the league.

Except...the match didn't start like it was going end with a thumping victory for the men in stripes. Oh sure, City had the vast majority of possession. I would describe the Weymouth attach as 'toothless,' except there wasn't really an attack to describe at all. On the rare occasions when Weymouth did move the ball forward they did it as if they were just trying to buy time for their defensive line to have a breather and regroup. And yet, despite all of this, City failed miserably to make any significant attack on goal for the first twenty minutes. The Weymouth players crowded their penalty box like tourists outside the Pump Rooms in the city centre, reducing City to halting and unsuccessful attempts to dribble through to a good position. Crosses were ineffective as well. The City strike pair, Darren Edwards and Dave Gilroy, were constantly outnumbered whenever they tried to reach any incoming ball. A rare, but unsuccessful attack on goal by City captain Jim Rollo was the highlight of the first half for me. The Weymouth supporters, surprised to be approaching the interval without conceding, sang 'You Haven't Scored, You Must Be Sh**!'

A bit of good fortune appeared to have swung City's way in injury time, however. Gethin Jones earned a penalty, and Darren Edwards strode confidently forward, ball in hand, to try and give City the lead they needed so badly. Although Edwards has missed some important penalties this season, he is the fourth highest scorer in the league this season. Unfortunately, he missed this penalty too. Considering how few chances City had produced so far, it appeared to be a disaster. A sinking feeling that another draw was on the cards descended on me as I lined up for a cup of tea during the break.

Although I did not want to abandon my 'Ultras' comrades, the banter between the two sets of supporters had gotten pretty crude by the end of the first half (especially the singing by the Weymouth supporters). I decided it was time for me and the Nedved Juniors to move on, so we moved towards the Bath End as the second half kicked off. Being a bit quieter, this gave Little Nedved Junior the opportunity to ask me some questions. About lava. Little Nedved Junior is fascinated by natural disasters, and volcanos in particular. The post about the Woking match would have been twice as long if I had included all the questions he asked me about lava that day.

'Can lava go uphill?' he asked me in the first few minutes after play had resumed. As the second half began much the same as the first half, I decided talking about lava was as good a way to pass the time as anything else on offer. 'Can lava go through doors? If lava is coming towards you will it come so fast you can't run away? What would win: lava or a hurricane?'

I would have gladly continued our discussion of lava for the rest of the match, doubtlessly covering the respective merits of lightning, tornadoes, and earthquakes as well, if we had not then been joined by my friend Dave and his son. It was their first match (although they had tried unsuccessfully to attend the New Year's Day match against Weston-super-Mare before it was called off). I dreaded to think what Dave thought of the standard of play that Bath City had to offer.

Dave, it turned out, was having a great time. He loved how close you could get to the action (or lack of it) and how he was free to wander around wherever he wanted. This led Little Nedved Junior to start begging to go to the other side of the ground. I said no, I wanted to stay where we were, but that we could move if City scored.

I don't know why I wanted to make that particular bargain, but I might have to start doing it regularly. Up to this point there had been little hope City would score from open play. Within minutes of uttering those words, Adam Connolly finally got City a goal with a fantastic free kick from the edge of the penalty box. I had expected him to cross it to an unmarked Sekani Simpson, but seeing how fruitless crosses had been thus far I should have figured he would just go for it. It was a fantastic strike, and I had no regrets when I kept up my end of the bargain and we began to wander around the Bath end to the Main Stand.

This turned out to be an absolutely brilliant thing to do. Within a minute, City's new signing, Hector Mackie, made a fantastic cross to Darren Edwards. For once, Weymouth's defenders were AWOL, and Edwards was able to tap the ball past the startled keeper with ease. This happened just as we were passing behind the goal, so we stood only feet away as it happened. Now the City fans could celebrate a chance to crack the top five places in the standings, even if it wasn't on the back of the six goal victory we'd hoped for.

After continuing our walk, Dave and I settled against the wall in front of the Family Stand. Our three children played an impromptu version of hide-and-seek behind us. It had not been the best advertisement for non-league football, so Dave surprised me when he said he wanted to come to the Thurrock match in two weeks time. A bit of digging turned up the reason: the game may have lacked the flow and spark of a timeless classic, but it was still a good day out with his son. The atmosphere of historic Twerton Park, with it's old fashioned terraces and lively crowd was a great draw. Would Dave had been impressed in the same way a year ago, when Twerton Park's atmosphere had more in common with the Bath Public Library? It's hard to know for sure, but there is no doubt the flags and the singing encouraging the first-time fans to become second-time fans.

The final whistle sounded and we clapped the City Boys off the pitch. Struggling against weak teams has been an ongoing problem in recent seasons. Last year I had seen City lose when faced by a similar tactic against Aylesbury United. Likewise, City's playoff hopes had suffered a knock-out blow when the hapless Fisher Athletic stole a single goal against the run of play to win 1-0. A season later, struggling but winning 2-0, is a huge improvement. Because of the way the other league matches played out, City only moved up to sixth. A loss could have been another Fisher Athletic moment, though. The tough-fought victory gave City another chance to break into the playoffs against Welling United on Saturday. This time, it has to happen!

Havant & Whotheheckareyou?-ville, Part 2

Part 1 of Havant & Whotheheckareyou?-ville can be read here.

We last left this story with Bath City's defence bravely trying to fend off a relentless Havant & Waterlooville attack. City had taken a 1-0 lead moments before, but up in the terraces there was a feeling that something was definitely wrong. No one had expected Havant to be a walkover, but being five points and five places below City, most City supporters expected them to be a average, fairly beatable team. There was nothing average about the Havant & Waterlooville team that had shown up, however. They attacked relentlessly. They shut down almost every foray City made into their territory. How City had managed to be the team first on the scoreboard was a total mystery. How Havant, who seemed to be able to alternate slick midfield passing with well-placed long balls, had managed to fall as low as thirteenth in the league table was equally mysterious.

As City were (in theory) attacking the Bath end goal on the other side of the pitch, the full-strength Ultras were in excellent position to see the full fury of the Havant attack. We were not in a very good position to see City almost double the lead at twenty-three minutes, again totally against the run of play. Gethin Jones managed to shake loose of the Havant midfield and head down the right of the pitch. His cross was headed by Darren Edwards, and we all screamed and shouted when we thought we saw the ball go into the net. The Havant keeper, Aaron Howe, had actually made a brilliant diving save that we could not see. This was disappointing, because rather than being a harbinger for a period of Bath City dominance, Havant returned to laying siege to the City goal within a few seconds. Although normally an optimist by nature, I couldn't see City maintaining the lead for much longer.

Oh, did I mention that Havant have a player named Joe McDonald who does a fairly good impression of Rory Delap from the sideline? Well they do. There were so many other facet's to Havant's attack that I did not notice how dangerous his throws were at first. I figured it out quickly, though, when he launched one into City's six yard box at the half hour mark. Unfortunately, it was not cleared properly. A mistimed header sent it looping up into the air . Annoyingly, the ball fell to earth in the vicinity of the fearsome Manny Williams. I should say 'fell towards earth,' actually, because Williams was able to strike the ball into the City net with a quick, compact bicycle kick before it got anywhere near the ground. At this point I was pretty sure there were going to be three to four more goals scored before the match ended. I wasn't feeling very confident that City would be scoring any of them.

Thankfully, halftime did come without any more goals conceded. I took a walk with my friend Mark round to the Snack Bar so he could get some chips. Unlike the cheerful, supporter run Tea Bar, the Snack Bar is run by an outside company. The food is passable, although expensive, but the customer service is of a vintage Soviet style. All that would really be necessary to complete the experience is someone standing alongside the queue with a truncheon. As we made our escape I almost bumped into a fellow customer, only to see that it was Lewis Hogg! LEWIS HOGG!!! In the queue for chips! Simultaneously suffering from an injury and serving a suspension had not robbed him of the desire to support his team mates. It was a heartening thing to see, although I feared that if he hung around the Snack Bar long he might be robbed of his desire to live.

Passing through the Bath End on our way back to the Popular Side, we passed by the lively gaggle of Havant supporters setting up shop for the second half. I stopped to chat with one who appeared to be a leader of some sort, and asked if I could take a picture of them for my blog (which they posed for very graciously). 'Are you Nedved?' he asked. I admitted I was, and we engaged in a discussion of the Dover supporters and their infamous drums. Although he had a better appreciation of their supporters' musical abilities than I did, he was generally about as keen on drumming at non-league football matches as I am. The Dover supporter's tactic of walking right up to you and drumming in your face doesn't make them many friends I suppose.

The second half began before long, and Havant immediately began to scare the living daylights out of me again. Twice in the first twenty minutes Robinson had to make spectacular saves to keep Manny Williams from scoring again. Things were not helped by the tendency of the City defenders, which grew as the game went on, to boot the ball forward to no one in particular. This was annoying for us fans to watch whenever a Havant attack was broken up. It may have been the most rational thing to do, though, considering how fruitless the City passing game had been for most of the match. I was sure that Williams had scored when he got a free header after Chris Holland failed to clear a corner kick. It looked like a sitter from where I was standing, but he somehow managed to head the ball wide to the left. Whew!

The one bright spot to the second half was the appearance with twenty minutes left of Bath City prodigal son, Dave Gilroy. He trotted out to replace Darren Edwards wearing his familiar black turtleneck. In a strange way it seemed a bit like he had never left. I am sure in his mind he was desperate to score a goal and snatch an undeserved victory for City. He did not do this, but he sure came close.

A Havant player passed the ball back to Aaron Howe on the far right of his goal. Gilroy was in the area, and his speed (always surprising for someone who could pass for a banker) caught Howe napping. With a twist and a jump, Gilroy blocked Howe's clearance with his backside, a la Andrejs Stolcers, and the ball looped tantalisingly towards the goal. Unlike Stolcers' wondergoal against Woking, though, the ball travelled slightly off target. Gilroy was after it like a flash, but even with his speed he was not able to get his foot around the ball.

This somewhat freaky chance at a goal was part of a more even final ten minutes of the match. Perhaps if football was played over two hours instead of ninety minutes City might have worn Havant down. When the final whistle blew I know I was not alone in feeling relieved that a point had been won (and no one could have seen this as two points dropped). Many questions filled my head. Is this a normal Havant & Waterlooville performance? If so, how the heck did they manage to lose so much ground in the standings during the middle of the season? After the match, several City supporters wrote on the forum that Havant had been the best team to play at Twerton Park all season. Were there enough games left for them to enter the already crowded play-off-chasing pack? At this point, it appears so. The good news is that, barring an appearance in the playoffs, City will not need to face them again. If there is a meeting in the playoffs, maybe this particular version of Havant & Waterlooville won't be the one to show up. One can only hope. Although City battled enough to keep from losing, they definitely left my nerves feeling ragged. Watching a match like that in the playoffs might kill me.

Drink Up Thy Zider!

Last night while I was unsuccessfully trying to publish part 2 of my account of the Havant & Waterlooville match (the Internet connection died mysteriously in the middle - I'll have it out tonight), my fellow Bath City fans were at Twerton Park enjoying a concert by the famous West Country band, the Wurzels. This was a fundraiser put on by the club, and open to the public. As the Wurzels are well loved throughout the region over 200 people showed up.

Most people in England know the Wurzels for their song I've Got a Brand-New Combine Harvester, but Bath City fans have another song dear to their heart. At most matches we sing Drink Up Thy Zider (translation: drink your cider. I should point out to my American readers that cider in England is not fancy apple juice. It is not only alcoholic, it will have you rolling around under the table very quickly if you are not careful).

The reason we like Drink Up Thy Zider so much is that it is one of the songs we sing from the terraces when we are cheering the Bath City players on. Of course, we've adapted our own words to fit the occasion. They go like this:

Drink up thy zider, drink up thy zider,
For tonight we'll merry be,
We'll all go down to Yeovil, and do the bastards over,
The corn's half cut and so are we.

Or something like that. I've never actually gotten to the bottom of what the last line is. That's how it was written up in the Supporter's Song Book for the Grimsby match.

These aren't the original words as the Wurzels are not ancient enemies with Yoevil Town the way Bath City supporters are. Here is a clip of the end of last night's concert. If you listen carefully you can hear the Bath City supporters shouting out their own version of the lyrics.

Havant & Whotheheckareyou?-ville, Part 1

Bath City and Havant & Waterlooville battled out a tough 1-1 draw last night at Twerton Park. I suppose that I should feel disappointed about this -- a victory would have finally pushed City up into the playoff spots. And a victory didn't seem too much to ask. After an strong start to the season, Havant had slid down to the nether regions of the Conference South table. Actually, once the match got underway, it became clear to everyone in the ground that even managing a single point was going to be tough.

I left work full of excitement. I had just read that all other Conference South matches had been postponed due to waterlogged pitches. This meant that a victory would guarantee City fourth place in the league standings. The teams in second through fifth play a two-round playoffs to see who gets the second promotion spot to the Conference National, and Adie Britton set a playoff appearance as the goal for this season. There are a lot of games left to play, but just finally getting into the right end of the table, however temporarily, would be a huge moral boost for players and fans alike. An outsider might have viewed the match as a rescheduled, mid-week fixture on a cold Tuesday night. I saw a chance for glory.

Dreaming about a 'chance for glory' is a lot of fun in the days leading up to a match. I also find the anticipation of an upcoming important fixture is extremely useful. I can sit through excruciatingly boring conference calls, argue patiently with suppliers who don't understand their own products, and smile beatifically in response to petty customer complaints when a big match is upcoming. It is like a shield that protects me from the drearier aspects of modern life. But then, in the minutes before the match kicks off - this match that I have been anticipating so keenly for days, any sense of pleasure from the experience deserts me and I begin to worry. I try not to let on to the people standing either side of me, but I usually find myself calculating just how awful I will feel if City lose. Yes, that's right. I pay £10 to stand in the cold of an evening and worry. I call this fun.

Last night I endured this transition from amiable pleasure to mild terror standing with about fifteen other 'Ultras' on the Bristol End side of the Popular Side, next to our enormous white ensign. Our ranks were somewhat depleted because of another match that was being shown on Sky (some former LA Galaxy player named David-something was doing some work experience to try and earn a spot on the England squad or something). The details of the televised match escape me, but it was enough of a media spectacle to reduce our numbers slightly, and reduce the overall match attendance to under 500. Things got worse for the Ultras when the coin-toss resulted in City attacking the Bath End. More than half of our number walked off to go stand behind the Bath End goal. This left a small rump of Ultras, no more than five in number. Despite some desperate shouts of, 'Hey, where do you think you're going!' they trotted off, oblivious to our desperate attempts to shame them into staying. Once they had left, the few of us remaining shifted awkwardly among our flags, unsure of what to do.

Now denuded of its noisiest element, the match kicked off in front of a relatively quiet crowd. To make things worse, Havant & Waterlooville unexpectedly put City on the defensive almost from the first kick. They had started the match in thirteenth place, but there was nothing about them that brought to mind the term 'mid-table.' The term that came into my mind, actually, was 'downright scary.' Most scary was their star striker, Manny Williams. He is reportedly one of the highest paid players in non-league football. His hairstyle, a dapper 'cornrows-style' braid, is certainly at least League-1 quality.

Back up in the terraces, I was struggling. Not only was I having to drastically readjust my expectations for the evening, but I was feeling embarrassed about our lack of singing as well. After all, I am supposed to be an 'Ultra.' It's supposed to be 'today, tomorrow, always,' not 'if enough of my mates are around so that I don't feel shy.' But shy I did feel. Several attempts to start up 'We are the Bath!' got inexplicably stuck in my throat. If I ever needed more proof that when it comes to terrace singing I am a follower and not a leader, this was it.

The leader we needed, taking a long drag on a fag as he rounded the Bristol End, appeared a few minutes later. Our unofficial chieftain, Paul, had gotten delayed and missed the beginning of the match. Suddenly, with his bolstering presence, the six of us turned into the hardy band of supporters we were meant to be. A typically expert save from City keeper Ryan Robinson gave us the inspiration for the first song of the night: 'Ryan Robinson, Ryan Robinson (which is sung very slowly and loudly to the tune of Daddy Cool)!'

This was just in the nick of time. Spurred on by the aggressive start by their team, the small band of travelling away Havant supporters began to put on a pretty decent performance to support their team. 'Come on Havant (which is just like Come on City, but with City instead of Havant)!' they chanted.

We retorted with, 'Come in a taxi, You must have come in a taxi!' This was fair enough, I think, because there really weren't that many Havant fans present. Certainly not as many as City usually take mid-week this side of London. Their response, though, was slightly better: 'Come on a skateboard, you must have come on a skateboard!' Considering that there were only six of us, huddled together, away from the main body of City supporters, this was fair enough. Where had the rest of our hearty band flitted off to?

Undeterred, we took up our first chorus of 'Oh When the Stripes Go Marching In,' and just as we got started, something amazing happened. Despite the hammering the City defence had been taking from Mr Williams and friends, Kaid Mohamed managed to break free and move the ball forward quickly. He got the ball to new signing Scott Bartlett, who crossed from the byline to reach the head of Darren Edwards in, what looked like to me, a very unpromising position. With the sort of wrenching movement that gives Chiropractors nightmares, and is as much down to sheer determination as skill, Edwards managed to force the ball into the net. It was so unexpected that at first I thought I had misunderstood what had happened. It was only when the players began to celebrate, and the ref pointed to the centre circle, that it sunk in. Despite being pinned back by one of the most aggressive openings I've seen from an opposition at Twerton Park, City had managed to take the lead at nine minutes. I was overjoyed.

But I was still worried. When play resumed, Havant's relentless attack resumed as well. Usually after an early goal I start feeling confident about a City victory, but this time my initial thoughts were much more conservative. I was thinking an early goal might help keep City from losing. So much for playing the thirteenth placed team!

And, in this instance, an early goal heralded the return of our errant Ultras. Perhaps it was our defiant singing, or maybe they felt they had seen the goalmouth action they had been hoping for. I didn't stop to ask any of them. I was just glad they were back. Encouraged by the one-goal lead, and now more or less at full strength, we sang for the first time 'Drink Up Thy Cider!'

It wasn't ideal, but given the circumstances I was happy to settle for 'Today, Tomorrow, and Once We Take an Unexpected Early Lead!'

Part 2 of Havant & Whotheheckareyou?-ville can be read here.

Grinding 'Em Out on the Way to Greatness.... (We Hope)!

Bath City defeated Maidenhead United 2-1 Saturday in a scrappy and uninspiring away victory. Who cares if it was scrappy, though? We are now entering the final third of the season and as long as a match results in three points for City I don't ask questions.

Before I get to the match against Maidenhead, though (of which I will not be asking questions), I'd better recount some of the significant events that have happened off the pitch this week. The first to recount is, unfortunately, the sad news that former Bath City manager Brian Godfrey passed away on the morning of Thursday 11 February. Godfrey, a former Wales international and Aston Villa stalwart, was appointed manager of City in April 1977. As this was roughly three decades before my first visit to Twerton Park, I'm not best placed to do justice to the career of the man many consider to be City's finest ever manager. I will try to recount some of the highlights, though.

City's first two competitive matches of the 1977 season were a 0-3 aggregate defeat by Yoevil Town in the Southern League Cup - an inauspicious start for the new manager. After this, however, Godfrey led his team on an incredible twenty game unbeaten run in all competitions, ending finally with a FA Cup 1st Round replay at Plymouth Argyle. This was followed by a quick exit in the FA Trophy (1-7 to Cheltenham Town - ouch!). After this December 3rd defeat, City then went on an even more incredible thirty-five match unbeaten run, finally concluding with a 0-1 loss to Worcester City on 1 May. The only other loss that season was to Udinese in the Anglo-Italian Cup.

Udinese? What? That's right, under Godfrey's tenure Bath City competed in Europe.

Oh, and he also led City to the Southern League championship that 1977-78 season, of course. It is easy to underestimate what an accomplishment that is now. This was in the years before the Conference had been formed. There was no level higher than the Southern League in non-league football. Because of this City were thrown into the mix in the bizarre voting procedure used back then to determine which teams would be promoted, or allowed to remain, in the old Forth Division of the Football League. It was a close vote that year. With twenty-three votes, Bath City set the record for the most votes without being admitted to the league. Who made it? Some club called Wigan Athletic from the Northern League. Just think, with just a few more votes and a sugardaddy with a former sporting goods empire, Bath City could today be the worst-supported club in the Premier League. Gives me tingles just to think about it.

One of the downsides of non-league football is that anyone who sets the place alight when they arrive usually doesn't stick around for long (just ask Bath City's Bobby Zamora). Godfrey's inevitable departure had an ironic twist, though. Tony Book, former Bath City legend and then Manchester City manager, hired Malcolm Allison away from Plymouth Argyle. Someone named Bobby Saxon left Exeter City to take the Plymouth job. Godfrey got the nod for the Exeter post, and understandably took it in December of 1978. So, it's all Tony Book's fault, really. Thirty years later and Godfrey's tenure at City is still the high water mark in the club's history. Everyone, including those of us who were not around to enjoy his success, were sad to hear of his passing.

The other news at Twerton Park this week was more pleasant, although just as unexpected. Former Bath City striker, Dave Gilroy, signed with rivals Newport County at the end of last season. This appeared to be a good move for Gilroy at the time, but as he was just one of nearly two-hundred players signed this season by manager Dean Holdsworth (I exaggerate very slightly), he struggled to get a regular starting place. He has managed a respectable nine goals this campaign, but seven of these were while on loan to Weston-super-Mare. No one quite understands how or why, but Holdsworth and City manager Adie Britton agreed on an unusual six-week swap. Gilroy returns to Bath City, and the struggling, injury-plagued Stuart Douglas (with only only goal this season) will take his place on the Newport bench. City fans can't believe their luck. If ever there was a gift horse that you wanted to take a good, hard look at the mouth of, this would be it. It's too good an offer to question, though. I'll just put Adie Britton down as a genius and move on.

Because of the labyrinthine, and rather boring regulations that surround the various governing bodies of British football, City have to wait until the Havant & Waterlooville match for Gilroy's international clearance to come through (Newport County play in Wales). This meant that the City team that arrived at York Road included Douglas.

One of the first facts you learn about Maidenhead United is that York Road is the oldest continually used football ground in the world. In this modern world of corporate stadiums, this is something worth celebrating. Maidenhead have chosen to celebrate this with a recreation of a nineteenth century pitch - you know, the sort they used to play on back when passing was considered 'ungentlemanly.' Or perhaps it was just impossible. Whatever the reason, Maidenhead's pitch wasn't going to handle the Brazil-like passing game that City have developed over the last few months.

[I should point out that this is a blog written by a Bath City supporter, and if I want to compare City's passing game to Brazil I'm within my rights. Go start your own blog and compare your favourite team to who you like. Besides, City have played some amazing football this year! Really.]

Brian Godfrey's City team of 1977-78 may have only lost twice, but they did grind out a lot of 0-0 draws on the way to their title (seven to be exact). Adie Britton's team of 2010 also have the character to adjust their playing style to conditions. Pushing the ball forward quickly became the order of the day. Despite only managing a handful of half-chances in the first forty-three minutes, they kept Maidenhead to only one attempt in the same period. Did you notice I said forty-three minutes, though? City scored the brace of goals that would see them to victory between minutes forty-three and forty-five: a failed clearance that landed at Kaid Mohamed's feet, and a Darren Edwards header from a Adam Connolly corner kick.

You've probably tumbled to the fact that I didn't make it to the match by this point. This was a bit of a sore point, but I console myself with the fact that the match has been described as 'unremarkable' in more than one account. Rather than fill my blog with attempts to make the unremarkable events I did not witness sound interesting, I'll let you off the hook with a one sentence recap of the second half: City played defensively and allowed a worrying goal at sixty-two minutes, but fortunately not the equaliser. The debacle of the recent home match against Bishop's Stortford was not repeated.

The match may not have been the most exciting of the year, but City's improvement in the league table was enough to get my heart racing. Thanks to Woking's unexpected loss to Worcester City, and Eastleigh's even more unexpected draw to Weston-super-Mare (ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!), Bath City passed both of them, climbing to a dizzying seventh. Now only two points from a playoff spot, City are in prime position to move even farther up the table in Tuesday night's home match against Havant. With the club's strike force now augmented, City fans are imbibing that most dangerous of intoxicants: hope. As long as City win, there will be no hangover come Wednesday morning. And they must win. Brian Godfrey would want it that way.

What's That Coming Over the Hill?

I spent most of the second half of Saturday's home match against Dover Athletic wandering around the ground with my son, Little Nedved Junior. He can handle staying put in the first half, but after that he needs a bit of distraction to keep from getting too bored. We ended up in front of the Family Stand, which is the corner of the pitch where the substitute players warm up before going into the game.

There were a couple kids clutching pens and sheets of A4 paper, trying to get autographs from anyone looking remotely like a player. Being asked for your autograph must be a nice ego-boost for the players. Unfortunately, these kids had a way of doing it that must have had the opposite effect.

'Who are you?' they asked one player, thrusting pen and paper towards a nearby player.

'That's Matt Coupe,' I said. I tried to say it with a tone that suggested that everyone should know the player known as the 'Beast of Twerton.' Well, I think everyone should.

'Is your name on the back of this?' they asked, pointing to their programs.

'Yeah, it's on there somewhere,' Coupe said, taking pen in hand. 'Just not as high up as it used to be.'

You could hear the frustration in Coupe's voice when he said this, even though he signed the crumpled sheets of paper cheerfully and with good grace. Up until October he had been a regular starter for Bath City. For good reason too. He is not only an excellent defender, but a source of inspiration for fans and fellow players. Coupe's presence on City's backline is almost tangible when he plays. He doesn't just shout out encouragement to his team mates; the will to win seems to seep out of every pore in his body. Even when he has an off-day, he can overcome opponents just by sheer bloody-mindedness. These qualities have understandably made him a fan favourite for many years, and also explain why he has made over 300 appearances in a City shirt.

And yet, for the last three months he has started matches on the bench more often than on the pitch. Although manager Adie Britton has often not had much choice when it comes to selecting goalkeepers or forwards, the competition for places in midfield and defence this season has been fierce. The quality of players that have appeared as substitutes, or been loaned to other clubs, has been remarkable.

As a City supporter I feel conflicted about this. It is great to have such a surplus of quality in at least two areas, but I hate seeing some of my favourites collecting splinters. Fortunately Coupe's warm-up was quickly followed by him going into the Dover match, taking Jim Rollo's captain armband as the players traded places.

A sign of Coupe's popularity is the fact that he is the only City player who has two songs sung from the terraces in his honour. The first, I Wish I was a Pornstar Like Matt Coupe (sung to the tune of She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain) was first aired at the Grimsby match. The more traditional song, though, is R.E.M.'s Monster.

Within a few minutes of arriving back on the pitch, it was evident that time with the subs had not dulled Coupe's desire to win. In a scrappy, battling match, Coupe scrapped and battled with a tenaciousness that was heartening to watch. The 'Ultras' on the Popular Side took up the old refrain, 'What's that comin' over the hill, is it a monster? Is it a monster?' This caused some consternation among the nearby Dover supporters, who do not appear to have the tradition of singing songs for individual players. Anyone who has taken the time to watch Coupe tear through an opposition attack, though, would readily spot the meaning of the song.

As Dover did take control of most of the end of the match, reinforcing City's backline with such a determined presence was obviously the right thing to do. I know I am not alone in hoping that we see Coupe more regularly. In sympathy with manager Adie Britton's dilemma, though, I'm not sure who should be dropped to make way. I suppose, on balance, that's the sort of decision a manager is wants to be presented with. All I can say is, it's a decision I am happy not to have to make.

Superbowl Tweet

Yesterday was Superbowl Sunday back home. It's practically a national holiday now. When the coverage began here in the UK on the BBC I was still writing my blog post on the Bath City v Dover Athletic match. I managed to get the video to stream online so I could flick back and forth to it while I typed, but for play-by-play commentary I had BBC 5 Live Sports Extra on in the background. This was being done by Arlo White and Greg Brady. Anyone who listens to 5 Live sports will know who Arlo White's talents as a presenter. I'd never heard him do play-by-play commentary and I have to admit I was impressed. Anyone who listens to Colin Murray's Fighting Talk on Saturday mornings knows who Greg Brady is. He is almost single-handedly making it safe for North Americans to be taken seriously as sports fans in the UK. I suppose I should could have listened to an American broadcast, but they were both excellent and so I was happy with the BBC coverage. I sat typing away, hoping the New Orleans Saints could find a way to get a win past the favoured Indianapolis Colts.

By the time the Fourth Quarter had started I had decided that Saints kicker, Garrett Hartley was the most amazing distance field goal kicker ever. How he managed three kicks over forty yards with such accuracy, under such pressure, I'll never understand. Thinking of this, and how a certain Premiership team had failed to find anyone in their ranks who could do something similar earlier in the day, I sent Greg Brady a tweet with my thoughts. Here's what he read out a few minutes later:
(it may take a minute to load, but press the black 'play' button when it appears)

superbowltweet.mp3

I'll be contacting Greg later to see if he needs any new material for his next appearance on Fighting Talk.

Little-Minded Drummer Boys

Bath City's match against Dover Athletic yesterday ended in a scoreless draw. It was not the prettiest display of football this year by City by any measure. You couldn't say it was a boring match - there were plenty of heart-in-mouth moments. And, if you were in need of more drama than was on display on the pitch, there was a fair amount in the terraces as well. Before I get into that, though, I'd better tell you a bit about my great-uncle Bill.

Uncle Bill fought in World War Two on the Italian front. Afterwards he settled down to raise a family. He made his living rearing sheep in the hills of South-West Virginia. He was, I'm sure, a fairly normal member of his generation during his prime.

But by the time I was old enough to know Uncle Bill his behaviour had gotten pretty odd. At a family reunion in New Westminster (population 58,000) he had removed the hubcaps from his car and had them laid out on the back seat when he drove up. He said coming to the 'big city' made him worried they'd get stolen. A few months later he showed up at my parents house for Thanksgiving. Much to my mother's shock he wore his clodhopper plowing shoes into her house (you'll have to trust me, this is a big no-no). He never removed them during the entire visit. We could ignore his shoes, but he did one thing we could not ignore, despite our best efforts. Every time there was a pause in the conversation Uncle Bill would break into a hymn. Very loudly. And not in tune. So, we'd be in the living room asking him politely about his sheep, or the price of wool, and as soon as we'd run out of questions he'd belt out, 'Bless Be The Tie That Binds,' or 'Onward Christian Soldiers.' There wasn't much you could do but wait for him to finish (usually just one verse). While he sang we did our best to pretend that this was normal and everthing was fine. It wasn't really fine: it started as awkward and moved onto annoying as the day wore on. Still, he was an old man who meant no harm. He had no idea how bizarre it seemed to everyone.

The supporters of Dover Athletic remind me a lot of my Uncle Bill. They probably mean well. They almost certainly think of themselves as very clever. In reality they were just being boorish and annoying, avoiding conflict only because of the decorum and forebearance of others (they are fellow non-league supporters after all). I suppose like an elderly relative, they deserved to be humoured during their visit. Politeness requires you to wait until they've left to sigh with relief (and have a laugh about them).

As Dover are newly promoted, they have not visited Twerton Park for many years. I missed the away fixture back in September, so I knew very little about the team or its supporters. About the only thing I knew was that their manager, Andy Hessenthaler, appears to revel in pig-ignorance about Dover's opposition. In a interview posted on the Dover site after the match in September he commented that City had obviously come with the intention of shutting up shop and playing a defensive game with eleven men behind the ball. Any casual City fan at the time, however, could have told you that City's injury crisis was so severe that manager Adie Britton could not even field eleven fit players. The starting lineup contained two midfielders playing as defenders (Lewis Hogg and Marcus Browning) and the debut of Florin Pelecaci (who no one had ever seen in a City shirt before). Adie Britton's only intention with his team selection was to be able to field a full compliment of players. If Hessenthaler had had access to even the most rudimentary scouting report he would have known this.

City fans were excited, if slightly anxious, before the match kicked off. Decisive victories over St Albans and Weston-super-Mare had brought City to within touching distance of a playoff spot. Dover were arriving in patchy form after their blistering start to the season. A win seemed possible, if far from likely. Would City finally break through the eighth-place barrier that has haunted them for the last two seasons?

The way the match started, it looked like breaking that barrier was going to be hard work. City's defence and midfield held their own, but had to resort to a scrappy style of play that was not typical in recent matches.

Something else that was going to be hard work made an appearance in the early minutes as well. The Dover supporters who gathered around the Bath End goal had brought drums. They began to play them with a relentless, unchanging rythym. I have only come across a drum once before in football, at Grimsby Town. This was a single, deep kettledrum-type that was usued occasionally to rally the support. Although the Dover fans included three drummers, and were carrying lighter, more versitile instruments, they lacked the musical ability to do anything else but a constant, dreary beat. It was kind of like listening to a leaking tap drip, except louder and less creative.

That was in the far distance, though, from where the City Ultras (including myself and Little Nedved Junior) were gathered beside our giant white ensign. As City were kicking towards the Bristol end, all the singers were gathered in one place and we were as loud as ever. With City Captain Jim Rollo's encouragement, we were determined to do our part to help lift the team.

I have my doubts, however, that anyone on the pitch was remotely aware of anything else than the furious pace of the match. This was not a match of ebb and flow. There was little chance for either team to create space or play with style. The ball seemed to get tied up in midfield for several minutes at a time in a sort of human pinball. In most matches this season City have been able to control midfield for long stretches. To me, it seemed after a frustrating start they gave up trying and began to settle for hoofing the ball forward. Both sides did have chances in the first half, although Dover had the best. Olly Shultz managed a powerful downward header on goal from a corner kick. City keeper Ryan Robinson was beaten, but Gethin Jones managed a dramatic clearance from the line. City's only real first-half chance was at thirty-five minutes. Kaid Mohamed broke through the Dover back line and had Darren Edwards free on his right for what appeared to be a sure-thing goal. His pass was slightly too far forward for Edwards to reach. It was frustrating to see the opportunity missed, but considering that neither striker is fully fit, it was a good effort.

At the interval I took Little Nedved Junior on our customary walk round the ground. On our way to the Bath End we passed the Dover supporters as they headed to the Bristol End. It is normal practice for non-league supporters to switch sides at halftime. This gives each group of fans the chance to watch their team from the goal it is attacking. A lot of City fans do this as well, although there are some in the newly-formed 'Bath City Ultras' who argue that it would be best for the most vocal supporters to stay in the same spot for the entirity of the match. The designated spot they like to congregate is next to the white ensign, which because of its size, can only hang on the Popular Side, towards the Bristol End.

As the second half kicked off I realised something very strange had happened. The drumming was back, but it was not coming from around the goal Dover was attacking, as it had previously. The drummers and some friends had decided to stand next to the City supporters near the flag. Because they were closer now I could hear that they were singing, but the City supporters were singing too. As you can imagine, it sounded like an unholy mess.

Josh, one of the City supporters who had remained by the flag, gave me his account of what happened:

Obviously the away fans had heard us singing and felt intimated or whatever that we might outsing them so they stood next to us. With their drums as well I think they were trying to drown us out. They came as close as they could to us. We weren't going to leave our spot with the flag there because you dont know what their plans were. They were standing next to us for a reason, but I'm not sure whether it was to provoke a reaction from us, or just to be annoying. Then they started having arguments with some of our lot. I thought it might have turned aggresive, but luckly it didn't.

This last point is important. The Dover supporter's actions were not physically agressive, but they were obnoxious in the extreme. At a lot of other grounds, with less restrained home supporters, and there would have been a fight. I was very proud watching my fellow Ultras stand their ground, engage in a bit of friendly banter, and generally give good account of themselves. I like to think that the City supporters were respecting the natural franternity that exists between fellow non-league supporters -- even if the Dover fans were intent on taking advantage of this good will. Like being trapped with a senile, eccentric old relative, sometimes the best thing to do is just endure it.

To be fair to the Dover fans, they did have more to sing about on the pitch than the City supporters. Although they were unable to manage an actual goal, Dover appeared to be on the verge of scoring for a long stretch of the second half. Or rather, I had a sinking feeling that City were going to allow one of those messy, half-accidental goals they tend to concede when the opposition has the ascendancy. Happily, they did not. I did not want to admit it to myself, but taking a point from this one looked more and more like a good outcome for City.

Little Nedved Junior and I spent the last twenty minutes of the match standing among the 'normal' Dover supporters. That was not in order to be disruptive - my son wanted to collect some of the Ash seeds (you know, the ones that fall like helicopters) that were scattered on the terrace there. He managed to stuff both pockets with them. This got me close enough to the drumming to see more of what was happening. The main drummer was a rather portly fellow who looked intent on trouble. He pulled down his trousers to expose his generous backside to the City supporters several times. I had another uncle that used to do that too, but they put him in a home.

With the relentless drumming annoying everyone in the ground, it was easy to overlook that the match had been blessed with a fairly annoying official. Wes Linden started the match off fairly anonymously (as in good), but then became more and more whistle-happy as the match went on. Both sides were frustrated by his apparantly random distribution of foul calls. He upset City supporters when he allowed Dover's Shaun Welford to get away with a vicious elbow at Gethin Jones early in the match. Welford was already on a yellow, so he appears to have lost the nerve to give him a second.

Despite this, however, as the clock began to wind down I'm sure most City supporters were happy with the single point. From listening to the muttering of several in the crowd, they were just as happy that they Dover supporters would now be leaving.

Although I would have liked to hang out in Charlie's, I took Little Nedved Junior to McDonald's as a reward for his good behaviour during the match. After he had consumed his allotted portion of grease and salt, we ambled back to our car. The Dover's supporters coach pulled out just as we reached Twerton Park. I caught the eye of a Dover supporter on board and we exchanged friendly waves. It felt like the right thing to do. I learned growing up that when you are confronted with rude, aggressive, or just crazy behaviour, it's always best to just smile and wave.

To Soar with the Eagles You Have to Defeat Some Turkeys - Part 2

As I set down to write this I am aware that I might end up saying some not very nice things about Bath City's Tuesday night opponents: Weston-super-Mare AFC (the club so nice, they reformed it twice!). Perhaps that's not fair. I'll admit that it is probably not sporting. Weston are likely to be relegated at the end of the season and not play Bath City again for several years. I also must state that I have never had the chance to get to meet any Weston fans in person. They are probably normal people who in another context would be as nice to know as anyone else.

But then, this isn't another context. Any passionate supporter will tell you there are opponents that you can develop a strong, if irrational, dislike for. I'm getting that way with Weston. The shenanigans on New Year's Day did not help. They use a lot of dirty tackles. And hardly any of their supporters travel the short distance to Twerton Park on match day. Tuesday night I could only spot about five (there may have been more, but not wearing colours or sitting anywhere conspicuous). If City have a really amazing end to this season there might be two divisions separating the clubs next year, and that would suit me just fine.

Returning to my previous narrative, the match kicked off with home supporters nervously hoping that City would show their superior ability on the pitch against poor opposition - something that has often not happened in previous years. City chose to attack the Bristol End for the first half, and the singing, Ultra-type fans (including myself) gathered round the gigantic Bath City white ensign that the City supporter known as Paul1978 recently organised. We kicked off a night of singing with 'Oh When the Stripes Come Marching In!'

Singing anything at all on a Tuesday night match is a great stride for City supporters. Mid-week matches always have smaller, quieter crowds. The last one, a 5-0 thumping of Woking in December, had been played in relative silence. A noisy crowd, though, generates the sort of atmosphere that will hopefully encourage more fans to attend. We have also been thinking it is helpful for the players as well. I'm pleased to say that I can confirm this is the case with this message of thanks from a player:

The atmosphere around the ground has been fantastic since the Grimsby game and now you have the brilliant flag it adds to the atmosphere. The support [Tuesday] night was fantastic for a evening game, the moment we kicked off you could here your singing all over the pitch. It does make a difference to the players when you hear the fans singing and creating a great atmosphere. I'm really glad you're all enjoying the games and I hope you all stick together for the rest of the season to helps get us into the playoffs.

-Thanks,

Jim

Jim, as in Jim Rollo, the Bath City captain and general legend. What Jim says, we must do. Okay everyone?

I suppose I'd better start talking about what happened on the pitch. Actually, you can probably guess. City dominated things from the start (although without scoring) and Weston started kicking anything in black and white stripes within reach. The first few minutes were typical of the first half: Lewis Hogg was just wide of the post with a strike from the edge of the penalty box, quickly followed by a two-footed assault by Weston's Craig Rand on Kaid Mohamed. The home support may have seen red, but match referee Antony Coggins only saw yellow.

A few minutes into the match I met up with my friend James. James works on Saturdays, but comes to the occasional mid-week match. This was his first appearance at Twerton Park since last seasons soul-destroying loss to Bishop's Stortford (not to be confused with last month's soul-destroying draw with Bishop's Stortford). After a few minutes of chatting I suddenly realised just how much has changed in the last nine months.

He was really shocked to see the flags, to hear the singing, and by the size of the crowd. More importantly, he was shocked to see how well City were playing. Last season City were a solid team who showed flashes of brilliance, but mostly just flashes. This season, despite injury setbacks and a small squad, City have become a team that pass the ball with a silkiness that the snootiest haberdasher would feel proud to display. Feel the quality!

Although James has enjoyed coming to matches with me, he has always assumed a slightly mocking tone. It is friendly banter between mates, but when he's seen a boring match he has not refrained from disparaging comments. Suddenly, as we watched yet another brilliant cross into the box from Sekani Simpson, he could not do that. He didn't want to do it either. 'Is he a new signing,' he asked of Simpson, with the Ultras' songs ringing in our ears.

I assured him he was not, and that 'Simmo' has even impressed the presenters on Soccer AM. Simmo was on fire, and City were thumping Weston up and down the pitch. I had a sudden upswelling of pride as I realised just how much the club and the supporters have accomplished this season.

After hearing so much about the undynamic duo of Andy Gurney and Chris Smith (respectively Weston's manager and assistant manager), I invited James to come with me and stand behind their dugout for a few minutes. I was hoping to hear something shocking, like the instructions Gurney had reportedly given to his team on Boxing Day to get City's Lewis Hogg sent off. We listened for about twenty minutes, and I can say that nothing incriminating was said at all. There was some low level intimidation of the linesman, and a bit of wandering out of the technical area, but nothing serious. When Gurney did shout something to his players it was, 'Don't foul!' He shouted this over and over again. To me, that's the equivalent of carrying a fragile vase and having someone behind you shout, 'Don't drop it!' I'm not the professional football coach, though. Maybe they needed reminding.

City continued to dominate play, but not score. I will admit that this worried me. Unconverted half-chances were racking up quickly. Even poor teams can punish you when you fail to take advantage of a dominant spell. Luckily City did eventually take advantage at thirty-four minutes.

Sekani Simpson (as previously mentioned - on fire) eluded a Weston defender on the goal line and launched another perfect cross into the six-yard box. This led to one of my favourite goals of the season. Normally favourite goals are the ones that come unexpectedly, like Mike Perrott's stunning volley off a Jim Rollo cross against Chelmsford in the season opener. This goal, however, was clearly going to happen almost from the moment the ball left Simmo's foot. Kaid Mohamed was in the perfect spot to get a good header, and was for once not being molested by any Weston players. Weston's Lurch-like keeper, Kevin Sawyer (who to be fair, had an excellent game) was going to have no chance. It was still a thing of beauty, though, even though it was not subtle or mysterious. I, of course, went completely nuts and started screaming like a banshee. Like a banshee stood only a few feet behind Andy Gurney, I should say.

The half ended with City almost scoring twice more. James and I returned to the Popular Side of the ground. As we walked I reflected on how many goals City could have scored, and how surprising it was that match referee Antony Coggins had assumed such a low profile. After his flip-flop on the suitability of the pitch on New Year's Day, I was expecting more controversy from him. It turned out I needed only to wait until the second half.

Well, twenty-five minutes into the second half, to give him credit. Between minutes forty-five and seventy, the second half was much like the first: City dominating but not converting. Then all heck broke loose.

Weston striker, Josh Klein-Davies came at Lewis Hogg with a dangerous tackle on the sideline near the main stand. I was surprised by this. During a loan spell with City last season, Klein-Davies had come across as lazy an disinterested. I didn't know he had a dangerous tackle in him. Anyway, Lewis Hogg didn't like this very much. There are several versions of what happened next, but I am going to relate the one I heard. I sprinted over to the other side of the ground and questioned two fans who stood only a few feet away from the events that followed. They gave roughly the same story, and stood far enough apart from each other that they had not conferred. Here is what they said:

After being tackled from behind, Hogg stood up and said a few unkind things to Klein-Davies, who was still lying prone. Klein-Davies stood up eventually, and, taking Hogg by the face, proceeded to simulate receiving a head-butt from Hogg. He then threw himself back onto the pitch. This led to a lot of aggressive posturing from players on both sides, and a lot of people separating various players to keep things from getting out of control. A long time passed, with Coggins seeming unable to resolve the situation and get the match back underway. Eventually a red card was shown to Klein-Davies. Predictably, a red card was shown to Hogg as well. Although at least a minute passed between the two red cards, there was a further scuffle in the tunnel. Klein-Davies, two separate people told me, had been waiting in the tunnel for Hogg.

Coggins appears to have been suckered by the Weston striker. It was not be the first time, of course, he had been pressured by that team into making the wrong call. Coggins had assumed a low profile in the first seventy minutes, but he had done this by going too easy on the bad tackles Weston had been employing. Now, as he tried desperately to stamp his authority back on the game, he just looked ridiculous.

Suddenly there was not infraction so small that it could not require a whistle. One free-throw was re-taken four times. Players on either side who got a bit physical received long lectures about something or other. Coggins made it look important with lots of gesticulating. Well, he tried. Shorter lectures earlier in the match would not have gone amiss.

Although both sides were equal with ten men, the new dynamic seemed to favour Weston. They began to pressure City in a way not seen in either match. They even managed a decent shot ten minutes before time. As injury time approached I began to worry Weston would earn their second ever draw at Twerton Park.

Then, a bizarre match got even more bizarre. At ninety minutes Weston made their third substitution. On to the pitch came....Andy Gurney. That's right, the manager. It's not unheard of for a manager to name himself as a sub in non-league football. I suppose they want to make the squad look a bit bigger. It is pretty weird for one to actually suit up and come on to play. This was the fifth time Gurney had named himself as a sub this season, but the first time he'd actually come on. At thirty-six he's not quite too old to be a player, but it was his first league appearance for any club since he left Newport County for a career in management in 2008. I can't help but wonder what his motivation was here. What was the best outcome he could have expected? If he got a goal and levelled the score, what would the dressing room be like after the match? Wouldn't he be undermining the confidence of his own players? Wouldn't they all secretly (or not so secretly) hate him? And then there is the outside chance he could embarrass himself and shred whatever personal authority he has left. Certainly, an odd-ball call.

In the end Gurney failed to have much impact on the final few minutes (which I guess still makes the decision hard to justify). Coggins whistled for full time, and the relieved City fans roared with triumph. Things were good. City was in eighth place. Bring on Dover Athletic. Goodbye, until next season, Antony Coggins. Goodbye, hopefully for many seasons, Weston-super-Mare AFC!