Lionel_Perez

Hartlepool (Home)

I blame my Dad. He doesn't make it up at the Abbey much these days (in fact, he stopped attending regularly once I was old enough to come on my own), but in my formative years he was the one who decided where we went in the ground. And when I announced I was ready to graduate to the terraces from the family enclosure, he decided to take me to the Habbin.

My Dad has this thing about watching football on the half way line. In his youth, as a devoted QPR fan, he had a season ticket for a seat on the half way line at Loftus Road. So we naturally gravitated to a similar spot at Cambridge. While I've been known to complain about missing out on the atmosphere (such as it is) of the Newmarket Road End (henceforth known as the NRE), I'm pleased that he took me to a part of the ground where you can actually see what's going on.

The Habbin (so named after legendary supporters club chairman Harry Habbin, who raised much of the cash needed to build the stand), also has a reputation as the old mans enclosure, and I suspect another reason my Dad prefered it to the NRE was to protect my impressionable young ears from most of the swearing. I took a lot of stick from my friends when I was growing up for being a Habbiner, but I could never quite bring myself to defect to the NRE.

Mick is another Habbin regular, and while most of our friends still stand together behind the goal, we maintain our places amongst the old men. At least he would if he got here on time. Wanny has already tossed up with the visiting captain Stephenson by the time he jogs into sight.

"Alright Matt. Didn't you get my text? The car wouldn't start."

Micks car is notoriously bad. We missed the first half of the Port Vale game last season (which in hindsight was a good thing) because of it breaking down on the M11.

Hartlepool are the title favourites, so a tough match is anticipated. Luckily Tudor and Riza carry on where they left off at Macclesfield, and both rattle the woodwork in the first half. Hartlepool look good in a couple of isolated attacks, but mostly we keep them at bay comfortably. Most amusing sight of the first half is former United target Ritchie Humphreys waddling about on the left wing. Last summer we spent weeks getting him into shape, before Becky let him bugger off to Hartlepool. Now it looks like he's regained the lost lb's and then some, and his arse is truly mammoth.

"You ate Barry Fry, you ate Barry Fry, you fat bástard, you fat bástard, you ate Barry Fry," is the moderately amusing chant from the NRE.

The goal which our first half domination deserved doesn't come until the opening minutes of the second. Youngs creates it with a clever turn and cross which Guttridge pokes in at the near post. Guttridge?! The most negative midfielder in the history of the world! Fallon must be doing something right if he's managed to get him making forward runs.

We don't sew the match up until 13 minutes from time, when Rodger plays the ball inside the full back for Tudor, who drives the ball past the keeper from a narrow angle. 2-0 against the title favourites, that'll do me.

The rest of the boys are in the supporters club afterwards, and the drinks are on the particularly embulant Tommy, who backed Guttridge at 25-1 to get the first goal, the jammy git.

maollelujah

I've read something very similar to this, somewhere before???

Well good luck.

mao

Lionel_Perez

You may have done. I stole the format from a book I read a couple of years ago. The material is all new though

Sheffield Wednesday (Home)

Last time we were in Division Three, we played Sheffield Wednesday in the League Cup, and beat them 2-1 over two legs. It was considered a big upset then, but how times change.

Then Wednesday were a big club, with the likes of Di Canio and Carbone turning out for them. Nowadays their strike partnership consists of Shefki Kuqi and Gerald Sibon, and they sit bottom of the First Division with big money troubles.

Our own big money troubles seem to have subsided somewhat after the cost cutting of the summer. So much so that Fallon was able to reject a bid from Preston for Shaun Marshall. Whether he would have been able to reject it so easily if the offer had been nearer £500,000 than the reported £90,000 is another matter, but for now it seems Marshall is staying put.

Mick's at work tonight, so the call of 'the darkside' is stronger than usual. However, I manage to resist, and take up my usual spot in the Habbin on my own.

I guess this would be a good moment to tell you about some of my fellow Habbin dwellers. I lean on the wall of exit 22, about 10 steps up from the front. Behind me are the three wise monkeys. These guys have a bad word to say about everyone. At times last year myself and Mick came very close to turning round and telling them exactly what we think of them. They were oddly quiet on Saturday, mainly because there was not much to moan about. I expect I'll hear from them if it starts going wrong tonight.

To my right is the wall, and to my imediate left is usually Mick. Today the space is filled by some random guy and his girlfriend, who, judging by snatches of their conversation I catch, are attending their first game. In front of me is fat ginger bloke. Fat ginger bloke, real name Pete, must be in his forties, and comes to matches with his Dad (Pete Snr, who is even fatter) and their friends, who all come from Ely, or Earith, or somewhere out in the fens.

Things you need to know about fat ginger bloke;

He's
a)Fat
b)Ginger
c)Annoying
d)A part time Man Utd fan

You probably deduced the last one from the first three, but other than these faults he's nice enough. The only problem is he tends to try and converse with me when I'm on my own, such as tonight. His favourite topic is Shane Tudor, who, coincidentally, is running up and down the touchline directly in front of us;

"GET WIDER SHANE, WIDER," he shouts, as Tudor beats his marker for the thousandth time and cuts inside. "Tudor needs to play right on the touchline, don't you think?" he says, turning in my direction (This in itself is a delicate manoeuvre, as his gut takes up a step and a half of terrace on its own).

I just smile and nod. Two years of experience has taught me not to argue with him, as when someone disagrees with him, he just repeats his point at a louder volume, until the victim submits.

Wednesday look a decent side despite their precarious league position. About 800 fans have made the trip south, including the 'much loved' brass band. I should say from the start I'm not really a fan of musical instruments at football matches, but this lot are really beginning to **** me off. It's not only that they seem to have spawned copycats throughout the land, what really bothers me is that they only know one song! If I was a Wednesday fan/player, I'm sure I'd be sick to the back teeth of the bloody great escape by now. They've been playing it non-stop for about five years, time for some new material.

Anyway, United are outplayed in a one-sided first half. Kuqi and Sibon are willing front runners, and Alan Quinn is pulling the strings in midfield. And it's the young Irishman who puts Wednesday ahead, timing his run well to convert Armstrongs cross.

Uniteds chances are limited to a couple of Riza snap shots and a few good runs from Tudor, who is being marked by two men.

With two Wednesday men committed to stopping Tudor, Youngs has some space to play with on the left flank, and sets up a good chance for Guttridge before going close himself. Uniteds pressure doesn't bring an equaliser, and it's all over seven minutes from the end when Hamshaw's cross finds Kuqi's head, and the Finn ensures a happy trip home for the visitors.

To cap it all, guess what we have to listen to on our way out of the stadium. That's right, the great escape.

Lionel_Perez

Rushden & Diamonds (Away)

I mean, honestly, what sort of place doesn't have a train station. Irthlingborough evidently. God, if a place doesn't even have a train station, I don't know how it can have a professional football team.

Our travelling party is reduced today, which is pretty pathetic considering it's only the second trip of the season. Will and Mick have chickened out, so it's just me and Tommy. Neither of us really want to drive, but luckily there's still space on the supporters coach, so we book a couple of seats.

Actually I should have just bitten the bullet and said I'd drive. The supporters coach, while being cheap and convenient, smells. There's no other way to put it. There are a lot of old people on there, and some of them should really think about investing in some deodorant.

The smell mainly emanates from the front of the bus, so we get seats as near to the back as possible and it's not too bad. We even get to take part in the new in-journey craze which is sweeping the away travel club - bingo!

The coach doesn't arrive till about 2.10, so we go straight into the ground. Luckily there's beer on sale inside, so we manage to get in the traditional pre-match pint before going to find seats.

This is as much of a local derby as we've got this season, so a lot of people have made the journey down, and the away end is already pretty full. Rushden, of course, are backed by the money of Max Griggs, and he's certainly built them a ground worthy of a higher level. Their support is still distinctly non-league though. We're hardly the most vocal at home, but the Rushden faithful are silent. Luckily, our lot are in a particularly loud mood, and the atmosphere isn't too bad.

Dave Kitson's back, which is a bonus, but with the team in such good form he starts on the bench. The match kicks off, and it seems Rushden should have spent some of Griggs' money on the team. It soon becomes apparent that their basic tactics involve lumping the ball over Roberts for Paul Hall to chase. Unfortunately their plan didn't take into account the fact that Onandi Lowe is the most offside footballer in history. Three times in the opening minutes long balls would have found Hall in space, were it not for the big Jamaican lummox wandering around behind our back line.

Rushden do have one classy player in midfielder Shane Wardley, and he is the first to test dancing Shaun with a low drive that the young keeper does well to tip round the post. Rushden have the bulk of the possession in the opening half, but our class tells, and on the break a great ball from Wanny finds Tudor whose first time cross is finished clinically by Tom Youngs.

Our lead doesn't last long, and, inevitably, Hall provides the cross which Duane Darby nods in from close range. 1-1 is about fair at half time, and we spend the break chatting to Jack from Shelford. Jack is the sort of fan who makes everyone else feel like a part-timer. He spent most of last year recovering from cancer but still found time in the summer to come into Cambridge and help the ground staff prepare the ground for the new season. He’s looking a lot more healthy than when we last spoke to him, which is good to see.

Fallon’s half time words must’ve been a lot stronger than my tea, as United come out for the second half all guns blazing. Riza and Youngs are denied by Turley before Captain Fantastic powers in a Rodger corner to put us back in front.

Me and Tommy both expect us to go on and win comfortably now, but Rushden bite back, and Darby, who is looking uncharacteristically mobile up front, releases Scott Partridge, on in place of the ineffectual Lowe. Although dancing Shaun blocks the little strikers first effort, the rebound falls nicely for him to blast the ball into the empty net.

Our fans chant for the ginger ninja, and Fallon obliges, introducing big Dave for the unlucky Riza. It proves to be an inspired substitution. Almost immediately, Kitson wins us a free kick about forty yards from goal on the right touchline. Gareth Roberts jogs across, and floats an inviting cross into the area for Kits, who leaps like the proverbial salmon to nod the ball past Turley. It gets even better soon afterwards, as we score an almost identical goal. This time however, it’s Duncan who gets on the end of another peachy cross from Roberts. That’s his goal out of the way for the season then.

Rushden pull one back late on through Wardley, but we’re pretty comfortable in the closing stages and keep our 100% record intact against another of the title favourites. And to think we struggled to score goals last season! How things change.

Lionel_Perez

Lincoln (Home)

Hurrah for bank holidays. A long weekend and a double helping of football. With nobody having any work to get in the way, we meet in town for a pre-game drinking session. Unfortunately most of the pubs on Newmarket Road are a bit crap, so the only half decent one, The Wrestlers, fills up pretty quickly on match days. Luckily we’re there early enough to avoid trouble from the bouncers (yes, they do employ bouncers on a Monday afternoon).

The landlady is of Thai extraction, and as a result the Wrestlers does excellent Thai food. Everyone has a big lunch, and a few too many drinks, making the walk down to the ground a bit wobbly for all concerned. Mick’s dying for a pÃ*ss, so heads straight to the toilet as soon as we get into the ground, instructing me to get him a couple of bacon rolls. This is probably a good time to point out that Mick is, how can I put this, rather tubby.

I get his rolls, and one for myself, and head into the ground. As soon as I start eating mine, I notice that I’m gaining a lot of odd glances. Fat ginger bloke, who would probably still be hungry after a hundred Thai banquets, seems particularly interested.

"Thersh not all for meesh" I explain with my mouth full. God, where’s Mick got to? Luckily, he appears in the nick of time to spare my embarrassment, scooping up his rolls and devouring them in minutes.

Lincoln aren’t the most cultured of sides, and it soon becomes clear we’re unlikely to see a repeat of Saturday’s goal fest. With the visitors operating an almost six man backline, we make all the running and miss a succession of chances. Tudor misses three good opportunities, while Guttridge and the returning Kitson both see good headers saved by Kevin Poole. The Imps don’t offer much upfront, but what they do have in teenagers Ryan and Basker is pace and exuberance. And this almost pays off right at the end of the half, as Basker barges past Warner but blasts wide with the goal at his mercy.

It looked liked one goal would be enough to win it, and it came nine minutes after the restart. Kitson’s flick on found Guttridge, who slid the ball down the channel for the unmarked Tudor, who cut inside and scored with a rising shot into the top corner. Another great finish from Shane, who once again whipped off his shirt to reveal his orange torso (He surely spends too much time on the sunbed).

Lincoln committed a few more men forward, looking to chase the game, but we still looked more likely scorers, and Kitson should’ve capped a fine comeback with a goal when he found himself clear on goal, but hit a weak shot straight at the keeper. Sedgemore hit the post at the death, but all in all it’s another impressive performance, which leaves us top of the early league table. I don’t think anyone expected us to start this well, especially with our tough looking opening fixtures. I know it’s only August but it’s hard to believe the same team which got tonked regularly by all and sundry last year is looking so good.

The boys are all head back into town after the game, but I decline the offer and head home. I think the combination of Thai food, beer, and bacon roll is beginning to take it’s toll.

flipsix3

More excellent stuff LP, and it has that extra quality that can only be added by a true fan of the club at hand.

abu645

i agree with what mao said mr.hornby, sorry mr.perez.

good story mate

Lionel_Perez

Does it really read like a fever pitch rip off then :o Oh well that wasn't my intention...

Boston (Away)

Teams of Lincolnshire part two involves our first ever trip to newly-promoted Boston. Like United, our squad is almost at full strength, with only Will missing from the fresh-faced hopefuls who made the journey to Macclesfield what seems like months ago.

William, for his sins, is a part-time Chelsea fan, and tries to get to the Bridge a few times a season. And today, while we are experiencing the delights of York Street for the first time, he will be accompanying his dear old dad to watch the Blues against Manchester City. The Chelsea game is a 12.15 kick off, so the plan is to get to Boston early, find a nice pub and watch it before the main event.

Miraculously everyone’s at the train station on time, including a new recruit, a colleague of Mick’s by the name of Mullet. While he’s getting his ticket I pull Mick to one side:

"So why is he called Mullet then?"

"It’ll be pretty obvious in a minute."

And indeed Mullet takes off his baseball cap to reveal, surprise surprise, a proper old school mullet. It’s incredible how much hair he had hidden under there. Tommy and myself stifle giggles, but it turns out Mullet is actually quite a decent bloke. Even though he doesn’t volunteer his real name, he talks fairly knowledgeably about United (he hasn’t been to a game since the second Beck error, sorry era, so he’s in for a culture shock). Plus he has cans of lager which endears him to us nicely.

For once all trains run as they should, and we get to our destination just before 12. Boston seems to be a nice little Market town, and we have no problem finding a friendly pub complete with big screen. To be honest I couldn’t care less about the Premiership. It’s unlikely Cambridge will ever get there in my lifetime and it’s a world away from the football I’ve experienced throughout my life.

But watching two attacking teams is always good whatever the level, and Man City certainly attack in the traditional Kevin Keegan spirit. Even though Anelka and Wanchope are missing, they still have too much for a poor Chelsea team, and win at a canter 3-0. We all try ring and Will at the final whistle, but surprisingly his mobile phone is switched off. His torture can wait anyway, so we finish our beers and set off for the ground.

Or at least we would if we could find it. No one has been here before so we don’t know where the ground is, and the people of Boston are similarly in the dark. Finally, the tourist information office (surely working there must be the easiest job in the world) gives us directions, and we’re at the ground just before the teams come out.

Boston are very similar in stature and style to their neighbours we played on Monday, but unlike Lincoln they have an outlet in little winger Jamie Cook. All that’s lacking is the final ball, and after a couple of sighters, he gets it right on six minutes, crossing for the unmarked Weatherstone to blast in.

For the first time this season United look off colour. Wanless and Rodger are being over run by veteran thug Neil Redfearn, who is seems to be on a mission to maim. The backline’s also looking shaky, and (I never thought I’d say this) Andy Duncan’s presence is being missed greatly.

Pilgrims manager Chris Kamara has obviously done his homework, and has assigned two men to look after Tudor, restricting him to a few long range efforts, none of which test ancient ex-U Paul Bastock. But with five minutes left of the half we finally get a bit of luck. Guttridge tries an extravagant pass out to Tudor which is intercepted by Ellender, who inadvertently heads the ball into the path of Youngsy, who finishes well from the edge of the box.

With several court cases and a possible six point deduction still hanging over their heads, it’s fair to say the previously silent Boston fans have plenty to be unhappy about. And with their team no longer in front, they start to moan. Most of their anger is directed at want-away top-scorer Daryl Clare, who asked for a transfer last week. We’re on top going into half time, and Tudor’s shot just over is a statement of intent.

Ironically, it’s Cook’s mistake that helps us take the lead. His wayward clearance only finds Wanny, who puts the ball across brilliantly for Kitson to nod in from close range.

Unfortunately his mistake seems to have fired Cook up, and five minutes of Boston pressure later his cross leaves the unmarked Clare with a simple close range finish. Both sides go close in the last quarter of an hour, with Tudor firing narrowly wide twice for us, and Weatherstone crashing a header against the bar for them. The draw probably pleases us more, considering the amount of possession they had, and although our 100% record is gone, we’re still unbeaten, and it’s time to get back to the train station.

Or not. Lincolnshire police obviously see football as a great excuse to get a bit of overtime in, and they’re out in force today. Now like most teams, Cambridge have their small amount of idiots, but we’re no Cardiff or Stoke. Today, the idiots number five, and they are being frog-marched back to the station by about 20 officers. Unfortunately Tommy has managed to get caught up in it all (He knows a couple of the nutters from way back) and is being dragged along protesting his innocence. In fact, none of them seem to have done anything at all, apart from admittedly being a bit tipsy. But with Boston neither having the number of fans or the inclination to start a fight, it all seems a bit pointless.

Still, that’s a month before the first police/stewarding over reaction of the season, which must be some kind of record I suppose.

flipsix3

There are hints of Hornby in there - but nowhere near to be a rip-off - FP had very little in the way of match commentary, and much more regarding social interaction and the peculiarities of being a dedicated fan.

Oh, and this is pretty good stuff LP - but then that goes without saying

Lionel_Perez

Indeed. Plus I think the beauty of FP (and Hornby's books in general) is that he writes in a way that the reader can really relate to. But I digress

Darlington (Home)

Owwww. I played football for the first time in months last night, and as a result every muscle in my body hurts this morning. I doubt the stumble home from the pub following the post-footy drinks helped, and the lack of sympathy from the lovely Louise doesn’t ease the pain.

Mick’s giving me a lift to the game today, which is good, so I manage to hobble out to his car, much to the fat boys amusement.

Anyway, at least we’re on time for the return of our old friend Tommy Taylor. A few years ago, having led us to 2nd in the table, Judas Tommy jumped ship to Orient in return for more money, taking a couple of our key players with him. Since then, having led the O’s and now Darlington to Division Three mediocrity every year, he has touted himself for the United job every time it’s been available. So he’s generally hated by all.

As usual, this year is shaping up badly for Darlo, and they lie in the bottom half of the early table. In other words, the kind of team we need to beat if we’re going to get promoted.

Guttridge is injured, so the team’s reshuffled a bit, with Youngs in central midfield and Riza in an unfamiliar left wing position. Nice to see Omer back in the side, and at last it seems some bright spark has made him his very own (albeit very simple) chant, to the tune of 2Unlimited’s early 90’s classic, No limits:

Da da, da da da da
Da da, da da da da
Da da, da da da da
Om-er Ri-za

Om-er,
Om-er Om-er
Om-er Om-er
Om-er
Om-er Ri-za

And so on. Pretty good by our standards. Must be stolen from somewhere though.

Seeing as he still has a house in Cambridge, it’s no surprise to anyone that Taylor has done his homework. Darlington are employing a five man back line in an attempt to stifle our attack, and for once it’s working. And the Quakers have all early pressure, forcing Marshall into a couple of brilliant saves. Giant striker Matt Clarke hits the bar as we struggle to get out of our own half. But for once our defence is holding up well, Warner in particular is playing a blinder against the dangerous Mellanby. And by half time we have at least gone close once, with Youngs shooting over from just inside the box.

During the break Mick and myself revel in the space which we have due to the absence of fat ginger bloke. The downside of this is that the three wise monkeys have moved down a bit and are standing way too close for comfort. Actually, they’ve had a fairly quiet first half, but as soon as the action restarts they’re off on one:

"Bloody Kitson’s useless."

"Yeah, I’d put more effort in than him."

"COME ON KITSON, DO SOME WORK YOU USELESS TOSSER."

Now this really makes my blood boil. Kitson is the least lazy player you could ever wish to see, and as if to prove my point he charges down an attempted clearance from Nicholls and almost sets up a chance for Rodger.

We bring on a sub at half time, replacing the quiet Riza with Warren Goodhind and switching Youngs out to the left. This proves to be an inspired change. Our central midfield looks a lot more solid, cutting down the amount of Darlo attacks, and with the opposition defenders looking tired from their high octane game plan, we’re beginning to find a bit of space going forward.

The breakthrough doesn’t come until the 69th minute. Darlo fail to effectively clear a free kick, and it comes back out to Tudor 30 yards from goal. A little surge from the Oompah Loompah takes him into the area where he is hacked down by Nicholls. As clear a penalty as you could ever wish to see, which for some reason doesn’t even warrant a yellow card (This may have something to do with the fact that Nicholls is already on a yellow card. Not that I think the ref would bottle it).

There is some confusion as to who will take the penalty. About five different players missed one last season, so both myself and Mick expect on of the new players, either Rodger or set piece specialist Roberts to take it. In fact, the responsibility falls to Phil Warner, who steps up confidently and clips the ball low to the goalkeepers left, who helpfully dives to his right.

Fat Tommy throws on a couple of subs in an attempt to chase the game, and this gives us the space on the counter that we thrive on, and a really quality goal wraps up the match in the 83rd minute. Marshall claims a Darlo corner, and throws the ball out to Youngs on the left. Tom holds the ball up, and cushions a great pass into Rodger’s feet. The ex-Palace man swings in a perfect first time cross to the back post, which finds Warner, whose heads the ball across goal for Tudor to volley high into the net. A brilliant goal to cap a good performance. I didn’t think we were capable of defending in deep like that for 45 minutes, and the way we cut through them at times in the second half was stunning. Maybe promotion is on after all.