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Nov. 23rd, 2008 08:37 pmTo Westleigh Park for 10 am to catch the coach to Hawks' FA Trophy tie at Fisher Athletic, as for some reason we were kicking off at 2 pm. The drive through South London took us past King's College Hospital, where Sarah died; I bowed my head all the while that we were passing it.
An emotional day for me as I was a keen Fisher supporter for some time when I lived in London, and after my move back to Gosport carried on following them until financial crisis forced me to get my fix of football closer to home. We arrived at Dulwich Hamlet's Champion Hill ground, where Fisher are long-term tenants (the reason we were playing today was because Hamlet were at home yesterday), on the dot of 1 pm. The lady at the entrance to the bar took our entrance money but, when I'd just handed her my tenner, remarked to her young daughter "I remember these, they weren't very good last time." Charming. As I hadn't been to the league game there in August I mentioned this to Mark and Skif; they remembered one of our fans having an argument with her then.
There were no bar staff around when we arrived; we thought they just weren't bothering to open today, leaving us dry, until around 1.15 a barmaid appeared. I went for a Bulmers. Things are sad at Fisher at the moment; thanks to the business climate their backer's pulled out, the club is skint and players are playing for nothing. The programme managed a witty take on the situation, in both a match report and a piece by Tim, an old pal of mine, who observes "Let's all salute the red flag and go live on a kibbutz, as Fisher are now the only Socialist club in the Conference South - all the players working for a common cause, their only reward being the adulation of the supporters...and indeed when the Chairman doesn't shave for a while, he's a dead ringer for Karl Marx." Sounds like a club I ought by right to still be supporting...
As we hadn't stopped for food most of us descended on the tea hut during the 20-30 minutes before kick-off. "The food's excellent here," Malc said; my quarter pounder and chips were not bad.
The Hawk hardcore gathered behind the goal. The Fisher number 3 was ribbed for his candyfloss hairstyle, and there was much witty banter about the Fisher number 8, who (really) arrived at the club because his sister is the Chairman's cleaning lady. Joe, a Fisher fan who'd talked to our Simon before the game, had mentioned that they'd be without their regular goalie who was cup-tied; when the guy they did have in goal made a couple of bloopers, some of our fans joked that they'd recruited him on the high street just before the match.
Hawks staged plenty of attacks but couldn't put the ball in the net. The goalie left the goal wide open twice, but Paul Booth the first time and Robbie Matthews the second, with the goal at their mercy, both hit the post. On 39 minutes the rain started to pour. Most of the hardcore, being loons, stuck it out behind the goal but with my cold I made for the stand.
Half-time, still 0-0 and into the warmth of the bar for another Bulmers. Big John, a Fisher diehard, came over and remarked on how it was a turn-up my coming back as an away fan. I told him "There's not a day these last two and a half years I haven't missed this club" and explained about the financial situation. The big screen was showing a repeat of last night's X Factor - my poor Rachel was on when I found a place to stand with my drink - but with the sound turned down almost to silence. During Diana's performance someone turned over to Tottenham v Blackburn on Sky Sports; when a woman protested that she'd been watching Diana, someone riposted "There's Tottenham, we're watching 11 tarts now."
Although the rain had stopped, I flopped into a seat in the stand for the second half next to Sharon and Rich. During a lull in play I phoned Lisa to ask how the girls had got on: they'd lost 2-1. As we said goodbye Lisa said she hoped the men would win. Happily I was able to send her texts with good news, as Gary Elphick headed in from a corner on 58 minutes and then, on 74, a Fisher defender gave Gary Holloway an almighty shove in the box and JC made it 2-0 from the penalty spot.
Unfortunately I dropped my programme on the floor just after getting on the coach, and at that precise moment some fool stood on it and left it with a horrendous crease mark, almost a tear. With that prog having been my favourite this season, and my emotional connection to the club, I'm decidedly displeased at being left with one in shite condition. Given that, plus John taking a wrong turning and giving us a magical mystery tour of South London, and my cold playing Old Harry with my nose breathing throughout the trip, I've been rather radged off since the match ended, despite the win - which was like watching a new girlfriend beat up an ex-wife you're still fond of anyway.
Have a nice night, y'all.
An emotional day for me as I was a keen Fisher supporter for some time when I lived in London, and after my move back to Gosport carried on following them until financial crisis forced me to get my fix of football closer to home. We arrived at Dulwich Hamlet's Champion Hill ground, where Fisher are long-term tenants (the reason we were playing today was because Hamlet were at home yesterday), on the dot of 1 pm. The lady at the entrance to the bar took our entrance money but, when I'd just handed her my tenner, remarked to her young daughter "I remember these, they weren't very good last time." Charming. As I hadn't been to the league game there in August I mentioned this to Mark and Skif; they remembered one of our fans having an argument with her then.
There were no bar staff around when we arrived; we thought they just weren't bothering to open today, leaving us dry, until around 1.15 a barmaid appeared. I went for a Bulmers. Things are sad at Fisher at the moment; thanks to the business climate their backer's pulled out, the club is skint and players are playing for nothing. The programme managed a witty take on the situation, in both a match report and a piece by Tim, an old pal of mine, who observes "Let's all salute the red flag and go live on a kibbutz, as Fisher are now the only Socialist club in the Conference South - all the players working for a common cause, their only reward being the adulation of the supporters...and indeed when the Chairman doesn't shave for a while, he's a dead ringer for Karl Marx." Sounds like a club I ought by right to still be supporting...
As we hadn't stopped for food most of us descended on the tea hut during the 20-30 minutes before kick-off. "The food's excellent here," Malc said; my quarter pounder and chips were not bad.
The Hawk hardcore gathered behind the goal. The Fisher number 3 was ribbed for his candyfloss hairstyle, and there was much witty banter about the Fisher number 8, who (really) arrived at the club because his sister is the Chairman's cleaning lady. Joe, a Fisher fan who'd talked to our Simon before the game, had mentioned that they'd be without their regular goalie who was cup-tied; when the guy they did have in goal made a couple of bloopers, some of our fans joked that they'd recruited him on the high street just before the match.
Hawks staged plenty of attacks but couldn't put the ball in the net. The goalie left the goal wide open twice, but Paul Booth the first time and Robbie Matthews the second, with the goal at their mercy, both hit the post. On 39 minutes the rain started to pour. Most of the hardcore, being loons, stuck it out behind the goal but with my cold I made for the stand.
Half-time, still 0-0 and into the warmth of the bar for another Bulmers. Big John, a Fisher diehard, came over and remarked on how it was a turn-up my coming back as an away fan. I told him "There's not a day these last two and a half years I haven't missed this club" and explained about the financial situation. The big screen was showing a repeat of last night's X Factor - my poor Rachel was on when I found a place to stand with my drink - but with the sound turned down almost to silence. During Diana's performance someone turned over to Tottenham v Blackburn on Sky Sports; when a woman protested that she'd been watching Diana, someone riposted "There's Tottenham, we're watching 11 tarts now."
Although the rain had stopped, I flopped into a seat in the stand for the second half next to Sharon and Rich. During a lull in play I phoned Lisa to ask how the girls had got on: they'd lost 2-1. As we said goodbye Lisa said she hoped the men would win. Happily I was able to send her texts with good news, as Gary Elphick headed in from a corner on 58 minutes and then, on 74, a Fisher defender gave Gary Holloway an almighty shove in the box and JC made it 2-0 from the penalty spot.
Unfortunately I dropped my programme on the floor just after getting on the coach, and at that precise moment some fool stood on it and left it with a horrendous crease mark, almost a tear. With that prog having been my favourite this season, and my emotional connection to the club, I'm decidedly displeased at being left with one in shite condition. Given that, plus John taking a wrong turning and giving us a magical mystery tour of South London, and my cold playing Old Harry with my nose breathing throughout the trip, I've been rather radged off since the match ended, despite the win - which was like watching a new girlfriend beat up an ex-wife you're still fond of anyway.
Have a nice night, y'all.
