Up at 6.30am, dishes done and the moth trap seen to. I was blessed with visits from various creatures of the night who were named and shamed as the Brown China Mark, the Spectacle, the Small Magpie and the dinky, but quite delightful Garden Grass Veneer. There were other specimens in the mix, it is about time these delightful natural gems had a better run. With all specimens recorded, I fed the birds, got sorted and had a chill with the good lady. We set off at 9.30 prompt, travelled the concrete artery and arrived at our destination with plenty of time before kick off. STP Stu turned up after a short wait, we had a natter and had to wait for refreshments due to the cafe being shut. Predictions were made and these are my observations of the games under the spotlight.
Game one: Mayfair FC 2 v 2 Oyster Martyrs (Match Abandoned during second half).
The initial aspects of this game displayed two equally matched teams playing with an overspill of energy, but lacking any real composure. A whole heaping of huff and puff without any houses blown down was witnessed, we needed a big bad wolf to take a lungful and let go a real billower. The scrambling action persisted, the Mayfair No 10 looked a player awash with zeal and a bloke who had a good reading of the game, but Oyster had some good runners in their mix and were always going to keep the opposition honest.
It was Oyster who took the lead with a well worked goal, but matters where soon level when the blue-clad MF men worked a goal due to nothing more than grim determination and high industry. The goal was sweetly created though with several passes leading to the ball entering the box to be duly tapped home. This equaliser looked to set the stage for a period of greater balance, but a shabby back pass was intercepted by a keen Oysterman and the ball tidily stroked home. Before the break we had another net buster, this time a real beauty with the marksman collecting, turning and belting into the top corner - a stunner for sure, it was a shame teamsheets were not available so I could name the bringer of such joy.
The second half was a settled affair and looked to be anyone's until a tackle was taken exception to, a punch was thrown, a player felled and then a 22 man punch up came with kicks, stamps and more fists all adding to an embarrassing mess. The gent in jet took a look, decided to call a 'fuck it' and the game was rightly abandoned. This was a real shame and a real shabby way to end what was a very decent game. From such ghastly negativity though arose some fine positivity as the early abandonment meant we three moochers could nip to a local cafe, grab some refreshments and get back in time for the next game.
The Scranary was filled with Sunday dinner scoffing buggers all enjoying a mountain of food awash in an ocean of gravy and swilled down with a variety of fluids. We came a way with tea, I had a bacon toastie, the good lady had a cheese toastie, Stu opted for just the drink, the waistline must be looked after - come this time next year he says those 65 inch waist love-leggings will be donned - sex in yer pants people, you ain't seen nothing yet!
Back to the ground and a good couple of hundred folk were now in attendance with a brief chat had with the ever amiable Paul Moran, football zealot and keen photographer of the game at level real. It was good to catch up that was for sure.
And so to the next game.
Game two: Campfield FC 1 v 1 AFC Bull (Campfield win the league).
This second encounter, looked on paper at least, to be a result very much in favour of a Campfield win, but it became more than apparent during the opening quarter that AFC Bull were a highly regimented team with a defence tighter than the arse cheeks of John Inman before the incident with the water melon. The teams No 4 looked a particular solid element in a rear guard that never took their eye off the ball. Campfield looked a hefty unit, but today were hustled and never really settled thus letting much potential go to waste. AFC Bull took a surprise lead in the first half. The goal came about due to some never-say-die animation and a desire to get forward. Despite going one goal down the opposition just failed to create any serious penetration, a bit like when Arthur Mullard sank 25 pints and tried to have a night of passion with a blow-up doll - oh the disappointment of Boozer's Droop.
The second half saw a real stingy affair with chances sparser than the hairs on the scrotum of Telly Savalas (so I hear). The Bulls were akin to Rear Admiral Goodtime Gary and looked to perform well on the deck, but Campfield now pushed forth with a trifle more focus and just looked to have a chance of grabbing a point here. The equaliser did come, it was an absolute blinding shot from distance that looped into the net above a pack of players who could only look on and admire. This looked to be a catalyst to set the game alight - it was not to be the case. The game plodded on like an amputee walking through a field of dung and the nearest anyone came to getting a goal was when The Bullmen had a corner that was swung in and needed punching away at the last by a keeper who readily explained why he didn't catch the ball by saying 'he shit himself' - well, you can't fault honesty.
The final whistle came, despite the game not being a classic, Campfield celebrated in joyous style, the league was theirs, not bad for a team who had only won one of their first six league games. We pootled off with the viewing season now full-stopped, we had seen a bit of everything today, the good, the bad, the brilliant and the shambolic - and all due to just getting off our arses, supporting the Non-League cause and being keen. Here's to next season!
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