Did He Really Mean It?

So the blog is back, probably no better than before, but we shall see…

While this season we’re concentrating on the FA Trophy Run, kicking off on October 4th with Leyton vs Dulwich, we decided that it’d be wrong to miss out on the chance of seeing Dulwich play host to Broxbourne Borough FC in the first qualifying round of the FA Cup, so on Sunday we found ourselves once again at Champion Hill.

This was actually our second visit to watch Hamlet in recent weeks, having previously taken in their friendly against Charlton which, despite a deserved one-nil lead at half time, they lost 3-1 in front of quite a sizeable crowd for a midweek evening. Sunday however, we were pretty dissapointed with the turnout- much less than any attendence we saw at Champion Hill during last season’s forays in the FA Cup, but we did feel that the team had come quite a way from last season and were playing some decent football.

Unfortunately though, despite having the upper hand over their opponents for much of the game, Dulwich’s frontline, including 3 goals in 3 games Laurent Hamici, couldn’t find that killer goal after leading from the 15th minute. Having been posted missing in the first half, much of Hamici’s threat in the second half was restricted to long range efforts. Broxbourne, to their credit, showed some threat mainly through the skills of Tony Burke on the left flank, and took advantage of a defensive blunder in the 85th minute to snatch a draw, despite late pressing from the Hamlet.

So, we might be off to Cheshunt tonight for the replay… Not as far as Deal, it must be said, but still not particularly appealing.

What’s going on here?

So bored in fact that I’ll wish the FA Cup Run Team and everyone else who reads this blog a Happy Christmas and a Happy New Year!

God knows we will need some luck in the new year to get tickets to future games, roll on the 5th of January!

In response to Bamos’ last post, I couldn’t have put it better myself big guy. My dad was shouting up to me from outside the shop last night, screaming, ‘your team have scored’. My initial reaction was, ‘I’ll never be able to get a ticket for Cardiff.’ I sat down on my bed, and to be honest, I felt like crying. This whole run has not only seen us witness some fantastic footballing achievments, its brought us all together as even better mates. This may seem soppy, but on this run, I have seen acquaintances become friends, and friends become confidants. And I don’t want to see it end now. Not after all this.

If it is to end now, I still have plenty of memories that will live with me forever. The last minute winner versus Chalfont, the squeaky voice, the minutes silence (still one of the most emotional things I have ever seen), the baileys, the chilli, the shaft theme tune, the cab driver etc etc. I could go on all day.

 I feel so deflated today. I should have made the effort last night. I feel like someone has died before I got the chance to speak to them one last time, or I have missed a chance with a girl because I haven’t told her how I felt. As much as I want to be in Chasetown for the Cardiff game, can I go? I will feel like a fraud.

On a day that should be filled with happiness, I am at my lowest point of this run so far.

(from wrong game but the sentiment remains the same)

I have never regretted not being in the midlands so much as I do this evening, and probably never will again.

Amazing stuff.

Incredible game Jeff! They’ve done it! Unbelievable stuff!

Jeff: Indeed they have, thanks Chris. The plucky part-timers of Chasetown have put out League One side Port Vale, and now face a home tie against former winners Cardiff City. The players, by day postmen, electricians, van drivers and lawyers, will be up against Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink, Robbie Fowler et al in the first week of January!

That’s enough of that. I’m sitting here in my bedroom, warm and cosy, with a cup of tea in one hand and a Camel Light in the other (OK, not right now, but you get the picture. Typing with my nose is a skill I’ve not yet fully mastered), having just ‘watched’ the game via the BBC Sport website ticker. This is like the day I watched news of David Busst being injured at Old Trafford via teletext updates. I want to know more, but…at the same time, I don’t.

I’m gutted. Not for Chasetown - no way. I’m in love with the team, the fans, the atmosphere they created at both Bath and Vale Park, the fantastic entertainment they’ve provided. I’m gutted that I’m not there. This is the first game of the run that I’ve been forced to miss, and it doesn’t feel good. From humble beginnings at Dulwich Hamlet at the end of my road, to the Tuesday night jaunt to Deal Town, to Hornchurch and Bath and Burslem. But we couldn’t make this evening, because (through no fault of their own, I hasten to add!) we couldn’t get tickets.

We’ve missed two Luke Rodgers penalties not hitting the back of the net. We’ve missed a last-minute winner. We’ve missed the passion, the banter, the journey, the pie and a pint. We’ve missed it all. And it hurts. I just got a text from my Liverpool supporting mate, asking if I was there. When I replied in the negative, he simply said ‘I didn’t have tickets for the European Cup Final - but I went anyway. You part timer!’

He may only have been slightly jesting, but I can’t help feeling that he was right. I should have done more to get tickets. I should be in a pub somewhere near Walsall, ecstatic, sampling the atmosphere. I should have bought a sodding ladder to shin up over the top of the temporarily-erected stand. I should have sold a vital organ and offered a Vale fan £200 for his ticket, just to get in. But I didn’t.

Why do I feel like this? I can’t say. I feel so strongly about this run though - it’s part of me, it’s started to define my life, my conversations, my thoughts. I can’t go through a week without examining every possible permutation of opponents, results, train times, how I’m going to feel on the Sunday/Monday after a game. I need this in my life. I don’t want it to end. Ultimately, I know it will - realistically, the thought of watching Chelsea at Stamford Bridge for three rounds, bludgeoning their way to another final, doesn’t entice me - leaving aside ticket issues. But that’s not the option at the moment.

The option is Chasetown at home to Cardiff. It’s a game I HAVE to be at - but it’s a game that I know I’m not going to be able to go to. Getting a home ticket is an impossibility - we’ve found that. And if Vale, a team struggling at the wrong end of League One, can sell out their allocation so easily Cardiff, a team with an equally passionate (if not more so) fanbase, will get rid of theirs equally quickly.

And that’s where the crux lies. I’m so, so happy that Chasetown made it through. Genuinely - this massive grin on my face isn’t being caused by anything other than the result (although I will admit that I have made a damned fine cuppa, and the choice of music on the radio - the Inspiral Carpets right now - is pretty darned grin inducing). I’m ecstatic for them. This sort of result is WHY I wanted to do this in the first place. But it’s also why it looks like we’re going to have to miss the Third Round in it’s entirety. And that, frankly, is gutting.

The Chasetown fans (and players - the photo of two members of this intrepid team bouncing around on the pitch and hugging assorted defenders will live with me for a long time) made us so welcome. It was a privelege to be sitting with them at Vale, and listening to them sing their hearts out against Team Bath. I don’t want to not be a part of the next round - I really don’t. I need to be with them.

But the chances of that happening are beyond slim. Unless someone knows something I don’t, or can arrange for seven or eight (admittedly stupid, but ultimately passionate) football fans, all dedicated to one competition, to be at this one game - the importance of which will be lost on almost all but those so closely involved.

I’m smiling still. But inside, I am utterly, completely, drained. I don’t want this to end.

Eve Olivia Power (West Midlands) wrote at 8:30pm yesterday:

hello its eve from the train lol how are you?

Amazing. Anyways, where was I?! Ah, the trip to Vale Park. Our cab driver (recommended by our Italian friends no less) was useless, and barely knew where Burslem was, let alone the ground itself. Arriving just as the teams ran out, a mad dash to the ticket office ensued, as we purchased our tickets in the Chasetown end (or the GO2 Telephone stand). As we ran towards the office, me and Northern Tom spotted a vale fan in distress. For reasons unknown to logical thought, he had purchased six cans of stella artois, and was caught between whether to drink them all before the game or leave them behind. The fact that he was on the verge of falling over the steps made the latter argument more appealing, as we found the six cans on our return from the ticket office. I just want to say that I don’t think I have ever laughed as much as the whole ‘Stella man’ incident, and it still makes me chuckle now, thinking about his confused face.

Having gunned a load of cans, we made our way in, and after a brief period of confusion as to where everybody was, Team FA Cup Run sat down together to enjoy Port Vale vs Chasetown.

To call the game awful would have been a compliment. But we don’t come for the quality of football, I think that was established a long time ago. Port Vale are rock bottom of League One and they look it. Despite this, they took the lead with a 25 yard free kick from Luke Rodgers. I only knew this from the match report the next day, as I was too busy laughing at ‘Stella Man’. Clutching my Chasetown balloon in one hand, the first half flew by in a display of banter hithero unkown. Then all of a sudden, hysteria.

I assume Mark Branch, a trainee accountant by day, probably realises that he won’t play in the professional ranks. But he can always remember the day when his forty-yard free kick eluded every single player in the Port Vale box and nestled in the back of the net. Possibly the worst defended free kick I have ever seen, but for all I care, it could have hit every player and gone in off the ref. It was beautiful.

The scenes that followed were incredible. A team bundle, a running high five to all members from myself, and hugging anyone from Chasetown in sight. It was a beautiful FA Cup moment. The referee’s whistle blew for half time soon after, and it was met with roars of delight from the massed throng behind the goal. Chasetown were actually holding a team 101 places above them.

Half time came and went, with our desperate attempts to have a fag meeting with scowls from the Vale stewards. In all the confusion, I lost my balloon, and sat down to enjoy the second half.

The atmosphere by this point was fantastic. The little team that could were outsinging a League One team. Having said that, I could have outsung Port Vale, as they couldn’t muster a song, apart from, ‘you’re not fit to wear the shirt’. But for all the silence from their fans, Vale dominated the second half, without ever looking threatening. As the final whistle drew near, four minutes of injury time was announced, to groans from the ‘town fans. Only the cries of ‘You are my Chasetown’ kept everyone from having a nervous breakdown. That and the massive conga line I had joined.

Then, after the longest four minutes since ‘It’s Getting Better (Man!)’ by Oasis, the whistle was blown. We had done it! I’ve never hugged as many people in my life. It was sensational. But the fun was only just about to start.

The town fans raced onto the pitch to celebrate with their heroes, and were joined by Browne and Knapp (after a period of debating whether we would get nicked). Instantly, Tom slipped due to what can only be described as unbridled joy. Covered in Vale Park mud, we laughed as we danced, sang Ring of Fire with the team manager and had our photo taken with the hero of the hour. Fair play to both stewards and fans of Port Vale, they let us enjoy our moment of happiness, the stewards letting us pass by and the fans applauding us. It was a genuinely beautiful moment that encompasses everything that is great about the FA Cup. That and pretending you come from a small town near Walsall, even if you were born in Edgware general hospital.

After the post match hugs with all members of Team FA Cup Run, we departed for the nearest pub. Sambucca was downed, awful fruit machines played and I proved once and for all that Emmerdale Farm is better than the Bill. It was amazing. Sebastian Larsson adding to the joy by cracking in a 30-yard screamer in the last minute to beat Spurs.

From there we headed back to The Fawn, where they had erected a snowglobe, possibly in our honour. This is were sadly we lost Tom and Steve, who headed back to Manc, whilst we headed to the WORST HOTEL EVER.

As soon as we walked in, something was wrong. The place fucking stunk. Somehow we managed to ignore it to order a round, only to find that the world’s worst barman had no pound coins at his disposal. I honestly expected a sign saying proprietor: B Fawlty.

After being hustled out of a tenner by Brooner and Tom, we tried in vain to locate an offie, to purchase amongst other things, a bottle of Baileys. Unfortunately, the locals sent us in the wrong way and we had to get our train to Birmingham. Thank the Lord for Pumpkin cafe’s on train platforms, as we purchased 10 cans and two G&T’s for the princely sum of £28, which was more than most paid to travel to and from Stoke itself.

The train journey back (via Birmingham New Street, to London) was sensational. After collapsing on an escalator, bamos had had enough, and promptly turned into a dribbling wreck, tossing his G&T over himself in the process. Whilst we chatted about Religion, wrestling and other hot topics, bamos suddenly rose in Christ-like fashion, only after 50 minutes and not 3 days. We were collectively stunned.

I lost count of the times we said, ‘Where the fuck is this?!’ as I fully expected us to have to change at Narnia at some point. Then in a moment that I will probably never live down, this happened…

As they were getting off the train: “Facebook me, yeah? Facebook me! Richard Browne! With an E! No, not you! Blondie! Blondie! Facebook me!” “She’s a lesbian.” “Aaagh! That’s even better! Fit! FIT!” *doors close* I was absolutely helpless with laughter. joeymahone | 3 Dec ‘07, 11:48″

A wonderful day. God bless the FA Cup.

When you have a weekend of this magnitude, its hard to know where to start. I guess the sunday morning would be the best place. Myself and Brooner were up far too early for two men who had been in Preston’s Premier electro club the previous night, and the thought of a rail replacement bus from Preston to Bolton (’The most working class journey you’ll ever take’) wasn’t exactly a great one. But the combination of still being slightly tipsy and Steve Wright’s ‘Sunday Morning Love Songs’ helped turn the journey into a suprisingly great 40 minutes. My morning was made by ‘I Want To Know What Love Is’ by Foreigner (#1 the day I was born) and the lovely scenery. (I’m a massive fan of Northern soaps)

Arriving at Manchester Piccadilly station via Bolton and a disgustingly expensive black cab (they rip off people up north as well), we were joined by FA Cup Virgin Tom Knapp. I will not recount the tale of the jobsworth conductor on the Virgin train, as I feel I will have a stress related heart attack at the mere thought, but believe me, he’ll get his comeuppance.

Having been screwed over by Virgin, we retreated to the world famous balcony bar inside Manchester Piccadilly station. Once again I was enraged, as the barman informed me that the pub DIDN’T SERVE GIN. What sort of pub is that? A shite one. The lamentable oaf also managed to get the other lad’s orders wrong, as I sulked for gin on a table outside.

Finally getting a train into Stoke (with a view of Edgeley Park along the way), we arrived to meet the wonderfully bearded Steve as we settled for The Fawn Public house, which would prove to be a wise choice.

After finally getting my gin, I romped to victory at Kerplunk as we awaited for the arrivals of Appleby, Aldous and Mahon. Only two of these three were to make it to The Fawn first time round due to JP Mahon’s desire to get an extra hour in bed. During out time in The Fawn we made friends with two Italian men, who bought us all sambucca (£1 a shot!) and insulted various English national treasures (Victoria Beckham).

After labelling my good self ‘an ear flicking homosexual’ the Italians booked us all cabs to Vale Park, after first giving us all ‘Barnsley keeeeeses’ and arranging to meet us in a pub in Burslem ‘that starts with a P’. We never saw them again.

In Part Two, I will tell you of the trip to the ground, the man with the stella, the pitch invasion and the worst hotel in the world. But first, Lunch.

Turns out I have two tickets instead of the advertised one. Turned out nice again, hasn’t it?

Chaps,

 I have just spoken to the Port Vale ticket Office, and this is the situation…

Chasetown have only sold 2,000 of their 4,5000 allocation

Port Vale fans/us can pay on the turnstile to get in. There is absoloutely no danger of this selling out.

Congratulations to Bamos for winning the ticket. His round first on sunday!