Did He Really Mean It?

The magic of the FA Cup. That strange, indescribable quality that lifts the FA Cup above its station as merely a knock-out cup competition to something, well, magical. That history. That tradition. Ronnie Radford. Exeter drawing with Manchester United. Keith Houchen. Lawrie Sanchez. Bloody Sunderland in 1973. Everyone has a favourite memory. That’s what the FA Cup can do to people. It provides moments that live long in the memory, it puts the national game even further to the forefront of the collective concious. The fact that one game for a team at a level so low you didn’t even know it existed against supposed ‘giants’ can mean that they can pay the sandwich lady for another five years or paint the front gates or even, if they’re lucky, provide one of those special moments that will forever live on in John Motson commentary and Footie Focus opening credits.

I’ll be honest with you - all of this seemed bloody miles away on Saturday morning as I woke to the sun streaming down on my hungover face. I really should get around to getting a blind wide enough to cover the entire window. Either that or sleep with a Joan Collins-style blindfold. Many would argue that anything that covers my face would be of benefit not only to me but the community at large, but I think when teamed with my naked wobbling pink flesh I can’t help but feel that it would fade slightly into insignificance.

A horrifically drunken Friday night. I think I’d originally stepped out to take a little peak at the horrific dismantling of the England rugby team by the South African machine, and to just have a ‘quiet one’. That all went tits up at…oooh, about 18.45, with the first sambuca of the evening. And so, I rose gingerly from my bed and made my way to the kitchen. Flicking on the kettle for my morning cuppa, lighting my first cigarette of the day, and switching on the radio, a smile crept across my lips. Barely three minutes after a rude awakening and despite a headache akin to an army of tiny ants hitting the inside of my skull with ant hammers, my mood was cheered. It was FA Cup Day. The start of this crazy run we’ve decided to undertake, which could take us anywhere and everywhere, that could end in tears and agony, and that almost certainly will end up being a foolish and careless waste of money.

I popped some Anadin down my neck (I feel that Anadin may become one of the key sponsors of this years tournament for me: alongside Strongbow, Camel Lights, National Rail Enquiries and Ginster’s Pasties), drank my tea and tried to get my bearings. To honour the FA Cup, I decided to splash out on an exciting breakfast of poached eggs on toast. I’ve yet to ascertain exactly how poached eggs honour such a tournament, but it seemed to make sense at the time. Unfortunately, poached eggs are, alongside holding a conversation of more than five syllables and turning over from Channel Four, one of the hardest things to accomplish with a hangover. I completely cocked them up. My usually foolproof technique of cooking them inside cling film went slightly wrong, and resulted in the sight of me trying to unwrap bomb-like cling film parcels and scraping hideously overcooked egg from the inside of them with a knife. Breakfast should never, ever provide a culinary challenge - even less one that makes you look like a brain surgeon with Parkinsons. I eventually gave up on the whole sorry state of affairs, as I started to have nightmarish visions of swallowing some clingfilm, it wrapping itself around my lower intestine preventing me from releasing anything, and eventually me ballooning up and exploding. Which would have annoyed me slightly.

Anyway. Breakfast over, I went to buy the newspaper and sat down to read it before wandering to the arranged meeting place of The Vale public house, opposite East Dulwich station and only a short walk from the Champion Hill ground of Dulwich Hamlet FC.

My first Strongbow of the day at around 12.30 was, to be honest, a painful experience. Two things made it better: One, the thought that I was embarking on a vaguely exciting journey; that I had something to look forward to had no idea what would happen. And two, the ginger girl behind the bar of the pub.

After meeting up with messers Brown, Aldous and Mahon in the aformentioned public house and settling down to a couple of drinks, we made our way to the ground. A point of note here: when you enter a pub where colleagues are already drinking, where do you sit? It’s open to debate, and entirely dependant on the seating arrangements, sure. But one steadfast rule is ‘not on your mates bag and coat’. Such a fragrant disregard for this rule I have never seen, as Tom Aldous came in, crushed my cigarettes (which were in my coat pocket) and cushioned his arse on my iPod. Let this be a warning: I will not stand for it again.

We walked to the ground. Now, I’ve been to quite a few non-league grounds. I’ve seen some turnstiles that border on the, well, ‘difficult’ to navigate. I have never though, in my life, struggled to get through a turnstile quite as much as I had to at Champion Hill. The turnstile operators ‘Breathe in’ answer to my sarcastic ‘How the hell do I get through here?!’ comment didn’t quite cut it. It’s not possible to breathe in and lose an extra six stone in the process, you know. I still have marks on my torso this morning from the edge of the gates. I might sue - at least then I’ll be able to fund the rest of this sodding trip.

And so, to the game. I’m not going to waste time reviewing it for you in full. But it was decent. The highlights of the first half: about four or five excellent ‘Did he mean it?’ moments. You know the sort: was it a cross or a shot? Did he really mean that incisive through ball, or was he merely lumping it forward? That exotic Cruyff turn - that was an accident, right? A decent finish from Deal’s impressive Number Eight gave the visitors the lead, and they were the better side for much of the half. Dulwich came back into it and the incredibly named Anton Innocent scored one, followed by a powerfully-struck shot that went into the Deal net off an unspecified part of the keeper to give the home side a 2-1 half time lead. This was Innocent’s second ‘on target’ effort of the game - previous wild swings had seen the corner flags and trees behind the stands cowering in fear. To be honest, I didn’t feel entirely safe and I was on the halfway line.

Half time, and a quick drink in the clubhouse. Which was very pleasant - and very pleasantly priced. Forsaking drinks, three of our number hit the bacon baguette stand. This was a wise decision, as it turns out. For while they made their way outside for the start of the second half, myself and JP Mahon stayed in the clubhouse to finish our drinks. Unfortunately, the lure of Jeff Stelling on Soccer Saturday on the clubhouses’ big screen took our glance away from the game outside the window for a second - the one second that it took for Deal to get back into the game with a barnstorming equaliser. Top corner, apparently. Goal of the game, apparently. £7 entrance fee well spent, evidently…

The second half progressed nicely, with three or four horrendous misses of note from a Dulwich Hamlet side clearly as eager to avoid a Tuesday night trip to deal as I was. Dulwich’s super subs, the wonderfully talented duo of ‘Phil’ and ‘Claudio’ tried as they might to work an opening, but none was forthcoming.

Having spent half an hour trying to work on ‘Deal’ puns and laughing to Anton Innocent (and the little number ten, Henry Darko)’s names, the final whistle eventually sounded on a very enjoyable afternoon’s entertainment, but left me with a slight sense of foreboding. I hadn’t really countenanced the idea of a Tuesday night replay, especially not on the Kent bloody coast, but these things are sent to try us.

We went back to The Vale for after-match drinks, where the sexy ginger barmaid gave us smiles and banter, and then into town for a horrifically drunken rugby-watching experience and dancing in a scummy indie nightclub. But that’s by-the-by. The real magic, the real excitement, the real Saturday action, took place in Dulwich. The FA Cup run has begun.

And it will continue on Tuesday. An hour and a half journey to Deal, a last-chance train with two changes that gets back in to London at 01.14 on Wednesday morning - all this, and I have to fly to Glasgow for business on Wednesday morning.

And there’s no way I’m not going. It is the magic of the FA Cup, after all. See you in Deal.