A Christmas Wish.

 In an earlier piece I talked briefly about how sport and emotion are intrinsically linked. Here I shall reminisce about how it used to feel, and why increasingly it's becoming not just a bore - but a chore.

Why we just don't care any more.

Arguably, things have changed slightly in the Cardoza era. Whether we want to admit or not - money breeds impatience - even for a club as tin-pot as ours; and when you've had even a small amount of power; it can be extremely difficult to relinquish it.

Whilst Sixfields has never been the San Siro (or even the San bloody Racecourse), in the early days there was still a buzz in the ears; if not an outright rumbling. People tend to look back on the past with fondness - as we grow older it's in our nature - however I am not going to delude you into thinking there was ever a cauldron of noise. I cannot speak for the County Ground days as sadly I was too busy glory-hunting as a baby, but on those first trips to Sixfields and even in those first few years, it was still such a thrill to look down on the hill and see the newness of hope dazzling in glorious bright white light before us.

Who still gets that feeling now? If you closed your eyes once, and you let yourself go, I swear you could reach out and touch it; you could caress that sense of excitement until you felt it creep under your skin. Sixfields has aged with us - quickly and sourly - 'til all that's left seems to be dull concrete blocks and desolate corners which are battered by the freezing elements.

Every match day was Christmas day as a young'un. I pulled up with my Mum, looked skyward with doe-eyed wonder at our very own stadium of dreams, and dragged a whole net of butterflies with me. My net these days gets about as much use as the ones we use in shooting practice; seeing as it's full of dead, rotting fish, optimism seeping steadily out of their every pore until all that's left is the smell of dread.

Santa delivered more often than not; some days the raleigh bicycle we always wanted, other days the cheap supermarket knock-up. But that was the day you realised he didn't exist, and you understood it was all your parents could afford. You learnt to respect that they'd slaved away to buy something that would fall apart within the week. Atkins' team was like that. Sometimes the quality of the product was shocking, but when you saw their blood, sweat and tears, you knew that they cared - and that more often than not, the day would be a winner.

It used to be fun around the dinner table that was Sixfields. You'd look to your left and see a friend. You'd look to the pitch and see a friend. You'd look to the dugout and you'd see the manager; making sure everything was in its right place, that everyone knew their role. And even if our role wasn't always to entertain - even if the standard of cooking was more McDonalds than Michelin - the important thing was that we left feeling full of the warmth of family.

Now we look to the seat next to us - it's empty. We look to the pitch and we see a stranger, a beggar who hops his way from family to family cheating them out of food when the reality is he earns a lot bloody more than the rest of us. We'll probably never see him again. Even the dugout has become a revolving one - by the end of the ninety minutes its turned 180 degrees and a whole new set of conners have taken their seats; the truth is they're never likely to get up off their a**e. As for the manager, who is it? An assistant? A goalkeeping coach? The sodding postman? The truth is I have as good an idea as the rest of you; no idea.

That is why we just don't care. We turn up passionless, we go home pointless. We don't just expect defeat - we expect disaster. We step into our own home and we know no-one. We walk out blind and numb onto deserted streets - as empty as the feeling inside our hollow hearts.

Forget Santa - I only have one wish this Christmas.

Dear Cobblers,

Please, please, please, make me fall back in love with you.

All the farce of the fair.

As I looked up toward the North stand car park, there seemed something cruelly surreal about it. The fairground lights dazzled with intoxicating dreams, as young things full of hope flew wild and high into the night sky.

Then I looked down at it. I say it – I can’t bear to give it a name any more. It has become a shame, an embarrassment. If it were a fairground ride – then I clambered on at the top – and it plummeted toward the depths of hell at unstoppable speed.

Just occasionally, there are terrified screams. ‘Let me off, let me out.’

For the lucky ones, they are able to escape. More recently, they throw themselves off whilst the ride has barely begun. For many of us, we are less fortunate. We are super glued to our seats, programmed for life just like machine to be strapped on this sickening descent.

Misery becomes an addiction when you’ve been tortured for so long and last Saturday we got beaten ‘til we could barely lift a finger in protest. The life has been so choked out of us, that where others might throw bottles, we throw only boos – even they are timid in nature. When you’re so used to watching a disgrace, disgust almost seems frivolous. As losing becomes the norm, perhaps we should start cheering instead - the bigger the breakdown – the louder our lungs are lured to scream. On Saturday it would have been a standing ovation. Stockholm syndrome comes to Sixfields; no need to be kidnapped for the pleasure.

Just when you think you’ve seen it all, you haven’t. Apparently it was our worst league defeat at home since 1947, a year when most of our team consisted of war heroes – albeit most of them left standing on one bloody leg. I only wish some of today’s team could put one foot forward, let alone a whole limb. If only we could sentence them for cowardice; then banish them to some long-forgotten isle where the few indigenous people left laugh in their faces when they claim they are ‘a professional football team’ -  and that’s after they’ve seen them play!

There is no point in a match report. We all know what happened. We want to forget. The only thing I cannot forget is the sheer horror inside me; blood boiling, bitter and burnt as I dragged myself desperately toward the centre-circle at half-time. It normally takes a lot for me to dish out abuse to my own kind, although I am not one of the many Sixfields zombies, generally I refrain from kicking our players in the Cobblers when they’re down. And down we are at the moment, or at least seem destined to be.

However, that all changed there and then. Perhaps it was that I’d been slaving away in a warehouse since 5am. Perhaps it was that newfound feeling for me at least – when your money is hard earned it hurts that little bit more when you feel it being frittered away on hopelessness.

‘Spineless!’

As soon as the word came shooting from my heavy hurting heart, I didn’t regret it. There was not even a second of guilt, the only following thought involved chucking my scarf away and walking out with my dignity intact. Don’t worry, it didn’t last long. I stayed sat in my seat long after the man in black had cast a white shadow over my cheeks, the life all but drained out of me and every single home supporter. There was no sense of relief – okay so if it had gone on any longer we would have been looking at triple-figures - but mostly there was just stunned silence. No-one seemed surprised; simply shocked at quite how much it had fulfilled our expectations. We came suspecting a thrashing and we left in bits, bones brittle and broken.

As I staggered to the car radio drunk with despair, at least our manager or the imposter acting as one would offer some sobering words of comfort. No, no it was too much to ask. Of course it was. There was no apology – only the apoplectic arseholery of an alcoholic. Perhaps David Lee himself had turned to drink in the face of our calamitous collapse, either that or he was determined to prove himself the most dislikeable person on the entire planet. Why should I be surprised? Lee the clown to the left of us, Joker Johnson to the right. Us stuck in the middle – the closest bloody thing to a manager there is.

Although Lee was not the answer nor even close to it, we are still left hanging like that awkward interview, question after question with no sign of response. That is something you cannot deny. My question is thus: How much more of this can we take? How much longer can we keep climbing on this reckless ride to the bottom before it gets too painful. Before we disappear and sink without trace beneath the surface. 

Fairgrounds for divorce? I bloody well hope not.

We never looked good in bed together.

There we were, just over 8 months ago. About to face Shrewsbury at home, anticipation throbbing through our veins, not just excited by the prospect of Gary Johnson 'the new messiah', but practically aroused.

Here we are 8 months later, about to face Shrewsbury at home - and with the bed sheets well and truly sullied, finally we have ripped them unceremoniously from the stained mattress and chucked them in with all the other dirty washing. 

The linen basket in the chairman's office must be rammed full by now - the lid sealed with some kind of super-superglue to make sure the crazies never escape again. We do not even try for one final spin. There is no point. The marks are so permanent, even your Gran who always gets it clean in the end wouldn't have a hope. There is no chemical in the land that can whiten our blushing cheeks. We are an embarrassment - and it's much better to shut the lid now and pretend it never happened than to recount the horror in our heads. The horrors... the horrors...

So many have we been through, we're experienced now. Failed relationship after failed relationship, and though they claim 'mutual consent', there was nothing mutual about how we kicked him out on his a**e. We should have done it long ago. The truth is - nothing worked and nothing ever looked like doing so.

From the very first date, it looked an odd match. His personal ad read

'Unemployed giant of World football seeks to meet similarly ambitious and attractive club for special, bouncy relationship. International experience, house full of trophies, bed full of surprises ;) VGSOH'.

Where as ours read
'Small minded, shy football club living in the shadow of wildly successful rugby club seeks to meet quiet individual who hates the limelight for quiet but lasting relationship. Bad past experiences, would like someone dignified who appreciates action over words. No sense of humour due to recent abuse, must handle with care as extremely fragile'.

It was never really going to work, was it? The only surprise was how spectacular it was. The failure. So spectacular, that there is no heartache, no loss. Only relief.

The sad thing was, that first date got off to a good start. He arrived - portly, jolly gentleman - wooed us with his pretty talk and eyes hungry with success. Never doubt him, for his CV is a dream. He'd make you believe that 'fling' with our bitter ex-girlfriend, a bit of a p*sh tart was just that - a fling. It didn't mean much. She warned us..we should have listened. All she said came true. Keep your friends close and all that...
Personally, I enjoyed that first date - one of the very few lasting memories. Crackers thrived on the crackling tension and delivered two stunning compliments, bang bang, bearings of such beauty that they'd be shown off on some crappy 'how to' video - how to find true love at first sight. Unfortunately, there was no room left for dessert that night, and it ended in bittersweet parting. We both had a lovely time, but there was no canoodling. No points. As it turned out, no point in asking each other out again. It went downhill, quickly. True love turned to true disaster.

It was never his fault. We quickly got to learn that. All men are stubborn as they say - and he certainly had enough excuses for the entire bloody male population. Under Sammo, we were treading water. Some say he was never well backed - but if the signing of Harrad and the following demolition of Crewe wasn't a step to get back where we were - then frankly, nothing would be. In retrospect though - we'd rather have the droll but respectable tone of a legend than the bleating bollocks of an intruding imposter. You learn with experience, as they say.

We were the china shop, and we needed a bunny. Not a bull. Quickly, he sought to break us, first the spirit then the personnel. You have to adapt to your position, and instead he continued in his missionary, military fashion - he clambered on top straight away and instead of caressing - he craved to seek salvation when we first needed stabilizing. The truth is, you walk into any job and assume promotion on your first day - and you'll split the place in two.

Those that did not go with him did not last long. We had enough to survive with something to spare, but grafters were deemed not good enough. It's true, many of them were not, yet this was no time to build a royal castle. Our council flat would do - be enough to see us through. If you try to build something without the necessary materials then inevitably you and it will fall flat on your face. By God, we very nearly did. We were held up by three single bricks in the end which were donated free of charge by Stevenage. Yet all they started with was a tin and a pot.

The summer sun just about rose, and we tried to put the 'R' word out of our minds. We would never be in this position again. He got it wrong, he admitted it - for one time only.

Time and again he promised us that this time round would be different. His stamp, his team, the chairman's wallet. Yet again, we were foolishly taken in. The abuse from behind the dugout was dug out and thrown away, and we shouted encouragement once more. The belief was back. It didn't last long.

For a few precious moments, he looked back into our eyes and we thought we saw a spark. Ignited by Ipswich, burnt out by idiocy. There was no connection, just a couple of flukes. The sexy football quickly turned ugly - and soon enough we could barely be bothered to turn up any more. Date after date we sat in silence, stunned only be the sheer profligacy of the bill. Forget the house wine - Johnson had turned to the back pages and ordered a whole case of champagne - and what we got in return was simply a cham-bles. Increasingly, we were being cheated. It was like walking into a club filled with cheap chandeliers and VIP booths, glamorous babes with their lovely lines. Only, for a while we never actually stopped to listen to the words. We were taken in by the shallow, attractive promise. All they really spouted was bullsh*t. All they really served were glasses so empty - you could get drunk more quickly with a box of liqueurs.

When we finally woke up from this nightmare, dared to open our eyes, we realised that we were just fine with our small-town mentality after all. It's what we know. Perhaps, perhaps, with the right fit, he could have made it big like in the past. More likely though - he had lost his marbles, and player after player got sick of being told 'it's all in your heads'. Clue - it isn't. It's mostly in their feet.

On the final morning, we yawned, stretched out, and felt for our sore heads. Our head was clear. Just once, just this once, we longed for a hangover from drug-fuelled ecstasy of the night before. As it was - the previous night's date had been the final straw when we noticed he'd brought with him a whole crowd. Apparently they were all on trial, but when I questioned them it turned out they were a bunch of confused American tourists who just wanted to see a 'soccer ball' in real life.

That was that. The room that morning was full of them, hunched over each other so tightly it was almost like a concentration camp of left-backs. The worst thing was, we knew we'd bloody gone and signed them all. Gary Johnson deserved much more abuse than he received. That's the truth. He took us for a ride, all of us, and made us believe in fairytales. As a collective, we opened our mouths - now mouths of hell - and screamed 'BUGGER OFF YOU USELESS T*SSER'.


It worked, it had to. We forget that when we need something, we are strong together. He got a damn good kicking, and crawled meekly away, fairy tail between his legs. Now he is gone, we've chucked out his King-size throne - never so much as bounced upon - and retrieved our old and dusty trusted single mattress from out the garage. It can go on the floor - I don't care - at least the floor is painted claret. We've shipped the left-backs back to 'soccerland' and labelled them all defective. We've taken a collective sigh, and gone peacefully back to sleep - safe in the knowledge that we'll never see that porky face again. Goodnight, Gary.

May we never meet again.

Inevitability

It's always a dagger to the heart. Stab, stab, stab. Always.

Well anyway, it used to be.

Once upon a time, we lived in fear. A dreadful, collective fear. The fear of conceding; The fear of losing; The fear of relegation. The fear of utter, utter hopelessness. If I wrote a small book - one of those sh*tty, patronising 'how to' books you usually find forced upon you at Christmas - then fear would be written into every page. How to be a fan - you must, must fear it.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying supporting a football club is comparable to living under Mugabe - just that it's the instability of emotional anxiety that make it such a thrill for the senses.

When you meet people who aren't into sport - they almost unanimously seem to put it down to the visual element. I don't understand it, I don't 'get' it - were the rules made up by some mad, confused wizard? It's boring, it's all stop and start. It's vile, look at the way the fans all throw bricks at each other. How can you find THAT fun? I've had more fun doing crosswords on my wall of drying paint (It's usually a toss up as to whether they're being serious at this point..).

Okay, okay. I don't wish to be too condescending to people who choose to fill their lives with other passions. I know a few myself - everyone does - and they are not bad people, merely unenlightened. Well,  it's my chance to enlighten them. Sure, it bloody well helps if you love it, if you know people who play it, if you understand it; visual stimulation is all part of the game. But what those people often fail to understand - is sport is just life in short, intense dosages - with the added bonus of not having to watch your girlfriend cry. I'm kidding, the whole point is that it IS about watching 5000 girlfriends cry - and most of them are your average, stubborn man.

Yes, there is undeniable enjoyment in seeing a cracker by Crackers, cracking it into the top corner from 80 yards. (Have you noticed that, whenever we try and recall a famous goal with hazy memory, we always add a yard or two on each year..  'Oh do you remember that wonder goal, straight from the goal kick wasn't it?!) Yes, I can sit here and discuss tactics 'til I'm blue in the face - except I'd never, ever dream of turning blue in the face. Hopefully, if I'm ever strangled to death, my body will fulfill my 'last request' - to turn a little claret instead.

Yes, I love all the things that make sport so great - but most of all it's the emotion that matters. When I recount the most emotional moments of my life, those searing, tingling moments of pure bliss or pure bollocks, many of them have come in a sporting arena. Not just any sporting arena - my sporting arena, my second home. Whilst some people may question why I compare a third-tier football match against Bristol Rovers with the birth of my first child**, I'll answer back with this; If you don't understand why, you don't understand sport. I cannot explain what runs inside us, what makes our heart beat a thousand times a minute when on a Saturday, we get that first glimpse of the stadium. What makes the agony of seeing my second home destroyed by greed, what makes facing the prospect of administration and no club ruin not just my week, but my whole life.

**Purely hypothetical at this point

I cannot really explain any of this rationally, to some people it still seems utterly baffling. The only explanation I can really give - is emotion is what drives us on as human beings, is what makes us do great things, what makes a life worth living. And sport, at it's very heart, has a huge, huge emotional pull.

And that's why supporting the Cobblers feels so entirely pointless so often at the moment. There is no fear. When the opposition get near our goal, there is only one single emotion. Inevitability - it's not even an emotion.

Why we just don't care any more - look out for an accompanying piece to come soon!

Part-timer.

Now now - don't you ever go accusing me of being an armchair fan.


I'll have you know, I'd long since finished my prawn sandwiches, necked a bottle of sparkling mineral water, brushed up on my League Two knowledge - all before I got my lazy backside off my thousand-quid recliner.  No, No. I'm not your average armchair fan. I am passionate. I even booked a table at the pub, just to make sure I'd get the perfectly prime location - the 360 puborama, as us football fanatics like to call it. On one side you have the crisp, clean viewing lines of the 5000-inch HDextra 3DD monster, but crane your neck around, and the bar is still in sight; relief for when the football is just too sh*t. 


It took me thirty seconds to become a dedicated follower of alcohol whilst watching the Cobblers.


Alas, this is no AA meeting. If I wanted to admit my sins - my claret confession would probably be the most shameful. IF I ever find myself at the pearly gates (and it's a bloody big if I tell you) and God is really probing me, I reckon I'd declare myself a Manchester United fan. At a push, you understand. 
I did once see them on TV. Not once, but twice. I think that over qualifies me. Gates, open!


Unfortunately, this television has switched alliances as well as channels. Is something faulty with it? I look around the pub. The clientele look bemused. You have to call them clientele now. Not boozers - or losers. As the clientele splash their cash, I try not to look unemployed. I slip my scarf off in secret. It doesn't seem to be the done thing in here. I sacrifice food so I can be a part of it. This crowd looks much more respectable than the Sixfields mob - I find myself thinking, guiltily. 


"One G and T please. And makes it a er... a fancy one." 


I've never ordered gin and tonic before. I don't know what having it fancy means.


"Excuse me there fellow." The bartender looks confused. I wonder if I did something wrong.   


"Isn't that.... ? That ground on TV. I think I drove past there once. That wee place looks familiar." 


I look up at him, about to respond. How could he not know his home ground, for Christ's sake. 'I go there every week you p***k. It's my wee home.' That's what I say to him, in my head, anger bursting out of me. The reality is quite different.


"Oh I er...hm. Yes, it does look familiar doesn't it? Isn't that somewhere local?" 


I vow not to get involved with such stupid people. Life is too short. I take a sip of my drink. I don't like the taste, but it tastes expensive so I take another sip. To my right, another conversation. Well... whispered murmurings. Rumour is spread.


"Hey isn't that...? Oh my God. Look. It is!" A mate prods his mate, and he in turn nearly falls over laughing. "You're right! The Cobblers are on the box. Haha. Isn't there any other football on  today then?" A third joins in. "Shouldn't it be darker than this if they played last night? What do you mean it's not highlights...."


I shake my head. How dare they be so condescending, about MY team. At least I go to the games. At least...  my eye catches the monster screen. Oh crap. I've missed the first five minutes. I was too busy ordering. Did anything happen? Of course it didn't. Relief - nil-nil. It's just like being there.


"But Mummy.." Woah, this is noisier than the usual match day experience. A little boy stomps his feet. "You said Arsenal were playing today. Mummy.. can't I go home and play FIFA Mummy. I'm one match from the treble." She gives him some spiel about how it's polite to watch your local team when  the underdogs have got a big match on against a much bigger team...  


WHAT THE..?! Doesn't she know we're playing Crawley. Okay, so they're richer, have better players, and won't be in our division next year... but bigger than us? I almost correct her, but I'll feel an even smugger sense of satisfaction once I rip off my cardy and reveal my strip of pride underneath. I bet Superman has never had such a feeling, I bet he's never made a whole pub look ridiculous. 
'1-0, to Northampton Town.' I know all the songs, I'll show them.


It's still zero-zero at the moment though. To be honest, we're not really playing that well. Neither are they. We're twenty minutes in, and the only shots to be had are those from the bar. Talking of which, this match is frustrating me. I could really use another. Me and the barman reconvene. 


"The usual please" I state with all the confidence of a regular. 


He is distracted again. "They've scored! Look they've actually scored! Go Cabblers!"  


Cobblers. It's Cobblers you moron. I turn back to the screen, annoyed to have missed the goal. A slight feeling of excitement, though. It's quickly dashed. We're one-nil down. He's still in earshot. 


"C'mon you red and whites!" Sigh. He's really starting to grate now. He knows nothing about us. Next he'll refer to it as a 'soccer game' - I give up, and move away. 


A few drinks and several mind-numbing minutes later, I head for the loo. Perhaps, if I stay here for long enough, we'll have completed our fabulous comeback and I can shut these fools up. In a way - it's nice. If I was at Sixfields needing the toilet, that woman on my row who always looks like she's attending her child's funeral would grunt at me again. Plus - there's no flash-flood of piss, and there's even soap in the soap dispensers. Actual soap. My God.


Returning from such a clean paradise - I notice that the only grub to be seen is food. Tons of the stuff. It's halfway through the second-half. No-one seems to be watching anymore. Our ninety minutes in the limelight became 45 at most; they've all given up, and turned sides to the other set of screens.


"C'moonnn youuuu Saiinnnts."                                                                                                                    

They seem to know their songs. Well, they do only have two songs. The Saints have come marching out, and already they lead comfortably. Northampton is now not just on the map; it's the centre of the sporting Universe.  Unfortunately, one side of the galaxy is looking decidedly dreary. Surprise, surprise. It's our side. We're falling off the map again - our one chance to shine and they all love rugby now. 

Cheers fill the pub. I glance around. Bloody hell, now I'm not the biggest fan of rugby by any means, but I have to admit that was a damn fine try. A small smile creeps over my lips. It's good to see the Saints winning. It's good for the Town. The Town.. the.....   Ah yes, the Town. 

We're still playing, I just remembered. Even the 5000 inches aren't wide enough to fit Bayo in the picture, and yet we choose to bring on Savage too? Sky vow not to come here again, not until they've invented super-widescreen.

As a side-issue - they won't come here again because we've bored them all to death. Not just them, but a whole nation. Creepy Crawley have tried their best too - but whilst the picture appears to be 22 players chasing a non-existent ball all over the field - by the time the thing does finally return to earth, Crawley have had time to hire a luxury limousine down to London, hop into Harrods and come out with a 5th choice keeper made of solid gold. Ah, there's nothing like the romance of a League Two side buying their way out of the division to keep the viewers interested. Move over, Ronnie Radford. Let's be honest, that was the only reason the cameras were here in the first place. They aint called The Red Devils for nothing.


I close my eyes and imagine I'm really there. I pray for a goal, a miracle, an abandonment. Anything. Nothing happens. I open my eyes and my palms are not pressed together, merely grasping a half-empty glass of something. I couldn't remember the name of the something if I tried. I drink-up, resigned to alcoholism, just as the man in black resigns a home crowd to misery. No-one else notices. No-one else cares, they're all having fun and drinking in a victory for the Saints. The irony is, I thought I'd feel shame. I thought I'd feel remorse. What I actually feel - is glad. Glad to be warm, glad to not have that awful, patronising, happy post-match Sickfields music ringing in my ears, and glad to have saved myself enough money to drown my sorrows. In the end - though perhaps I missed the company - it wasn't that different. It wasn't that bad. Slightly less depressing, maybe.


I forget quickly, and count up my pennies to scrape enough change for a final drink. Oh - I forgot I had that tenner. The barman is there again. This time it's a warm greeting. He pushes something bitter toward me - but for once it's not the abusive tones of the West-stand folk around me.


"On the house son." It tastes alot sweeter now. I might come back here.


"Thanks mate. So did you enjoy the football? Will we be seeing you up the Cobblers any time soon?"


Suddenly the answer reverberates in my ears, as I realise a whole clientele have the same two words on their lips.


"The who?"

A history of how I fell back in love with football

It's exactly a year to the day that the Cobblers triumphed at Anfield on 'that' famous night. Whilst predictably we've been crap ever since, on the anniversary of that momentous occasion I thought I'd share with you a very personal piece I wrote for the fanzine last year. Tissues at the ready...


A history of how I fell back in love with football.  

29/08/09-22/09/10 

Two dates. Two football games. For me, they are both hugely significant dates. For you, the latter will likely jump out at you - the former probably means nothing, or little. Burton Away. Liverpool Away. The relationship is not at all obvious. Indeed, the only obvious connections are found in the contrasts. Woeful, depressing ineptitude. Glorious, glorious ecstasy. Well for me, those contrasts are relevant. Yet only because, looking back, the emotional impact that those two ninety minutes still have on me is hard to express. But I shall try. 

Burton Away was the last football match I attended with my Mum. It was a beautiful day - at least off the pitch. Now I could tell you about every kick, tackle and shot that took place. Perhaps I shall come back to that, but regardless of our embarrassment, those details are not important; suffice to say that we lost. For in this instance, football really is more than a game. Football is what brings us together, football is what tears us apart. Football runs through our veins and we bleed it. We live it, we love it together but most vitally, we share it together.  

If you want to know the most basic reasons that we love football, I don’t think they are formed on the pitch. I think they are formed off it - the friendships, the drinks, the banter. The common social tool. The great divides, the great debates. We cry together, we celebrate together. We are accepted, together. This is our home.

My Mum had been a very ill person for a number of years. For part of that time, I juggled being a young carer with trying to be alive. Yet for all the stress and responsibility, for all the difficult days, one thing more than any other took us away from that pain. Football. Northampton Town Football Club, home of the Cobblers. Home for us, for a number of years as season-ticket holders. Home is where the heart is - and the more you invest your heart in a common love, the more freely you can invest in each other.

My Mum was diagnosed with bowel cancer in September, a couple of weeks after we’d been to Burton. She was in a bad state then, yet she’d driven up there because she wanted to. Because she wanted to get away from it all. Because it allowed her, and me, an escape. Don’t go telling me football is just a game; to some people, it is the purest form of escapism. We all need to escape sometimes, don’t we?

In November '09 my Mum passed away. Whilst grief is largely private, one day later I brought my grief to Sixfields; one day later we faced Crewe at home. I don’t remember much about the match, except that I decided to go because that’s what she would have wanted. I brought my brother along, my brother - who takes about as much interest in football as I have in his geeky world of software developing. It needn’t matter. For one day, we were united. For one day, irrespective of result, there was simply the absolute need for us to be present - and we were. It helped.

The months afterward did not. Yes, there was something comforting about leaving sadness (and weeks of washing up!) at home, stepping out into a world previously turned upside down - now familiar for ninety minutes at least.  But truthfully, it was bloody difficult too. Truthfully, despite our resurgence up the table I did not care. Truthfully, I could not enjoy company; the truth of an empty seat beside you is the worst truth of all. But habit can keep us going. Habit can make us remember. Habit can be a healer.

Habit was a healer for me. The football habit. The unkickable habit. Anfield…

When we drew Liverpool away in the Carling cup, I stopped to stare for a moment. See, this was a massive draw for the football club, but for me, it was so much more than that. Almost immediately, I thought of my Mum; Liverpool born and bred, although she hadn’t come to love football until later in life, she often fondly recalled standing on the Kop with her Grandad as a child. Make no mistake, this would have been a special occasion for her. Why hadn’t it come around just a season before? Why? Why.. Why...  

No doubt, people will talk of Jacobs the wonder kid, McKay the ‘fox in the box', Thornton the maverick. The football was exceptional. The football was instrumental, but let us again put it to one side for a moment. The occasion was momentous - to me, incredibly meaningful. Whilst there were ghosts laid to rest, there were memories remembered and and feelings resurfaced. 

Osman, scores! The Cobblers faithful go wild - I cannot jump, I am overcome. 

Emotion in it’s rawest form, grips me and shakes me. The champagne flows, not from a bottle, but from my eyes. I am released. I love football again. My Mum looks down, and then for a moment she is in the seat beside me. She smiles, and at last I can smile too. 

This is for her, for me, for everyone. This is football. 

I share a joke with her. 

How appropriate that Burton was your last match, Mum. How appropriate that you witnessed clown school at first-hand, from our boys in the Claret and White. What a way to go out; miserable, laughable, farcical - Cobblers ‘til the end. 

How appropriate that for a moment, you’re here beside me so we can laugh and cry together again. So you can hear me heal whilst I shout ‘I F*CKING LOVE FOOTBALL!’

Out of death and darkness comes delirium, you better believe it.

Dedicated to Ruby Bliss. 1953-2009.

The Transfer Window blues - part 2

Window after window, we'd stared at our own worried reflection for hours, and hoped that no-one would crawl out. The locks had long worn away, and frame by frame, we realised this wasn't a transfer window at all; but a transfer bloody door, wide open enough for even the smallest of dreamers to escape from. In fact, at times it seemed our prized possessions were being given a firm shove on their way. Of course, we are only little Northampton Town. Eventually, they all leave the tiny nest for a mansion, whether they take flight with regret or with a determined dash; it is the nature of being low-down on the football pyramid.

The problem was, for a while the door could only be opened from one side. We did not so much as bother to fit a burglar alarm - the chance of a stellar stranger breaking in was as remote as the chances of a repeat of 'that' 60's roller coaster. Apparently, Sixfields cannot be fitted with doors that open from the outside, unless the redevelopment takes place. C'mon Council, it's all your fault that we don't speculate to accumulate. It must be - everything is your fault, after all.

I think this is part of the frustration. After those dizzy days of spending, for a while we saw Gray build a team full of colour, then they all promptly left and plunged us back into darkness. It wasn't that they left - they had to - it was that they were replaced with some kid or other, likely a reality TV winner who could do some fancy flicks but f**ked off when the going got tough. Whether that was Gray's fault or Cardoza's - the facts were that nothing seemed to be reinvested. The only thing the bank guaranteed, were loans. With bloody miserable rates of interest.

Slowly, this seems to have changed. Off-the-field ventures have begun to emerge, and on-the-pitch - the only thing we 'really' care about - Dave has finally committed some capital. That's the annoyance; we finally knock down the doors altogether, and lo and behold, 20-goal potential was standing out in the cold all that time - if only we had bothered to check and warmed our cockles earlier - we might not be on this deathly downward spiral.

So, that's the thing with this club; you wait around for months for a VIP to come bounding in, but unfortunately it turns out it was only the bouncer that agreed to it. The manager has changed, and promptly kicked him out on his arse. The investor raises his eyebrows, but ultimately the manager has been successful elsewhere - so he lets him get on with things. As much as some of the crowd want to tell you otherwise; the truth is that the DJ went home early and we never really had long enough to see whether Harrad could dance to the music. Sure, his initial moves looked a bit dodgy, but football fans have a way of believing football is entirely removed from every other profession on earth - it's not.

It is very different, and it should be a privilege for those lucky few - but every last football player is still human (with the possible exception of El Hadji Spit). It might be stating the bleedin' obvious, but they all have emotions, families and faults. They all get motivated in different ways. We all do. Footballers move regularly these days - instability is part of the fabric of the game - but not everyone gets used to it. Some settle quicker than others. It's utterly ridiculous for us to judge Harrad's future based on the short sticky spell with us - and here's why.

Harrad arrived with a great deal of expectation. Perhaps too much, but you can hardly blame us for getting a thrill when we noticed there wasn't a 'free' mentioned anywhere. I know that I almost fainted.

After the aforementioned 'perfect debut', things quickly turned sour with a silly suspension. We stuttered without him and even on return; eventually spluttered to a halt. Harrad could no longer rely on that trusted bouncer, instead he had to shake his stuff in front of a whole new pair of eyes, a set which doubted anything not labelled 'his own'. If you don't hit the dance floor ground running, panic can soon set in. Barely a minute ago, you came to this club with promises of promotion and private booths. Now, having convinced those you love to join the queue; you're in danger of being judged far too quickly, and being relegated to toilet-attendant. Or worse - the Conference.

Okay, so Dzeko is an extreme example, yet one cannot help but look at the extraordinary difference between Dzeko the cumbersome and Dzeko the cult. He signed at a similar time as Harrad, made a handful of appearances just the same and scored at an even more sluggish rate. I am not saying that 27M and 40K are completely comparable; but the fact remains that most of us struggle to adapt to change, especially career change. When you're settled, you become the sh*t once more, instead of just sh*t.

One of the obvious differences between the two is that we were very quickly heading for the trapdoor - and Harrad suddenly had the weight of the World on his shoulders. He rarely looked at ease, and from someone who seemed to have an infectious personality, it was obvious that the stress was getting to him. Even I'll admit that his touch was disappointing - yet let's not kid ourselves - he'd been in the non-league not so very long ago. Good goal scorers are not always gifted, McGleish was the master at two-yard tap ins, but some never warmed to his lack of nous elsewhere. It remained difficult to find him a partner. He was singular; greedy; he'd settle down to a family dinner and show-off the compilation of all his best scuffs. He never ate eggs - he was too busy scrambling goals.

I do not wish to criticise, it takes much more talent than people think to find space where there is none, and in a congested crowd Scotty could never be seen until it was too late. He sprang, Jack-in-the-the-box like from nowhere, and took every opponent by surprise. See, they saw he scored 20 the previous season, but after 80 minutes they wondered what all the fuss was about. Then, he cracked it once again, and fried us to victory. Poaching can be an art form too.

Of course, he was more capable than that. So is Harrad. Take for example, Scotty finding the sweet-spot away at Wycombe, or Shaun the cheek lobbing the Bury 'keeper with the ease of an expert. But crucially - they do have their limitations. So do manager's though, and ours appears limited in one crucial respect - an inability to show love for those that are not his.

Harrad did miss some glorious chances that Scotty would have swallowed up in his sleep, but we were still a shambles. It's hard to tune-out from all the interference and concentrate on doing your thing - your one thing. Putting the ball in the net. Some will argue, how come Bauza shined and Shaun appeared sheepish? They are different players. Bauza has more ability in his little toe. Harsh, but true. But he will never be your 20-goal-a-season man. He had the flair and finesse to forget the furore around him, but that was helped by the fact he could do many things. Look - Harrad is a bit of a one-trick pony. Even from his tricky beginnings, I was sure of that. It's just when your one-trick is so bloody deadly, people will pay to come to watch. Bauza was a beaut, but who would score more in the same team? Harrad - every time.

So why was his deadly instrument so blunted at the end of last season? And why was he not given the chance to skin-a-cat or at least score-a-goal this time around? Two words -
Gary Johnson.

Forget your finances folks, there's something beyond the pressures of expectation here and far beyond our current knowledge. I'm sure of it. Yes, we needed to reduce the wage bill. But I'll place a wager here and now, Harrad did not HAVE to leave. He was forced out by one thing only. Politics. If you don't agree with Johnson's manifesto you'll manifest yourself a problem. If his methods don't match-up to your own, and you dare to speak out, you'll be faced with stubborn stoutness. His way or the highway. It just so happens that his way has been by and large, a very productive path to take thus far.

However, first at London Road and now here at Sixfields, we are starting to see cracks in his philosophy, and underneath the cheery exterior, there lie more questions than answers. Do you need to be flexible to be the best? Wenger and Ferguson stick to their principles pretty successfully. I guess, it's when things start going wrong, that you need to take the blinkers off, step back and take a look around you at what other ideas are out there.

Did Harrad march to the beat of a different drum? Dare to speak out? His transfer away had been manufactured over the summer; there can be no doubt. Was it down to football ability alone? I'm not so sure. I'm really not. Leon might come across a little bitter, but his ranting must tell us something - there's no tweet without heat. Or something like that.

The silly thing was, we needed that 20-goal man, we bought him, then we let him slip through our fingers. One day, he might come back and Bury us. Be warned.

The Transfer Window blues - part 1

Well, well, well.

Murder mysteries will have to wait for another day, as I couldn't help but comment on the deadline day drama; at least a dramatic enough scene to stoke up our fans' fury.

The question is, should they be breathing their Clarence-the-dragon-fire, or calming their inner-furies and taking a step back to survey the surroundings?

There is perhaps, no right or wrong answer. Some fans will always react badly to losing one of their own. Some will dismiss them with the rudest of waves; others will see the pros and the cons. Moving on is a part of football life, after all.

It is perhaps, not the calibre of player that is the talking point here, but the way in which the transfer transpired - and what it means.

I digress, for Shaun Harrad's ability is still relevant. Just not absolutely essential to this argument. What is more worrying, is the lack of replacement.

When we signed Harrad, it seemed much more than just 'another' footballer arriving. It felt like a watershed moment in the Cardoza era. Error might be more apt, yet slowly our Chairman has found his balls, and invested his heart into our Club. It sure took a while, but only fools could lack support for his recent efforts.

You can question his mistakes - there are many - but not his purse strings. They tightened too much, but finally his cherished change came tumbling out, and we at last had something to smile about. Let's be honest here - spending money on crown jewels is the most exciting thing. They might turn out to be turds, but the lottery of life seems so much more thrilling when you're grinning. The only problem with lottery wins is: they do not guarantee long-term happiness.
Our Shaun did turn out to be short-term, after all.

For a moment - for the briefest of moments - we sniffed the smell of success. We spent, at last, and our time was spent daring to dream of a brighter future. On that night that we demolished Crewe - everything felt possible. Anfield memories still drifted on the wind, but now we could back it up with a striker to scare away the doubters. In those sweet moments, in the sweetest moments in the aftermath of destruction - when you destroy them - doubt does not seem possible.
6-2 was impossible, until now.

After such a perfect goal scoring debut, things were bound to go wrong. Sweetness turns bitter eventually; at least here it does. With Sammo down the sh*tter and our season in ruins, Harrad probably wondered why he had bothered. Not to fear, a new manager means a fresh-start.

Or does it?

That's the thing with Gary Johnson - I'm not sure it does. We were swept away on a tide of charm and charisma, we wanted him in after all. We had every right to, with that record. Only, the record seemed a little tarnished lately; here, it seems stuck on repeat.

As much as we can despise the 'Boro, they at least provided us with a warning. Gary Johnson is not the messiah. Perhaps not a 'very naughty boy', but there were definitely wrongdoings and wrong-turnings. We hoped that was just a one-off. We prayed he just disliked them as much as the rest of us. His results were not catastrophic; however, the result of his time in the swamp seems to have dirtied him.

Instead of being washed through and sold as new, thus far he has tried and failed to replace old, tattered laundry with fresher, cleaner sheets. Clean sheets would be a start, after all.

They said 'he has his favourites' - they were right.
They said 'he'll chop and change your defence, and never stop leaking' - they were right.
They said 'his gung-ho formations are a worry' - they were right.
Those blue buggers, they were right - about a lot of things.

Whilst we must assume that some of these things contributed to his impressive past, we should mostly judge on what happens here. Not only - because you only need look into what happened at Ashton Gate, to know he has the capability to turn around a club gasping for air. His start was horrendous there, and many wanted him out. Yet in the end, he got them bouncing.

So far though, it's more flounce than bounce. We briefly were taken in by his words - and Sixfields rocked out. In the end though, fancy words start grating if performances leave not something to be desired - but almost everything.

Likeable can so easily become laughable, if you can't back up your one-liners with one vital ingredient - points. And so far, on the most important count, he has been a bloody miserable failure. Performances have varied, but one variant has stayed the same. The wins column. Desolate.

Many a manager has their favourite. Favourite wine; formation; player; whatever. But Johnson does seem to take this to extremes - and that can be extremely frustrating, if not based solely on ability. There is no doubt that GJ values a 'strong mentality' in his team. He talked in detail over the summer about changing this - insisting that much of our downfall was in our players' minds. He would deliver a backbone; no longer would we see spineless surrender.

Although he spends hours combing over footage and stats, much of this I think is for show; he has already decided who plays next. I could watch the Morecambe DVD a thousand times over - we would still be bloody awful. You could perhaps gain something from watching it back, but much of football is delivered on instinct - and instinctively, you can tell who was good, and who was crap. A clue: they were all crap.

It's more of a challenge thrown out - to improve. It's not like they can deliver an 'exact' situation again - matches never happen exactly the same. I think he's more interested in their response; some respond well to being criticised, others become critical, then finally collapse. Psychology plays a vital role in football nowadays, there can be no doubting that. Wenger has brought huge thought and philosophy over with him - and we are a better football nation as a result.

What worries me is it can become an obsession. You can freeze some shy or rebellious ones out. And not all the most talented are the most-confident or most-thoughtful. Just look at Rooney. He doesn't think much off the pitch; but on it he's Einstein. Johnson spent so long looking into the eyes of his new babies, that he forgot on occasions to look to their feet.
Beyond all, that is what matters on a football field.

Our annual stutter to the season

Northampton Town 2 Cheltenham Town 3

There was something not quite right in the air, post Aldershot. Okay, so we'd had our annual Carling Cup victory over some big team who couldn't give a s**t, but two wins at such an early juncture were in danger of making us feel dizzy. For we, are Northampton Town. We do not do good starts to the season. Giant-killing aside, we wait in slumber and disappointment, 'til we strike down the stretch. It's usually not enough, regardless. And last season we forgot to strike at all, well almost. We took blow after hefty blow, but one knockout punch against Stevenage proved enough to save us by the skin of our teeth.

So, as I approached Sixfields yesterday, hotfoot from an unsurprising defeat against a strong-looking Bristol Rovers outfit, there were suggestions of 6 precious points in the air. Two home games in a week, apparently a third, but there is nothing 'should win' about the Wolves game. We've been here before. We will win, and follow it up with abysmal disappointment.

Actually, hell. Why not start with it too?

Cheltenham and Morecambe. One has a very posh school. The other is a place I might like to go when I'm eighty-four, to sit by the seaside. But football? We should beat these kinds of teams, so some fools around me insist. We have resources now. We have attacking. And bravery. And big, bad Bayo back. He will scare the bollocks out of your bruisers. He wears the Claret not as a shirt, but as a status symbol. He can do no wrong here. There is no defence now, for a Rovers repeat. 

As it turns out, there is no defence at all.

As if to prove that we will wipe the floor, Cheltenham came from not so very far away, yet brought with them more seats than people. If it was us, we would have brought a double-decker, sod their minibus. We have more fans. More players I've heard of. A greater budget. Let's dust our shoes down, and kick-off this season of promised promotion.

Oh golly, I've just remembered. It doesn't work like that. A game has still to be played, on the pitch!

And we haven't started playing yet. We are still in the dressing-room, and the referee appears to be not in his own room, but in his very own Universe; inventing free-kicks, yellow-cards, even penalties. Uhh, he hates us. Perhaps he once lost a girl in Northampton. Perhaps she dumped him not even by text, but by telling a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-cousin. He never got told, but still turns up at the station. Same time every day. Waiting for her. Still waiting. Now, he cries. And hates this Town.

Boom, penalty. 

0-1.

F**k you girlfriend, sorry ex, I don't give a s**t. I bet you're there in the stand, laughing at me with your rippling Mr. Right. Well this one is for me, for what you did. Everyone knows he got the ball, even me. But now I have closure.

Well, a funny sort of closure it was, as Mr. Heywood let his bitterness spill over to the rest of the half. As bemused faces looked on, none more so than the ball-winner, Mr. Langmead, so our Cobbled stones couldn't Cobble together, instead playing in stony silence and clumsy casualness.

Wake up. WAKE THE F**K UP. This is no longer pre-season, we can stop losing on purpose now. We are better than them. Apart from their no. 23. He's really quite good actually. I don't know his name, because I couldn't be bothered to take any notice of them. Why should I? It's not like they're going to win, or anything. 

Oh, crap. There he goes again. Racing past Johnson. Didn't Johnson used to be good? Or our captain, or something? I don't remember. He's slow and useless now, as another cross fizzes tantalizingly across our box, breath is held. No-one delivers. They wouldn't have the cheek to score another!

Whilst our defence continues to use ice-breakers with each other, the kind of getting-to-know-you games that are necessary when 4 new strangers once again inhabit such a calamity zone, so our much-vaunted attack appear to realise that we kicked off about 30 bloody minutes ago.

Slowly, they tease and tinker. We are promised good football. They deliver in small doses. Still, at least we're not dozing. We can fall asleep later, when we've taken the lead and have the game sewn-up by one goal. 

Our attack shows off it's arsenal. Well no, it is Arsenal. Running all about the place, clever clever, switching positions, intelligent runs off the ball. Why do we need the ball, anyway? We're only losing. Never shoot on sight. Only ever shoot in training, far away from Sixfields. Shooting is for whimps. Why shoot, when you can have the opposition running for cover with your constant pointing, mock them as they scream "Noooooo I don't want to dieeeee......".

Finally, Crackers crackles his gun and pulls the trigger to the back post. The beast awaits. They are scared. They run away. Davies is left, all alone in the wilderness, an open space so huge it contains the goal too. The goalkeeper has long-departed this fearsome scene. 

1-1.

Though a passenger might tap-in, the crowd all turn to the driver of the engine. He roars, his claws sharpening as they dance past defenders of the land, still terrified in trance-like state. The beast is back, and a thousand claws are seen from the stands, pointed toward the sky where the beast thanks his maker for his freak-form.

RAWRRR

Finally, urgency is urged. We can play, we can play. Tip-tap, tip-tap. But though that is pretty, now we turn our taps on, there is finally not just water running all over the place, but burning hot water with an end product. Suddenly it is fun to pull the trigger and watch as the colour of blood seeps into their eyes, and they collapse altogether. We are mighty now. We are Northampton Town.

Wait... hold on. It's still 1-1 actually. And now, they break their defences, charging up-field. Eeeek. The defence aren't merely breaking the ice, they have slipped through and drowned, never to be seen again. I'm not surprised, Langmead and Webster wouldn't be best described as 'graceful'. The opposition dance on our frozen-minds, and that no. 23 with no name but plenty of skill, manages to shake our foundations. Well, the bar actually. It was probably easier to score. It's easy when you are left all alone.

HALF TIME

Time for a talk. Well, not a talk. Who needs a talk when you have the beast? He stares. They cower. He will have his way, or else. 

Whilst meanwhile, our pretend leader, Mr. Johnson goes off in search of the Antarctic. Now, you might think an expedition like this might take a little longer than 15 whole minutes, but fear not. It is just round the corner. Well, when I say round the corner, I mean on the pitch. They are still there. The defence, lying motionless under the ice. 

"Well at least you managed to break it at last, boys!"

Our Mr. Johnson is one for cracking jokes. But the joke is on him, as we'll find out later. He pulls them up, gives them some life-saving words, and lets them spend the rest of the expedition watching DVD's. Ice Age wasn't available, so instead they watched to see where they'd gone wrong. Everywhere, as it turned out.

Irrelevant conversation with catering staff of the day

"2 POUNDS. 2 EFFING POUNDS FOR A CUP OF COFFEE. OH FINE, WELL I'D LIKE SOME SMOKED SALMON AND CREAM CHEESE SANDWICHES WITH THAT - HERE'S A 50 QUID NOTE FOR YOU - OH AND I'D LIKE IT DELIVERED TO ROW U, SEAT 184. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON'T DO AN EFFING DELIVERY SERVICE??!!!"

THE SECOND HALF

'The referee is a w@nker, to buy food I need a banker, we miss defensive anchor'.

As I leave the idle concourse chatter, so we set course for another underwhelming ride. 

But what course will it be? As the soggiest chips on the Earth sink completely without potato trace, so we pray for dessert. Something sugary sweet; some sumptuous, sexy football wouldn't be too much to ask. Would it?

The praying mantis answers our calls, as he stalks his prey with no religious tendencies. Just with the cold, merciless eyes of a killer. That's right, the beast is back. He never leaves. And this time, he's hungry for the hunt.

But now, others join him. Tozer with his taser. Jacob's with his ladder, climbing all over your defence. Young, sucking young-blood and spitting their remains out on the wing. Even his brother, Ashley, runs scared for the briefest of moments. We have found youth. We have found what we desire. 

He has found the beast. The beast is still starving. Put it on a plate for him, and he will snaffle it up for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And the other ten meals a day he needs. It is food and drink to him. He scores goals not just in his sleep, but in his opponents' nightmares. He heads for the net. Net bulges as he swamps it. We head for victory.

2-1.

The opposition are on the ropes. We have them now, in the corner of the Sixfields ring. There is no bell. Instead, only the crowd chime, willing on their heroes in the claret corner. No-one notices the sad little man in the black corner, as his whistle has thankfully ceased to work. Had it not, each round would have lasted approximately a second. Luckily, this round continues unending, left-hook, right-hook, uppercut. We are ahead on points, comfortably now. But crucially, the knockout blow never comes. Something stirs in the almost-forgotten blue corner. Something rises from the bench. Something familiar.

Low and behold. An old enemy. Enemy? Hahaha. Don't be silly. He couldn't hurt a fly, and we are not so much as bothered as we now swarm like wasps all over the pitch. Their net is our nest. We are almost camped in it, waiting. That is the very problem. We wait, presumptuous. Arrogance does not belong to the fourth-tier, and we have been arrogant enough to leave a hole the size of a small planet between our attack and defence. There is no in between. There is, no way we could lose this now. There is.

I'm not Joshing you either. There is one problem with that pesky substitute. We know, he can be a bit of a wimp. No real man spends an entire football match pulling their socks up. We are too interested in getting them dirty. A fairy, there can be no doubt. But one small problem remains. One day, the fairy flies. Today is that day. That one day in ten. 

The defence. Oh. We don't have one. What, we do? Oh yes. Hang on. Blue shirts are in our half. OUR HALF. How dare they. We rule this half. We rule no longer. Blue comes all over us. Webster has recovered, but everyone else has not. They were under the ice for too long. Hypothermia it is.

Nana is a good man. A brave man. He fights hard. He steadied the Stevenage ship. But he loses positions, readily. He'll win us battles, but I'm not so convinced about the wars. So why oh why, would you put him on bloody foreign territory?! With a soldier left back on the bench. Madness. Put him right back where he was. 

Nah-nah. It cannot happen now. It is suicide. A shot to the head.

Bang. The crowd are silenced. The fairy is beginning to lift-off, and we are beginning to comedown. There were too many drug-addicts all trying to score. If Johnson dies, make Webster the Captain. At least he stands, defiantly. A one-man defence is not enough.

Duff, duff and Duffy. We can do nothing. We are statues once more. Our vulnerability exposed, they cash-in and tap-in at the back post. 

2-2.

To, to, to try and save us now is improbable. Not impossible, just impossible to imagine anything but defeat. Suddenly, we are pessimists again. But don't worry, there is a certain serenity is finding ourselves once more. The seas are not calm as those that sit to the West crank their head to the right. It is anything but. All they see is wave after wave, and we have no sandbags left to hand.

The fairy soars. And then stoops Low, confident enough to wing it's way through our ground-troops. We know what's coming next. A fairy has returned not just to steal a tooth from under our pillow, but to steal three of them. He twists and turns and tears us apart. Sugar plum past a distant Walker.

2-3.

"F@@K ***** @@@@@@@@ F@@K"

For all the grunting and groaning, there is nothing we can do now. The fairy has turned us to liquid, there is nothing solid to grasp, only the feeling of points slipping from our fingertips. We've been here before though. We've slipped-up before. So why does it still feel as galling as the first time? It never leaves you. Ever.

One last assault on their trenches. A Savage assault. An ironic name perhaps, as he appears harmless, at least to the goal frame. At least he is huge. We have the hugest hulks in the whole wide World, knocking at your door. Blowing at your door. The door does so not much as creak open. Man-mountains are utterly useless in this barren landscape. Barren, because we create nothing. Until.

One last, fearsome roar comes. It shakes the Town. There is an earthquake inside the Cheltenham box. Defenders run once more for cover, under rocks, behind hoardings, in the stands. Anywhere will do. The beasts have doubled, and they have entered Cheltenham's Kingdom of peace, now turned terror. Buzz Savage my boy, if you can walk on the moon, then surely you can walk the ball into the empty space. No, no. As it turns out. Moonwalking requires the clumsiest feet. You either grow up wanting to be a spaceman, or a footballer. You cannot be both.

Everyone holds their head in their hand. Except one. An intrepid explorer, a mighty Walker. One last stride into the unknown. A reality check is needed. Keeper's keep, they don't steal points. 

A football law: a goalkeeper may never score a goal at the death unless absolutely essential to ones survival hopes.

The facts are, that we are not desperate enough. It is too early in the season for miracles. The only miracle that has happened here, is the fairy has turned into a man. But that's not a miracle. It's just cursed bad luck, that one day in ten. The man stood tall, destroyed us. The man is a ghost now, come back to haunt. The ghost is applauded off by pale faces, begrudgingly accepting their lack of nourishment. They are used to being starved of victories. 

As the whistle-less black corner finally proceeds to end matters, with two-fingered abuse aimed pettily to the stand; so even his ex has given up responding. Even she has stopped caring, choosing only to blame luck, that cruel Mistress. For none seemed apparent on this blasted day.

What was there? There was entertainment. And some chose to acknowledge thus, but most by barely more than a nod of approval. The shake of the head soon followed, as the truth sunk in; we sink further into the division's abyss, even at a time when all that divides the top from the bottom is a bit of belief.

Believe this - that warm, familiar sense of disappointment is here to stay. For a few more weeks at least.

Normality. 

On a day that fairies became men, and our defence was left defenceless, only one thing truly stood out.

The truth.

We don't start season's well. It's not the Cobbler way.