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.

Different takes from different tastes

Ah, that old chestnut. Which would you rather?

The

Atkins diet - dull, chewy, meaty, hard to swallow but with a nose for controversy and success. Some days you will get bored of the same thing, over and over. But until you become tired, it gets results. Mostly. If the results do not come, the diet is pointless and critically panned. When all said and done, history is kind. If you make history, you are remembered, no matter how ugly or wretched the victory.

or the

Johnson diet - fun, food scattered unevenly on the plate, bursting with colour and mouthwatering ideas, but with so many creative combinations, it leads to mixed results. Some days your taste buds tingle with serene satisfaction; others overwhelmed by oddities. Never far away from culinary perfection, or delightful disaster. But at least it wasn't drab, or dreary. Yet when all is said and done, there is frustration etched on the brain. To entertain is to please. But pleasure cannot be written down on records. All that lingers are the facts. They could have triumphed. They should have triumphed. But they were too greedy. They wanted it all.

Though some say it's still possible....

4-3. 3-2. 3-4. 5-3. 1-4. 6-4. 2-2 2-5 Gosh, those numbers look delicious.

0-0. 1-0. 1-1. 1-0. 0-0. 1-0 1-0. 0-1 Gosh, how boring.

But in this game of pressure, points win prizes. Panache is rarely a route to perfection.

And then there's the 4-4-2. I am simple. I am a man. A macho man. I drink a nice, strong bitter. The one that's always on. I drink it straight down.

But why be a macho man, when you can be a man to everyone? Don't be afraid to show off your femininity, it takes a brave man to walk into a pub and neck a pint of Fruli. I am the 4-3-2-1-6-8-anynumbericaretobe. I sip slowly.

The truth is, this conundrum has never yet been solved. Perhaps, will never. Some would rather lose with grace and dignity than win with tenacious, theatre-less thuggery. Some would prefer to be liked at any cost, than never to be liked at all. We are all different.

And this perfectly encapsulates the reaction to today's defeat.

Some turned, forgetting action, as stern eyes fixated on scoreboard simplicity. They booed.

Some scratched their heads, indecisiveness leading to indifference. They shrugged.

Others applauded artistry, as they watched through intellectual frames, looking for signs of intelligence and entertaining stimulation.

Then there were robots, who's hands seemed to move angularly together, yet never make a sound. They stood as statues, waiting for Saturday afternoon to come-by again. Never leaving, always supporting.

Of course there were those who had seen it all before, they briefly sighed, then more quickly chuckled a familiar chuckle. They would recognise both the beauty and the beast, but both would be put to bed upon an experienced exit.

Perhaps, you know, whilst so many of us are determined to be right, we are always wrong except for our own reaction. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and some folks like different strokes.

Today reminded me of that.