31 & Out.

There came a moment, about two minutes before the referee whistled time on our moment of history, when we finally realised. It had come to an end, inevitably with a whimper - inevitably with a performance which told of nothing of what had come before. Yet, we refused to let our voices be quietened. The party-spirit would not be dampened.

We could have been critical. We could have fallen silent. We could have clapped politely, acknowledging effort but little in the way of quality. We did none of those things. We remembered.

'31, 31 undefeated. 31, 31 I say....'

As it dawned on us that it was 31 & out, the chorus began to chirp. First, as a single voice, then as a gradual expression of acceptance, of pride, of everything that it has meant to us and everything that it will continue to mean.

'31 31 undefeated, playing football the Cobblers way!’

Then it kept going, and going and going. We had been defeated - finally - but we refused to lose the love transported to our lungs.

'31 31 UNDEFEATED....'

It was now a volcano of noise, erupting over the muted cheers of the home fans and overspilling into the street on the way home. They were still singing it in the pub, on the train. All the way back to Northampton. Moulton Lava, still bubbling.

I had a tear in my eye at the end of our 3-1 defeat to Chesterfield. It was maybe the same tear that wetted my face at the end of our FA Cup victory at Coventry when we were teetering on the brink, or the tear that recycled in my eyes once more as we lifted the league trophy gloriously to the skies after a tumultuous season of such highs and lows.

Not so much a sadness that our run had come to an end - it had to at some point - but a realisation of just what we've achieved along the way. How many times have you been taunted on the playground, mocked amongst many a friend for being a Cobblers fan? Whilst they hunt for glory, we hunt for misery, bonded by a mutual longing for despair. We were there when we laughed back. We were there when we turned good.

Thirty-one. THIRTY-BLOODY-ONE. Say it, it doesn't sound real. It doesn't sound humanly possible, not when you're used to seeing eleven bloody strangers stagger incompetently around a pitch. It was hard to believe, as it was happening, because it started against a backdrop of still-raw uncertainty, it continued with new-found spirit borne out of staring the darkness full in the face, and it seemed to just accelerate through the most fun time I can ever remember.

We may never do this again in our history. We may never be quite as good for quite as many games. We were approaching some of the all-time records - but whilst we can't quite match the famous Arsenal 'invincibles' - we can match anyone for sheer, filmic drama. They say Hollywood are going to make a film about Jamie Vardy's rise to the top. We may never reach the pictures, but the images will remain ingrained forever in our hearts & minds, the memories will live on as we pass them on to future generations.

‘Let me tell you son, about that Ricky Holmes goal at Stevenage. Let me tell you about how I tumbled down seats, down the steps, into the arms of the ecstasy all around me.'

We went from almost-oblivion to obliterating everything in our path. We would not be beaten, for so long that it sometimes felt like floating through a space full of surreal stars that shined only for us.

Soon, it’s time to rest out feet back on planet Earth. Soon, it’ll be time to digest, to groan & moan, to be bloody awful again. But for now, we are still steadily rising – no longer undefeated – but with a renewed purpose that we can learn a lot from where we’ve come from, what we’ve been through & how vibrantly we’ve supported along the way. I hope, whilst we may lose some of those feelings & maybe even the occasional match, that we can recognise that & move forward as a club with a belief that we can still improve, both on & off the pitch.

Besides, what better time to lose? We got that rare defeat out of our system. Just in time for United. Ironic because that is what we are these days, whilst they already seem divided by the arrival of even more ego.

Theatre of dreams? Pah! I had a dream that we went thirty-one games without defeat. I had a dream that I saw us win the league by thirteen points.

I had a dream that tonight is going to be a famous night…

Try aiming a little higher

Get a bloody grip of yourselves some of you.

Get a bloody grip.

We are Northampton Town, comfortable with our roots firmly planted on the ground with our weighty, well-made leather boots that will probably last a lifetime.

Yet last year from a factory familiar with toil & sweat, we started exporting something more beautiful around our division, we took over grounds with a new-found belief in learning how to reach for a new identity & stop looking to the bleak & melancholic history of everything that's gone & everything we lost along the way. We stood tall & grew together against a torrent of abuse, against those looking to grind us back into the dirt. Against those looking to destroy the past & the future.

Thankfully, it wasn't too late to boot those arseholes out & remarkably we even managed to pick up a decent Chairman in the scraps of what was burning, enraged by the flames we stoked ourselves into a frenzy of support & burning passion driven by our manager, driven by a desire to bond players & supporters as one in our hour of greatest need. We set ourselves on fire & we never stopped until the heat rose to the top. It was a bloody glorious sight.

I don't want to miss last season. It was horrible. It was terrifying. It was loopy. It was at times, allegedly, illegal. It was fun. It was mad. It was winning. It was Hollywood.

We need to take the script, make some alterations, accept that we have to delete some really good stuff out of necessity & move on to create a sequel. Yes, it's true, rarely are sequels better than the original but there is no point writing the review before we've seen it. Those are the dumbest critics.

The scene in which Chrissy Wilder left us was inevitable. The scene in which Ricky Holmes left us was inevitable. Even as they crept cruelly across our eyes, those cuts were still brutally final & painful for all involved in the creative process - when trying to develop something as good as the original is such a challenge.

We can still miss things, we can still look back on what's left us with fondness - that season of romance & rising from the ashes still so fresh in our beating hearts - but we absolutely must not pine for it, we must not ache for it, we must not believe we are nothing without those heroes, now sadly separated from that glue we felt might stick for good.

We need to learn as a football club to stop heralding that 'one season in a generation' as being some kind of qualified success, but instead yearn & strive for more sunny days. We cannot win every game, we cannot always create the unity from division that arose last time around, we cannot think we have the right to storm another division without some seriously hard work & improvement on every level.

We can however, continue to have some fun, after seasons upon seasons of treading stagnant water under the Cardoza regime, we have a new sense of purpose, a new face in Kelvin Thomas who seems to believe in a common sense approach to improving things for all of us, not with an airbrush but with a steady, firm hand that understands sometimes you first need a decent canvass to start painting a masterpiece.

HE EVEN PUT IN AN EXIT TO THE TOILETS IN THE WEST STAND FOR GOD'S SAKE. HALLEBLOODYJULAH! Now, finally, I can go for that warming piss in the chill of Mid-December without feeling in fear for my life in the impending crush.

We have a new manager too - someone who seems to have been an entirely sensible appointment - someone who exudes a calmness in the chaos that could have threatened to envelop us after Wilder's departure to his boyhood club. Rob Page has kept a club healthy in League One on limited resources twice now, a club in Port Vale who at least these days are similar in size to ourselves. He knew how to operate despite having a nutty owner creeping close behind him in the shadows, so now he has what seems like a totally sensible one the fit will only be smarter.

He is someone that has youth on his side, has international experience, has an eloquence & presence that can match his predecessor, has time to learn & adapt to his new surroundings. It's impossible to know whether one has picked the right candidate until a later date (Gary bloody Johnson anyone?!), but this date feels steady & assured & in no rush to get into the bedroom & create irreparable damage (Johnson!) to the loving dynamic that went before.

Sometimes relationships in that initial caress of chemistry are a beautiful blur of endless nights & days that seem to light up even the murkiest of souls, but the knowledge that something is too good to be true can still persist even in the midst of embrace. Today, when I look at the teamsheet - perhaps even more than missing our general off the pitch - I will miss our foot soldier on it.

Ricky Holmes could run & run & shoot the opposition down from anywhere, such was the magic within his weaponry. He almost-certainly will never quite have another season soaked in such searing sunlight, for as soon as he was transferred from medic to battefield in the blistering victory at Kenilworth Road, he entranced the oppposition with his dancing feet, leaving defenders dazed & hypnotized & fallen in a pool of their own tears; leaving us in heaven as we rose, finally above the clouds to the summit.

Something about him was almost celestial when he put on a Cobblers kit but despite the God-like collection of goals, we had to fall back to earth with a nasty bump. We may have lifted a trophy in adversity, but we weren't yet ready to hold on to superstars. His star shone so brightly that it was no surprise when he shot off down the road to Charlton, where he will probably never be quite the same again.

We must regather, reassess, reassure ourselves that even in the sadness of break-ups we can break our mould & continue this momentum surging through us. We cannot afford to & mope at the imperfect summer recruitment, or being ridiculed by no-hopers & non-leaguers in pre-season. There's a clue in the name. Pre-the-sodding-season.

We have not yet begun our attack on the real deal of the division above, so we must not panic, we must not judge too harshly, we must think back to the time after losing at Swansea when perhaps a majority wanted Wilder's head, or think to the horrible heartache of how we nearly had no club left to support. These are good times, these are fun times. We are still here, we have an owner who owns with authority, we have a fanbase united in a wettened appetite for more success, we have to adopt a wait-and-see approach rather than spitting our dummies out before we even know the score.

Please, please, please, let's try & give Rob Page a bloody chance. Let's learn from our mistakes & remember that England win all their flippin' friendlies sometimes but still limp out when the heat is on. It means nothing. It would be nice to not have injuries, it would be nice to sail smoothly through & romp this division too, but in all likelihood it ain't gonna happen. This is going to be a slog at times, it may even be a struggle. But it should still be a ball again, it should be a new-dawn with new-hope & new-stars, if we try aiming a little higher than the defeatism which has inflicted us in the past - maybe, just maybe, we can grow this fresh set of crops into something hearty & wholesome again.

Stop grieving, start believing. Bring on Fleetwood. Bring on football.

In tribute to Rob Dunkley

Just as we have reached the summit

We are plunged back into darkness

From which we thought we had left behind


Just as we have come together

So you have broken away;

Broken hearts and memories.


But though they are shattered

Though they are fragmented with grief

We will remember, clearly


A vision of dedication.

A man of every fact.

Intoxicated with knowledge


But the fact that is official

Is you are gone too soon

Away from us, away from home.


A train to another platform.

A game that we can only mourn.

But what I am pleased for,


Is at your last you saw us reach for the stars,


And now we hope you are too.


R.I.P mate. Thoughts with your friends & family at this sad time x

You'll never take our heart

I don't remember much about my first game at Sixfields. I think we were playing Cambridge, but it might have been Colchester. I think it was 1-1, but it may have been 0-0. I just know it was a typically drab lower-league affair which makes it virtually impossible to distinguish from so many of the other similar stodgy slog-fests.

Nostalgia has a funny way of making things seem glorious in its hazy past-light, but the truth is that I remember that moment not because of the feast of football on offer, but because I became nourished by the sense of community around me, because I had my first taste of how dirty and grubby and gritty watching something in the flesh can be.

Those might not sound like attractive adjectives, but the moment I put down the glossy sheen of pristine prints in my 'Match' magazine, the moment I turned off the television, took off my quite clearly fake Manchester United top, and let my Mum lead me by the hand toward something real - it was from that moment that I could never again let go of what gripped me so preciously. It wasn't long before I was asking for a Northampton Town kit, and the day I unwrapped it under the tree was a day I'll never forget. I put on a badge, I wore an identity. I showed off a genuine claret-soul and it fit so perfectly that I knew I'd always belong.

There are people I know that don't like sport. Some of them ask me what I find to love about football? I understand - with some of the goings on in the modern-world of egotistical egomaniacs - even I feel alienated by some of the answers. But then I close my eyes and I try to remember the heart.

The heart is that kid, who can't concentrate in school because he's thinking about that evening's glamorous affair against the might of Hereford. That kid, who's trying to emulate his hero Ali Gibb on the playground by running the ball smoothly along the wing and then producing a cross to absolutely bloody no-one, instead of attempting a cheeky Cantona chip like those who just didn't-quite-get-it around him. That kid, who looked down on those dizzyingly bright lights from the hill and could taste the magic in the air, could see what many generations had passed on before him - not necessarily a love for beautiful football but a craving to belong, to grow up and be part of a pride that felt personable. To share this bond with those around you. No longer strangers, but now united in a common understanding.

That heart of essentially wanting to forget our loneliness is what made me really love it - that heart that still beats strongly even now before kick-off because singing with friends is still such a spectacle. Emptying lungs, emptying all the s**t that life can throw at you and just remembering to escape together. Everyone has their different s**t - but the Cobblers have always been there to get me through. Through s**t like losing my identity as a teenage-carer and caring for nothing much around me. Through s**t like losing that hand that once held me so preciously and staring at an empty seat beside me. We all go through s**t. We all lose things we love, but the Cobblers is one thing I cannot bare to lose. They have been with me through all of it, through many agonising moments and many of euphoria. I cannot now, remember my life without them. It's precisely because they heal my loneliness and give me a place to call my home.

There have been moments - most notably throughout the Cardoza era where I have felt that comfort tested - where some of that love began to dwindle toward apathy. Perhaps it was the promises, the ridiculousness of a 5 year-plan toward the top when all I'd really known before had felt like a lifetime of averageness. But that was just fine. That was just my team.

There have been moments of horrific hardship on the pitch, when it felt like the trapdoor below was opening up and begging us to fall into its doom-mongering depths. Looking back now, I realise those words are overly-dramatic. We might have been desperately crap, but it was just a game of football. Some you win, some you lose. Sometimes you keep on losing and its rubbish but it's all part of the ritual.

Then there have been the last few months - frozen in this terrible, nightmare collection of moments and memories, suspended in the disbelief that everything that Northampton Town stood for could be just so cruelly taken away. Just like that.

The convoluted web of lies and deceit that has eaten away at those feelings, the ghastliness of greed that has threatened to shatter our sheer existence - normally those are things that would make me write, normally those are things that would force me to act. Yet, somehow I have found the idea - that words could do justice to an ever expanding world of worry - an idea out of reach, because we have all felt like we are flailing desperately without knowing whether we had anything left to hold onto.

What's more - understanding the scale of the thing has been beyond my comprehension. How could a little club like us attract such massive, catastrophic corruption? Why would anyone, when finally given what they had asked for, choose to throw everything away - to threaten to throw us all into the shocking realisation that we might be about to cease being for good.

I could go over the insanity of certain individuals 'misplacing' millions of pounds of public money, I could go over every intricate detail in the wicked plot to bring us down upon our knees. As revelations have come (and continue to come) to light it has felt more like the script from a film than the script written by a fourth-tier football club, but all these things are now finally being documented elsewhere. I am sick of it all, I am sick of standing in the rubble of rumours - where we all knew things were collapsing but no-one quite seemed to know how or why. Now is not the time though, to talk about how we almost crumbled. Now is the time to remember our foundations - to remember why we survived and how we can strive to stand tall once again.

So I say sod those horrible months of depression, let us talk about what we learnt, how strongly we stood together and how much more resistant the force will be if anyone dares f**k with our home again in the future. This is going to be quite some rebuild.

It was a thread on a messageboard that began to slowly uncover the sordid truth. Yes, we can look back with regret that only a couple of us dared to ask difficult questions, but the truth is that though we must never be such a soft-touch again, it's also true to say that this story has been driven by the fans. Whilst the media may make the noises now, it was some diligent detective work that started to uncover the real murkiness of this mystery: where the hell is this stand we were given so much money to build?

From the bottom of my heart, I would like to thank all those that took it upon themselves to sniff out the awful stench of sliminess with their consistently staggering research. I would like to thank all of those who expanded on the information with legal or financial knowledge - who helped us draw a bigger picture of exactly what was going on whilst we were looking the other way. I would like to thank everyone that helped out with the protests, be it volunteering, committing cash to help us shout a little louder, or simply those that took part. Despite the cynics, you were proved right and you did your bit to help publicise our perilous plight.

I would like to thank the Trust. There are tough questions that still need to be asked of how it was our fans became such a feeble voice, but for now let us rejoice in how they have acted with so much downright dedication to help us through these sleepless nights. The hours upon hours that you have all given up, the sacrifice and the steeliness to make sure that we still have a club to support - those are things that I could not be more grateful for and things I hope I can say I've done in the future if the need arises. Because we are stronger, when we trust each other to work as one.

I would like to thank all the supporters therefore, because the unity has been unbelievable. How dare you try and attack us, how dare you! Because this is how we respond. In unison; with chants; at matches; on social media. We have been anywhere and everywhere in the pursuit of keeping this club alive, and in turn I have been humbled by the support of others - others who share simply a common desire to tell owners in it for the good of themselves where to piss off to - others who wish football to be ultimately in the hands of the people who keep it alive. Us.

The biggest thanks though, with the obvious exception of Kelvin Thomas for helping save us, must go to Chris Wilder, his majestic management and all the staff and players that have not just kept us going, but have somehow worked through the darkest days to help us see a hopeful dawn, blazing with the promise that the sun will rise again. Some of those people have gone unpaid for weeks upon weeks. Some of those people have kept their head down when they could have given up, have probably struggled to feed their families yet have refused to starve us of what we hold dearest. My God, I hate the overuse of this word sometimes but you are all bloody heroes, at least for today.

That sheer will to carry on has bled from the backrooms to the front-of-house where we have somehow risen to almost the very summit. It's absolutely astonishing. Normally to have a degree of sporting success stability is a key factor. Well bloody hell, we are making up our own rulebook right now. We have done this because we have never, in my time supporting NTFC, felt so totally together. When the team came over to celebrate the brilliance of the Coventry success, it just felt different, somehow. It felt like we had all been there that day to provide a frank expression of what it had meant to us, it felt like they knew and they really did care back. And then I started blubbing.

This is like a terrible speech, where I thank everyone in overlong overtures of emotion but I don't really care. Because we have so many undiscovered notes left to play in the future, so many sweet melodies to create on and off the pitch. Because, finally, oh heck finally we can concentrate on football once again. It's great that we're winning, I hope it continues. I hope we win the league.

But not even that.

Still I can walk through the town centre that I sometimes despise but is unequivocally mine, and I can sing through the streets that I have always known. Still I can look at that photograph - standing proud next to the Christmas tree with my shirt ridiculously tucked into my shorts in an uncool-kind-of-lower-league way, and I can think about all those people that we've lost. Here's to you, Brian Lomax. Here's to you, Mum. Here's to all the generations that now can sleep peacefully - safe in the knowledge that we, Northampton Town Football Club, will never die.

Here's to many hundreds of years more of it.

Here's to a future bright, always full of claret and white.

Here's to our still-beating hearts.

Into Battle.

I was sitting in a pub in Liverpool Street, and something happened that made me remember.

I got chatting to a young Cobbler called Alex, who it transpired had just lost his Mum to cancer earlier in the week. He hadn't been sure whether he'd make it to Dagenham, but using his Mum's old Northampton Town shirt as inspiration to shield his pain, he bravely decided to step out into this crushing new world.

It took me back to when the same happened to me in late 2009, and though I wrote about it at the time and though I received some phenomenal messages of love and support, there have been a lot of moments when football has never really felt the same. It takes a long time to recover from losing your hero, from turning the seat next to you from a haunted one into something that breathes and roars with the passion of life again. 

What I really remembered though on Saturday, was not an identical kind of emptiness, but a mutual kind of strength that comes from having another family to help you through. It is not fair to compare a football game to the trauma and terror of a hospital ward, but being part of a collective, being absolutely together with people you don't really know is the kind of medicine that gives us faith to carry on. We injected ourselves with some kind of special spirit on Saturday, and all I could see amongst empty pint glasses and totally confused tourists, were hearts that were full to the brim with pride and passion - of what is it to follow a football team and to follow each other in turn.

Maybe you'll call me crazy, but a part of me felt like that claret longing bled into every single player until they couldn't help but be absolutely magnificent when the time came to fight. It has felt like a fight for me for the past few years - a fight to start enjoying life again - a fight to start enjoying walking through that turnstile alone. A fight, sitting there and watching us play like absolute fucking morons. We have been so bereft of ourselves, so absolutely on a downward spiral toward bloody averageness instead of the bond of brotherhood that being part of this should always bring. Anfield aside, I can confidently say that football has become a chore of habit rather than the frank expression of celebration that I once gasped in as a youngster.

When I saw Alex walking out of the ground on Saturday, his smile lit up a season of such desperate nothingness, that there was my highlight right there. Because yes, it helped that we won, it helped that one of our own had captured those playing field dreams that we all had and still hope to have, but what really made a difference was every one being there for every one else, and us all, knowingly or not, being there for him. When Ivan dared to flick the ball up and become a performing acrobat, time was suspended in that glorious moment of disbelief, where suddenly we allow ourselves to be free, where suddenly we allow ourselves to embrace a thousand grown men and women as if they are a part of us.

Even if the unthinkable were to happen on Saturday and we sunk to our lowest ever depths, I would still find comfort in the joys and agony of being part of this. But we must reconnect, we must close our eyes and push away the Johnson's of regret and the Boothroyd's of blandness, and we must, absolutely must remember how to have some fun again. How to feel again. 

So, for fucks sake, get your voice on, get your scarf out, and swing it about like you just don't care even though you know you do more than anything. Claret is our colour and it will be on show like never before tomorrow, but it is the sheer nakedness of our souls on display when we want something more than them that will blind Oxford into sorrowful submission tomorrow. 

We have never been a non-league club, and whether we are by my next blog post will ultimately depend on whether some guy kicks the ball into the back of some net. But the point is, we are a tribe that can influence someone who has absolutely lost their everything, and therefore we are a tribe that can influence whether we give a fuck about staying up or not. And we really, really do. Because we are not meant for this.

Come with me tomorrow, join with me tomorrow and we will do this. Prepare your lungs for battle, prepare Pat Gavin for the reception of a hero and maybe, just maybe, another miracle of an arse will affect the trajectory of another ball and help lift us off the bottom of this heap of misery we've been suffering under.

Come on the Teyn.

#gavinitlarge

Watching from afar.

As I looked down from the hill a few short weeks ago as we faced Bury, it was hard to feel anything at all.

I had a train to catch before the final whistle blew and perhaps the hardest thing was how easy it was to decide not to be another click through the turnstile. Instead there I sat, an attendance of one in my own private box of isolation, a recovering addict who'd withdrawn sufficiently but who needed that little shot of something to see the day through.

So from a prescribed position of safety, I stared blankly on at the family I once shared a bond with, and even as the heart was ripped out of them again and again, even as the bodies probably slumped gutlessly over - it was really okay, to be honest. The only half of the pitch I could see was the only half I identified with. A barren stretch of nothingness where cowards ceased to venture and attacks failed to grow - the opposition's half.

I left at half-time, at least, I clambered from a grassy verge, my football club now reduced to a distant numbness and the North Stand now a cover for the once predictable pain that was finally out of my sight. The journey to not-really-giving-a-fuck-any-more was almost complete, it was just a wonder I hadn't booked a one-way ticket away sooner to pursue a relationship I did actually still care about.

Football fans are fickle but for good reason - we ride together on a wave of emotion and climactic moments, of giddy goals and disgraceful decisions. Through a sporting lens, life is suddenly magnified a thousand times over and presented in front of our fervent eyes, all the passion of what it is to be alive is suddenly condensed into ninety minutes of glorious escapism from the mundane and monotonous. If I am rational and diplomatic away from a football ground - then I am biased as hell when on the inside - I am what society sometimes doesn't allow me to be or I don't allow myself, but by bloody God I am part of a community that cares.

Somewhere along the line, I started retreating back into my shell. I started dragging all the worries of my week with me to Sixfields, and all that we created was an ampitheatre of anxiety, a place too familiarly like the outside world. All we got back were eleven fearful shadows, or one-hundred-and-three if you count the Gary Johnson (error) era. It may be difficult to quantify, but there are moments when you step into a football ground and you just know that there is a special feeling, you just know that you can help carry them over the line. What we have suffered through, particularly since Wembley, but mostly ever since we wilted pathetically away at Leeds not long after dreaming of the Championship, has felt like one of the worst spells that I can remember and it's no wonder its reduced us to this absolute apathy.

This season has been coming and coming to get us for a long time now, and whilst we have just about gasped for breath at the vital moment previously, after the Bury game I rationally and diplomatically looked at it, and thought we were finally screwed. More to the point, we almost certainly deserved it. Then, something curious happened.

I don't know why but I walked up to Sixfields on the afternoon of the Burton game, and I started to believe. I walked into the ground and this time something did firmly click into place, because I could feel that sense of belief beginning first, as just a piece of card on an empty seat. What had seemed a cheap gimmick then started to spread into something more productive, as clap banners battered my ears, cynicism slowly being replaced by the thunderous beating of positivity amongst the claret faithful. If I heard those pesky things every week I would probably halve the average attendance with a shotgun, but in that moment of need, we needed a tool to repair us and by some kind of miracle, I think it started to work.

There was an admirable air of patience, the man at the back of the West who loves to shout 'GET IT FORWARD!' at every irritating opportunity was drowned out by a sense that we were driving forward in unison, for the first time in a long time. We were tenacious, tough-tackling and together. Even if the Burton goalkeeper may as well have been sponsored by the Northampton clown, it was a start. We could survive. We really could.

Looking back now, I think that Bury game finally awakened us from a slumber. We took a good look inside ourselves, as fans and players and decided it wasn't good enough, and it quite simply hadn't been good enough for a while. Instead of moping inwardly we began to look outward again at each other as we committed to a single goal. Not too big to go down and certainly not too good, but too shaken by years of depression and too damn proud of what this club can be and what it should be: a football league club for now and for our children yet to come.

To be continued...

The Sound of Silence

Hello darkness my old friend, I've come to talk with you again.

Cobblers fans are used to trips into the night. When you've lived a mostly quiet, unassuming existence on the very edge of the horizon, black humour becomes a second nature - you have to learn to laugh at yourself when you're just not very good - whilst the occasional glimpses into the light prove all the more satisfying. Sometimes we remember the time when we rose magnificently with the sun, only for it to scorch our sensitive skins as we sunk just as spectacularly, knowing nothing could survive but the distant memories of a quickly-fading sunset.

It was fun, so they say, but we are not born to grace such dizzy heights. We are born into grumbles and goalkeeper fumbles, into ploughed fields and yet more sodding loan deals. It is sometimes remote, nomadic. There is nothing quite as removed from the riches at the top than Accrington on a blustery Tuesday night. Yet there is nothing quite so healing as looking round at the other hundred freezing souls and knowing you have travelled a thousand roads together. A loss is a shared pain, a win an inevitable dream of glory. It can be so fucking miserable that only they would understand. It can be so fan-fucking-tastic that only they could get the intensity of those special moments. So rare, so meaningful.

So, together you share as a family. Nothing shakes the community spirit like the loss of one of your own, yet the awful news of Saturday was a rallying call, a cry to help a broken family; a longing to remember the sadly departed with a silence that sings to them. Supporters support each other first.

We must separate a game from the gut-wrenching moments of human loss, yet as I write this, I feel like I am losing something that matters. Not so much the players or the penalties, but the passion and the places we have lived and lit up together. They are falling not like a sunset of memories, but like a journey into a fast-approaching black hole where everything is forgotten in an instant. Suspended in terrible timelessness, the face of the clock seems to tick for others but for us it stares blankly back. We are too gripped by the fate of the inevitable to do anything about it.

Instead of reaching out to feel the familiar touch of family, we have fallen into a deathly silence that controls us. As I write, it is 24 days and counting since we've been falling. Perhaps it is longer, it hasn't really felt enjoyable for a while but there's always been you to reach out to. Now I reach out but so are you, limbs flailing limply through empty weightlessness, no direction to head but into nothingness.

The only thing that grips us is the feeling that no-one gives a fuck about us anymore. Even Andy King is falling, admitting that the strain is getting too much. The only certainty uncertainty, and whether you like the slightly bullish bloke or not, you have to have sympathy that his day-to-day contract is taking him down with us.

I have had a huge amount of respect for our chairman but the current lack of anything is eerie, as if he'd rather be back on holiday than on our trip to the trapdoor. For fucks sake, David, do something, do bloody anything, just stop the feeling of grieving and self-pity that is swallowing us up. Our club is not dead, a visit to the conference needn't be a visit to oblivion but at least show some balls and act like we have a future. The irony of your insufferable wait to redevelop is that now you finally have the tools in place, everything that truly matters is crumbling all around you. Us. Your fanbase.

Find a direction to go in. Personally, I am sick of short-term solutions to long-term apathy and cannot fathom some people's desire to appoint a Bore-royd mark two. If we are really heading into non-league make plans for it yes, but how about risking a chance at survival? It needs someone on the way up to halt our downward trajectory, it needs someone with ambitions to be a success no matter the level.

Non-league, league, Champions league. Winners are still winners. Don't treat what is beneath you with disdain when we are almost there inside our heads. Appoint a Wilkin or a Burr. Give us someone who can budget for a victory, who has knowledge of what it is that can make football fun again. Just please, don't leave it any longer.

We may have twenty-odd games to save ourselves, but every day that silence falls feels like another million battles lost, the battle to save the heart of our followers. Don't lose us. Without us there is nothing left. Stop us from falling.

Make some God damn noise.

Please, just Bury him.

Here's a joke for you. Why did Aidy Boothroyd cross the road?

He didn't. He looked both ways, put one foot cautiously forward, then saw a Skoda was approaching on the very edge of the horizon and nervously flinched back on to the pavement. 'Sorry team, the traffic lights are a mile or two down the road but I just don't think it's safe to cross here.'

When the players finally arrived at Blundell Park, they had blundered a short hop across the road from the coach in favour of a bloody long walk. 'Mandela himself would have approved boys!' No-one laughed. It was wholly inappropriate. Not to mention the fact it wasn't freedom approaching, but the kind of footballing prison where feet are kept away from ball at all possible cost.

As the minute's applause to one of our greatest thundered around the surprisingly calm North Sea sky, so the only storm brewing were the clouds of negativity steadily gathering in Boothroyd's mind, impairing his increasingly robotic view. It is an away match. Must. Not. Play. Two. Upfront. Must. Proceed. With. Caution. And so, like a dalek itself he exterminated Clive Plattinho with the kind of cold, calculated efficiency that comes from someone totally unable to see outside of their own warped views. He later said he was saving Platt. Saving him from scoring a rare fucking goal, perhaps? Or the unlikely scenario of him still being alive come the end of the season if he spends too many minutes on a grass playing field.

The Mariners are a league club, a decent club, and they will escape the grimness of the thing that lies below eventually, but yesterday they were there and maybe would have remained below their station if we hadn't given them a free ticket to the potential riches of the next round. We didn't so much as show them respect, more bowed down as submissive playthings, trousers at our feet ready for our punishment. It doesn't seem to matter who we play or who is fit, our philosophy away from home comforts conforms to the same level of stupidity every single sodding time. 'Come get us. We're waiting. We'll try and hold out for as long as possible. We'll try. But secretly, we enjoy it. God, yes. Stick one in the net for us. Stick it in hard!'

Hard as he tries, he just cannot change. More leopard than lizard, more absolute and total joylessness for our intrepid and faithful followers. Not that there are many of them left now. Soon we'll have more players than away fans, as Aidy pisses another few grand of the chairman's hard earned cash up the wall. Another short-term solution to try and fix a long time problem. Him.

Lo and behold we nearly kept the tidal surge at bay as Aidy finally acted, bringing on the tree to try and help us branch forward. It did not work. You can change a formation but an attitude remains more stubborn, and soon we were sinking, shaking and eventually shocked. Not that you could call it a shock, despite a valiant attempt by the papers to find romance where there was none. It was predictable, inevitable, boring. Another loveless night spent trying to work out a doomed relationship; the absolute refusal to adapt to one another's needs.

Wembley was not a one-off. It was a warning.

We need to act. Act now whilst we are still rational, still communicating enough with each other to admit the sheer levels of frustration pumping away in our claret hearts. We are on the brink of something. Blame him if you must, but our chairman is committed and passionate, which is why he's understandably unnerved by the prospect of yet another fresh start. Listen to us, Mr. Cardoza. We appreciate all that you've done and regret all that you haven't - yet ultimately it is you who pays for what is squandered. We might scrape a point at Gigg Lane, we might grind our way to a few more thrilling Accringtonesque home performances. We may pull ourselves out of the fire and into the distinct mediocrity we've felt all along. This is not that time.

This is the time for some purpose, some planning - something that lasts beyond yourself, even. You have the keys ready to a shiny new home, we shall no doubt smile at the freshness of paint, the quality of seat, the pride of something that gleams. But materials are immaterial if you don't build the right foundations, if your legacy is nothing more than a perfect property. We require some balls, some bravery, some bite back. Aidy Boothroyd is a nice fella, a good honest Yorkshireman but he does not stand for a future that should be vibrant and colourful.

He is outdated, out-thought and out the door if you can just see what we are now seeing. Over and over, his strategy is safe and the same, prehistoric methodology stuck on repeat. I like him, I like what he did, but I'm beginning to loathe the football, the lack of it, the sheer lifelessness that the onset of caution has brought upon us.

Build a product of patience and practice, of flexibility and imagination, why not a manager of ideas instead of the same old creative black hole that seeps downwards, into the cracks. Into us all.
Look to below, look to above, look to wherever you have to for inspiration but first you must look honestly into the mirror and ask yourself this:

Is this really the best we can be?

Start and start again

As Aidy sipped his warm cocoa of comfort, slipped on his cosy pyjamas and crawled cautiously into his cocoon last night, he stopped for a second to stroke his crisp, mighty-clean sheet, the first signs of whites in quite a while. A smile crept over him as in an instant he was sound asleep, snug and satisfied with his day of endeavour.

Meanwhile the rest of us sat up stiffly - once upon a time it was anxiety keeping us awake - now it's just thumb-twiddling boredom, a total desire for any form of entertainment to soften our weekly grind. The problem is, Aidy f*cking loves the grind, the football factory, the production line of sweat that eventually produces results. At least, it's supposed to.

This point against a maddeningly average Morecambe may have been brave and 'valiant' in the cold winter months following Johnson's genocidal era, but not now. Boothroyd proved with outstanding frequency that he could hit the defrost button, but just when we were ready to mix into the melting pot of contenders, he's gone and changed the ingredients - and the only heat is now on him. Whilst Wembley confirmed the need to add a little spice to the slightly bland base, instead he decided to start from scratch without a clear recipe, but with the distinct suggestion that he wanted to prove his doubters wrong. Stick to what you know, son.

Last season was a really-quite-dull affair for an almost promoted one, but at least it brought stability, unity and even the beginnings of belief. Boothroyd is a what-you-see-is-what-you-get straight-forward decent Yorkshireman, so trying to change into something flashier has not gone down well in the fashionless football world that is League Two. It almost seemed like he was trying to insert buzz words in the summer sun, of 'technicians' and 'quality', of 'proper footballers' instead of whatever he thought he had before.

Those words don't suit him well, and we are now caught in a strange world of not-quite-being-anything, with a midfield of not-quite arsonists and not-quite artists, where the only triangles that form between them hail from Bermuda.

Carter - the not-quite making it at the top level and not-quite giving a sh*t at the bottom rung.

Morris - the not-quite central, not-quite wide player who looks like he'd be better paid if we chucked down scraps of food from the stands.

Deegan - the not-quite brawler, not quite winning the ball back even if he does try bloody hard.

It was unfortunate that we were forced into a defensive mindset, turning back the clock to welcome a trusted old friend - yet injuries aside it felt like Boothroyd relished an opportunity to go one-up-fecking-front in the final inane minutes to keep the might of a willing Morecambe at bay. Through the cloned clichés it was hard to pick up anything of substance in his post-match delight, but when he declared us the only team to look like finding the net, one wondered whether he was clinging to the hope that Doumbé would suffer a spectacular loss of directon once again. 

He did not, and at least the foundations of a brick wall are being built once again. The question is, is this the time to be going back to basics yet again? We seem to be slowly rebuilding in a pre-season of our own, as if Aidy spent the whole of his summer on holiday, picking up random tourists instead of keeping the foundations that were growing strongly at home.

Cardoza's programme notes were telling - the trust that is built between the two is genuine - but poor Dave is staring impatiently at another seemingly impossible climb to the summit, with no leaders looking ready to step forward to climb us out of this muddled mess of a season. Boothroyd still looks ready to rally the troops, to tighten the trenches, to scream bloody loudly for the good ol' fashioned spirit of hard work to instill its rugged ways into us, before he relegates himself to the scrapheap.

Once again though, it's a fight. It's a battle. It's the threat of a trapdoor returned below. The only progress that's been made is yet another bloody chance for us to wipe the slate clean and start again. Right at the bottom.

He built himself time, but is there time for another rebuild or will yet another knight come tumbling down from his castle at Oxford?

New season. Old stylings.

Football is back - the summer signings, the ridiculous rumours, the overly optimistic overtures, the sun bathing every single perfect blade in lush Technicolor. Expectation is everywhere.

This is our year.

Football is back - the nagging negativity gnawing at your ears, the disappearing debutants, glorious rays lost to aimless hoofs, not so much blood and thunder - more thud and blunder. Last-minute letdown.

Oh, I remember why it isn't now.

On the first day of pre-season, Boothroyd built a bonfire, put Wembley on the top and burnt the f**king lot. Trouble is, on the first day of the real thing it was evident that we'd only gone and forgotten the damn extinguisher. Sure, you can try and try to set fire to the past as much as you like but memories never turn to ash. And we all remember that day of non-days.

Boothroyd promised to re-ignite our dwindling flame with a different kind of style, only no-one quite seemed to realise he meant retreating another sodding 20-yards until we may as well be waving our white flags upon kick-off.

Still, let's not be pessimistic. Let's be pragmatic. It was the first day. And the first day at school is sometimes a bit sh*tty. Our midfield, on paper, on a flat surface (hint hint!) looks promising despite a powder puff start. Our defence generally were watchful and resilient - if Heath plays that solidly with the mere offer of a free lunch on the table - imagine if we actually start to pay him!

Then there's the strikers. No wait, the striker. Well O'Donovan may as well have been on strike, because for most of the game he suffered the same kind of anonymity as the ball did from the pitch. That is not his fault and a nice bit of hard graft left crossbar shaking in agony. It was almost a shot on target within the previous 180 minutes. Almost.

Most of all though there was a tired predictability about nearly scrapping for a point. One willing runner  might salvage a few pieces of luck, but it was never likely to influence our away day blues for the better. What we need is some presence, or adventure. The only presents we gave York were our timid selves of last year, ready and willing to be sacrificed, even if we held out somewhat valiantly 'til the last.

York looked ordinary, much improved on last year and they will surely be fine under Worthington, but it's too lovely a place to strike fear into better opposition. We were clumsy and clunky, epitomised by Carter's unnecessary bookings and a completely invisible Morris making him seem like the least likely captain of the lot - unless it's of an already sinking ship.

Platt will come back and in-between crankiness, will be okay. Its surprised me that he has caused such a rage of opinion, as he is merely an injury-prone average journey-man, earning one last honest wage through a ridiculous two-year contract. We are better with him and his occasional quality of lay-off, but we could be so much better without him if we showed some hint of forward-thinking.

Surely, surely a hitman will come in soon. Haunting echoes of the big man will still reverberate around the place until another monster is bought and born, or more likely loaned. The only thing to fear at the moment is our tenacity and toughness - and Hackett when he returns. It's simply not enough. It might be very early days, but all the warning signs are there that we will struggle to build on a promising campaign unless we bring a little flair to the party. JJ Hooper looks like potential, unknown quantities can always excite but one thing I do find Boothroyd to be is trustworthy and if he's not jumping through hoops to start him yet then so be it. O'Donovan and Hooper don't fill me with confidence as a prospective partnership, they seem too alike but we will never know until we try. Or try that something different. Any one of those 'supposed' sixteen will do. I suspect the figure is fast running down.

So, finally to the one area we have not discussed, but perhaps the most important of all. Area Tozer. Less bull, more serial dozer, no-one quite knows what he's doing there any more; least of all seemingly himself. I don't mind him - actually he can have his uses as a spare part but when did utility room ever become a place to feast? Somewhere between the lines that nobody sees, he gets out his mop to do some light housework. Area Tozer is clean where it needs to be mean, sloppy where it needs to be decisive and that his most important moments have come from the sidelines says more than I ever could. His one weapon less and less dangerous, his deficiencies more and more pronounced. Please get rid of area Tozer, once and for all. It belongs, if anywhere, at the back. It's called defence.

So to the future, what of it? I am not too down, more fidgety and frustrated. Just three points have left us. The cracks are obvious. They can be smoothed. We will return to home comforts and bully as we do best, but boy can Boothroyd be stubborn when change is afoot. We need small ones, not massive ones but until he does make them I feel as if we are treading water. That one question still remains.

Where art thou striker?

It cannot end with a whimper.

Nothing about Adebayo Akinfenwa's career at the Cobblers has been boring.

From the very moment this large, plump duck waddled on from pond to pitch, you knew there would be something special about it. Something different. And as the duck spread its considerable feathers - rising magnificently to plant beak to ball against Swindon - so the crowd cowered, afraid. So the duck became not breast, but beast.

The colossus was born, and a kind of Cobbler cult emerged to adopt him as their own. From that moment on, we've been living in a Bayo wonderland. Not so much Northampton Town; more Akinfenwa country.

Much taunted, much maligned but mostly much loved, the big man with a big heart has had a huge impact on our mostly forgotten club. Now people remember, now people know who we are. Okay, well perhaps not us, but they know who he is and vitally they know where he slumbers in his cave, ready to be awakened and unleashed on fearful defenders. Sixfields.

Fame comes with two things, adulation and jealousy, and often the two have split our support right down the middle, even when a third possibility is on the table.

He's too fat. He's all muscle.
He can't run. He can destroy.
He makes us one dimensional. He is four dimensional.

He eats Nando's. He gobbles up chances.

The truth is probably somewhere inbetween, but we need not mention the truth. The truth is dull, and with big personalities come huge extremities of opinion. I love him, yet I acknowledge his detractors as also having a point. With Bayo, one does not live without the other. He brings a divide, yet an overwhelming sense of togetherness in his tender moments. After scoring, as he points to the sky and his fanatic followers chant their chorus, sometimes I can't help but feel something religious inside.

When he left for Gillingham it was like we lost a piece of ourselves. He'd helped us rediscover from some loss of identity, and yet even before his leaving we already lost regularly enough. We were sinking without trace, and seeing him rise in a different shirt just seemed to compound our misery. We were doomed, and without our monster upfront we needed more than a Pelé to stop us from firing blanks.

There had long been rumours, but when the beast almost inevitably returned home, opinion once more differed furiously. An overwhelming majority welcomed back their demigod, yet there were still dissenting voices, concrete in their view that you should 'never go back'.

Still the same player, still the same effervescent man, his second spell has sparked just as many debates as his first - as many arguments, as many column inches. As many runs as barren as a Saharan drought, as many streaks as scorching as a page three stunner.

What you cannot argue with is his cult status. It has been rubber-stamped since his return, and whilst his goal scoring record is also pretty bloody good, not one Cobbler will ever forget him. Not one. Rarely has one being left such an imprint upon a place, upon his battered victims nor even his detractors.

So please, Adebayo. You have a lasting legacy waiting; your dreams of ambition are ours of promotion. Do not let it all go to waste.

Since January and murmurings of a final good-bayo, for the first time I look on with disinterest as he strolls a slow, sedated death. Though he'd currently receive better service at his favourite fast-food chain, there was once a time when he created his very own three-course menu. Goals, goals, goals.

No longer does it amaze to see 'that brick sh*thouse from the gym' on a football field that isn't American. No longer do the opposition break at first sight, no longer has he simply the aura to terrorize.

For God's sake Bayo. For our sakes. Get your mind off your biceps and lift up our saddened souls, now weighing almost as heavy as those dumbbells you so adore. Please I pray, get that claw out one final time. There are three battles left to be won, and you are still our most violent weapon when you want to be.

Want to be, Bayo. Don't settle for cult status. Want to be a hero.

It cannot end with a whimper. It simply cannot. It just wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be you.

Follow the leader.

Northampton Town 1 'The real Wimbledon' 0

Never before, on Valentine's Day, has a clean sheet brought about so much satisfaction for so many.

The tension that clung stiff and thickly to every burdened body was finally released - as our new, dominant lover punched the air with ferocious irony; there was nothing more romantic than finding eleven virgins left come the end of the night. In failing to find 'the back of our net', they succeeded in erecting some long-forgotten hope in our hymen hearts.

There was no question that the Wombles were limp up front, but by repelling even the smallest signs of seduction, psychological proof seemed to swell in all of us that our submissive nature is about to turn stubborn.

Proof came about because we were tough, cold and unspectacularly gritty. There was nothing sexy about us, let alone the game. The only swashbuckling swagger came from a Portuguese Scouser, only just old enough to reach for the top shelf. It needn't matter.

For once what we really needed was a start; forget the end product. The product was largely shocking, however the glimmers of strength and unity where previously there was only brittleness, suggested some hope written on the horizon. Although colourless clouds abound, thin slivers of light are breaking through the gloom and giving us a future glimpse at life without the darkness.

That one man can change so many is not a miracle, but a testament to why values of humanity are still essential on a football field. Much has been written about Carlisle the thinker, but Captain Clarke commands respect not because his brain cells can beguile a ball, but because his calm, sensitive, assured demeanour make him an instant leader of men.

Shouting can help and the boy can talk for all of us, however the biggest influence he instils is being a thoroughly decent bloke - communicating a kind of trustworthy dignity that many footballers seem to lack completely if recent weeks and months are to go by.

One man and one result cannot change our season, but it can spark the belief in all of us to look inside ourselves and find the fight that has so fizzled out whilst no-one has stood up and led from the bloody front.

So thank you, Clarke Carlisle, for telling us that we can. Because I look upto you, and I believe again.

The fight goes on.

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?"