Chatham, 12pm, yesterday. It's wet and grey, the clouds unleashing, the murk darkening as the early afternoon washes away the sins of new-build estates that bring to mind large lego pieces. Why they face each other like Dickensian London scenes of old, ignoring the fields and the far-away smudge of grey that is the sea, is probably the architect's greatest folly. Some are half-built. A few show-homes, bannered in green polythene with white letters, proclaiming rents from £700 per month, the lights are on but no-one's home.
With Paula managing her store and Tel finally relocating, much against his wishes, to Braintree for the 'chrismuss'n'noo year wiv Tone'n'Sandy' which he gloomily tried to justify in the pub on Friday evening as "the misseses Chrissmuss proppah innit?", I was at something of a loose end. These things, fortunately, can be foreseen, as they print the fixture list in June of the preceding year. This was the tie I couldn't make on Boxing Day.
I had rung Wayne to apologise. You remember Wayne? My old University mate, one of the few I'd kept in contact with in the intervening 26 years since we both graduated with 2:1's, much to our surprise. Then, way back in the mid-nineties, life seemed cleaner. Wayne got himself immersed with Private Equity companies and did rather well from it. He married second, but his wife was more amenable than mine and they're still married, late 40's, one son, Charlie, who turns 17 next month and came to the game with us on the promise of a beer or two in the pub before the match.
Anyway, I had a ticket for the postponed game and couldn't make it (asking my fiancee to marry me and that) so rang him about the same time it was called off anyway because Gillingham had Covid. He said he'd keep my ticket just in case. I had visions of a midweek nightmare, driving down to deepest coastal Kent on a Tuesday from Birmingham, not having time to meet in the pub pre-match. Then it was rearranged for FA Cup Third Round day and I was conscious of a strange feeling of delight that we'd performed so badly at Barrow-in-Furness that we were already goners.
Wayne's home in the leafier of Chatham's environs was shorn of Christmas decorations and lights, unlike a few of the less salubrious homes we passed on our way to The Ship & Trades restaurant on Chatham Marina, the views of wet, grey docks and the faint outline of Upnor Castle just visible. Arriving at twelve to the new-ish build of the restaurant, we all ordered their signature gourmet burgers with fries. A pint of Spitfire for the two old men. A clandestine bottle of Budweiser for the young'un, ordered with the entreaty not to tell his mum. I only had the one. I was driving, see. I then had a large diet Coke. The irony was not lost.
We left at 1.30pm. Charlie made a face as he drained his second Bud bottle. Hopefully, next time I'm back, he'll be on to legal drinking and will be downing pints of proper beer. But I'm not sure when it'll happen, based on Gillingham's performance yesterday. They had the stench of a team heading to play Colchester instead. Wayne made the point as we drove on to Gills. I said I'd meet him for the Colchester away trip next season. We're not usually at home when they are, and it appears unlikely they'll be joining us any time soon.
Still, I digress. Wayne and Charlie are now irregular Gillingham supporters. Wayne is a Chelsea fan, primarily, and goes to the odd game at Stamford Bridge when he gets free tickets for clients from work. He was last there for the Liverpool game over Christmas. "Private Box job, got the wife to pick me up from Croydon". Charlie, in the typical slang of the 16 year old, doesn't 'reely like football'. It's all computer games and scripting and studying for A Levels and social meeja for him. "He's set up his own Instagram page for Xbox players, giving cheats and tips on the new games" said Wayne, with a hint of parental pride. I glanced in the car mirror at the spotty, freckly 16 year old with the hint of down on his top lip and his Super Dry puffa and blue drainpipe jeans and something in me died a bit. I nearly found myself saying "At his age...." but then I stopped. At his age, I was drinking and meeting girls. Computers were around but no-one really knew much, apart from nerds. We didn't really know much of anything back then. Apart from which cheap drink got you mortal quicker.
We arrived at the ramshackle Priestfield. I parked about half a mile away, in a street, one of Wayne's favoured spots. We got slightly wet on the walk in. I saw and heard a good Town following as we got to the ground. "They're gonna get wet" chuckled Charlie as the cries of "Blue Army" rent the air. We had seats in the sparsely populated main stand. We had to wear our masks to walk up to them. And provide our Covid passports on our phones. Fortunately, only Charlie hadn't had his booster yet.
We sat for 40 minutes, reading the programme, watching the other folk take their seats and the warm-up on the pitch. The adults chatted about work and family life and lockdown and stuff that older people tend to chat about. Wayne and I used to enjoy a small range of illicit drugs at Uni, so the combined and aged memory was a bit rusty, but he remembered a few mutual acquaintances and told me of a few that he still kept in touch with via social meeja that I had long since jettisoned to those furthest memory banks that deal primarily with school adventures and glimpses of Hatfield Peverel in the early 80's. They do let me down, frequently.
The teams came out to little applause around me. Wayne explained that Gills fans were staying away; a combination of Covid worry and Paul Scally, the arrant owner of the club, who parted with money even less than our late-departed 'benefactor' Marcus. The home crowd were dotted around. The stand to our left was perhaps half-full. The away end, I was pleased to see, was more crowded.
I won't appraise the game. You all know what happened. Basically, we were brilliant. 1-0, a sublime passing move ending in a blur in the penalty area and Norwood skipping away in celebration. "F**kin' rubbish Eeeemer" screamed a youth two rows in front. 2-0, a Wes Burns bullet that we all thought hit a defender and wrong-footed the keeper. I watched the replay later and was disabused of this belief. 3-0, a Penney run down the left, skinning their right-back, before a little sideways pass to Macca who nearly fell over his own feet in eagerness to slot it home, no defender within ten yards. "Boo" said Charlie in response to three blokes behind us who berated the unfortunate Eeemer bloke and started their own boos of protest. The lines happy to leave for a pint after 40 minutes were larger than the people left watching the game.
We missed the fourth. It was stair-rods again so we left on 80 minutes, my two companions eager to be away and back in the warmth of the family home. The car fugged with condensation steam as we drove away from the floodlit environs. Charlie said he wouldn't be in a hurry to return and Wayne agreed with him, a sour look at the mention of a return. "The club's dying" said Wayne as we left the Gillingham Welcomes You sign and headed back on the Chatham road. "We're definitely going down, aren't we dad?" stated Charlie, his voice a recently post-pubescent disillusion. Most kids these days hate to be associated with failure, especially when they're not really interested in football anyway. Perhaps the two were somehow connected?
I knew how they felt because I felt the same about my lot for ages. But this was something new. The green shoots have suddenly blossomed. The players looked somehow better than before, more energised, better organised, almost arrogant in their command of an admittedly piss-poor home team who played and looked like dejection from the opening goal. They linked well, they ran into spaces off the ball well, they passed sublimely, they looked like a proper Championship team again. If this is the McKenna revolution, then I think we'll all be pleased with our progress for the remaining four months of a frustrating, sometimes turgid season so far.
I drove back home happier, laughing at the outraged Newcastle fans on Talk Sport, resisting and avoiding the Burger King drive thru's I passed on the road. Home by seven-thirty. Paula ordered a chinese takeaway and had collected it. I told her we wouldn't be moving to coastal Kent any time soon and she shot me a look of surprise. I had to explain it to her. She's never laid eyes on Gillingham. With a bit of luck, she'll never have to.
|  |
By continuing to use the site, you agree to our use of cookies and to abide by our Terms and Conditions.
