Well that’s accurate on the numerical front.
It was 28 days since TLF had last set paw in a football ground. But there ended the similarity to the film. TLF didn’t wake up on an operating table, although illness was in the air, as TLF had caught Mr TLF’s bout of man flu, which he had ‘wittily’ renamed lady sniffles.
Nor were there any zombies, although in the second half of the game it did feel like some of the Saints players were trying to channel their inner Zombie.

In addition to the lady sniffles, there was a touch of cup fever. Third Qualifying round of the FA Cup fever to be precise, with the first round PROPER within sniffing distance (well I did have a cold). And as mentioned in previous weeks, Bridport, 2 whole leagues below the mighty Saints were in town.

Bridport and its surrounding areas (west Bexington, West Bay), apart from being where our Dorset friends live, is also home to the ITV drama Broadchurch. And while no one died in a mysterious fashion during the game, we did almost die of embarrassment as a steady first half Saints performance gave way to second half where the Saints seemed to be almost as generous as Mr TLF was with his man flu. If David Tenant had been stomping around the terraces in a moody fashion, then that would have been a welcome distraction, particularly when Bridport scored, but Saints held on.

Not the prettiest performance but the reality is that the Mighty Saints are in the fourth qualifying round. Not sure we were all together grateful to the draw which handed us a local derby against Boreham Wood, a league above us and the club where our current gaffer spent over seven years in charge.
The plot thickens.

Feverish Fox

Math stats
St Albans 2 Bridport 1
Attendance: 683
Gambling: 10 losing raffle tickets. I think it is a fix
Liquid refreshment: Pint Amstel. No sadly the club bar isn’t stocking TLF’s favourite tipple, this was courtesy of the Mermaid. One pint Stella.
Snackage: minority share in a tray of chips.

For St Albans City FC the last week was about only one man; Clive Churchhouse, long-time, committed volunteer, who died in a tragic accident at the ground during the summer. The game against Gloucester City was dedicated to Clive and saw the home end being renamed the Clive Churchhouse Terrace with Clive’s family in attendance as guests of the club. And the following Tuesday those connected with the club were guests of Clive’s family at his funeral. I’m not sure if ‘good’ is the most apt word to describe a funeral, but if ‘good’ is shorthand for poignant, insightful, gently witty and touching, then Clive’s was most definitely a good one.

Clive was the man who, amongst the many things he did for the club, sold the golden goal tickets that always get mentioned in TLF’s match stats. Buying them now doesn’t feel quite the same.

Back in 2013/14, TLF’s first season as TLF, I wrote a blog describing the many volunteers I encountered between turnstile and bar, all of whom wanted to part TLF from her cash. Clive was one of them and at the time, I had this to say,

“At this point I think my moolah is safe. Trouble is that Clive, golden goal salesman supreme has an innate ability to not only hear a pound coin at 20 paces, but also spot a sucker with an open wallet and bear down on them with a serious turn of speed and focus. Unlike raffle ticket and programme sellers who tend to be a bit more static pre-match, Clive is on the move, so you can run but you can’t hide. And soon enough. BOSH! The two pound coin and the foolish fox are soon parted.”

It was a privilege to know Clive, albeit fleetingly, and it was a privilege to be able to attend his funeral and to hear so much about his life by those who knew him best.
Good night good sir.
TLF

There are no words

No not the bespectacled Thunderbird
Nor Wales’s biggest brewer and hospitality company.

Noooo, TLF is talking the little grey cells, the old cerebrum, or, in a nod to Mr TLF’s roots, the watch and chain.

That essential matter between the ears, which when used correctly can ensure both a sneaky bank holiday football trip AND domestic brownie points as you eschew (BOOM!) a home game for some quality time a deux. Technically all hope of football attendance had long been abandoned, as the TLFs were off to Dorset, but there was a late postponement by Mr TLF who had concluded that spending hours in traffic jams there and back would not constitute bank holiday ‘fun’.

“Agreed, “ said TLF. “We could do [insert relationship-affirming bank holiday activities of choice here] and then [sotto voce] I could go to football on Monday.” Mr TLF has of course come across these tactics before and queries whether this proposal represents a bank holiday infringement. TLF’s brainpower of course is now working overtime, and counters with the, “well if we had gone away we would have been just sitting in a traffic jam on the M25 on Monday afternoon so technically it would have been dead time anyway.” You can’t argue with TLF logic like that.

“Besides, it’s Braintree. It’s a no brainer.” It’s a low blow but a bad pun, in TLF’s experience, usually wins the day.

So an away day pass has been granted, now just to sort the travel. But possibly not on the train, the three and a half hour journey (each way), with four changes, not being the most attractive excursion that TLF has ever contemplated. Fortunately there is a knight in shining armour or rather Davy Mac, with his seven seater.

And so on a sunny day TLF joins her traveling companies (aforementioned driver, HatBoy, Knocky, Duncan and Colin) for a cross country trip to the Amlin Stadium, home to Braintree Town FC.
Before we are even at the end of TLF’s street the TLF brain has to engage in some serious activity. In a brief tussle the neocortex (employing a ‘it’s a skool nite you don’t drink on a skool nite formation) is rapidly overcome by the limbic brain (“the lager HatBoy is proffering is ice cold, it’s a holiday and refusal often offends” tactic is always superior). And that way the TLF Willpower Cup is won.

Braintree is not what you call a pretty ground, and their clubhouse is not one of the flashest TLF’s paws have ever stepped foot in (‘eh?) but the sun was out, there was draft Stella, bacon fries, the bar staff were plentiful and friendly and ¾ of the Saintettes in attendance, and. In fact the only snag was the slightly disappointing performance and the end of the Mighty Saints’ unbeaten record this season came to an inglorious end; although apt that the Braintree goal was from a header.

The final intellectual challenge of the day relates to the attendance figure, which we are told is 706, something that the sun kissed Saints fans are not buying. In the interests of accuracy, TLF employs the neo-cortex in some good old fashion counting. Looks like about 480 to TLF; unless there were 226 hiding in the clubhouse.

TLFs Good at counting. Pants at willpower.
Poirot Fox

Match Stats
Braintree Town Saints 0
Official attendance: 706 (HA!)
Refreshments: 1 Carling (can), 2.5 Stellas, bacon fries and a bacon cob.
Unsuccessful sporting investments: £1

TLF’s head. Emotional brain not to scale.

Throughout the centuries those who are are about to depart, do battle, go on an adventure or are saying a farewell forever, have been sent on their way with words of love and luck in speeches, poetry and song; I give you:
The meister that is Mr William Shakespeare
“Whether we shall meet again I know not
Therefore our everlasting farewell take”

CP Cavafy
“Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you are destined for.”

Alfred Lord Tennyson (ALT)
“Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The surrounding furrows.”

Dame Vera Lyn
“We’ll meet again
Don’t know where
Don’t know when”

Foreigner
“If you leave me know
You’ll take away the biggest part of me
Oooooooooh No
Baby please don’t go”

Admittedly, last Satday TLF wasn’t off to battle or anything so dramatic, although East Midlands Trains’ insistence on a short carriage formation for the over subscribed services that take TLF to the Void results in a journey that isn’t for the faint hearted. TLF’s recommended battle formation is:
elbows out, an emphasis on the women element of ‘women and children first’, grab the seat in the vestibule and swig aggressively from a can of Stella to avoid conversation or any suggestion you should give your seat up for anyone less fortunate than yourself.

On this particular Satday, there was Mr TLF, waving a white hankie, and in true literary tradition, wishing those plucky Foxes the very best of British and hoping that TLF had a splendid journey. Or as he put it

“Effing go to football and stop tidying my kitchen.”

And off, TLF did eff.

Over the years the journey has become tedious; previous domestic arrangements had always left TLF spoilt with short journeys or at the very least fast and direct journeys with no changing at the uninspiring Luton Airport Parkway with ongoing trains limited to once an hour. And of course attendance at a Mighty Saints game is a mere 30 minute walk away. SPOILT ROTTEN.

But once TLF arrives the high dudgeon does lift, as it is hard not to be sentimental about walking a route you have done for over twenty years, having a beer with good folk you got to know on our European adventure and renewing friendships with the lovely family who sit in front of you (let’s gloss over the two dickheads in our row). And all of a sudden that journey doesn’t seem so bad.

And it seems a totally worthwhile journey when your team take the lead in the first minute and never look like losing.

The return journey is technically as tedious as the outward, but TLF is on this occasion oblivious.

TLF is back at the scene of the ‘kitchen-cleaning-crime’ by 7pm and is greeted by a Mr TLF who has cooked the bestest leg of lamb ever.

…..Perhaps TLF should eff off to football even more often.

Explorer Fox

Didn’t quite see this bit of Leicestershire