The House Husband

Following our victorious visit to Upton Park last week, the mighty Shots hosted the second round of the Carling (League) Cup tonight. Their opponents were Carlisle, a team that has beaten us before, though one a lot closer to us in club terms than West Ham had been. And fortunately the game was at the Rec as we didn’t really feel up to travelling the 300 odd miles north.

To say that Sonam was keen to attend would be an understatement. I thought he’d already returned to India but, the lucky chap, was still in the UK. He was to join us at Aldershot because, apart from his sparkling company and enthusiastic hand clapping, he has become our good luck charm. After all, every Aldershot game he’s seen has been a victory. For superstitious football fans, this is more than enough. It’s also better than having to wear lucky pants.

Also visiting the UK for a brief, flying visit is Miquel. Nicktor knew him at his old job. He is mostly notable (as far as I’m concerned) for escorting Nicktor to a Spanish bar during the World Cup, where they watched Spain v Portugal with all the enthusiasm of an empty room. I know this because Nicktor (on his world tour) updated me frequently with text messages. Nicktor had arranged to see Miquel, so it was a happy coincidence that his visit coincided with the second round match. I discovered that Miquel is a kindred spirit in that he loves spreadsheets as much as I do.

The plan was for all four of us to meet in the Crimea for a few pre-match beers and then wander over and cheer the mighty Shots to (hopefully) victory. Nicktor (in his lovely new Jag station wagon) picked up the others while I caught a bus. Like the true friends they are, I had a beer waiting for me when I arrived.

The talk was mostly about football as we enjoyed a few pints of forty niner (they have stopped serving 6X because, as reported by the owner of the pub, after three consecutive bad barrels, he stopped ordering it – to say I was devastated is putting it mildly) as we watched a small but determined group of Carlisle supporters arrive. These were obviously true fans. I have no idea whether they were in a coach party or had driven down themselves. One thing I can say is that they appear to be mostly bald.

At Upton Park, Sonam had clapped just as madly as the rest of us but he hadn’t joined in with the singing so we decided to stand on the East Bank and force him to. There was a bit of a crush but the ground wasn’t as crowded as it could have been (total attendance was just over 2,800 – about the same as the travelling fans to West Ham) and we found a nice spot just to the right of the goal.

Of course we had paused for an awful hotdog with onions on the way. While perusing the many sauces on offer, Sonam was a bit miffed that there wasn’t anything really, really hot and settled on tomato kechup. But this was a mere blip in the proceedings.

From the kick-off, we knew this wasn’t going to like Upton Park. While the Shots were dominant, Carlisle were very dangerous on the break, threatening to do something. Aldershot, on the other hand, played their usual brand of football, keeping the crowd on edge with their inconsistencies.

View from the East Bank, ATFC

Straker, as usual, managed to pass the ball to the other side with his normal lack of foresight. He did this with great frequency at West Ham as well and, last weekend managed to get red carded in the league game against Oxford (he was sent off in the 11th minute for bringing down Lewis Guy when he was through on goal – consistently, the same reason the West Ham player was sent off for last week). On the last three games, alone, he is looking like a liability.

Still, in general, the first half was pretty evenly balanced with both teams playing with a determination which sometimes bordered on desperation. A great moment was when Sonam started singing next to me. A true fan!

About ten minutes before the end of the half, I went to the loo (to avoid the crowds) and almost missed the greatest moment of the first half. Fortunately I could see from the edge of the ground as Luke Guttridge crossed to Michael Rankine who emphatically sent the Shots into the lead. The crowd went crazy, lifting the roof from the terrace in their joy and jubilant cheering. It was impossible to hear the referee blow his whistle for the break.

At halftime, the ground was abuzz with possibilities, chat mostly being about the possible next round against Rochdale. But chickens should never be counted prematurely. The second started with Aldershot hearts in Aldershot throats.

I have no idea what the Carlisle manager said during the halftime talk in the dressing room but I think he must have said something about how bad they were playing. He probably said it wasn’t possible to play any worse. From the beginning of the second half, the team was determined to prove him wrong. They played like a team intent on losing.

Aldershot dominated the second half completely, making the opposition look like school boys. We were loving it, willing the ball to go into the net. It wasn’t until near the end of the game that Straker took the ball on the right wing, close to the line and crossed it into the box. True to form, the ball went straight to, Carlisle player, Danny Livesey. Happily (for us) he turned the ball into his own net.

Aldershot was 2-0 up and we all went mad. Back slapping, high fives, just like Upton Park. The East Bank was delirious. Rochdale a real possibility. The game was there for us to lose because the way Carlisle was playing, they were never going to win.

Again, injury time was going to be five minutes and we watched as Carlisle did nothing and we played ‘keep the ball’. And then it was full time. The Shots had won…again. Another great night. We headed out among the happy hordes, heading for Nicktor’s new car – the really, really lovely Jag station wagon.

He had said he would drive Miquel and Sonam back so I volunteered to accompany him so he didn’t have to drive back alone. While I have to say the new Jag is a wonderful car (that’s very, very comfortable) the SatNav could be a little smarter. It seems to think the quickest way between two points is not a straight line but via the M25. Good job the Jag is such a nice car and the company so entertaining.

As we said goodbye, we told Sonam he had to return for the Rochdale game on September 20. He declared he was going to the Home Office to ensure he would.

Last night I went to the Rec and watched Aldershot for the first time this season. In not entirely a night of surprises, they lost, 3-0, to Watford in the first round of the Carling Cup. We were totally outclassed by a much better team. I guess that’s something. It’s not like we played really badly just not well enough. And, really, what did we really expect? Watford is two leagues above us after all.

What was a surprise was who I went with. I thought it was just going to be Nicktor, James and me until the car pulled up outside with Frank driving. And his son and Matt in the back. That was odd for a start. James loves Aldershot but Matt is less than enthusiastic at the best of times. Still, we drove to the car park and started walking to the Crimea for the usual pre-game pint of that perfect of all beers, 6X.

Along the way we collected a few more people. Two guys from Nicktor’s road and their sons and James. Five kids, five adults.

Five pints and five cokes later, we crossed over the road and headed for the Slab. I’d already assumed we’d not be in the East Bank because we’d have James with us so it wasn’t a surprise when we headed that way.

Nicktor’s re-flared gout was causing him to limp a bit so that caused some hilarity, which grew in direct ratio to the increase in pain. He’s a medical anomaly. It’s far too soon for a relapse. It’s a good job he wasn’t called on to run around the pitch. It was noticeable his discomfort increased dramatically over the course of the evening. By the time we were ready to walk back to the car, he looked like one of the walking wounded from the Charge of the Light Brigade. Or perhaps his body was unhappy it wouldn’t be spending the night at our place.

A bit of an unexpected treat awaited us as we entered the ground. The young guy who bashes the drum relentlessly during every home match was standing against the fence having a few tentative thumps as the rest of the raucous orchestra met up with him. It was observed by one of our party that he looked rather menacing, presumably on the lookout for rival drummers.

The day had been wet throughout, off and on, so standing on an exposed slab of concrete for a couple of hours was bound to attract a certain amount of damp. I’m pretty sure this is one of those immutable laws, like the one that Murphy came up with. Something like: “If there’s a chance of rain and a large gathering of people all stand on a big slab of concrete, they’ll be rained on.” And we were. A number of times.

Not that it was very wet. It was a series of English showers, the type of rain that doesn’t actually make you wet. I like to think of it as thick mist. It was quite noticeable on the pitch, though. Sprays of water came off the ball every time it was kicked and the ground was rather slushy.

The one good thing about being on the Slab is that you’re really close to the action, albeit only one bit near the southern touch line. The boys all lined up against the fence and shouted rude things at the opposition players as they pummelled our goal mouth in the first half. By the time Watford had finished us off at the beginning of the second half, the boys were telling jokes and talking to me about games.

It’s amazing how kids (make that, boys) react when someone tells them I tested games for a living. They get all excited and suddenly you’re the coolest adult they know. They then insist on comparing notes on the newest and most violent games on the market. Fortunately Stevie keeps me in the loop about these things so I can generally manage to keep up with them. Though it did make me yearn a bit for my old job. Though not with Cowabunga, of course. I should add that the other part of my job is generally drooled over by any male adults who find out.

Anyway, the game dribbled away as we chatted about Ultimate Assassin (the comedy version) and GTA – I managed to get a plug in for Smuggler’s Run, a particular favourite that Stevie and I spent many hours completing. It’s a bit Old School these days but still a great game, nevertheless. The final whistle gratefully blew before Watford could humiliate us further and we headed for home.

Actually, Aldershot managed a bit of a late flurry but to no avail and they remained with no goals. To be absolutely fair, they didn’t play badly. I have been at some games where they seemed to have sent a load of replacements on the pitch, possibly the local limbless darts team, but this was not one of those. We were, quite simply, outclassed. So, no need to be miserable, lads! At least it’s one competition we don’t have to worry about for the rest of the season.

The company was fun and it’s always good to go and watch football. It was also a chance to catch up with Nicktor who I’ve missed over the last couple of weeks due to the temporary suspension of Nicktor Nights. The Cansfields are off to France next week (entirely coincidental, I hasten to add) so we organised for our next NN to be the 25th. He told me about the positive slew of gory, bloodletting films he’s managed to amass since our last viewing so I’m hoping for a welcome return to relative normality, fairly soon.

The boys, ready to heap abuse on the Watford players