My only visit to FLACKWELL HEATH so far: 2010-2011 & a 4-0 win v Reading Town...

It Was The Full-Back In The Goalmouth With A Hand

I drove to Flackwell Heath. It was raining. I had to go. Flackwell was such an engaging place-name. I positioned my car in the car-park, next to a long mini-bus but I guessed that I would be able to drive out easily after the game, despite cars being parked directly opposite. It rained more. The staff on duty made me feel welcome, despite the rain, on a Tuesday which provided European matches on TV, involving Manchester United, Glasgow Rangers and Spurs. And the rain intensified as tentative players began to warm up. And dampen down.

I met a male schoolteacher of secondary age girls with the stonking name of Dr Love and a recently qualified radiologist, wearing a woolly hat, who had seen junior games in Scotland and didn’t count any ground-hopping matches as ‘seen’ if no badge was available. He had even purchased one badge on eBay, to validate his attendance at a spectacle. Ah, at this point I must admit that I bought a badge at Flackwell Heath… I then had three: Blidworth Miners’ Welfare, Odd Down and Flackwell Heath. It was in the name. I can control the urge. I know I can… 

Reading were supported by a chanting contingent of er, one man. He videoed, used a tripod and he chanted… He impressed me. I know not if he was also afflicted by the plague that is badge collecting, however. Flackwell fielded a Henry Craven and a Riccardo Cannon, both fodder for a match reporter. Cannon’s shooting actually misfired.

The game was considerably affected by a bizarre sending-off, the second I’d seen in a matter of days. This time, a visiting Reading Town defender with the magnificent name of Alex Salmon, leapt in twisted form to hook a shot off his team’s goal-line but as only a linesman had spotted the fact that he had handled the ball, he must have noted the referee’s hesitancy and duly disappeared into the crowd of players hovering in and around the penalty-box and by the time the officials had discussed the issue, neither knew who the offender had been. Farcically, the referee asked the Reading skipper to identify the villain… He appeared to be less than helpful but could one blame him? As the minutes of uncertainty passed by, I was reminded of a Monty Python film: “I’m Brian…” “No, I’m Brian…” “NO, I’m Brian…” famously aping the crucifixion of Spartacus and his colleagues. Several players began bellowing, one after another, “It was me, ref…” “It was me…”  Hilarious. Eventually, the right-back owned up like a naughty boy in morning assembly and was summarily dismissed. The lengthy break in play denied the visitors their ascendancy and condemned them to an eventual 4-0 defeat, which could have been heavier.

The rain had stopped before the game had kicked off and a sunset had been stunningly daubed by black cloudy patches but when I returned to my car, some ignorant fellow had abandoned his car in between the two rows of parked vehicles and around a dozen cars were simply disabled by his selfish behaviour. We waited. It’s what English people do. Eventually, he returned to his car with no apparent concern and reversed to the end of the car-park, slowly, allowing me to drive clear and head for the M40. 

And it was raining again…