Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game continue their non-league odyssey as they head to the west country.
Words by Daniel Magner. Photographs by Tom Sparks
You would think the sight of the precariously balanced sandstone slabs of Stonehenge would be the absolute highlight of today’s drive. Set quite wonderfully in a green field with a clear winter sky backdrop, you can’t imagine that anything could surpass it in the previous two hours we’ve been heading west in the car, but you would be wrong.
Dietary advice from the woman in Costa at Solstice Services, chicken satays, paprika crisps that evoked memories of foreign holidays and Tom deciding on where he is going to get married, at Sparkford Hall no less, they all knock the prehistoric monument quite far down the pecking order.
Only a full pint of coffee in a John Smith’s glass was ever going to be enough to both warm me up and wake me up this icy morning. The frost that covers my car will need some attention, I will have to set off a little earlier than planned to pick up Tom, however the near frozen water coming out the taps in the bathroom does more to rouse me, than one hundred espressos ever could.
Despite having to thaw out my car, not quite having to assist my squeaking windscreen wipers with my debit card, but almost, I’m still on time to meet Tom, but he is nowhere to be seen.
About as good as getting up early as Kevin or Perry, it’s a relief when I finally see him, better late than never. My thoughts of a quick getaway, we’ve one hundred and fifty six miles to drive today, and that’s only one way, are soon put on hold as he strips down two or three layers, before emptying a PC Worlds worth of electrical equipment from his bag.
His reasoning for having everything short of his “Playstation” is the “long journey” ahead of us, his reasoning for being half reclined already in the passenger seat with a coat over his legs like an old lady on Clacton sea front is because it’s “too early for this shit” and its a “bit chilly”.
“Wake me up when we get there” he says, snuggling into the fur trim on his coat. I want to be angry with him, but when he notices my “new jumper” it’s hard not to be flattered and I don’t hold a grudge for long.
The need for more caffeine and breakfast is strong and for at least an hour we play the game of ‘wait till the next one’ until I cave in, and we pull of the motorway, to be greeted by a large sculptured kneeling man praying.
Tom’s decision not to have cream on his mocha, because as I explain over the tannoy to the server at the drive thru is because he is on a “diet”, is the catalyst for the lengthy explanation from the multitasking headset wearer, that a regular black coffee is only “one colour” so that would be a better choice for him.
Not afraid to make a mess in someone else’s car, Tom’s flaky choice of a croissant rankles me a little, but the fact that its “dry” makes me think that karma has played its part, and he ensures me all the crumbs are going back in the bag, but they’re not.
The aforementioned chicken satay with chilli dip are not my usual breakfast food, but what did I expect I was going to get sending the guy who thinks Cheetos are an appropriate way to start the day. The paprika crisps not only make me think of being on a Greek island and washing them down with a lemon Fanta, but they also make one of my hands stink for the rest of the day, regardless of how many times I wash it, they also repeat on me like a bitch.
Some hard braking is required, when even though my Sat Nav has plotted our course, I’m a little caught out by the hard right hand turn, that creeps up on us a bit, as we barrel down the dual carriageway. The single file blind corner a plenty lanes beyond are a little tricky to navigate, but clearly not for the white van behind us though, who I’m guessing is a local, well versed in the numerous hairpin corners, which might explain why he is up my arse, annoyed I’m sure at my sedentary twenty five miles an hour.
The claret sign of the Viridor Stadium is a welcome sight after nearly four hours behind the wheel. Directed precisely to spot in the carpark by the man in hi viz, I take a moment to compose myself, stretching my ever so slightly hunched spine, before stepping out into the fresh afternoon air.
“Home of the Peacocks in the Heart of Somerset” reads the sign on the gate adjacent to the turnstiles where we are greeted by Taunton Town FC’s (TT) Chairman Kevin, in his black baseball cap and club scarf tightly stuffed into his jacket.
Softly spoken and friendly Kevin welcomes us, but has the air of a distracted man or at the very least someone who is so hands on and with only two hours to kick off, in what might be the clubs biggest game so far this season, it’s first vs fourth, TT top of the table, he has a lot on his mind and a lot to do.
Considering the amount of postponements that littered my Twitter timeline, it’s certainly a relief to see the pitch and ground looking immaculate and most definitely playable. As I said Kevin is not one to sit back and watch everyone else do the hard graft, for him its not as he implies it might be for other Chairman’s and owners about his “ego”, it’s about mucking in, he suggests every Chairman should “pick up” a pitchfork and get on the “pitch”.
Manning the hefty white gate to the ground, there is quite the fanfare every time Kevin swings it open for a single car or a couple in procession containing the first team players. There is plenty of shouting and horn beeping as they pass into the ground.
There is much to take in at the Viridor Stadium, almost every inch of which is painted in the clubs colours of claret and blue. Thankfully though there is a signpost, pointing you in the direction of all the relative points of interest you might require.
Ever so slightly concealed by large conifers that surrounded it on three sides, the sizable claret and blue building in one corner of the ground, does not have any obvious purpose. On closer inspection and helped by the coming and going of some of the newly arrived players, it is in fact the changing rooms, with no tunnel to speak of, just a stretch of car park to cross before entering the pitch.
“Fucking cold mate” says one of the shivering players of Salisbury FC (SFC), TT’s opponents today and fellow promotion hopefuls. Someone who certainly looks far from cold is the lady behind the closed glass window of the Pies & Pasties hut, the prices of her wares scrawled on the window in white marker. Studying what looks like the paper, I don’t think she is open for business quite yet, but Tom has been unable to keep his eye off her since we arrived.
“Pumped for today” says an already excited TT fan to a fellow supporter coming out of the clubhouse.
Warm, comfortable and welcoming is about everything you could ask from a clubhouse, the claret blinds a welcome hint of colour in an otherwise neutral space. The patrons already here watch Ronnie O’Sullivan on the TV, as the snooker displays its awesome power of making anywhere it’s occurring very sedate, the powers that be should investigate in using it as some kind of weapon against civil unrest, because the gentle sound of resin on baise and the low timbre of the commentary is so calming it sends all that witness it into a coma.
Tom ums and ahhs about what he’ll have, it’s a very boring lemonade for me, but he is feeling adventurous, “fuck it I’m having a pint”.
Sipping from his glass of nondescript european larger, he studies his purchase from the neat little club shop, which the sign post does not accurately point to, Tom almost walking into the physios room by mistake. His pin and newest addition to his ever growing collection, was retrieved from an illuminated glass fronted cabinet, the likes of which you might more commonly see at a jewelers, but its contents of badges and key things just as pretty.
The stand in bar man is struggling, plagued by a batch of “frozen Guinness” cans, he lets out an almighty sigh as he pours what is effectively an Irish slush puppy and tells the person he’s serving that he “only came to watch the football”.
As more and more people arrive, the spell of the snooker is broken by people talking about Chelsea losing at West Ham. A boy with elves ears on is watching it on his phone, while another fan at the bar asks Google what’s the score. When she confirms they are losing, which goes down very well, Tom leans over, “even over here they’re hated”. Joining one of his helpers in the bar, Santa Claus arrives, his outfit with a local twist. The traditional red and white of the Coca Cola company has been replaced with, well I’m sure you can guess.
Saint Nick, beard and all, which is a little tatty, I’m sure Tom can lend him some beard oil, is an unexpected but welcome visitor to our table, he’s on football card duty. You know the score, pick a team, £1 in the plastic cup, if the one you pick is under the silver panel once it’s been scratched off, you get half the takings.
Tom of course goes for Arsenal, however the distinct lack of Spurs is a little perturbing. Tom reckons it’s because and I quote they are “that shit” they don’t feature, but I let his juvenile comment wash over me and opt for Wolves, having once upon a time owned a Wolverhampton shirt, it seemed an obvious pick.
“Top of the league” points out Kris Kringle, as good a reason as any to pick the midlands club, who has crushed the illusion a little having half removed his beard, “too hot in here to wear it” he tells us. Before he leaves us, he has his rounds to do, he confirms this is just the first of two opportunities to get a bit of action today, there is also a “half time draw”, the guy doing it will be around “shortly” but he’s currently “late”.
Tom returns to his seat having popped out for a vape, informing me there is a “steward in shorts” and there is “good Dad music” being playing outside, bursting into the chorus of the Starship hit, “we built this city”.
Another caller, another warm reception as one half of the reason we are here today, complete with a
box of cheesy chips in hand, Callum joins us. He’s quietly confident that TT will get a “2-1” win today, he tells us between mouthfuls of cheddar smothered fries. He also reckons there could be over “six hundred” here this afternoon, with at least “ten to fifteen” of them singing behind the goal, all
led by him and his drum.
“I never win, but don’t mind giving people my money” says the bar man to Santa Claus, dropping his money into the cup, picking his team, somehow already knowing he won’t be victorious.
Outside the drum has already started, its competing with The Proclaimers playing over the tannoy. In the small group of fans surrounding the supporters percussion is the other reason we are here today, the awesomely named Daniel, who unlike Callum is far from sure that today is a sure thing for TT.
“Everyone thinks it will go Tauntons way, I’m not convinced” he tells me nervously. His reasoning being that SFC “can throw the kitchen sink” at TT, as they have “nothing to lose”.
In the short time we took our pitstop in the clubhouse, a fair few people have turned up, already looking like the crowd might be edging towards what I thought was an ambitious guesstimate by Callum. Also a bake sale has commenced, across a couple of trestle tables there are all manner of icing covered delights spread out, all in aid of a local charity.
I battle past the frosting covered faces of the cake eaters and the group of kids who start chanting TT’s nickname to the beat of the drum “peacocks, peacocks, peacocks”, to make my way to the programme seller and the man with the “don’t forget to buy your jackpot tickets” sign at his feet.
“Three for two pounds” he tells me, tearing the tickets along their perforated line, as people jostle past, through the bottleneck being created by the lady wielding her rattling bucket in search of donations, programme purchases and fellow gambling addicts.
Appearing out of the crowd, much like he will be appearing out of the sky in a few weeks time bearing gifts, TT’s very own Father Christmas, asks us “who had Wolves?”.
Clutching the football card and a £20 note, I think I know what he is about to say, I think I’ve just actually won something, but I don’t want to jump the gun, so tentatively reply “me”.
“Thought it was you” he says, handing over the money, wishing me a “Merry Christmas” letting me keep the card as evidence. Unable to grasp the significance of what has just happened, from behind his homemade beard, he looks a little perplexed, why is this big bloke in front of me so delighted. Because and I’ll tell you why, you have just restored a piece of my soul, that had all but been obliterated these last three years, chipped away by the constant losing.
Well people I’m no longer a loser, I WON!!!!!
“Come to Taunton, make money” says a smiling Trevor, after I tell him of my victory. Tom wonders if I can “make it two out of two”. With ‘fairytale of New York’ playing, my favourite festive pop song, it genuinely feels like Christmas has come early.
I’m in a slight daze but the drum soon breaks me out of it, one stacked on top of the other, the top one wrapped in a claret and blue union jack. The terrace behind the goal where they currently reside is getting busier by the minute, but not as busy as the Pie & Pasties hut, whose window has now been opened and plenty of people are tucking in to its meaty delights being dished out in white paper bags.
Chatting with Tim the clubs photographer, doctor and director, he tells us the manager will be receiving a presentation to celebrate his three hundred games in charge, “not many managers get three hundred appearances in non league” he says. He like Callum thinks the crowd will be a big one today, “disappointed if not 600”. When we ask him how he thinks TT will fare, he gives us what will turns out to be a scarily accurate prediction.
“Whorever scores early could run away with it”.
One thing he is certain of is “there will be goals”, It’s first Vs second in the league as far as goals scored. His “top tip” for Tom is to get a pastie, they are “very good” he tells us, and going by the amount of people stuffing their faces with slices of coffee and walnut cake passing us, he shouldn’t have any problems getting one.
The traveling fans arrive, around the same time the voice over the PA tells us we’re “ten minutes away from kick off”. The SFC supporters make their presence known not long after getting in, “who are ya, who are ya” they sing, the TT drum responds, seemingly getting louder.
TT’s fans have put three flags up, but they are hanging at the opposite end of those who have congregated around the drums waiting for the toss of the coin to find out what direction they’ll be attacking and where they will be spending the first half.
“For the claret blue army” roars the super animated voice over the PA, reading out the team sheet. Doing that thing every decent stadium announcer does, reading the away teams names out first, each one leaving a bad taste in his mouth, but when it comes to the home players, he delivers each of their names with the energy of someone who has just taken a Pulp Fiction sized dose of adrenaline straight to the heart.
I have to ask Callum, standing steadfast behind his drum about the relevance of the betting slip paper airplanes many of the fans are holding, “to throw at Steve Claridge” he explains. A dig I think at SFC’s well documented money issues, which has seen them go bust more than once, but it’s too noisy to really question him about it, it took about three goes at him shouting for me to hear his first answer.
Other than the jaunt over the car park, the teams entrance is a relatively standard one. There is a moment before kick off, when Trevor presents the manager with a bottle of bubbles and an eerie portrait of the gaffa, his face made up of lots of different words. He seems less than enthusiastic to walk down the guard of hour made up of his players, doing it in double time, more out of being humble and a tad embarrassed than anything else.
“Only here for the Taunton” sing the TT fans around me, Callum beating out the rhythm on the drum. The SFC supporters are giving them a run for their money, but with no instruments, they were always going to be fighting a losing battle.
The coin toss completed, the exodus to the other end of the pitch is a sudden surge, “every time” huffs one supporter, who can’t understand why they don’t just stand down the other end of the pitch to start with, with the flags, as they always seem to end up there anyway. Both sets of fans cross paths halfway, “stick your drumsticks up your arse” sing the SFC fans, at the moment the back and forth seems good natured, unfortunately by the end of the day that will not still be the case.
Settled and comfortable, Steve Claridge suitably showered in mini paper aeroplanes, that were chucked over the dugout roof at him by the Bash Street Kids with much guffawing and sniggering, they start to sing, and sing, and sing, “we’re the claret blue army”.
Having replaced us in the stand we just left, the SFC fans are quick to get back to singing too, “mighty, mighty, Salisbury”, however they are soon drowned out by the home fans quickfire reply, “we love you Taunton we do”, “oh when the town go marching in” and one we’ve not heard since The Shay last season “we’re on our way, we’re on our way, to the National League we’re on our way”.
The kids having a kick about on the nearby patch of grass, who seem to have lost their ball over the fence, don’t know what they’re missing. Although they might be better off where they are for now, because the TT lot are currently offering up their spouses as some kind of prize to one player who they have very kindly told he can “shag”.
Although SFC are the first to go close with about ten minutes gone, it’s TT who open the scoring on eleven minutes and the first part of Tim’s Gray’s Sports Almanac prediction has come to fruition. Arms out by his side, the scorer runs down the front of the stand, high fiving the outstretched hands of the fans, before a teammate jumps on his back and he lets out a mighty “come on”.
The elated voice over the PA reads out the name of the scorer while The Dave Clark Five plays in the background. In the lead, and very much on the front foot, the home fans are lightening quick to rub it in to their adversaries “it’s gone quiet over there”.
Any attempt to goad an already depressed and thoroughly dejected looking Claridge doesn’t work, he
stands firmly on the edge of his box looking steely eyed. “Stevy what’s the score?” the fans ask, their request of a “wave” is also declined, but what can you expect if you are all suggesting he is going to get “sacked in the morning”.
When news of my win filters back to my fiancee, I say filtered back, I sent her a picture of me holding my winnings, her response is not as congratulatory as I had wanted and frankly is just a bit sarcastic and rude, “OMG…whatever will you write about now xxx”.
SFC’s fans are now very quiet and Tom is playing ‘match the clubs kits with a teams from the football league’ and suggests today is like watching “Burnley Vs AFC Wimbledon”.
Tom’s game is soon put on hold, when TT double their lead, its been looking like its been coming, and it does, only seven minutes after the first. Assisted by the scorer of the first, the scorer of the seconds deft flick of his foot sends the ball past the keeper.
“We are going up” sing the now even more overjoyed fans, they then ask SFC cheekily “can we play you every week?”.
First he’s pelted with paper aeroplanes, secondly his employability is questioned, thirdly and the hat trick of Steve Claridge slurs is when he is asked “what are you teaching them?” following a poor tackle that earns the perpetrator a booking. “Dirty” decries one supporter.
The foul is the first sign of SFC looking rattled, Tom being quite plain, he’s made up his mind, they’re just “not very good”. As bad as they have been, TT have been clinical and quite excellent so far, their number 10, the first goal scorer, is like the Mousa Dembele of Somerset, not tall and rangy, but small and robust, but just as immovable off the ball as the Belgian. He holds it up masterfully, and at times seems to want to take on the whole SFC defence by himself and on occasions he looks like he might just be able to.
When SFC win a corner in front of their fans, it stir them into making some noise, “we forgot that you were here” sing the near ecstatic TT fans. Tom though has bigger concerns, “food or toilet queue?” he asks himself fidgeting like a toddler trying not to wet himself. Will his desire to beat the half time rush for a pastie override the possibility of an embarrassing and very public accident.
Claridge always seemed like quite a nice guy on Final Score, having never seen him in his playing days, I can’t really comment on what kind of a player he was, but I saw a dark side of him when a foul is given against his team. “He’s laughing at you ref” as the smirking TT player walks away from the scene of the crime, as the SFC manager his eyes full of rage bellows at the top of his voice, “look at his face”.
The home fans are quite the opposite, happy, smiling and non stop singing and in the words of D:ream “things can only gonna get better”. They get very energetic when one suggests they “all bounce if you’re going up” and the whole terrace is a sea of bobbing heads.
“Easy, easy, easy” they sing, as the third goes in. We get a front row seat to the players celebration, a few fans rush the fence, one man pumping both fists shouts “you beauty”. The final reserves of paper aeroplanes are sent into the Saturday afternoon sky and Dave and his chums get their third airing of the day.
SFC have a header cleared off the line with five of the half to play, this stirs their fans “ohhh” and encourages the TT supporters to ask if they should “sing a song” for their quiet visitors.
Since becoming a Dad for the second time in June, I think I have become hypersensitive to people being unkind to others, some might say I’ve gone a bit soft, but I don’t like people being horrible to each other. I therefore give the TT fans my best disapproving Dad face when they start singing at the SFC keeper about his Mum, like her not being able to keep “her legs closed” just like him, because of the manner in which he conceded the third. Tom can sense my displeasure, bit “mean” he asks me, and I give him a stern and silent fatherly nod of the head.
TT’s players are relishing the fact that SFC seem to be falling apart, allowing them to chuck a few flicks, tricks and back heels into the mix, a little bit of samba football in the Southern League, and their fans appreciate it “it’s like watching Brazil”.
Three goals to the good, you can imagine the supporters are thrilled to say the least on the half time whistle, some as going as far as to say the three points are “in the bag” and it’s hard to disagree. While the flags are taken down and neatly folded, the rest of the group from behind the goal make a beeline for the clubhouse and the other end of the pitch, one passing child gives his own version of ‘you’re getting sacked in the morning’ to a downbeat Claridge drudging off to talk to his beleaguered players, “say goodbye to your team”.
Replacing the adults on the pitch, the hoard of mascots appear, and start to have a small match of their own. One players skills and subsequent goal catches the eye of a few of the people watching on, “great goal, sign him on”.
Tom’s wait for the loo and food, was far less arduous than he thought, so much so, that by the time we find each other, I having learnt I haven’t won the halftime draw, which is fine, as he said “don’t be greedy”, he has already as he put it “demolished” his cheesy chips, but still has one of the recommended pasties to go, which he tells me is “warm” and asks me “if I want to hold it” to heat up my hands.
“TAUNTON TOWN” booms the voice over the PA welcoming the teams back as they reappear, going toe to toe with a 90’s dance classic, a song we’ve come across already this season, a favourite on the non league scene, Insomnia by Faithless. Kevin leaves the pitch with trusty fork in hand and the numbers behind the goal seem to have swelled, the sloped roof of the terrace unable to contain them all, and they pick up, where they left off, “oh when the town go marching in”.
It’s going to take a while to get the tune of Glad All Over out of my head, considering I’ve now heard
a fourth snippet of its catchy chorus. Three minutes into the new half TT continue their rampant ways, scoring from a corner. The players run off towards the corner flag, before stopping and acting out some kind of pre arranged celebration, that kind of looks like someone trying to learn to surf.
TT cruising, their fans in good voice and Tom sipping away at his Cherry Tango that tastes like bathroom cleaner, I’m not sure we could ask for a more perfect scene, until all of a sudden a disturbance in the good time rift, takes the edge of it a little. Perhaps it was the sight of seeing their team going further behind or something was said, we’ll never know, but all of a sudden a scuffle breaks out to our left, punches are thrown and by the looks of it an SFC fan is being carted off briskly by a couple of strapping TT supporters.
“Cheerio, cheerio, cheerio” sing the onlookers as the away fan is strong armed out, flanked by two chaps who I think I would do what they told me. For the remainder of the game, it’s the activity on the terrace and the drama that ensues that occupies most people’s attention.
Still bubbling away, it’s hard not to rubber neck a little, the nosy side of us both, wondering what happened, and what is still going on. One supporters makes his opinion clear, “get out of Taunton” he shouts fiercely, the rest of the fans also share their thoughts on the visitors “we hate Salisbury”.
There is though a nice distraction from the nonsense, a boxer dog, paws up on the fence, with his head through it, straining at his leash and close to bolting on a couple occasions. “Seen the ball” says Tom, the dog’s owner doing his best to hold on tight.
Although TT are creating chances at will, they have a shot well saved preventing their fifth, its SFC who score next, from the spot, with fifty eight minutes gone. A lifeline perhaps, “game on” says Tom, I doubt it, anyway I’m not sure many home fans are particularly bothered by the slight dent in their lead, the few SFC fans dancing and celebrating are, but they are soon muffled by the TT fans, who don’t let them be heard for long.
Both Callum and Tim were right, in excess of six hundred here today and one of them is still yet to claim the half time draw prize, the man I bought the tickets from, is now doing a lap of the ground, with a blackboard with the winning numbers on, trying to find the victor.
SFC’s fans are again silent, buts its positively rocking in the home end, “claret blue army” they repeat over and over in a state of near hypnosis snapping out of it only to tease the away end “it’s all gone quiet over there”, while Tom stomps his feet, despite having about five pairs of socks on, his toes are still going “a bit numb”.
TT have all but sat back, foot well and truly off the gas, I think they might have even taken the keys out and pulled over for a picnic and aren’t showing any of that swashbuckling endeavour they had before, meaning SFC get the odd sniff at a chance. With seventy five minutes gone they almost pull another back, but it doesn’t seem to worry anyone, they’re all having far too much of a good time and whenever SFC do seem to threaten, TT respond by just wandering up the other end and almost scoring themselves.
Being someone who knows a far old bit about this particular chant, I can’t understand why it’s never
sung properly, slowly, painfully and tediously slowly “oh when (insert team here) go marching in” is at its best when it starts at a snail’s pace, building to a hair raising crescendo, with a few wiggling fingers at the end of arms held aloft tossed in for good measure.
With full time fast approaching and now in the presence of a few coppers, the distinctive blue lights of their cars flashing above over the wall behind us, there is a mild sense of tension as the ground slips into a state of shutdown. There is a lot of pointing, the hiss of radios and the shutting of gates, by the looks of it to keep both sets of supporters apart.
“Not seen much of the game” says one member of TT staff to another, I must admit the second half does feel somewhat like a blur. One TT fan suggests that the kind of behaviour we’ve seen today, which let me be clear was fleeting, and not involving any great numbers, is the first of its kind we’ve ever seen, and as the home fan puts it you “don’t expect that kind of thing at non league football”.
A fully stocked riot van rolls up and may be required, not to contain the SFC fans, but the home fans, as the floodlights start to flicker, like the one in the downstairs loo, just before it blows. “Last thing we need” says a steward, the match being called off, TT 4 -1 up, with maybe only a couple of minutes to play. However Trevor is calm, watching on from the corner of the pitch, “don’t panic, they blow at home”.
It’s a rapturous send off for the players, either side of the way off the pitch is packed with cheering and clapping fans, Kevin looks on proud as punch, offering his own congratulations to the odd player and coach as they pass. Once back inside the shelter of the big shed, the sound system is quickly on, and the noise of the TT players singing Sweet Caroline soon fills the night.
As the supporters finally stream out, the sight outside the ground is similar to that of a Premier League game, not a Southern League one. Half of Somerset’s police are seemingly here, their lights still going good guns, but it all seems a bit OTT and the fans make their way home, without incident.
I’ll be honest when I accepted Callum and Daniels invite to their corner of the non league world, I don’t think I really understood quite how far away they where, but I can say with my hand on heart that it was worth every one of the three hundred plus miles we travelled.
Time spent in the car or the time you have to get up is immaterial when you are treated to five goals, an excellent atmosphere, seeing what might be the world record for how far apart a club can put the dugouts and the sight of a once top flight footballer being bombarded with paper aeroplanes.
Of course the Viridor Stadium will always be a special place, it will live long in the memory as the venue of my very first win, the blue plaque is in the post – ‘Daniel Magner Won £20 Here’ it will read.
For more blogs, photos & videos by Two Men In Search Of The Beautiful Game please join them on Facebook and give their page a “like” – Go to Facebook
Follow the boys on Twitter – Go To Twitter
Follow on Instagram #BeautifulGame15 – Go To Instagram