People talk about the magic of the FA Cup but having travelled 70 miles to find that not only was our planned chippy stop not where we thought it was, but that our internet search replied with ‘Sorry, you’re in Southport, there is no internet signal in this part of the UK’. Our lunch time plans were in disarray. The Greetland Shayman was tempted to knock on Margaret’s door at number 7, not to ask for directions, but to see if she’d be tempted to put a bucket of chips in her oven for us. Our contingency plan, to drive the remaining three miles to the ground and find another chippy along the way failed too. Any places we did spot were closed, not opening until teatime. If only we were in a seaside town… The usual suspects were far from happy.
Arriving at the ground early, we sought salvation in a nearby corner shop, right next door to yet another closed chippy. Looking for something gluten free, my options were limited. The narrow aisles were littered with half-opened boxes, the shelves packed with everything you never wanted. It was perhaps last restocked back in 1989. Only the newspapers had anything resembling the current date. In the end, we left with a collective lunch of two packets of plain crisps, a bag of Nik-Naks, a family sized bag of Monster Munch, oh, and a can of baked beans.
Sitting on a pile of wooden pallets outside the shop, we lamented what might have been, and I got advice on how much I could have saved if I’d bought a multi-pack of beans in advance at a well-known supermarket. Apparently the 99p I paid was excessive. Still, it provided entertainment, and without any kitchen utensils, it was a case of tipping the can and waiting, no beans, no beans, no beans, and then suddenly all the beans. I’m sure the usual suspects would have told me if I was walking around afterwards with a red circle of tomato sauce across my nose…
With a bargain admission price of £14.00, we bagged seats in the main stand. It was too much of a gamble to opt for the open terrace behind the goal with our unpredictable weather. Our view was decent, and we could see the boisterous home fans in their covered terrace behind the far goal. Opposite were curious intermittent open terrace blocks, sparsely populated but available for the home fans.
The first half was all that you could ever wish for with FA Cup football, with both teams going at it like there’s no tomorrow. Town scored early on, Southport equalised, they then should have taken the lead but for a fine stop by Johnson which kept the scores level. Hmami then hit the bar with an extravagant shot from outside the box, before scoring a few minutes later. With multiple ex-Town players lining up for Southport, pantomime villain Jordan Slew was having an impressive game for the home side. The referee joined in the action too, waving cards to anyone in a white shirt.
The game was settled minutes into the second half with our third goal, right in front of many of the impressive 476 travelling Shaymen. From then on Town controlled the game, and the chances for both sides dried up as the home side struggled to get any possession. It was a professional no-nonsense half. Town had come to win the game; they did that without any further fuss. It was perhaps the most comfortable fourth qualifying round game we’d witnessed in years.
Driving back and we were soon studying the other results ready for Monday’s draw. Would we be home, would we be away, anything is possible. What is sure is that with three goals all emanating from a cross, Town are deservedly heading into the next round.
Next up and the bugle will be sounded early, perhaps as early as 4.00am… we’re off to Truro and will have the company of a couple of new recruits. Fair play to them, anyone wishing to sit in a car with us all day deserves credit. Don’t be late though, we will go without you. In preparation, I must go and buy that multi-pack of beans for the car boot, you never know if the chippy will be open and we could perhaps do with a following wind!
C’mon Shaymen!
Miles on the road: 2318. Goals on the road: 12 Points on our travels 13
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