James May

Gillingham FC 1 - 1 Rochdale AFC

Journey:

Gillingham - away. The acid test. The whole of the 101 Project hinges on this trip - and I am doing it alone.

Wisely, in my opinion, my usual co-conspirators had all made plausible excuses - salsa dancing lessons, tarot readings, church and least probably of all - work. So, just me then. 540 miles. On my own.

Obviously I had my I-Pod with me for company. Hours of quality music to help while away the lonely hours. However, the contents of said I-Pod have been troubling me lately. I watched 'The 50 Worst Songs Ever' on BBC3. I have all of them. Perhaps Mr. Keane's endless tooth sucking and tongue clicking is not without foundation.

I had also hoped for the dulcent, school maam-ish tones of my Sat Nav, Jane, to keep me company. However, as is her want, she had decided that Gillingham was an unacceptable destination selection and had gone into her refusing to accept instructions mode. No matter. Let's see how clever you are when your batteries run out madam!

I joined the M6 and rolled southwards.

The facts of the matter are that long journeys on your own are - well - boring. I mean really, really boring. I needed something to occupy my mind...

A long road trip, on my own, tight deadline to meet - an idea emerged - Top Gear challenge!

I could be Clarkson - well at least in my own car I could - boomy voice, hand gestures, sarcasm - oh yes! I could be Clarkson. Granted, this would be limited to me talking in a Clarkson-esque manner to an invisible TV camera mounted on the passenger side about other road users - oh, and saying 'POWWERRRR!' in a deep gravelley tone everytime I overtook someone - but it passed the time.

Things were going well. I even had a stab at reviewing my car:

'The thing about the medium-sized Audi is that it isn't just about the throbbing power of the turbo-charged, fuel injected powerplant when you hit the loud pedal...

It is nothing as vulgar as that.

Consider the understated style of the cabin, the supportive yet comfortable seats, the effortless efficacy of the air conditioning, the oh-so satisfying quality of the switches, the metronomic tick-tock of the indicators and the concert hall standard stereo. It is just a really nice place to be...'

Hang on a minute.

That isn't Clarkson. That isn't Clarkson at all.

Oh god - I'm May. I'm James May. What a revolting development...

19:00 hrs arrive Gillingham. Not a moment too soon.

Weather:

Cold. Very, very cold. However, the Kentish variety of cold has a special quality all of it's very own.

Damp.

An insidious marrow chilling damp which meant that any attempt to keep warm was utterly futile. The seats where damp, the floor of the stand was damp and the pitch was coated in a silvery sheen of Kentish dampness.

Food:

In the less civilised parts of this England, meat and potato pies are not as freely available as they are in Gods Country. Consequently, I was obliged to sample the steak and kidney variant.

The pleasant young lady behind the counter relieved me of £2.20 and delivered me... A cinder. Burned to within an inch of it's life - completely black on top. Ruined.

Still, it was served on a paper plate - which was new on me. For only a further £1.30 I got a coffee - which helped somewhat in choking down my burnt offering.

Ground:

The Priestfield Stadium is not the easiest place to find. Let alone finding the away end. Due to it's location in the midst of a fairly built up area, you can't actually see it from the main road. However, thanks to the flood lights - I could play follow the glow.

Having made my way through the side streets of Gillingham I arrived outside the rather impressive Medway Stand. Whilst searching for the away end I strolled past what appeared to be an outpost of Emporio Armani, built into the stand - moody lighting, brushed aluminium display stands, stripped birch cladding etc. A closer inspection revealed that it wasn't an Emporio Armani - it was the club shop. Feeling a bit like the country mouse I asked a steward for directions to the away end.

Round a corner, round another corner, down a ginnel between two houses - and say hello to the Brian Moore Stand.

Named for the football commentator, the Brian Moore stand is of the temporary nature and open to the elements. That said, apart from the damp - not bad.

Pleasingly, 150 or so Dale had made the journey south including a detachment of the Sandy Lane 'Noisy Boys' - who were both vocal and stripped to the waist. Brave.

Action:

Return of the Mc. That had been the buzz this week. The Dale legend that is Lee McEvilly would be returning for his third spell at Spotland - albeit on loan - and due to paperwork complications not tonight. We look forward to seeing Mr. McEvilly adding some 'weight' to the Rochdale forward line in coming games.

So here is tonights news...

Jonah would be taking no part tonight - his injury at the weekend was clearly more serious than we had hoped and to compound this, Dagnall was also injured and would not be involved. On the upside, Shaw and Ramsden were fit again and Higginbotham had returned from his loan spell at Accrington.

LeFondre would retain his place up front and Toner would rejoin the midfield, partnering Keltie.

A patient and purposeful start from Rochdale. Whilst Gillingham probably had slightly more of the ball - Dale had the better chances. Following a couple of speculative efforts, Rochdale forced the Gill's into some frenetic defending in their box as three or four Dale players attempted to make the opportunity count - but a forrest of Gillingham bodies beat the danger away.

On 17 minutes things took a turn for the worse. Dale lost the ball in Midfield. A cross field ball found Jarrett on the Gill's left, who deliverd a tantalising cross which found Gillingham's top scorer, Jackson, free of his marker. A powerful finish at full stretch from Jackson. 1-0 Gillingham. Oops...

Encouragingly, the goal didn't seem to effect Rochdale too much. After a few minutes of scruffy, nervy defending and an opportunity for Jackson to double the Gill's lead - Dale gathered themselves and began to roll Gillingham back. The best chance of the remainder of the half was another goal mouth scramble which saw Keltie lash an effort goalward from close range. Only Simon Royce's apparently unintentional intervention prevented an equaliser.

In spite of this, 1-0 to Gillingham it remained. Half time.

During the first half the 'Noisy Boys' had been involved in an elaborate game of stand up bingo with the Gillingham stewards. Up and down the men in orange went - to ask the 'Noisy Boys' to sit down. Up and down the 'Noisy Boys' went - to get them to come back again. All quite diverting.

Some time during the entertainment, the steward stood next to me quipped: 'Why can't they just sit down?'. 'Because you want them to?' I replied. He looked at me, grinned and reflected: 'Mmm, fair point - I was just the same'.

This little interchange would have some unexpected consequences later in the game.

In ever plummeting temperatures the players re-took the field. Dale started quite nicely with Thompson displaying some of the confidence which has been missing in recent weeks and running at the Gill's defence. However, it was - the to this point quiet - Kennedy who would carve out the breakthrough for Dale. A run from deep resulted in a quality pass to St. Adam. A tight turn - a look up - followed by the most exquisite chipped finish. Royce was left flapping at air. 1-1.

Dale continued to enjoy a good deal of the ball - but in spite of St. Adam's best efforts, the deadlock could not be broken. Perhaps devine intervention was required.

At this point I heard a voice.

'Your number 11 is coming off. Number 30 coming on'. Not quite how I thought my first discussion with the almighty might begin - nor had I counted on a Kentish accent. I looked round. It was the steward. 'Watch' he said.

Dutifully when play next broke down, the board appeared. 11 off, 30 on. Maybe he was God. They say he is always in the last place you look. I started to mouthe 'how?' - he tapped his radio knowingly - 'same frequency as the officials'. So not God then - that was a relief.

In spite of the Shaker Maker's introduction and a series of increasingly baffling decisions from tonight's match official, Mr. Cook - there is little further to report. I spent the balance of the game chatting to the steward. The advanced news that there would only be three minutes time added on was greeted warmly by my frozen joints.

1-1.

Summary:

As I trundled north at 69 mph, mentally calculating whether I would have enough fuel to get me all the way home - yes, I accept it, I am James May - I reflected on a James May like performance from Rochdale this evening. Solid and intelligent - occasionaly quite brilliant - but without ever being really exciting.

A good point away from home.

Turner Watch:

Producing Mr. McCabe's debut album which will be entitled: 'Do you want raspberry sauce on that?'.

25/11/08