The recurring dream

Gilligham FC 2 - 1 Rochdale AFC

(agg. 2-1)

Journey:

I have a dream. I have it a lot. It is always the same dream.

It goes like this:

I am stood on the Sandy. It is a hot sunny day, but dark and cool under the roof. Dale’s keeper (oddly I don’t recognise him at all) is dawdling over taking a goal kick. The Rochdale faithful are crowded against the fence whistling at the referee, the referee checks his watch and indicates that the keeper should get a move on. Eventually the unknown keeper launches the ball into the big, blue sky, the opposition centre half rises, nods the ball down and their midfielder scurries in to collect. The referee looks at his watch again, lifts the whistle to his lips - and blows.

A primal roar rises from all around Spotland. A couple of the more athletic youngsters vault the fence and run onto the pitch, then more, and more - soon the trickle becomes a flood. The stewards give up chasing people and open the gates. Soon everyone is on the pitch. Even me. The opposition fans are clapping and the Dale fans are singing, ‘AND NOW YOU GONNA BELIEVE US – THE DALE ARE GOING UP!’

That’s it. My dream.

It’s a good dream - but considering that after an 06:45 start in Rochdale I am stood in the Livingstone Arms in Gillingham it is probably likely to remain just that. A dream.

It would have made a brilliant ending to the 101 Project though – should it ever be made into a movie (which is very unlikely) I imagine they would play the music from Chariots of Fire over that bit – or possibly the theme tune from Bullseye, either’s good. I am here for part three of the Gillingham trilogy – the League 2 play-off semi-final, second leg.

Mr. Keane and I had tried to watch the Bury vs. Shrewsbury play-off game in the Livingstone – but were denied by a meeting of two Mancunian pub teams – whom everyone seemed to want to watch instead. In the end it didn’t matter. A mighty shout followed by a torrent of mischievous cackling from a small knot of Rochdale fans told us everything we needed to know. Bury had lost to Shrewsbury. On penalties. How awful.

With every Dale fan’s heart just a little lighter, something like a street party broke out outside. The pavement in front of the Livingstone filled up with Dale fans, people began spilling onto the road, the Police duly arrived – and the Dale fans dutifully spilled back again. Mr. Mitchell arrived, as did Mr. McCabe and the Playboy. The Royal Borough of Dagenham’s Cultural Attache, Mr. Evans, rang in to wish us luck and let us know he would be watching the game, in Exeter, wearing a Rochdale Shirt (does this seem slightly surreal to anyone else?). Rochdale’s chairman Mr. Dunphy popped in for a swift half and Mr. Culshaw put in a guest appearance accompanied by Mr. Brookes – who reminded me that today could be his last game commentating on Dale.

It wasn’t a total surprise, he had mentioned it before – after twenty years of eating, sleeping and breathing Rochdale AFC he has decided to retire at the end of the season.

For his work down the years – a trip to Wembley, if not a little more, would seem the only fair repayment. Under that blue sky, with the sun beating down on my face and two plucky Gill’s fans engaged in a good natured exchange of chants with 100 or more Dale fans – it seemed that it just might happen.

Weather:

They call it the garden of England for a reason – absolutely glorious.

Food:

Having fallen foul of the Priestfield pie once before (burnt to a cinder you may recall) I didn’t bother. However, the ladies at the Livingstone had put on a handsome selection of sandwiches at jolly reasonable prices. £3.00 for a baguette full of freshly roasted beef and horseradish has got to be the bargain of the season.

Ground:

I have done this one before – so I won’t dwell. It is a nice, tidy ground. I like it.

Tucked away at the back of the open Brian Moore stand sat (mostly stood) 600 Rochdale fans. In spite of being out numbered more than 10-1 by the home fans they managed to make a decent amount of noise in support of the cause.

As for me – well I was in the main stand, sat beside Mr. Culshaw in the press area. Due to technical thingumyjiggery I wouldn’t actually be commentating tonight – Mr. Culshaw would be doing updates by phone. So I was basically just a spectator - or if you will moocher - with one of the best seats in the house. Being a play thing of the media does have definite upsides.

Action:

Thursday night had been an exceedingly close encounter. Dale had turned in a performance Spotland had not seen the like of for weeks. For their part Gillingham had further emphasised that they are an excellent side, playing good football and with huge confidence in their abilities. All that said, it had ended 0-0. Which side was happier with the result? Gillingham could look forward to taking the tie home again with honours even after a few nervous moments – but Rochdale really did seem to have rediscovered their form at pretty much the perfect time. To wheel out a hoary old football cliché: It’s too close to call.

Your team for today: Fielding in goal. Ramsden, Stanton, McArdle and Kennedy in defence. Thompson, Jones, Toner and Rundle in midfield. Thorpe and Dagnall upfront.

Rochdale started well. The Gill’s looked a little fretful in front of their hugely enthusiastic crowd. However, with a little less than fifteen minutes on the clock the hand of fate intervened – or more specifically, the hand of Denis Oli.

McArdle had attempted to clear the ball upfield – but failed to get any height on it. It collided with Oli’s out stretched hand and fell into his path, completely wrong footing Ramsden who was marking him. As Dale players appealed in vain to the referee, Mr. Oliver, Oli swept the ball forward to Barcham who flashed the ball towards Rochdale’s near post – where Simeon Jackson was lurking. Stanton threw himself at the ball – but Jackson was more alert. His clever, flicked finish left Fielding helpless. 1-0 Gillingham.

Undaunted, Dale threw themselves at Gillingham – but with the comfort of a goal, the Gill’s shook off their early jitters and snuffed out every one of Rochdale’s increasingly desperate foray’s forward. It looked like the game was basically over – Dale couldn’t find a way through and Gillingham were looking more confident by the minute.

With ten minutes of the half remaining – and with Mr. Culshaw and I predicting the worst, Rochdale scored!

A determined piece of work from Thompson delivered a teasing ball into the box, Lee Thorpe created an amusing amount of chaos in the Gillingham area and Dagnall swept in to do the honours. As his left footed shot soared into the top corner – I soared into the Kentish sky. 1-1!

Half time rolled up without further incident and I disappeared into the press room in search of free sandwiches - with a smile on my face and a little skip in my step. Maybe it wasn’t my dream – but a dream was still very much alive – and I’m really not that picky.

Sadly, it wasn’t to last. Ten minutes into the second half the Gill’s Nutter burst into the Dale box where a horribly ill-judged challenge from McArdle sent him sprawling. Mr. Oliver had a good look, then another – and then another. Just when it seemed he might wave play on – he pointed to the spot. Penalty.

Jackson stepped up. Fielding dived left. Jackson fired right. 2-1 Gillingham.

The balance of the game felt a bit dream like. But not a good dream. Having allowed Dale back in once, Gillingham showed no such charity the second time around. Dale pressed ever more frantically but found a solid Kentish wall in their path – and to compound matters, Mr. Oliver went on a booking frenzy – showing four Rochdale players yellow cards for seemingly very minor infractions.

The minutes and then the seconds ticked away. I tried prayer. It didn’t work.

Mr. Oliver blew his whistle. The players ran for the tunnel. The Gillingham fans invaded the pitch. I stood up. I applauded for a moment or two. I left.

Summary:

On the long drive home, Mr. Keane and I had plenty of time to reflect on the game.

Irrespective of the handball in the lead up to the first goal, Rochdale really should have defended better – instead of which they were appealing to the impassive Mr. Oliver.

Dagnall’s goal for Dale was fantastic. A very classy finish. For just a few minutes it made every Rochdale fan believe that another trip to Wembley could be on the cards.

The penalty was the result of no more than poor judgement. I doubt McArdle intended to bring Nutter down – but having committed himself to the challenge so early the consequences were pretty predictable.

No complaints. No recriminations. The better team won.

From the beginning of this little adventure I had felt unshakeably certain that the end of the 101 Project would be just like my dream. Sadly, it wasn’t.

The 101 Project actually ended on Mr. Keane’s patio. With a mug of tea apiece and looking out over the moor’s above Littleborough we talked about summer holidays in Turkey, pruning strategies for Japanese Maple tree’s, Britain’s Got Talent and the grand re-opening of the Caldermoor Hotel.

Not the end I had in mind – but a good one nonetheless. Especially the bit about the Caldermoor.

I guess we’re done then.

I still have a dream...

10/05/09

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