A remarkably Autumnal evening for mid August and a first visit of the season to the Bill Stokeld Stadium to see local side Carlton Town play Bedworth United in the Northern Premier League Division One. First mission, to get in. The season ticket purchased a few weeks back when a Forest one wasn’t a done-deal hadn’t arrived in the post. A quick word with the friendly man on the gate and I was directed to the clubhouse bar to meet chairman Mick Garton. Mick came up with the goods, the goods being a laminated piece of card wit his signature and club crest on it. Job done. Time for a pint and somehow, possibly a consequence of my use of the word “smashing”, the conversation got onto Bullseye. “But what did they ever do with the speedboat?” I pondered, recalling the winners frequently a) weren’t related and b) lived in flats in Wolverhampton. “Funny you should ask that,” replied the barman. “A friend of mine died last year and he had an unused speedboat he’d won on Bullseye. Never left his garden.”
Next stop to purchase a pin badge from Ken in the shop, splurging out on a scarf just because it was so unseasonably cold. Hadn’t got enough cash for the woolly hat Ken recommended though. Next time…
Ten mins before kick of, so time to Google Bedworth, as I’d not the faintest where it was. Or indeed, still is. Not wanting to pre-judge a place, but who wold have guessed that Bedworth – possibly Bed’uth to locals, see Southwell, see also Rainworth, Ren’uth and Blidworth, Blidduth locally – would have given us Pete Doherty of Libertines infamy and also a founder member of …And You Shall Know Us By Out Trail of Dead. And an ex-member of the Shadows.
A quick delve into the Bedworth United website suggested a squad comprising a mix of ex-academy players who’ve not quite made it and a smattering of lower league journeymen, with CVs frequently seeming to include Kidderminster Harriers. The management team smacked of League experience with Stuart Storer, most notably with 165 appearances for Bolton amongst a host of clubs and Mark Albrighton, an archetypal lower league journeyman, as his assistant.
A glance pitchwards showed an Empire State Human of a ‘keeper and a bunch of fit, strong looking fellers. Being this close to the pitch and action, you appreciate how fit and strong modern footballers are. Proper athletes, even at this level. When play starts (knee taken, I was pleased to see), you also begin to appreciate how good they are. This is not pub football, probably way above anything anyone I’ve ever played with could have managed. Players are two footed, fast and strong. Tackling is brutal. All of which makes you realise just how good top level players must be, something I might point out to the miserable bastard behind us at Forest as he lambasts eighteen year old Alex Mighten. “You’re rubbish, Mighten,” was his dismal refrain on Saturday, starting about five seconds after said AM was introduced. He’s not. The season before last, when we could still go, the targets were top goal scorer (admittedly not a high bar of late) Lewis Grabban and decent-enough ‘keeper Brice Samba. Both are as good as Forest can realistically expect to have. The MBBU has been a nagging problem, literally, for a few years now and it can’t be too long before someone points this out to him. If we all followed his example and shared every negative thought we had at the match it loudly, very loudly, we’d be in a world of proper psychological trauma.
All of the above reminds me of Mark Whelan, who looked a phenomenal talent at school and was part of the Man Utd Whelan dynasty, Uncle Billy (aka Liam) having died in the Munich aircrash. I distinctly remember calling for Mark to play on Sunday afternoon and having to wait while the family and Sir Matt Busby polished off the roast. Anyway, Mark was good. The best I’ve seen. He left ‘big’ school suddenly in the second year and I heard little or nothing from him until 1980 when Forest were due to be at Wembley v Wolves in the League Cup final, the Shilton/Needham disaster one. Mark was after a ticket and I could oblige as my Dad couldn’t make it to use his. As the match passed, Mark explained that he was an apprentice at Chelsea, but he was close to packing it all in. The exact quote stays with me. “Pete, I’m not good enough. There’s twelve year olds take the piss.” How good do you have to be?
The match was properly entertaining: fast, committed, end-to-end, edgy at times. Bedworth seemed overtly keen to influence the ref to send a Carlton player off whenever a could was committed, especially their number ten who strutted a lot, pointed even more, reckoned himself, but did very little of any use.
A goal for Carlton skipper Aaron Opuku, sweeping in a cross about fifteen minutes from time, was enough to bring a well-deserved win for the Millers, who should have won more comfortably.
Note to self to try to go away to Bedworth, whose home ground, The Oval, looks pleasingly old-Skool.
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