Cod Almighty | Diary

You know that it's been sunk a thousand times

4 September 2015

Retro Diary writes: There are a number of stages in the life of a Town fan. Firstly as a kid, when it's all new, and you're intoxicated by the colours, the smells, and the euphoria. Then as a young adult, when football becomes a matter of territorial pride, and you want to travel, with your army, to far-flung destinations and fight for your patch of ground. Missing a big match is a matter of utmost failure, not to mention disloyalty.

Later on, you start to see the club for what it is – essentially a business, not strictly necessary for life but put there to make people's lives more meaningful. Run by people who, like people everywhere, are passionate and flawed.

And lastly, in later life, you go to watch Town for no other reason than it is who you are. The division Town play in is less important than the ritual; the slow walk down Grimsby Road, the huge sky, the faint smell of the Humber, the sun setting behind the Imperial pylon, the waves of sound, and the walk home. The result, though important at the time, is quickly forgotten. By repeating this ritual, there is a way in which you touch your own youthful self. But, like an ageing partner, Town's imperfections are the bits you come to love about them the most.

Although I am not young, I haven't yet attained this peaceful state. I still get very upset by cowardly referees and last-minute equalisers. I have to fight hard to stop managers' decisions from losing me sleep. One of the problems for my generation, of course, is that we had it too good. Basically, I cannot die while Town are a non-League club. I get more and more neurotic about this the longer it goes on, and sometimes it's hard to work out whether Town are actually keeping me alive or killing me.

I'm not the only one who gets upset now and again, and the fortunes of any football club seem to fall entirely, and probably unfairly, on the manager. Football managers realise that they never walk on solid ground. For managers, for 'vote of confidence' read 'last-chance saloon'.

Managers are like politicians – we give them their turn on the pedestal, and from that point onwards we judge them by how well they push our interests forward, and on the quality of their decisions. Just like politicians, if managers fall out with the people, the people always win. Always. But when they get it just right, as Hursty did against Lincoln, we'll give them the credit they deserve, and more.

In this respect the tide of public opinion is substantially moderated by the media. The media must report accurately, while under pressure from owners, advertisers and censors. They must try not to either sensationalise or offend, nor either ignore or create facts. Unconventional views that take time to explain may be dropped in favour of those that can be concisely matched to our immediate prejudices. The media must not upset those who feed them the news, nor be intimidated by them. On the whole, it's a job I'm very glad I don't have to do.

Last week, my language about the Telegraph proved a little too florid for some tastes.  Pleasing everybody isn't easy, and one person's playful joshing seems to be another's excoriating insult. Heaven forbid that we should arrive at a point where a diarist's choice of language has to put risk avoidance before rhythm and colour – I don't think anybody would want that. But needless to say, no dire offence was meant. The intention was merely to tease the Telegraph about the 'club-friendliness' of some of its analyses, especially where criticism of team and manager are concerned. Last season's infernal Lenell-worship provides the best example you could wish for.

In fact the Telegraph seems, among the disquiet of the last couple of weeks, to have sharpened its teeth a little, and today's offering in particular marks an encouraging step change. Hopefully from now on times will be good enough that we won't need to see the teeth bared too often.

Tomorrow it's Boreham Wood. Yes, I know that's something you never thought you'd hear. Boreham Wood is a football team based in Borehamwood, the Hertfordshire town which seems to have anticipated its own email address. All that joining up is, to me, a bit inelegant – Boreham Wood is the pre-1970, and I think nicer, name. As touched upon yesterday by Devon Diary, Borehamwood is the home of the Elstree Film and Television Studios, so this anonymous outer London borough probably has a claim to more fame than anywhere else outside Hollywood.

This is one of those completely novel fixtures that we both love and fear. Boreham Wood have entered my radar only once before, after their ill-tempered FA Cup tie at Carlisle in 2013, which they dominated, but lost in the fifth minute of injury time. The things the Boreham Wood team were reported to have done to their hosts' dressing room afterwards don't bear repeating, but the photo of the tea urn upside down in the urinal remains an enduring image. Before you imagine that tomorrow we're playing a team of ill-disciplined hoolies, it transpires that they did pretty much none of it, and the whole thing was mischief-making from someone on the Carlisle side.

Indeed, honesty seems to be in short supply in football these days, as perfectly illustrated by the corpulent and ignoble Matt Rhead last week. Honesty could also have kept the ball out of the net at Altrincham too, but so unfashionable is it these days that the very suggestion seems hopelessly naïve.

In that Lincoln game, Town were considerably relieved not to have to face their old hero Liam Hearn, who was injured. Given the way Lincoln played, I have no doubt that the injury was to his neck. The thought of having to watch that every week makes you realise that it could all be so much worse.

So – tomorrow a fixture is born. Dare we hope that this is the start of the charge?

UTM