Well that was one hell of a season

So it all comes down to just 90 minutes of football.  The whole season will be decided not only by events at The Dripping Pan, but also at Grosvenor Vale, HA7 and Ram Meadow, Bury St Edmunds.  Despite the excellent form of the Rooks over the past two months with 23 points from a possible 33 and topping the current form charts, those pesky Stones from the place on the Weald simply kept on winning as well, and despite their ridiculous back log of fixtures caused by their FA Trophy run (again the league punish the teams who represent their league better than anyone else), they simply kept on winning, finally breaking into the play off places with a win at Margate on Tuesday night.  Bury Town on the other hand had hit a patch of poor form at the wrong time, losing points here, there and everywhere.  But as they faced rudderless Tooting and Mitcham it was hard to see how they could get anything but three points.

In the twenty four hours before the game the good luck messages started streaming into the club.

“Good luck, fellas. Win or lose, play-offs or not, it’s been a terrific season. But stay off the pies and Harveys until full-time.”

“Good luck and whatever happens thanks for a memorable season and hopefully both the players and management remain for next year.”

“Come on you lovely lot, we’re right behind you! Possibly eating chips & drinking beer, but supporting you all the way. COYR!”

“from a new found supporter and now owner, all of Rome is behind you! Good luck and do what you do best, win :) Ciao, a presto!”

Even the rain that had blighted Southern England could not dampen the spirit of the fans.  The pies were ready, the beer had been poured.  Our bumper end of season programme was selling like hot cakes (have a look for yourselves here) and our club shop had been decimated like a pack of locusts by the fans wanting their Rooks merchandise.  After a week of remarkable football scores in the Champions League that had seriously upset the odds, was there going to be one final twist that would cause shock waves across the Ryman League?  Only time would tell.  That and constant refreshing of Non League Live. Continue reading

The United front of Tooting and Mitcham

W H Smith

Wolfie Smith…The most lovable revolutionary in history, leader of the Tooting Popular Front.  Mitcham. Named after Robert Mitchum in honour of his fine performance in the 1944  film Mr Winkle goes to War.  Put them both together and what do you have? A united front, in fact a Tooting & Mitcham United.  It is amazing how the longer I write, the more tenuous my introductions can get.

Located in a golden triangle of Ryman Premier teams, you would think that business would be booming for Ryman Premier League Tooting & Mitcham United. Sutton United, just two miles to the south west seem to be nailed on for the title this year, and Carshalton Athletic two miles to the south east seem to be back on the way up after a season in the wilderness. So why isn’t the story from down the on Imperial Fields more positive? Continue reading

A little white lie is OK sometimes, right?

For what I am about to write  may the Lord forgive me.

Every so often I make bold statements.  “I will not use my Blackberry after 7pm at night”, “I wont use my laptop in bed”, “I will have a weekend without watching any football”.  What, can you repeat that last one again? I WILL NOT WATCH ANY FOOTBALL FOR A WEEKEND.  Yes, in a mad moment some months ago I agreed that I would not go to any games for one weekend in a year.

I once agreed never to lie to my Mum, agreed that I would never kiss another girl whilst I was with my first love (aged 8), agreed that I would only have “one more” on a night out (frequently) and that I would not ever, ever open that box under CMF’s side of the bed.  So why on earth did I agree to this.  With West Ham away to Liverpool and Lewes starting their almost certain run to the FA Trophy final I agreed to go with CMF to an old work reunion (hers not mine) in Hampstead.  Fat chance of even getting to a pub to see a match, let alone an actual game – that area of North London is hardly teaming with football clubs.


After driving up to North London, smiling at people I had never met, laughing with people I had met before and generally being the perfect husband/Father I was pulled to one side at 2pm. “You have been so good, do you want to go off somewhere to watch the rugby with Tom on TV?”.  Sod the rugby I thought….Could I get to a game anywhere?  A quick check on the TBIR iPhone app revealed the nearest club we had never been to was some 8 miles west-south-west in Harrow.  And they were at home.  Could I?  Should I? Would I?  Silly question really. Continue reading