We’ve gone into that feeling that I hate in football – going to a game merely hoping for something good to happen. For a couple of months I’ve expected a win, most of the time, especially at King George’s Field, I’ve got it.
Since the turn of the year, that confidence has sharply been eroded. And the feeling of disgruntlement and despondency has increased. It’s a typical thing, though, of life as a football supporters, there is absolutely no grey zone, cups are full or empty never half of either. No doubt the next win (hoping that there will be one) will change the mood and we will be on our way to winning the FIFA Club World Cup in no time at all.
However, the weekend that involved the Folkestone Invicta match was a severely unhappy and disappointing one.
Because of closures on the M20 to install a new bridge, alternative routes and thoughts were needed as to how to get to Folkestone and where to stay for the two nights that Rosey and I decided that we wanted to cut down on the travelling on the day.
The normal thing for us to do when we do go down in that direction is to stay at a hotel in the service station on the M20; precisely where that bridge is being built… So we stared at the various maps and hotels websites and chose a hotel in Winchelsea. There was nothing wrong with the hotel, a bit noisy but no big deal. The food there was a bit pricy but having eaten some of it, definitely worth the price.
The journey to Winchelsea on Friday night was severely crap. Quite often it is a mistake to religiously follow the satnav; and our one has a fetish for unlit country roads that for some reason have the national speed limit attached to them. You could probably tell which was our car, because we normally were going at a comfortable pace, comfortable for us, but there would often be an impatient queue of vehicles behind us driven by people who either are local and know these lanes like the backs of their hands or by lunatics who think they’re world class rally drivers. Or both.
So Friday night wasn’t too much fun until we reached the hotel. Saturday, the main idea for this trip, was horrid. The only good bit was the journey from Winchelsea to Folkestone, picturesque roads most of the way (though notice was taken as to the fact that our beloved satnav would probably take us back that way in the dark and yes, the roads would be unlit.).
We passed the safari park in Port Lympne, debating whether we should go there instead of the football. We made easily the wrong choice.
The game itself was desperate to watch for the vast majority of it. A bright-ish start from another much-changed Kingstonian starting eleven, most of the changes admittedly were forced, but anyway for ten minutes we had a contest threatening to turn up. Then, defensive mistake, needless tackle in the area, penalty, thank you, goal, heads go down. Can we come back? Even after eleven minutes my answer was a “probably no”.
Unfortunately I was right, as K’s fumbled and bumbled along for the whole ninety minutes, very rarely threatening the Folkestone goal. If the tactic was to give the Invicta goalkeeper frostbite through inaction and then we would score, it was not successful. Folkestone added another defensively horrid goal, giving Johan her Horst the freedom of Folkestone and most of Dover and the Pas-de-Calais to tap into a practically empty net.
Only when Elliott Buchanan came on did we seriously threaten the goal, and even then he got very little service indeed, at one stage having to enter the realms of the back four in order to get some possession. In the end, it was a relief when the final whistle went. Folkestone Invicta did not look that good a team on the day, yet they were comfortably better than a Kingstonian side that, in keeping with the title of my previous blog, now has a problem.
Not many things grate more than making long trips for a Kingstonian game and then see, from a K’s point of view, a poor game. It’s well known that I dislike travelling, and to be honest a lot of this dislike this season is probably coming from the fare that goes on offer on a Saturday afternoon. There have been way too many of these trips, most of them meaning that we stay in a hotel on the Friday night and normally Saturday as well, and there’s been little reward at the end of it. Saturday was probably the worst of the lot.
Travel back to Winchelsea was as difficult as expected, once again crawling along national speed limit roads in pitch black with a queue of local racing driver wannabees behind us – I made a heinous error in deciding to have fish and chips on the way back to the hotel; they were as disappointing as the game, we should have eaten at the hotel again. The journey back on Sunday took way too long, once again weird routes from the satnav, queues here there and everywhere, and finally on Sunday night, why in the name of Rocky the squirrel did I watch the Pro Bowl? The NFL’s version of an all-star game, and, as it is every year, it was awful. American football played in a friendly environment at 25-50% (if that) speed is as boring as heck, and I should have known better.
Apart from all that, yes, I’m doing fine…