Gordon Alexander is our man at Cambridge United v Grimsby Town

Now, I don’t know whether you’ve ever been to London but its pretty dull. Once you’ve seen Tower Bridge, you’ve seen it all. But the day job took us down there and seeing as the whole place shuts down at about 7pm I took advantage of being within striking distance of Cambridge to lend my support to my first love. Grimsby Town. In the Vauxhall Conference, or the Blue Square Premier if you insist, the fifth tier of English football.

Cambridge, outside the pretty little greens, the courts and colleges of the city centre and pretty ladies on bicycles, is standard eastern England suburban fare. Just like Scunthorpe basically but with nicer cars on the driveways and less Combat 18 graffiti.

It was a good half-hour walk from the railway station (no taxis, I’m on a budget, no buses, ditto) to reach The Abbey Stadium, or the R Costings.co.uk Abbey Stadium as Mike Ashley would probably insist on it being called. Its properly old school. One typically East Anglian main stand, a two thirds length covered terrace for the home ultras and the Habbin all standing stand which had a buffer zone of about fifty yards separating us and them. And proper floodlights, gently caressing the night, sirens drawing me closer to the rocks from the city’s amorphous suburban sprawl.

Premier Sports TV were there too. An obscure satellite channel with exclusive rights to the Blue Square Premier aswell as well as Nascar, Major League Rounders, cheese-rolling and the BDFA dog-fighting. Its £7.99 a month I’d rather spend on fags.

I picked up my complimentary ticket (its not what you know, but whose son you know), wondered how many they’d get in for the Great Yarmouth game, bought a programme and a 50/50 half time prize draw ticket (I’m a sucker for that shite) and took a stroll round to the South Stand where the away following were to take their seats, seats still being a novelty at this level.

I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for Cambridge. One of my good friends is a big Cambridge supporter and one of my footballing idols was legendary former manager John Beck. Who, almost inconceivably took Cambridge to within an inch of from reaching the first Premier League in 1992. Although they were labelled (quite rightly) neanderthal long ball merchants they had a few decent players back then did United. Steve Claridge, Lee Philpott and John Filan were all making names for themselves at the Abbey as was the legendary Dion Dublin, of the fabulous Dion Dublin Dong Song and 100 Premier League goals/EPL top scorer in 1998 fame.

John Beck is a hero of mine for taking petty gamesmanship to a different level. What did he get up to? Everything, whether it be waterlogging corners of the pitch to make the ball hold up there, making the opposition warm up with half inflated balls, turning up the heating in the opposition dressing rooms to full blast, removing the heating elements from the opposition showers and moving the opposition dugout to next to the corner flag.

Pettiness is next to godliness. Once upon a time I chanced upon an object of my affections at the Pier nightclub in Cleethorpes back in the halcyon days of the East Coast’s premier ‘nitespot’. I made my intentions clear, but was brutally rebuffed. So I went to where she left her coat, took it outside and threw it into the sea.

At this level stewards are mainly employed directly by the club and are supporters first and foremost. And Cambridge was no exception. They were impeccably polite and professional and were all round good eggs. The distinction between bigger clubs who contract out the stewarding to fluorescent goons who couldn’t identify Antarctica on a globe even if you gave them two chances and who can’t hold down employment for more than five hours every fortnight, couldn’t be greater.

As you may have heard, London isn’t all that great for eating out so I treated myself to a spot of tea at the Blue Square Premier’s solitary Michelin starred Refreshment stall with a hot dog and a Bovril. Its easier to tender payment for goods and services south of the border with an actual Clydesdale compared to a Clydesdale note. That didn’t deter me though and I handed over one of their tenners. The poor lady behind the counter looked at me as if I’d just asked her what she looked like naked. A brief explanation of Scotland’s history of printing it own banknotes ensued and, it accepted, I headed on my merry way, sausage bap and Cowacino in hand.

The condiments were set out on a decorating table. There was plenty of brown sauce in catering sized plastic bottles, but they had cleverly left them two thirds full. You can’t leave them full because if you do, the pressure is sufficient to be able to squirt the liquid modest distances. I once stumbled into a brown sauce fight at Christie Park Morecambe a couple of years ago. That was a long train journey back.

After a somewhat ropey start notable by two excellent examples of goalkeeping by our very own James McKeown, Town began to turn the screw. Our movement and ability to hold the ball was as impressive as I’ve seen from the team for several years. After the infuriating spectacle of having a penalty overruled by the linesperson (I don’t care if it was the right decision, it still a mugging), Town took the lead in the 25^th minutes. Michael Coulson and the exceptionally impressive Liam Hearn combined to lay the ball back to Anthony Elding on the edge of the area who drilled it home much to the 400 ultras delight. I shouted out “Sir Anthony Elding” in a Norwegian accent. None of my fellow supporters clocked that reference and neither will any of you.

We dominated the game for the next hour. It was as comfortable a 1-0 away win as you could get. The midfield, Frankie Artus specifically, doing a sterling job in breaking up the play, pressurising and copper-fastening the team’s shape throughout. Cambridge helped our cause mind. They didn’t look particularly comfortable on the ball, were readily and easily bullied and didn’t appear to have the flexibility or the nouse to counter the exceptional movement and strength of our in-demand forward line. There was of course the obligatory couple of heart-stopping moments near the end, par for the course holding a 1-0 lead away from home I suppose. However, any result short of a Town win would have been a travesty. And so after four minutes of injury time, the game was brought to a conclusion and Town had graduated  with first class honours.

Genuinely the best performance I‘ve seen by Town in years. Cambridge are sniffing around the play-offs and Town are on their best run in about a decade, so its probably not indicative of the standard of play in the Conference in general. But nevertheless, I’d suspect its top end of Division One, lower end of the SPL. Put it this way, neither United or Town are any worse than Dunfermline or Dundee.

And so it was back to London and The Caledonian Sleeper north. I can thoroughly recommend the Haggis, Neeps and Tatties and five cans of Tennents. But just a hint. When you’re on the Sleeper and the signs say ‘Not Drinking Water’, they mean it.

God bless you all.

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About the Author
Raised by wolves on the wild Lincolnshire coast, Gordon has been Scotland’s 53rd best stand-up comedian for a record six years.

On the scene since 2007, he has been a staple of The Stand’s Edinburgh Festival Fringe programme, performs across the country with his own unique brand of sociopathic misanthropy and biting political comedy and has supported some of the biggest names in UK comedy.

After an unsuccessful football career, culminating in an extra-time defeat in the 1996 U16s Lincolnshire Cup Final, he has been trying unsuccessfully to get a Football Banning Orderfor three years now to stop him spunking any more of his limited disposable income on following his beloved Grimsby Town in the Vauxhall Conference for three years now. He also follows Queen of the South, crack Bundesliga 2 outfit Erzgebirge Aue, Crvena Zvezda and Portland Timbers.

Gordon is a ‘ground-hopper’ and bloody proud of it. His favourite stadia are the Stadio Nereo Rocco in Trieste and the Erzegibrgestadion in Saxony.

“…Character creation Father Alexander was hilarious, taking a satirical lump out of Salmond’s Scotland with a sermon for the Lockerbie bomber Abdelbaset Ali Al-Megrahi…” Brian Donaldson, The Scotsman

“Gordon Alexander eulogies were a highlight….clever, fun and deserving of a bigger audience” Barrie Morgan, The Skinny

“…Far more polished was Gordon Alexander…It’s a superbly written act and Alexander topped up it’s topicality and was rewarded for his efforts by getting by far the biggest laughs of the night…” Neil McEwan, Edinburgh Evening News

“…Man-of-the-match Gordon Alexander stole the show with his character pieces…” Bernard O’Leary, The Skinny

You can follow Gordon on Twitter: @GoAlexander

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