Blank Saturdays

Hats off to the exiles and stay-at-home Gillingham fans that regularly endure the Blank Saturday. These are days that I hate and attempt to avoid at all costs. I’ve come to the conclusion that if I had to go through the horror of the videoprinter every Saturday my life would be shortened by a number of years.

Work commitments on Friday night had decreed that a trip to the FA Cup tie at Gigg Lane was out of the question, so as always in these situations my attentions turned to Ryman League Tonbridge Angels.

I had a nice plan, a visit to my Dad to sit with him to watch Arsenal v Manchester United and then on to Longmead. Following heavy rain during the morning I took the precaution of checking the internet before I left home and was assured that the game was going ahead. Dad, an exile himself and a dyed in the wool Manc, is 87 years old and although his eyesight is near perfect, it becomes a bit one eyed when United are playing. As the Reds fall behind, over the course of the first 45 minutes, he would have subbed Rooney, sold Ronaldo, retired van der Saar (very astute, Dad) and questioned the senility of Sir Alex.

At two down and with a few minutes left on the clock, I took my leave to make my way to Tonbridge. Radio 5 relays that United have pulled one back but ultimately in vain. As I arrive at the Angels’ car park there are cars heading in the wrong direction and I’m immediately suspicious of the outcome of this little journey. A quick word out of the window confirms my fears, match postponed, waterlogged pitch.

At 2.50 p.m. I am stuffed, there is absolutely no time to make a detour, especially with the knowledge that the other local side, Tunbridge Wells, are away from home. So it’s home to sit and watch Gillette Soccer Saturday with the excitable Jeff Stelling.

On the few occasions I’ve been left in this situation, I’ve turned to Radio Kent and their commentary, but invariably this has proved unlucky, so I’ve decided not to follow this route.

So the videoprinter ticks away, goals flow, but nothing comes up from Gigg Lane. I sit, I stare and I sit and I stare, on and on it goes. Mr Stelling gets rather depressed as his beloved Hartlepool go a couple of goals down at Brighton and from the background Paul Goddard and his mates get excited as incidents happen on their monitors. But from Gigg Lane, still the big nothing.

The first time the Gills click onto the screen is the goalless half time score. The clock ticks on and the video printer seems to take on a life of its own as the scores fairly rattle in. There are shocks in the offing as the likes of Curzon Athletic and Blyth Spartans lead Football League clubs and from Gigg Lane, the silence continues.

Then at 4.32 the ticker trots out a line that probably never moved the majority of households, Bury 0 Gillingham 1 (Weston 71), I shout, but then double-take, the line is still there on the screen, the Gills have the lead. The ticker trots out another line and the scorer is amended to Barcham, of this I don’t care, but all of sudden the ticker inside my own body has started to beat a whole lot faster.

Now it is back to sitting and staring, the goals still appear but my focus is now on the time that these goals are scored, watching the clock tick down. I wait, I sit, I stare, back into the big black hole that is a lack of information. The thought runs through my head to turn on the radio, but I’m fearful of jinxing the situation. Jeff Stelling lightens the moment as James Brown scores for Hartlepool and he celebrates wildly with his James Brown doll singing “I Feel Good”. Sorry, Jeff, but actually I feel quite sick at this moment.

The videoprinter is now churning out full time scores, they are streaming through at a rate that the redoubtable Mr Stelling cannot keep up with. I’m not listening anyway, the heart rate has reached manic proportions and the stare is now fixed. Did every FA Cup score come through before Gillingham’s, probably not, but it sure felt that way. But there it is: FT (--) FAC1 BURY 0 GILLINGHAM 1. The whoop causes the cat to momentarily show a flicker of interest. We are through to Round Two and I make myself a little promise, wherever we are drawn in the next round, I’m not going to put myself through this again.

I’m sure you do your job well, Mr Stelling, but I cannot subscribe to those long spells of nothingness from the only match in which I am interested. How do the exiles cope, do you make yourselves copious cups of tea, immunise yourselves with liquid of a stronger nature? There must be ways to combat the sense of helplessness, but I suppose I could have turned everything off and busied myself with the hoovering, Nah.