FIFTY years of football memories

Saturday 11th September, 1976
3pm - Fulham versus Wolves
Football League Division 2

Do NOT adjust your sets. That IS the correct fixture date.
Some of football's greats grind out a goal-less "feast" of long-ago football. Still fresh enough in MY mind though.

... and no, I can hardly believe that number in the title, myself. Yet fifty years ago this week, I went along to watch my first ever professional football match, in the flesh. It was the start of a long-running love affair between me and Fulham F.C. And, frankly, a mostly one-sided affair, at that. Previously, my relationship with the professional game had been almost exclusively via the BBC's 'Match of the Day' TV show. The first host of which I remember being David Coleman (once I was old enough to stay up and watch it on a Saturday night). And via ITV's competing offering, the Sunday afternoon 'Big Match' (from London Weekend Television) presented by Brian Moore. I was alive for (but have no memory of) England's only ever World Cup victory. Famously achieved on home soil against wartime rivals (West) Germany.

All blame for my eventual Fulham connection lies with my brother Kevin. I was the youngest of seven Harney siblings (a London-Irish, Catholic family!). Kevin was the 2nd-youngest; though almost 4 years my senior. Which was (officially) a "difficult" age gap. Although not as difficult as the fifty year gap between me and our father. 

Kevin, of course, was landed with the task of being my (unwilling) guide, mentor, and chaperone; an almost permanent shadow for perhaps the first c. 10 years of my life. Unwittingly cramping his style, embarrassing him in front of his cool friends, and obstructing his summer holiday activities, etc., at every turn. He regularly observed that my only positive role in his life was as a (dodgy) excuse for his missing homework. Apparently, I even ATE it, once.

We went to the same junior and secondary schools (St. Winifred's, followed by the Salesian College, in Battersea). And the latter influenced my eventual choice of club. AND my brother's. Because its South-West London location required us to receive  new free train and bus travel passes, every school term. Which got us pretty close to Craven Cottage, relatively quickly. Despite having to go in and out of Central London, and change trains, to get there. 

"Two Little Boys": me, inexplicably in a wheelbarrow. With Big Brother. Back garden 1965 photo shoot. Slightly before our Fulham years.

We grew up pretty much equi-distant from three other London clubs: Charlton; Millwall and Crystal Palace. West Ham United and Leyton Orient weren't too far away either. So we were pretty well-served by "minor" clubs. There was even a strong family connection to the Charlton and Woolwich area, through our mother's family and upbringing. But The Valley wasn't an easy ground to get to from Hither Green. Requiring a good walk at each end and a couple of badly connecting bus rides.

Following Millwall would never even have been a consideration. Our youthful years coincided with the Cold Blow Lane terraces' particularly "nasty"/notorious fan base. Think Harry the Dog, Bobby the Wolf, F Troop, Treatment, the Half-way Line, The Bushwhackers, etc.. The association of some of these with the far right National Front party racists, and extreme casual violence, were mutually self-supporting.

Our Dad, incidentally, always referred to himself as a Crystal Palace fan. Purely because of that geographical nearness to our house. But he had NEVER been along to watch a game. He actually preferred sitting in front of the TV watching horse racing, in fact. Always picking The Grey, if there was one running (nostalgically, it was always assumed). But never gambling on the outcomes. He was a man of few excesses; but remained fond of horses as a result of his own youth, spent in rural and disadvantaged Ireland. Where owning a horse still went with the territory. "Literally"!

There is, famously, a code of honour amongst "Real Football Fans" that you never change your club allegiance. Foreign tourist fans of the EPL would struggle to grapple with this concept, one imagines. Given that their allegiances seem to largely coincide with, and be dictated by, whichever club won the title last season.

In my youth, many kids at school flirted with calling themselves Manchester United fans (after those glory years of the late 1960s) or Liverpool fans, in the years that followed on from there. Basking in the reflections cast by their respective periods of success. But it was always implicitly understood that, once you had actually been along to watch an actual game, your lifetime allegiance was decided; and you had grown up.

It is widely agreed to be permissible to "take an interest" in a team whose geography you happen to fall into, at some life-stage. Perhaps whilst at college, or in your early career, if that requires you to be flexible over your home location. I've taken such a local interest in Cambridge United, Peterborough and QPR, at various times. I've also "looked out for" the scores of several other teams, after I've been along to watch them a few times; perhaps with a buddy who's a fan of theirs. In that category, I would include Stoke City, Luton Town, Spurs and Arsenal. With the exception of that last club, they hardly represent a glory hunters dream ticket.

For those who appreciate the fine detail, I went to a few QPR games in my early Guinness years. When I lived in Greenford, when they had that terrible plastic pitch, and shortly after Guinness (a locally-based business at Park Royal, of course) had been the shirt sponsors. You might even be able to still picture that iconic strip. We had a box at Loftus Road which was not particularly popular with the higher-ups, LOL! So I would often make up the numbers. Even taking Mrs. H along once, before we were married. She was quite game, having also previously accompanied me to the Abbey Stadium, on more than one occasion. She was always fascinated (gob-smacked, even) by the tribal behaviours. Like an amateur David Attenborough/Anthropologist.

OK then, for those who CAN'T picture it: here's QPR's resplendent Guinness top.

It's sometimes observed that Nostalgia can be a dangerous and highly selective drug. But I'm fully prepared to administer it occasionally, and in small doses. Those who appreciate the impact of this "Class C" stimulant, and sometime-friend, should read on...

It was on the morning of Saturday 11th September 1976, that my own fate was sealed in regard to lifetime club allegiance. When Kevin convinced me (perhaps over breakfast?) that it would be a good idea to accompany him to Putney Bridge tube station (and then along the Thames riverbank) to attend my own first ever pro game. At the comparatively tender age of 12, I officially became a (Craven) "Cottager".

My personal fave pop chart hit of all time, "Egyptian Reggae" (obvs.) was still nearly a year away from its peak success. Instead, in the UK chart that week, we were putting up with / enjoying DANCING QUEEN by Sweden fans, ABBA. They were top of the pile, again. Closely followed by THE KILLING OF GEORGIE by Celtic and Scotland fan, ROD STEWART. While CAN'T GET BY WITHOUT YOU, by The REAL THING, was at #3. And I can't be certain of this, but I suspect they had leanings towards the Liverpool clubs.

The UK's top-selling cars were all still made here. Imagine that! Ford's Escort and Cortina lead the field. Followed (not so very closely) by British Leyland's (remember them?!) Mini. Yes the original one; which was actually quite small, despite misleadingly claiming to be Tardis-like, inside. Hence the name. What were you (or your family) driving?

Kevin had been dabbling with Fulham F.C. since a little before their ultimately unsuccessful F.A Cup campaign of 1974-'75. The time when Peter Mellor had a shocker in goal, that saw West Ham United, from the other end of town, seal a 2-0 victory in that year's all-London, Wembley final. And tearful defeat (yet again) for poor old Fulham.

Matchday programme: 15 pence! I kept my copy for several decades, as a fond souvenir. Until it was forcibly ejected from the house, with many others, in a Stalinist "clutter" purge.

And, to be fair, it wasn't a bad idea at all. Fulham would be hosting just-relegated Wolverhampton Wanderers, in a tier 2 game. Wolves had retained a starry roster of top tier players, including: Derek Parkin, Ken Hibbitt, Willie Carr, Bobby Gould and Alan Sunderland. And they would benefit from that strategy by being immediately promoted back into "Division 1", as we then (quite rightly!) called it.

Fulham themselves boasted some starry names, too. Alan Mullery had recently retired from the game, after his second spell at the club. But not before he'd lured his old mucker, and World Cup winning England captain, Bobby Moore, to join him in the Fulham squad. It was the surprise signing that would later inspire one of my favourite football-related quotes. Spoken by Warren Mitchell, in character as West Ham fan, Alf Garnett. In a TV chat show interview (further details, sadly, now forgotten and lost):

"When it was time for him to retire, Bobby Moore moved to Fulham.
Where they do play a more elderly style of football."

Alfred Edward Garnett, from the sitcom 'Till Death Us Do Part'. Created by Johnny Speight and played by Warren Mitchell. 

Cheeky! Sprinkle in the stardust of George Best ("The Greatest Player Never to have Won a World Cup"?) just back from a lucrative spell in the USA's "North American Soccer League", and "cheeky-chappie" entertainer, Rodney Marsh (also in his second spell at the club) - all three were seasoned internationals, with top class club experience and honours - and you had quite a potential fixture on your hands. I had only missed Johnny Haynes (another "Great" and former England World Cup captain) by a matter of what now seems just a few short years (though it was half my lifetime, at that time). Which would later become something of a retrospective regret.

We enjoyed a glorious, late summer, sunny September afternoon, down on the river. I even appreciated my first experience of what is famously unchallenged as "The Best Walk to a Ground in World Football", despite my callow youth. With sailing and rowing going ahead on the tide, heedless of other more important sports nearby, as we trudged towards the prominent landmark floodlight pylons. 

After such an experience, watching some of football's all-time great's I was, perhaps unsurprisingly, all-in. I'm pretty sure, in such a small ground as Craven Cottage, I could  even smell the blood, sweat, tears, booze and fags on the players, as they came close to the touch-line.

Best was no longer at his (errrmm) best. The years of drink had taken a yard off his pace. But he still had "a yard in his head", showing occasional flashes of his mercurial brilliance, his jinking runs, and his effortless ball control, poise and balance. Entertaining the crowds, and lifting the performances of the largely journeyman team around him - along with the attendance numbers. Myself included.

The result was a 0 - 0 draw; but very far from a "bore-draw". It would later be the featured game on 'Match of the Day', despite that scoreline. It had been a surprise to see all those massive, green, liveried, outside broadcast trucks, outside the ground, on the Stevenage Road. Somebody in the BBC production team must have reckoned that the entertainment value of those star-studded tier 2 sides would break down their regular viewers' normal antipathy to lower league games. But surely they would have wished for some (Fulham) goals. As we did!

Photographic proof that I'm really not just making this unlikely sh1t up! Alan Sunderland (left, #11, in Old Gold) with Rodney Marsh (#10), George Best and A.N. Other (could be Daly?). Did I mention the side-burns and haircuts?

Marsh would soon tire of his role and, ironically, run AWAY from Fulham's football "circus"; exiting early. Moore and Best though, all credit to them both, had more stickability, professionalism and gravitas. The club would JUST survive that season in the second tier, with their help. Dabbling with, but ultimately evading, the looming relegation trap-door. But at least we avoided "The Double" (home and away defeats) against one of the promoted sides.

I would go on, just over a year later, in October 1977, to take my Dad to his first and only game of pro-football. When George Best led Fulham to a handy away win, at Crystal Palace. Dad was particularly pleased to have also seen his superstar fellow Irish man perform, at the home of "his" club. 

Although Best would also be involved in a controversial, bad challenge on Palace's young, promising defender, Ian Evans. Effectively ending Evans's career at the club. Rumours swirled of a contributing factor having been Best turning out onto the pitch in a particularly drunken state. Which one could hardly put past him.

And so, thanks to Kevin, my 50-year association with live Association Football was born. There was no way out. Previously, the closest I'd ever got was when playing Subbuteo with my brother, or local friends. Trying not to step on the fragile players, when they exited the field of play. Which was a rectangle of marked green baize, stretched out on the living room floor. And, for the record, it was nothing personal. He has inflicted the same riverbank fever on his son, Joe.

Those, incidentally, are 50 years in which Fulham F.C. has gone on to gloriously win pretty much...
the square-root of absolutely bugger all. The trophy cabinet is bare, in Old Mother Hubbard style. There have been some lower league titles and runners-up places. And a surprise Europa League final. But Fulham fans are still left, jokingly and self-effacingly, occasionally singing:

🎵"We won it, one time.
We won it, one time.
The Intertoto -
We won it, one time!"🎵

It's a particularly poignant and redolent anniversary for me, this year. Since late January saw Kevin, a Fulham fan of MORE than fifty years, finally lose his own relatively short contest with an aggressive late-diagnosed cancer. This will be my first full season without him around physically. Although his presence will still be fully felt. For as long as I, and his son Joe, last at Craven Cottage.

R.I.P. Big Bruv. But I do STILL blame you. For EVERYTHING!

This anniversary also provides an interesting moment for reflection and an informal audit of The People's Game; The Beautiful Game. Since so very much has palpably changed in those intervening decades. We can all, surely, imagine some of the disbelieving responses one might have expected to have got from a 1976 football fan, on suggesting to them even the vague, outline possibility of:

VAR
The Premier League
The World Club Cup
Multiple substitutions (note the Wolves programme shows one each)
Multi-millionaire players
Billionaire ex-players
The top tier's "Best League in the World" status
AFC Bournemouth (and Fulham F.C.) in the top flight
Lincoln City and Wrexham in tier 2
West Ham top of the table
Many famous old names no longer in the pyramid's top 4 flights
Craven Cottage now boasting both the oldest and newest grandstands in professional English football - and, famously, "The Highest Season Ticket Prices"
The early deaths of Bobby Moore, George Best and many others
The eventual disappearance of hats, coats, football rattles and ties from the crowd
Insert your own favourite, additional bug-bear, here

... oh, and no more England World Cup Wins. SIXTY years of Hurt - and counting!

A photo which, surely, should need no further caption...

There is also, I believe, some leeway given by the authorities for a degree of two-timing: in more casually following a second, minor club. That's to say, one which does NOT compete directly with your first love. In my case, that is Enfield Town. Who have yet to meet Fulham in any fixture, in any competition.

I've been going along to Donkey Lane to watch The Towners, intermittently, since they moved into their "new" permanent home there, about a mile from my house, almost 15 years ago, in Nov. 2011. A formerly run-down athletics track, by the side of the picturesque A10 North-South arterial road. In that first season with me in tow, they won promotion from what was then called the Ryman League Division One (North), into Tier 7. And we never looked back. They and Fulham make up the subjects of the bulk of my reporting from around English football's "pyramid", as The Fabulous Football Pharaoh.

This week's article is a rare example of a blog page entry which includes no recent match reporting or attendance details. That's not because the Pharaoh has been lax, on your behalf. But because the shelf-life window on this 50 year tribute article was closing fast. I hope you can forgive me, just this one time.

And anyway, recent action may yet soon come your way again, from:

(struggling) Fulham vs. Crystal Palace
(table-topping) Enfield Town vs. Cray Wanderers

... and from my own, latest Walking Football exploits.

Yes, once again, we go from The Sublime to The Ridiculous.

Weary World Cup Woes - and New Season Blues?

FIFA World Cup 2026:
various fixtures and dates, June-July

AND

Isthmian Premier League:
Enfield Town vs. Whitehawk.
Saturday 29th August 2026, 3pm kick-off

From The Sublime... to The Ridiculous?
A summer's worth of (already all but forgotten) sporting memories and meanderings.

Have you missed me? [See previous post, below this one - from 24/8/2025]
And, more importantly, have you been missing your football. 

Too many well-worn phrases and over-used clichés about the swift passing of the summer, the close-season, life in general, and the ludicrous spiral of EPL transfer budget inflation, etc. populated the run-up to the new football season. In what passes for sports "journalism", these days. Do they herald a Brave New World and a repeat of Leicester's "miracle" title win by somebody unexpected; or, perhaps likelier, merely more of the same. A procession of the Top Six or so clubs. Maybe even just The Top Two? I won't open by repeating any such phrases here, since you've surely read pretty much all of them, ad nauseam, already. 

I can't promise that a few hackneyed expressions, metaphors, poems and song lyrics won't creep in below. If so, excuse me. I'll blame being a little rusty on having spent more than a year out of the proverbial "ring". I've been left abandoned, wandering the boundless and bare desert, where the lone and level sands stretch far away. The Pharaoh only ever promised you an "Occasional" blog, incidentally. And no Rose Garden. But enough of the teasing preamble. Let's get going.

Have YOU been along to watch YOUR team play yet, this fine new football season? And no, I don’t mean on TV. You know that doesn’t count, right?! For some, the early season fixtures are difficult to accommodate in a busy diary. Perhaps due to family holidays, weddings, etc. For others (e.g. ex-pats and the infirm) the chance to attend a game in person arrives rarely. And takes on mythic proportions and importance, when it does so. Rather like The Holy Grail. Perhaps there have also been more distractions than usual, in a summer when football hardly seems to have taken a break at all. Thanks to Gianni Python’s ever-expanding Flying Circus. Did you, like me, run a 104-match marathon, ending in agony and frustration, hitting The Wall? 

Argentina's Enzo Fernández (right) "welcomes" England's Elliot Anderson to the game, early in their semi-final clash. Memorably, no card was flourished by way of punishment. And thus the MLS referee, inexplicably placed in charge by FIFA, entered a whole (Brave New) 90-minute World of pain. As did we all.

Despite no longer being away on his travels, nor being an infirm ex-pat, The Fabulous Football Pharaoh still passed on his first chance to watch Fulham play this season, last Thursday, in the Carabao Cup. For rather more prosaic reasons. Such a game might be considered merely a meaningless distraction in a tin-pot tournament, say in the eyes of fans whose clubs exit early (deliberately?). Or, by contrast, one of the sport’s few remaining fine traditions, that’s well worth maintaining - according to fans of sides who progress to the latter stages. I’ll hold fire on my own “Judgment of Paris” until the result of FFC’s game in the next round is in. It's scheduled to be against a struggling Championship side, who play at the quaintly-named (and suddenly over-sized?) ‘London Stadium’.  Bless!

For the record, a much-changed Fulham XI comfortably despatched tier 3 opposition on Thursday. I chose to reserve my energies for a non-football-related early start, the following day. Going to see England take on a deeply sub-par Pakistan side, on Day 2 of the Lords test match. Luckily, there was barely a rain interruption of note. Although other interruptions were expected - and encountered. For the uninitiated, there is a (dull) running gag about how The Bicentenary Bar's name reflects  the cumulative age of this happy few, this Band of Brothers...

The Pharaoh (centre) with fellow Lords irregulars; college buddies Jez (l) & James (r). Root-ing for England.

Anyway, back to the football. The following photo shows Carabao siblings. Twins, in fact. Like Schwarzenegger and De Vito: The Sessegnons. Ryan, left, who plays as left wingback for Fulham; while Steven (also formerly of Fulham) plays as, errmm, left wingback for Wimbledon. Did I mention they’re near-identical twins? Sadly for Steven, there could be only one winner, on the night. Next up, 'Ammers away!

Despite passing up his first Craven Cottage visit opportunity of the season (it's OK, I'll get along there soon!) The Pharaoh HAS now (finally) managed to catch newly-relegated Enfield Town F.C. in the flesh. In one of their early-season games. Although it was still only August, this was already to be the Towners 3^rd home fixture, and their 5^th in total, so far. It was an unplanned and impromptu visit to Donkey Lane. Nudged by a forecast of windy, rainy conditions and weak opposition; which I suspected might result in a storm of goals. I am thus able to bring you details of all that action soon.

It would seem remiss, however, in this year of a World Cup summer, NOT to regale you first with tales of my mammoth, marathon, 5-week road-trip to and through sunny California. Cordially invited by a generous host, my L.A.-based, former college buddy, Peter, I decided (at my ripe old age) that I should probably grab the chance, while I still could. And before his long-suffering wife, Jenna, had the chance (and the foresight) to withdraw my invitation. There was always the lurking, residual possibility that the U.S. Immigration Force would consider me a threat to Homeland Security. Or something.

The pharaoh, suitably attired and relaxed, beer close at hand, reminding you what tournament was taking place this summer, across Canada, Mexico, and the U.S. of A.

This was a trip that had been several long years in the planning. It would eventually include a short trip north, to visit funky San Francisco and Napa Valley's vineyards. But first, it would focus on whatever World Cup games Gianni Infantino and the ticket touts/scalpers had left (relatively) affordable for us mere mortals. I will skip most of the varied cultural trip details, fascinating though they are, to focus on the football. It was, after all, The Pharaoh's quadrennial opportunity to guide you around some of the sport's Global "Ziggurat", rather than our usual, English domestic, football "Pyramid" domain.

Peter and his very close, local, even longer-standing buddy, George, had been confident all along that they'd be able to access plenty of match tickets, via a local draw / allocation. In the end, they received absolutely none, of course. LOL! Somewhat similar to my own London Olympics allocation experience of 2012.

The Pharaoh (left) with host, Peter, on our boys' trip North. Suitably refreshed,
at Napa Valley's beautiful and exclusive "Sleeping Lady" Brion vineyard.

I was also UNlucky enough to find that the seeded tournament draw had meant England’s games would be confined to the East of the U.S.A. – plus Mexico City. Scotland’s matches would be similarly distant. And the USA’s host status instead saw them seeded in the group that would be centred on the West Coast venues.

Time to tell you of my travels across the golden West. I arrived at LAX on one of your new-fangled aeroplanes, on 10th June (my camels looked so tired, it was hardly worth my while to ask them to carry me and my opulent entourage). And I stayed/survived in California until 13^th July. That timing allowed me to take in two (hideously expensive!) World Cup matches, live, at L.A.’s spectacular So-Fi stadium. Plus pretty much all the tournament's other fixtures, live on T.V. – in the “correct” time zone. No staying up until 4am for me! Oh, and a baseball game. Which would NOT be my first ever. And many other cultural events and experiences, including the USA's Semiquincentennial - the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. 

Peter was in the process of completing a significant expansion to the family home. Work gangs, dust and confusion populated the grounds and patio, plus large parts of the house, at times. It'll be an (even MORE) amazing home, when everything is (eventually) completed.

The two matches we got to see “live”, as neutrals, were: Iran versus New Zealand, in the Group stage; plus Canada versus South Africa, the first Group of 32 knock-out game. Details of which will follow, eventually.

Ticket costs for these (lesser?) games were still c. $500 and c. $600 respectively. Although, to be fair, they were far from being the cheapest (“Nose-Bleed”) seats in the house. I baulked at such costs, to be sure. And mostly only went along to these TWO games because my host saw them as Once-in-a-Lifetime Opportunities. Twice! You can judge the excellent stadium sightlines for yourself, in the images shared below.

The US$ vs. GB£ exchange rate during my trip, incidentally, (and for the analysts amongst us) was c. 4:3 – or 1.33 dollars to the pound. Which made £ST costs relatively easy to calculate. The last time I’d been in So-Cal was 18 years earlier; when the exchange rate had been running at more than TWO dollars to the pound. Then, I’d been able to flash the cash like a dying man. Less so, this time around.

LA's spectacular and futuristic So-Fi stadium, under glowering skies.

Just don't ask about the exorbitant car parking charges and political graft.

A lot of pre-tournament chatter had been about the egregious cost of match tickets, transport, etc. Of how "real fans" were being priced out of the game/tournament by a FIFA cash-grab. And that was largely true, of course. Yet a lot of Real Fans just sucked it up and shelled out huge funds on acquiring tickets. 

There was even a story (apocryphal, I hope!) of one Scotland fan selling his house to fund his trip – and to help drink Heathrow and Boston dry. So one could argue that the fund-raising side of FIFA had pitched the pricing formula “optimally”. In truth, we were lucky to spend so “little” on our seats.

California has some deep pockets. And large pockets of ex-pats from many of the world’s nations. So there was high demand for EVERY game to an extent that surprised the hell out of me. U.S. fans seemed prepared to shell out ANY amount of money to watch the host side. Treating every game as though it had the entertainment value and prestige of The Super Bowl, contrary to all empirical evidence.

Even the NZ game, for instance, was over-subscribed. Largely because so many “Persians” wanted to attend the match. Schizophrenically(?) hoping to both demonstrate against the country’s ruling regime AND support their players. They massively outnumbered the Kiwi fans present. We got something of a last-minute “steal”, as the bottom (comparatively) finally fell out of that over-inflated market. But that late purchase probably contributed to our local "difficulties" in gaining entry to the stadium. While the atmosphere at the game was officially “odd”, to say the least.

We finally got into the stadium late. Long story, but largely as a result of FIFA’s complex and poorly conceived, labyrinthine re-selling process. All (financial) roads lead to Geneva! Despite FIFA's portal not embedding smoothly and well with established resale sites (Stub Hub, etc.). All transfers had to be controlled by FIFA. But they couldn’t seem to handle the volume or complexity of trades, with accuracy.

Peter was convinced we’d already missed several goals, by the time we took our seats. In fact, we’d only missed the opening goal, scored by New Zealand. The Iranian fans, however, reached loud, high-pitched, and excited (errmm) Fever Pitch, pretty much every time their side had the ball. So it had seemed like the scoreline might have been 5-0, by the time we got in and took our seats. It ended up being a surprisingly entertaining 2-2 draw, played out between two poor sides. Neither of whom seemed likely to trouble the tournament's later stages. Not least with all the additional (political) local obstacles placed in the way of the Iranians participation.

An interior match view from So-Fi's (relatively) medium-priced seats.

Draught Beer inside the stadium, incidentally, cost the equivalent of a down-payment on a small, terraced house in Teesside (at c. £18 per pint). After which shocking realisation, and steep ascent to my seat, I needed defibrillation. Although I guess FIFA were working on the basis that, if you’d happily(?) paid upwards of $1,000 for a seat, you might be expected to pay just about ANYTHING for a beer, once you realised how far away from the pitch your seat was. Nobody seemed to be stopping the street traders from selling their food and drinks outside the stadium, however, as I hear was reported elsewhere. But people were mostly more intent on just getting into the stadium and to their seats, ASAP. I didn't explore the cost of food inside the stadium. We’d wisely filled our boots at Woody’s famous smoked rib house, in the mean streets of Inglewood. A district I probably wouldn’t venture anywhere near at night.

 
Different days - same shi(r)t!
Above Left: "Slap-up" local pre-match nosh, at no-frills Woody's smoke house. HIGHLY recommended.
Just don't ask how I avoided getting any sauce or debris on my pristine shirt.
Above Right: a typical patio "watch party"; rooting for England again. With beastly cold "Pines" West Coast IPA,
served from Peter's kegerator. Enjoyed here with Jeff and George. 

Those £18 ($24) pints of beer: good for preventing nose-bleeds - which was just as well!

Later in the tournament, Canada and S. Korea did us a favour. How? By failing to the top their respective tournament Groups (with Korea, in fact, unexpectedly exiting at the first group stage). Meaning that they were displaced from their seeded locations. Leaving many pre-tournament ticket purchasers with seats for the wrong games, in the wrong cities. Oh, the vagaries of World Cup tournament draws.

Our $600 tickets had been selling at more than TWICE that price, just the day before the game. But Peter's Nerves of Steel helped us pick up a relative bargain. As, eventually, enough S. Korea fans decided to cut their losses and ditch their tickets. Rather than watch what was, for them, a meaningless game. Presumably to an internal sound track of 'It Should Have Been Me', by Yvonne Fair. TBH, I still baulked at the cost; but "whad-are-ya-gonna-do?".

Again, the crowd and atmosphere was officially “ODD” (see above). As we found ourselves amidst a melange of fans from almost ALL over the world. Though mostly from S. Korea, Mexico, U.S.A., Canada and South Africa – in declining order of numbers present. There was little on the pitch for any nation to celebrate, alas.

ARE YOU READY? Pre-match razz-a-matazz, U.S. showbiz-style;
visible from Mars. "Couldn't you get flags and Jumbotrons any bigger?"

The result didn't match the pre-game build-up. A poor 1-0 win, ground out by a marginally superior Canada side, against a surprisingly lack-lustre S. Africa team. The latter seemed strangely intent on playing for a 0-0 draw, Extra-Time, and penalties. Something they were singularly incapable of doing, anyway. Although they did rather spoil the spectacle and the experience for most of the c. 72,000 present, on their self-imposed exit route, out of the tournament.

Half-time razz-a-matazz, as the LA Rams cheerleaders prepare to put on a show.
The Pharaoh kindly ensured you would enjoy a front row eye-full view - naturally.

The South Africans will have made few friends, with their unapologetic time-wasting and refusal to come out of their own half any more than was strictly necessary. They belatedly realised that this WOULD be necessary, only after going behind to a marginally better side, late on. The tail-end of the game was vastly superior, as a result. If only S. Africa had played like that for NINETY minutes (instead of just the last x19) they might well have progressed to the next stage. Poor tactics and game management, and a wasted opportunity. Although I guess it must have seemed to them like a wise approach, on paper, before the game.

The Pharaoh (right) with Peter, again; my buddy of over 40 years standing.
As you can see, we WERE still standing. "Literally!"

I found myself watching many of the televised games in the company of a wide variety of new friends. I saw the tournament’s first match (Mexico vs. S. Africa) for instance, on a large outdoor screen on Peter’s unfinished patio, with an excitable Mexican commentary. Sitting alongside the Mexican work gangs who had downed tools for the duration. I was something of a curiosity to them, in my Fulham FC shirt (c. 2002 vintage – see above, think Steed Malbranque, Brian McBride, Andy Cole, Lee Clark, Luís Boa Morte, et al). Until I made the obvious connection for them with Mexico’s #9 and penalty King, Raul Jimenez. Who’s been playing at The Cottage for the past couple of seasons. After which I became an honorary Mexican, regardless of my loud and shame-faced insistence that I “No hablo Español!”

A corporate al fresco watch party: France vs. Senegal, hosted at Redondo Beach's California Surf Club.
The Pharaoh (left, dressed for an INDOOR watch party, LOL!) graciously hosted by Mark (front, taking the
selfie) & Bank of America. With George (blue hat) and Irena - all of us sated, amidst the food and drink debris.

Sadly, I didn’t watch the England-Mexico game with my new Latin friends, due to the early evening kick-off timing. They'd long since packed up and headed home for The Big One, by then. We had good, friendly chats about the match afterwards, though. It having been one of the most exciting of the tournament, etc. A Walking Football buddy had contacted me during my trip, encouraging me to join him in Mexico City's Azteca stadium. But I’d already blown my budget to smithereens, by that point. Rob S. assures me he had a blast in the rain, as he partied with the locals and waited for the storm-delayed kick-off.

I wore my England shirt (see above, c. 2006 vintage – think Lampard and Gerrard, and that infamous not-a-goal) for the first of the live games I attended. And for many of the televised games (again, see above) - plus the baseball match. As well as in the street, bars, stores, and on the beach. It broke the “ice” and drew nothing but positive reactions. Some locals even realised and observed that I was on "the wrong coast". When teams other than England were playing, I'd wear one of a wide range of club shirts to watch the other nations. Including my old “Mark Kirby”, Enfield Town F.C. fat man special (no offence!).

MLB action: Required viewing, surely, to ensure full cultural immersion.
BUT Anaheim hosted Baltimore in a dour home defeat, to open the series.

After the Q-F stage, I reluctantly flew home. To confidently prepare myself for a France-England final. But you don’t want to hear the gory details of what happened next – do you?  Again? (See opening image - Ouch!) Water under the bridge, Old Boy! Don't risk reopening old wounds, and all that!

One final brief aside does arise, however. As I contemplate the presence of The Democratic Republic of the Congo in the finals. For the first time in decades! And faring no better than last time. DR Congo (or Doctor Congo, as I now call them - 🎝“You put de lime in de coconut and mix it all up…”🎝) is a country where I once spent a few happy (if sometimes unexpectedly and uncomfortably "exciting") months, when I wore a younger man’s clothes - and worked on a world famous beer brand.

The Young Pharaoh, "In Country", during Italia '90.

... and ready to come on at half-time?

It was called Zaire, then. I went there (and to nearby Rwanda and Burundi) working on recent product launch projects, during the Italia ’90 World Cup finals. Watching most of the games on TV, and extensively playing table football with a Dutch buddy (a whole other long story, all of its own) in bars and drinking dens across central Africa. I believe I was the only man in the whole region wearing an England shirt. And certainly the only one cartwheeling around a hotel bar, when Platt scored his late, over-the-shoulder, volleyed winner, against the colonial Mother country. But I digress. Again! Albeit nostalgically (and somewhat selectively) this time. Let's get back to a more recent Here and Now.

On Saturday, those expected windy, rainy conditions produced a flurry of goals against lowly visitors, Whitehawk . Starting as early as the 3^rd minute. Those who enjoy the fine details might like to know that the away side wore red (not white) and there were no hawks present / visible. Whitehawk have been based in East Brighton Park, on the edge of Kemptown, since their formation in 1945, at the end of WW2. The naming of their “Enclosed Ground” home carries its own long story – for another time. They would need to dig out their tin hats once more, against the barrage of an offensive onslaught, on the road, at one of the Isthmian Premier League’s more fancied sides.

Match day team sheet: for your inner Statto / Nerd.
Notice that nobody is sporting the unfashionable #13 shirt. The cowards!

A decent attendance of 604 included a larger smattering than usual of Newcastle United shirts. Why? Because the crowd was boosted by 2x coach loads of Newcastle fans, who had stopped off en route to White Hart Lane for the evening’s EPL fixture against Spurs. They had been specifically invited to attend. Cannily offered free entry, in return for spending their Toon Pounds in the club’s Butler’s Bar. It was widely agreed that this was better hospitality than their usual fare: two  hours spent unfruitfully sequestered in a motorway service station. Rumour has it they were provided with a police escort for their onward journey – and a translator.

Some of our very welcome, if slightly bemused, Geordie visitors enjoying refreshments with the locals
at Enfield Town's art deco-styled and revenue-generating (ahem!) "Café" [Bleu].

There was pressure and press from Billy Holland's home side, from the very start. Before long, some nice teamwork and interplay on the Enfield left paid off, resulting in a ball reaching Sam Youngs, just outside the 6-yard box. His first touch set the ball up for a volley, from c. 8 yards out. It was deflected into the ground by the flailing defender and looped high up over the stranded, back-pedalling GK. 1-0, and the first goal of many, we hoped. After which the visiting GK’s behaviour became erratic and frequently “what I call” unsportsman-like. Deliberately running into opposition players with the ball out of play, and various other shenanigans, did NOT endear him greatly to the vocal home fans behind his goal. Who duly spent the match cheerily reminding him that the deteriorating scoreline was “all his fault”. How we larrffed!

Enfield Town players (in white) celebrate that all-important, early opening goal.

Just a few minutes later, a ball was won “robustly” by Town’s #15, Declan Rydings, from an overly ambitious, marauding Whitehawk defender. Two swift passes forward allowed Avgoustidis to run into space and collect the ball c. 22 yards out, outpacing the central defender. He rounded the advancing GK (who dived at him, feet first - recklessly?!) leaving the latter flat on his backside. It looked for all the world like Rydings had done too much, when he jinked back inside, past the recovering right-back. But his curling, rising, right-footed effort across the goal found the top right-hand corner of the net. 2-0, with only 9 minutes gone. Home fans were licking their collective lips. This was what we’d come for!

Klevis Muca; never allowed to settle. Neither by Town's front line, nor their fans.

Despite that deficit, Whitehawk failed to heed the warning signs. In the 30^th minute, their GK and wing-backs initiated some intricate passing along the edge of their area, trying to play the ball out around Enfield’s high press. Bad idea!  A poor first touch put the left-back under pressure and his resulting attempted back-pass to the GK was as under-powered as his grey matter. A toe-in Enfield challenge pushed the ball towards Luke May-Parrott, who won a one-on-one challenge with the GK (who, had he come out more bravely, at full stretch, might have claimed the ball) rounding him for a two-yard left-footed tap in. 3-0 already! And it was starting to look clear why the visitors had only secured one point so far, from a possible twelve. They’d also picked up a couple of early yellow cards, for persistent bad (“agricultural”) fouling, within the first 25 minutes. This cooled their early enthusiasm further.

Spiritedly, however, Whitehawk didn't crumble immediately. They were, in fact, next to score. Winning a contested ball deep in Town territory, they completed a swift, sweeping move down the right, at the second attempt, as Seokjae Lee got on the end of a driven, low cross. In acres of space, untroubled by any suggestion of “marking”, he beat the over-exposed Dylan Thompson at his near post. 3-1 after 32 minutes. Game on? Not exactly.

We then entered a more stale-matey phase of play. With Town happy to absorb some pressure, while still looking threatening whenever they had the ball. It was a state of affairs that lasted through the hour mark, with plenty of profligate finishing, mostly from the home side.

The pantomime villain of the piece, however, continued in his role, to perfection. Routinely heckled from behind his goal, in the 64^th minute Whitehawk’s Klevis Muca mis-hit a routine, sweeper-keeper clearance from c. 25 yards out. Directing it into the chest of the onrushing May-Parrott. The rebound resulting from May-Parrott’s continued high press had enough momentum on it to beat the scrambling, retreating keeper across his own line. Muca ended up red-faced, tangled up at the foot of his own goal net, and signalling a need for the physio. Presumably to massage his ego and cover his blushes. Since he was soon enough back up on his feet to try and prevent the 4-1 scoreline from deteriorating any further.

Something he was, alas for Whitehawk, singularly unable to do. After several more missed chances from the hosts, May-Parrott slathered his own personal icing onto the cake by completing a hat-trick in the 88^th minute. Out-muscling and out-pacing his centre back to latch onto a perfectly-weighted through ball. 5-1, with pretty much just stoppage time to go. There would be no further scoring. Enfield (the scoring-est side in the league; and with the best GD) would find themselves sitting pretty in second, behind unbeaten Carshalton Athletic, after the season’s five games. Only ONE side will claim automatic promotion, at the end of this campaign. So strong early form could turn out to be all-important.

One final action shot beautifully summarises the day: as explained below...

Klevis Muca trudges disconsolately back towards his net to retrieve the ball yet again. Much to the amusement of Enfield's well-entertained home supporters. It was "All His Fault", remember! With not a single defender in the frame. Meanwhile, Town's players celebrate in front of their adoring fans - again! TBH, I could have flooded this report with photos of Town's players celebrating each of their many goals. But what would be gained by that? And this example does feature a bit of tasty floodlight "porn". Adding electric atmosphere to the occasion, as a gloomy late afternoon sets in on North London. Ahead of Tottenham's gloomy late kick-off against Newcastle. Those Geordies must have enjoyed their Big Day Out.

Brief match highlights are available on YouTube, here

Post Script
1) Just two days later, on Bank Holiday Monday, ETFC would add a tasty 1-4 away win, at mid-table Wingate & Finchley. Meanwhile Carshalton suffered a surprise 3-2 reverse at early strugglers, Three Bridges. Resulting in the thing of beauty that is the current league table – see below.

Click here for more league details

After six games (which might not sound like much, but it's already 14% of the season completed!) Enfield Town have now risen to the top of the table. Albeit, on Goal Difference. BUT can we remain the division's crème de la crème, now we've entered a dreaded "break in league action". To allow time and space for The Football Association Challenge Cup (you might known it as the FA Cup) 1st Round Qualifying. Towners will be hoping for a win, of course. But MORE importantly, also that it doesn't disturb our Chi, or our feng shui; rock the boat; erode our league momentum - or your cliché of preference. 

Town play away, at Frenford F.C. of Ilford, on Saturday. At stake, a potential revenue-raising run in the oldest national football competition in the world. The hosts are a significantly more junior club, but will hope to make the most of their home advantage. Although it would have been a new ground for me, I can't get along to this local tie, because...

2) I should also announce that I do plan to finally break my new season Fulham F.C. duck, this coming weekend, against Crystal Palace. Thanks to a generous season ticket lend by friend and irregular match buddy, Graham. An Old Skool gent of the very first order! Who presumably, as mentioned above, has found this early season fixture difficult to accommodate in his busy diary. Palace fan and Walking Football buddy, John B, will be joining me (in "the wrong end"). With both sides much-changed from last season, and struggling for goals and points, the result is not an easy one to call. Fingers crossed...

And so, for now, I bid you a Pharaonic Farewell, with a few added hieroglyphs. From somewhere near the bottom of English Football's pyramid!

All photos (except those of The Sessegnons and Fernández with Anderson) are provided courtesy of Peter and The Pharaoh.
Which could easily become the title of a great new children's picture book.

From The Top, to... well, quite a long way down

And from The Sublime... to The Ridiculous?

The Premier League

Fulham F.C. vs. Manchester United

Sunday 24th August 2025, kick-off: 4.30pm

Attendance: not published - c. 28,000?

Venue: Craven Cottage.

Regular readers will already be aware that your Fabulous Football Pharaoh is accustomed to the finer things in life. [And non-regulars could probably have assumed it, too.] As is his unchallenged, sole male heir, also.

It should, therefore, come as little surprise to hear that we were both in attendance for Fulham F.C.’s latest contretemps with the self-appointed Best Football Club in the World, this weekend. And that we did so in style, by attending the newly appointed “Sky Deck” lounge, in the club’s now fully functioning newest stand, The Riverside (official grand opening, May 2025). It’s rather unimaginatively named, given that it runs along the side of London’s mighty River Thames (🎵 “I live by the river…” 🎵) and uses premium river views as a dreamily distracting design concept - and a pre-match contrast to its pitch-facing views.

It sits proudly opposite English professional football’s oldest stand, the Johnny Haynes (1905, formerly the Stevenage Road stand). With its quaint wooden seats and early 20^th century amenities. U.S. visitors have been known to liken it to elements of Boston's Fenway Park; one of just two remaining "jewel box" ballparks still in use in Major League Baseball, along with Chicago's Wrigley Field.

The contrasting, ultra-sleek, ultra-modern Riverside Sky Deck is so named because… well, because it reaches almost to the clouds, like a veritable, modern-day Tower of Babel, awaiting the smiting, jealous hand of god, etc.

“Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!", 

as FFC’s rather appropriately-named owners, The Khans, might say.

The vertiginous view from the clouds: FFC players take a pre-match stroll on the pitch, in front of England's oldest AND newest football stands. While their mighty home city glowers menacingly on visitors, in the background, beyond the green-fringed streets of low-level housing.

Attending proceedings that day (and the next day, elsewhere – see below) gave me a nudge and permission to make some observations about the different business models emerging across The Pyramid. So let’s start at the very top.

There’s been significant coverage recently of the “fact”(?) that Fulham now boasts the dubious honour of offering its fans “the most expensive season tickets in the EPL”. And, therefore, by extension – in the world!? Although, as ever, that assertion depends entirely on exactly what it is you’re measuring, of course. And what your agenda might be.

‘Season tickets in Fulham's Riverside Stand can already cost up to £3,000 - the highest in the league - and a new eight-tier hospitality section… offering Michelin-star inspired menus, rooftop pool access on the three-floor 'Sky Deck', sweeping views across the River Thames and London, plus the best halfway-line seats.’ See: https://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/football/articles/cx272pe5154o.

Quite rightly, it was in these most super-premium seats that the current Pharaoh and his future successor were to be suitably ensconced, in unrivalled luxury, for the duration. Just right for watching 22x lads kick around a sack of air, in the day’s Premier League action. I did even go so far as to look for Imperial Leather soap in the bathrooms, on your behalf. But, perhaps surprisingly (at least for readers of “a certain age”) to no avail.

Thanks to my generous, season ticket holding buddy, John (who was unavoidably out of town) Cal and I were able to experience what life is now like at the very pinnacle of hospitality in English football’s “Pyramid” structure.

To summarise, the view is great (see below). Whilst the wide range of food and drink options are also most acceptable, even to those of us with the finest and fussiest of tastes.

The view from "the cheap seats": kick-off approaches, the Johnny Haynes stand is finally filling up, and flame-throwers are deployed. Naturally!

The pre-match and half-time menus were, indeed, in Michelin-star style - and of similar quality. While the Skyline’s river views are unmatched in English football.

Its bottomless drinks fountains, meanwhile, included Guinness (and lesser beers), Veuve Cliquot champage (blanc et rosé, bien sûr), table wines, cocktails (we sampled excellent pre-lunch Espresso Martinis), mocktails (whatever THEY are?!), cognacs, malt whiskys, G&Ts, obsequiousness and much, much more besides.

Pharaoh and son: the former (right) clearly in need of some urgent hair maintenance.

 
Indeed, more or less “whatever you desire” – as the watch-word of L.A. Confidential’s famous (fictional) Fleur-de-Lis club once had it.
… oh, and the club also provides a match programme, too.

I was, almost inevitably, lured into suitably Pharaonic song, by all of this. Even before kick-off:

🎶 “I've come across the desert

To greet you with a smile.

My camel looks so tired, 🐫

It's hardly worth my while

To tell you of my travels

Across the golden East. 🌄

I see your preparations

Invite me, first, to feast.

… dreams are made of this.” 🎶

Just don’t ask for a cup of tea and a slice of cake, if you wish to avoid late-afternoon disappointment. Small sacrifices!

We did some early, mandatory, “celebrity” spotting. Saint Gary of Lineker was there, for instance; plus, entirely separately, mistress Tabitha Willett and entourage, were all in attendance. The latter, apparently, is a wannabee who was made in Chelsea. At least I think Cal said “made”.

Football-loving(?) Ms Willett - or won't it? 

Arriving fashionably early, two hours before kick-off, in order to optimise our "match-day experience" and refresh ourselves after an arduous journey, we would later take a leisurely, pre-match lunch (strangely timed as a result of SKY TV’s need for a 4.30pm kick-off) whilst seated at the table next to a proud mother. That of Fulham FC’s latest emerging talent: young midfield tyro, Josh King, who has now left the Academy far behind him, in his turbulent wake.

She was, presumably, celebrating her son’s recently renewed and lucrative club contract, amongst other things. But was far too polite to mention it. He had, notably, been voted the Fulham fans’ Man of the Match in the club’s opening day draw, away at Brighton.

As she left her table, she summarised her hopes for the day: that Fulham would not lose, and that her son would play well. One assumes she meant undaunted by his sudden, stellar trajectory. I congratulated her on her rising star. A lovely lady for whom, surely, good things are due. And don’t call me surely!

The Riverside is a key element in the Khan’s emerging business model for Fulham F.C. But don’t take MY word for it. Here’s the BBC’s Nizaar Kinsella on all this: “Fulham's 'world class' Riverside fan experience is the Premier League's relentless march towards monetising the matchday experience.”

Although I note that the BEEB describes him as their ‘Football news reporter, with specific responsibility for covering Chelsea’. So he may have simply got lost, on his way to visiting our nuisance neighbours – or been informed by some personal agenda on this matter. We will be making the short trip up the road to them on Saturday.

But let’s move on to more directly footballing matters. Interestingly, in his pre-match programme notes, manager Marco Silva presciently identified that Fulham’s recent games against The Red Devils ‘have been tight and settled by small details’. It’s unlikely, however, that he foresaw those would almost entirely be decisive small VAR details. I will not bore you with a blow-by-blow match summary. You can find plenty of those elsewhere. Although I wouldn't recommend CNN's "expert"(?) coverage (see image below). If Yoro is Bassey's team-mate, that might help to explain why no foul was awarded, for the former's blatant two-handed push in the back on him.

It sufficeth, I think, merely to draw some big picture conclusions. But Josh King's Mum got at least one of her two wishes:

1) The application of VAR is an absolute mess. And, for “smaller clubs”, a lottery with predictable outcomes. Making the word "lottery" a generous description. Given that its decisions are so seemingly completely biased to The Big Clubs. And Sunday’s visitors.

More Fulham points get flushed down the PGMOL toilet. A well-worn meme, doing the rounds this week. ('Rear Window' , anybody?)

2) Manchester United are a nervous side. With much to be nervous about. Although Cunha looks to have the makings of a decent acquisition, if Amorim doesn't ruin him, first.

When the sad time eventually comes to pass, that Callum takes over his rightful mantle from me as The Fabulous Football Pharaoh, he will be the first Spurs fan to take on that hot seat. Assuming he still IS a Spurs fan, by the time that dismal day comes around, of course.

Yes, whisper it, Fulham is only his “second team”. And that despite everything I did to help him see the clear light of day and behave in the manner of an all-knowing, all-powerful ruler.

His first ever match having been Norwich City vs. FFC (0 - 1, on 28 Aug 2000, when he was aged not yet quite 7 and almost exactly 25 years ago to the day). In the days when Fulham were making their way up The Pyramid under the ownership of an allegedly habitual sex offender. So Cal ought, by rights and by traditional football lore, to be either a Fulham or a Norwich fan. But Gen. Y will insist on having things their own strange way.

By coincidence (or not?) he would later go on to study History at UEA, in Norwich. Like some sort of misguided and delayed homing pigeon.

His Spurs connection is interesting, on this occasion, partly because we found ourselves sitting next to another Spurs fan. He was there with his Fulham-supporting buddy. That seemed a little odd. But much less so than the large number of United fans who were comfortably (and expensively) ensconced in The Riverside.

It is, one assumes, in the nature of ultra-premium hospitality that such tickets must be sold. No matter to whom. In order to optimise revenue. Or, at the very least, to reduce the loss-making risk on the day versus the club’s investment / required outlay.

Fulham fans’ views on all this premiumisation vary. From the self-focussed and parochial, to those with a rather better-informed view of The Bigger Picture. I’ve lifted one example of the latter from a fan Facebook post (25/8/25):
‘Who cares if visiting supporters or “ tourists “ come and watch the matches? It’s better than having empty seats and supports the club financially. Which in turn helps the club meet the financial fair play requirements, so it can (eventually ) invest in new players.’ Quite so, Lee!

Media coverage: The Khan Way. Not sure I entirely recognise myself in this description of FFC's fans. But I guess one out of two ain't bad.

Back down to Earth and camel-less, Cal and I wound our weary way back up the Thames path after the game, in the lowering light. Suitably "refreshed", and mulling over what might have been, if only a referee from Manchester hadn't been appointed to officiate the match. Again!

One of the undisputed greatest match-day walks in world football. The other one heads South towards Putney Bridge, of course.

The result had been a controversial 1-1 draw. MotD pundit Rob Green accurately battered both of the major VAR decisions: "They intervened when they shouldn't have done; and didn't, when they should have!" Casting doubt on PGMOL officials understanding of the game. Which is a serious charge and handicap.

A few days later, in mid-meeting, a United-supporting client asked me for my objective view of that result. I told him, as wisely as ever, that the Pharaoh couldn’t possibly offer an objective and unbiased view. But that a neutral fan might have said the score-line was a fair reflection, despite the egregious errors perpetrated by the referee and his VAR colleagues. I'm not in the business of losing business, after all.

Meanwhile, objective official match statistics showed a slightly different story. With Fulham ahead on: “Expected Goals” (whatever they are?!); overall possession; shots; shots on target; touches inside the opposition’s box; corners; one-on-one attempts; offsides; total passes; pass accuracy; forward passes; successful final third passes; crosses; and won tackle %.

While United led on shots off target (including one memorable penalty miss); long balls; total tackles; total clearances; clearances off the line – oh, and on those all-important VAR decisions (2-0). All of which hardly amounts to “Total Football”, nor match dominance.

You can probably make your own call about the balance of the game, based on all of that data. Regardless of what slant the BBC’s TV highlights package might otherwise have had you believe.

"Early days", in the new season; and hardly

worth checking out the league table yet.

The next day, I awoke with a surprisingly clear head – albeit with a sore throat. I signed myself off fit for duty, and for a second game in less than 24 hours. This time at the arguably rather appropriately-named Donkey Lane. Where early season strugglers, Enfield Town, would take on newly-promoted AFC Totton, in the Enterprise National League South. That’s tier 6 of my "Pyramid". Providing something of a contrast to yesterday's glittering experience.

The Enterprise National League South

Enfield Town vs. AFC Totton

Monday 25th August 2025, kick-off: 3pm

Attendance: 878

Venue: The Dave Bryant (formerly Queen Elizabeth II) Stadium, Donkey Lane.

Match-day tickets were £15, if bought in advance. As the club website says, ETFC refreshment options offer (though, sadly, NOT included in that entry price) ‘three sources of food or drink:

Come N Go Souvlaki and WhiteBox Catering… have a food hatch next to to the turnstiles which serves a variety of hot foods plus matchday specials, as well as tea, coffee etc.

Butler’s Bar, serves a range of lagers and ciders, and a regularly changing selection of ales from local breweries; also serves rolls etc. On busier matchdays, the main stand’s serving hatch also opens to serve as a bar facility

The Club Shop, which provides soft drinks, confectionery etc.’

Butler’s Bar: it's a tidy spot, when the locals aren't messing it up; and it offers very respectable views... but it ain't The Skyline Lounge! We cut our cloth according to our income, etc. It's for hire, y'know.

Notice that afternoon tea IS served. So, in some ways, their catering offer is superior to that of Craven Cottage's Skyline Lounge. And yet the business model is entirely different. No US-Indian multi-billionaire Sugar-Daddy to bail us out. And we wouldn’t want one! Instead, the club is 100% fan-owned. The first club in the country to adopt this model. Although others have since followed suit.

All matters, both on and off the field of play, therefore, have to be fully-financed by profits generated from revenue. Which is tough. But fully sustainable. And made a little easier after narrowly surviving (on the last day of the season) a first year operating “at this level”.

Again, I won't bore you with a full match report. The club’s own coverage is available here (far be it from me to duplicate effort!): https://etfc.london/town-fire-blanks-again/

An Enfield long throw-in, inbound. Taken from in front of the characterful, Art Deco main stand.

It's much newer than the Johnny Haynes!

My Big Picture view? That age-old cliché, “a game of two halves”. Town had the ball in the back of the net twice in the first half. But the refereeing gods were against us. At half-time I heard one home fan grumble they’d “gone 6 hours without a goal”. It seemed like an exaggeration. My own detailed calculations made it only c. 5.5 hours. But they may have been rounding up. And they had certainly, assiduously identified Town’s current Achilles Heel: not enough finishing power.

First half pressure comes to nought, for ETFC. Again!

The standard of goal-keeping is surprisingly(?) high "at this level" - also see my opening day match report, below. And the visitors' GK proved no exception to that observation. Making a couple of crucial, athletic stops to deny Enfield at least the  single point they had probably just about "deserved".  And arguably all three. I've said it before, but The Beautiful Game is a cruel mistress.

A corner and late second half pressure comes to nought, for ETFC. Again!

You can rely on good shape discipline and sturdy defending only for so long, if you’re not banging them in up front. Only until c. the 89^th minute to be precise, as it turned out. When an uncharacteristic GK handling error led to the only goal of the game. Predictably, it was for the visitors. Leaving Town in familiar league table territory, with little risk of vertigo.

Not quite such early days for Enfield;
and already fairly scary reading.

Town do look more solid than at this time last season, with a stronger squad. But we're really not enjoying the Rub of the Green. Yet! Though they often say you make your own luck, in this game.

Though I suspect that's only true in the top flight if you DON’T have crooked VAR on your side. Plus Gazillions of dollars to fritter away, like confetti. Like some newer and less well-established clubs one could mention...

An artist's impression of Fulham's
noisy neighbour's squad bus.