Prudhoe Town v Sunderland West End

Venue: Kimberley Park, off Broomhouse Road, Prudhoe NE42 5EH
Kickoff: 14:30 Sat 16 September 2017

Competition: TWR Bi-Folds Wearside Football League 

Weather: mainly dry, intermittent light showers, sunny spells

LOCATION REPORT

SatNav: NE42 5EH
Staff: various
Parking: onsite carpark, 100+ spaces
Public transport: bus #10 runs between Hexham-Metrocentre-Newcastle (stop near The Falcon pub, walk down Eastwoods Road past the golf club and Eastwoods Park)

Entry: £2

Refreshments: coffee, snacks and licensed bar
Toilets: in clubhouse and inside ground
Stands/Terraces: covered stand for approx 200 people, metal lean-on barrier all round pitchside

Programmes: no
Floodlights: 8 (4 per flank)

MATCH REPORT

Approx crowd: 25 total (of which 15+ were away fans) including young kids and infant in pushchair

Full-time [h/t] score (colours):

2 [0] Prudhoe Town (orange/black)
7 [3] Sunderland West End (red/white stripes)

Bookings: 2 Prudhoe, 1 Sunderland
Sent Off: 0

NORVENMUNKI's COMMENTS

I arrived early, or so I thought. Unwittingly, I had seemingly arrived at a household waste site. There was a social club next door, proudly displaying a sign reading 'Prudhoe Town AFC Supporters Club', but neither bore any resemblance to the pictures of Kimberley Park that I'd seen before I set off. I did several u-turns and found myself exploring the local streets and the nearby golf club. Something wasn't right.

Then I noticed how the car in front was heading purposefully towards the refuse site with no cargo, so I followed - past a queue of cars backing up outside the tip entrance - and sure enough the ground was merely twenty metres beyond, round a little corner! So, if you don't wish to feel like an idiot, just remember to keep driving past the queue to reach the car park! 

The parking was ample but was quite full. As it happens, much of this was nothing to do with the football but rather the gents attending to the tenants of the pigeon lofts adjoining.

Inside, the ground was a weird mix of tatty and groomed. The pitch was perfect, the light rain beforehand giving it a nice zip. Towering above, there were eight mighty floodlights. The pitchside was neat, including a long covered stand with capacity for well over 200 spectators... perhaps it had been full previously, but today the crowd was no more than 25 and, save for the odd elderly sit-down moment, the seats were only consistently occupied by one man. For the record, I did sit on a few different ones myself, just to say that I had! 

Elsewhere, it was all very crumbly. The licensed clubhouse was a flaking prefabricated lump. There were outside loos at pitchside. Rusty metal and roped-off builders' junk occupied various corners. It generally had the character typical of a ground at this level. 

Facilities-wise, around the corner was the proper 'Supporters Club' building, which I'd driven past earlier, which looked like it was hosting a family function. I guess that's the place to go for socialising?

The teams came out onto the pitch, and I was delighted to see that Prudhoe were playing in exactly the same colours as my own daughter's team (Deerness Valley FC, whom I had watched that very morning in my first game of the day), hence I was more than happy to lend them my customary support! 

As I found a good vantage point, I was donuted by a young kid on stunt scooter and an old guy on a mobility scooter.

The game commenced and it was clear that the visitors were up for it. They had brought a sizeable away following of umpteen people of various ages, and were certainly vocal. They soon had something to be vocal about as an early goal (after 4 minutes) came from the Wearsiders first chance. 

It was only then that I noticed how the ground was surrounded by a high hedge of conifers, which created an interesting echo chamber with the shouts of crowd and players.

Back on the pitch, it was warming up. After several unsuccessful attempts, we were treated to a well-worked Sunderland second. Back to goal, close turn and low rifled shot into the far corner. Prudhoe were having their moments too, but it was West End who had the bulk of creative possession. A Sunderland third, on 35 minutes, was a low swooping header from corner by their centre back.

As half-time approached, there were tiny specks of light rain in the air and the breeze picked up slightly, clouds rolled over. I considered that it might be an excellent excuse to sit in the fancy stands for second half. Within minutes, the sun was back out again. I think the usual meteorological phrase is "changeable"? 

Around me, the away supporters outnumbered the locals. The folk from the West End were definitely the loudest - and indeed the sweariest, with several old timers over from Sunderland dragging their gutter language over with them. The hapless home keeper, who was indeed a portly gentleman, was a particular object of invective, and I was actually strangely grateful that there was nobody of another ethnicity nearby (a thought which troubled me about my own prejudice). It was actually quite sad, but I'll save my pity for those with less bigotry. Lost for a moment in etymology, I pondered to myself that they mightn't realise how 'viking' their vocabulary was, and, in a Brexit context, I suspected they wouldn't appreciate such irony either. 

Half-time. 0-3. A few lagers came out.

The second half started and Sunderland extended their lead within a couple of minutes; a good move down the right, deep cross, volley from the edge of the box. A nice goal indeed. Sunderland were certainly keeping the pressure on, not letting their hosts settle on the ball. A clumsy Prudhoe tackle was rewarded with their first yellow card.

Soon after, a seemingly innocuous throw-in turned into a further West End goal. The offending Prudhoe defender was incensed that the throw went against him, even though the referee's assistant was literally on top of the incident. Luckily for him, his protestations didn't get him carded. Still, the simmering discontent mixed with the following defensive mêlée leading to Prudhoe being critically disorganised and Sunderland duly snatching a fifth, to the home sides anger. Moments later, a second yellow, presumably for dissent, in an off-the-ball moment.

By then, Prudhoe were reeling. They were outclassed on the pitch and their gutsy performance only seemed to attract the whistle. More last-ditch defending followed as Sunderland trickery scythed its way through the massed ranks of orange on the edge of the home box.

Above, the sky greyed and specks again decorated my notes. Then, again, the warm sun broke out, reflecting in my phone screen. Unsurprisingly, I had left my shades in the car. 

Distracted by this, I almost missed a moment of magic on the pitch, as a long shot from the halfway line cleared everyone and nestled in the Prudhoe net. The big keeper was annoyed at his defence, but in truth he was too far off his line. 

0-6. Prudhoe looked dead and buried. Ironically, Sunderland are sponsored by a funeral directors.

Then, delightfully and deservedly, the men in orange pulled one back, with a nice cool finish after rounding the keeper. It was a rare moment to savour, a weak ripple of applause reflected the slim home presence in the crowd. 

Infuriated by the loss of a clean sheet, the visitors raised the volume again. A Sunderland substitute delivered a hacking tackle, and earned the first away yellow. The victim was himself a Prudhoe substitute who had only been on a few minutes. It looked serious and he was screaming in pain (not that the away fans believed him). His injury was indeed genuine and he was lifted off the pitch by two opposition players, a rare moment of sportsmanship from the boys in red (if only their bench and supporters had similar empathy).

As the game limped on, another ref-centric incident played out on 85 minutes. A soft handball call on the edge of the home box resulted in a free kick to the visitors. Although this was duly wasted, the referee inexplicably awarded a corner. Not for first time, Prudhoe were incensed. It seemed to them like everything was going against them.

As I raised my eyes to the sky, I noticed a rainbow over the trees to the north; as colourful as the afternoon's language. Maybe there was something golden at the end for Prudhoe, who sneaked a second in the dying minutes. 6-2. 

But no, at the death, the men funded by the undertakers, grab back their margin. 7-2. The final nail in the coffin. Game over.

It was getting chilly and I took a few final photographs before heading for the gate. Meanwhile, in the centre circle, the referee and his assistants were engaged in a frank exchange of views with a representative of the home bench. After several minutes he was still remonstrating, but it doesn't change the score.

One of those days. In many contexts.

GBA rating: possibly