West Allotment Celtic v Washington

Hosts: West Allotment Celtic FC
Venue: Druid Park, Callerton Lane, Woolsington, Newcastle Upon Tyne, NE13 8DF

Kickoff: 19:45 Wednesday 22 August 2018
Competition: Ebac Northern League Division Two

Weather: dry, cool evening, occasional clouds, light breeze

LOCATION REPORT

SatNav: NE13 8DF
Parking: on-site carpark for 60+
Public transport: buses to Woolsington
Club information: Celtic Twitter

Entry: £6 (£3 concession) 

Refreshments/Facilities: licensed clubhouse bar incl toilets
Example: chicken curry and chips £4
Programmes: £1

Pitch: 3G astroturf
Stands/Terraces: two fully-covered side areas (stand = c. 200+ seats; terrace = no seats, with junk stored) + open area with pub tables next to bar + plastic lean-on barrier to three sides
Floodlights: 10 (5 per flank)

MATCH REPORTS

Official League report: http://www.northernfootballleague.org/event/3985/
Home viewpoint
Visitors viewpoint

Official crowd: 55

Full-time [h/t] score (colours):
3 [0] West Allotment Celtic (green/white hoops)
1 [0] Washington (red)
Bookings: 1 (West Allotment)
Sent Off: 0

NORVENMUNKI's COMMENTS

If, like me, it's the romanticism of non-league footie that draws you in, with misty visions of dark evenings in a muddy field and the evocative tinglings from club names derived from implausible origins, then the name of 'West Allotment Celtic' sounds pretty much as authentic as you could get.

I read up a little on the history of the club, which is worth your own further investigation, and was slightly disappointed to learn that they don't play in West Allotment any more. They play in Woolsington now, apparently ever since their old home became too expensive, and have adopted the site of a defunct team called Blue Star.

Druid Park (I haven't found out why it's called that!) is situated right next to the Callerton Parkway metro station, so public transport is a doddle, and is easily accessible from the road that leads to the Airport. The rumbled sound of traffic on the A696 is discernible in the distance.

When I arrive, the car park gate is closed and the gateman has to open it specially to let me in. I don't ask if that was usual (as it seems unlikely that people would randomly use the car park, say whilst flying away on holiday!), but I am warmed by the inner feeling of exclusivity, as I don't recall being ushered into any other ground in the same way. The buzz is mixed with slight deflation when, after parking up and walk back over to pay my entry, he gives me the price "for concessions": does he really think that I qualify for a concession? My greying hair? "You might be unemployed," he suggests in his defence.

Relieved of my full-price entry and in possession of a cute old-school admission ticket, I take a look around.
As the players take some last-minute practice, wayward or enthusiastic shots sail over into the hotel car park (as they do throughout the actual game) or else into the line of mighty Leylandii that stand as a semi-effective barrier.

I notice that there's a gate wide open on one side, leading to the Premier Inn next door. Maybe I could have sneaked in for free, after all ? From some windows, guests can get a free view of the match. I wonder if that's part of the hotel's USP on their website?

The clubhouse is busy and outside there are patio tables with potted plants. It's a cool evening in an unseasonably warm summer, with the late afternoon sun dipping over the Airport and an impressive orange sunset for the departures to fly into.

The players are out, lining up for the handshakes. The referee is about seven feet tall and towers over everybody.  The game kicks off.

Unlike my dreamy vision, the pitch is not muddy, it's AstroTurf. The way that light catches the deep plastic blades looks like a sheen of frost. There are a confusing number of different markings on the pitch, presumably from different sports being played here, and I'm sure that must confuse some visiting players, perhaps when shepherding balls into touch or such like.

Hungry, I take a mooch inside the Druids Bar, which is quiet with Coronation Street playing in silence on the big screen and an idle pool table. The friendly cook conjures up some magical fresh chips and chicken curry, a massive portion like a full dinner for £4, and delicious it is too - and it took twenty minutes to eat it! I go outside to a patio table, watching the game, as the players who are warming-up are all distracted by the aroma as I sit, pitchside, scoffing.

Counting the crowd, it seems low considering the busy car park. However, I notice that there are many parked cars alongside the pitch which are occupied by spectators, presumably choosing to stay in the warm away from the prospect of early evening chill. It's a bit like a drive-in silent movie, with the occasional 3D effect of a loose ball cannoning back off their bonnet.

The match is high-energy with a liberal seasoning of feistiness. The away captain berates his teammates:  "distribution has to improve" he bellows, incongruously articulate when set against the monosyllabic grunts of the others. Wait a minute... I know that guy: it's Olly, the bloke from my kids' school football training. Small world. (Addendum: I find out subsequently that this is his last game for Washington and he leaves the club a couple of days later.) 

Around me, the local faithful are chanting encouragement. The occasional shout of 'Allot-MENT' rings out; nobody seems to use the word Celtic at all.

The towering floodlights power on after about 30 minutes (around 8:15; wonder if they are on a timer?). Presumably they are not a distraction to the numerous planes landing next door. As the lights are still warming up, it's a bit gloomy to be honest and I'm not sure if there's a rule on visibility that the referee needs to consider.

A plane #1 takes off overhead, passing from left to right flank as the home side play eastwards: it's 20:20, so (subject to cross-checking later with the departure  schedule) that could likely be BE708 Flybe to Exeter.
Then a Metro trundles by, behind the covered terrace on the opposite side, en route from Callerton Park and Ride towards the airport terminus.

The half-time whistle is blown: it's still nil-nil.

Another plane #2 thunders over: it's 20:33, so that will be BA1337 to Heathrow. 

Night is gradually falling and the wind is turning chilly. The late summer evening is cooler than during the previous few weeks.

I walk around to the other side of the pitch and sit in the covered stand. The benches are massively long, set in four rows, with seating for 250+ people. Three visiting kids are having a quick knockabout on the pitch during the interval: they are full of happy banter, like my son and his mates, and it make me smile.

Another plane #3 takes off: it's 20:40. Most likely BE148 Flybe to Southampton.

The players are coming back out, with Celtic first on and Washington taking their own sweet time to re-emerge in dribs and drabs. 

The second half kicks off. The floodlights have finally warmed-up now and burn full and white. A steady stream of new people wander over to sit on the benches around me: a few of whom have also been tempted by the curry and chips. An older lady kindly shares hers with the three young boys.

The match action warms up and it's getting spicy.
Game on: the deadlock is broken by an early goal from Celtic. It's a lovely curler into the far corner that bounces down off the stantion with a satisfying metallic ping: 1-0.
Instant response: equaliser! Olly sends in a deep corner from the right and it's powered in to the bottom corner: 1-1.
And back again: straight from the restart, Allotment speed up their right wing and the slick striker cuts in and rifles a left-footer into the far corner beyond the grasp of the keeper. Home advantage restored: 2-1.

There are three old guys from Washington sitting behind me now. Their busy conversation flips between a critique of their own underperforming players and general rumination on the state of Sunderland AFC and pro football in general; they're like a posse of unusually well-informed tv pundits.

Five minutes later and another goal to Celtic. Washington are leaving spaces now and can't keep up with their hosts: 3-1.

Another plane #4: it's 21:14. There isn't actually a departure scheduled for now, so I wonder if this is a delayed service. If so, it could be 90 minutes late taking off.

Shuffling around at pitchside, I notice there are some massive thistles growing through the path tarmac. Lethal. 

Plane #5: 21:16. If this is on time, then it's U2569 easyJet to Bristol.

Crunch! An enthusiastically-competitive tackle from the away defender sees the Washington man barge his Celtic opponent into touch, rolling under the perimeter barrier and into the floodlight's concrete footing.

Then, as I had earlier predicted, a moment of touchline confusion happens! Washington get a throw in, but the boy picks the ball up and stands on the 'inner' white line, thus straying onto pitch by a metre! After a couple of seconds, he's (correctly) penalised for handball. Washington players and staff berate the referee, the linesman and the pitch! The old geezer behind me berates the player for being daft.

It's the final seconds now and, given that we haven't seen the referee's book at all so far despite the simmering feisty atmosphere, there's finally a yellow card for a Celtic midfielder.

Then, the very last action sees the ball bounce out from a clearance and bashes off a car windscreen! It turns out to be mine. There's no damage, just a perfect circle slapbang in front of my driving position.

Final whistle, game over.

As the teams leave the pitch, everything turns a bit unnecessary with handbags and posturing: initially between the Washington keeper and a Celtic striker, then a lot of jostling amongst several clowns on the way off the pitch. It's not any kind of a fight but just bad blood boiling. Various supporters are pleading for common sense. It's on the pitch, so the referee may be compelled to write something in his report.

As I get in my car to leave, the windscreen is covered in evening dew and there's a round blob where the stray ball hit! The glow from the floodlight lends a ghostly silver shimmer to it. Squirt, swipe, gone....but my visit to Druid Park has left a longer lasting impression.