Article: The Camel Travel Guide - Part One | Gillingham FC, Football

The Camel Travel Guide – Part One

For all the Gillingham FC supporters that have followed the adventures of the two angry camels on not606 you will know all my intros begin;

An attempt to add a touch of humour to our travelling fortunes whilst following The Gills in our 2013/14 League One campaign. Angry maybe, but possibly better described as two grumpy old men sharing the fate of their beloved team; win, lose or draw. This story is more about the thoughts and journeys of two supporters with traditional hearts in the modern game, in our version of...

Those versions varying anything and everything from the ‘moaning of life’ through to the lost coach to Blackpool in ‘Ye olde dromedary’.

The good journeys mixed with the bad but whatever happened along the way we have always tried to add a touch of humour, whether that be in monty python style and the knights that say ‘Ni’ aka Charlie Lee or just in idiot abroad style and being plainly blunt about the places we visited.

Why do we do it you may ask, personally I believe football is about the whole day not just the game. Any reporter can sit and write you the match report and any plastic can sit in an armchair in front of SKY TV to have a match day opinion, but to get the real experience you have to get off your butt to follow in true football tradition. If you are a supporter of one of the clubs we visited you might want to look away now, because this is tainted with the good, bad and damn right ugly;

So the grumpy camel’s first adventure of the 2013/14 season was to the mighty Wolverhampton Wanderers. Yeah right, excuse me why I die of laughter, the club that still thinks it’s a big club, despite it now playing lower league – old division three Football.

First impression of Wolverhampton is like crossing a desert looking for an oasis having slightly lost our way, must be the thought of all that illuminate orange, until a prominent mosque came into view at a junction in the bright sunlight a good landmark as it was at this point we turned into a desolate car park to our left to depart our saddles.

I suppose Wolverhampton can be best described as most town centres these day’s slightly depressing with a hint of intimidation, although I think this is meant to be a City.

To seek out our usual pre-match liquid refreshments it meant playing a game of chicken across a busy main road, where you hoped the locals didn’t go in search of road kill.

Eventually shear delight at the sight of a cream coloured column building which was the main entrance to our watering hole and a doorman in attendance appearing to have a touch of humour with a passing joke, albeit lost on my friend who appeared to be making an immediate bolt for the bar.

Our later trek to the ground is one never to be forgotten quite ironic really when in March 2014 I saw a ground survey where Molineux came out on top, well you could have fooled me.

My impressions were of overzealous stewards who were nothing more than right jobs worth’s of assumed Premiership wannabe’s highest calibre.

While inside the ground there appeared to be a local tradition of pelting their guests as in some ritual of feeding the visiting inhabitants of the lower tier with snippets of food. We were certainly deep fried and battered with a 4-0 mauling on the day.

Our overall impressions of Molineux were it is still to date the most inhospitable place this season and mainly due to the jumped up yellow jacket brigade who were supposedly more used to dealing with bigger crowds. Well you could have fooled me.

While talking of prehistoric behaviour, oops sorry I mean historic ones, no I think I was right the first time as we rode next on into town of the old enemy - to be more precise Swindon Town and some infamous rivalry going back since the late 70’s early 80’s, I remember that era well and a particular visit to the County Ground back then. Which could be best described like some Mexican standoff during the old days of terracing.

Mind you the trip across the border was not an easy one, with the usual mass migration west that time of season.


I remember one of the travellers was starting to get grumpy, as his storage supplies in his hump were getting low and he was showing signs of alcoholic dehydration after such a troubled journey.


Eventually we managed to reach some urban town extension, which consisted of dwellings and more dwellings and well emptiness, the very first sign of life was some local native spotted in the distance wearing some red attire.


The two camels carefully strode in to this town with their fistful of dollars as if in some spaghetti western movie, Per un pugno di dollari. You certainly needed the dollars for this match at a cost of $25 before you could witness a shot even being fired.


We slowly proceeded past all these urban dwellings with floodlights guiding us in the distance. Just before reaching our destination we came to some lost mystical magic roundabout. I can’t remember this in a Clint Eastwood movie. Marked by an inner circle and five outer circles, but this was not some prehistoric rock gathering like Stonehenge or even crop circles. If you attempted to hold the summer solstice here you would probably become trampled under the maddening confusion of something now called the modern day automobile.


Then we came to the long and straight narrow road on the right leading us in to the County Ground, with the local Sheriff’s watching our movements forward, while bandits were seen waiting with staring eyes. Were these thoughts of past encounters or just a gaze of curiosity? You would certainly be well advised to not go astray around this town.


On entering in this dusty narrow landscape, one of the local gunslingers dressed in the familiar fearful yellow waistcoat representative of a sheriff’s badge insisted on $20 before allowing our Gillingham FC posse to precede, like a captive ransom.


We was eventually allowed to pass and immediately pulled up right outside the Saloon Bar 71, aptly named because there are 71 other clubs in the league. How convenient and exclusive for distant bounty hunters. The doorman demanded ID on entry via producing our tickets for the later arena. Quite why we did not know, as we were clearly dressed in blue battle colours and had just dismounted right outside!


On entry to the saloon bar there was a weird quietness about the area. Like waiting for the final pocket watch chime before all gunfire and hellfire let loose.

Spacious but white walled and naked apart from a large screen and a huge black and white picture of a packed Swindon crowd. The bar was only missing some spit and sawdust on the floor to complete the picture. Although the subsequent atmosphere spoilt the occasion, when it felt like we had taken a wrong turn and entered the Wild West’s version of a funeral parlour.


There was a strange serving of some drink that appeared to be a raspberry cider, crikey and I was worried about looking girly wearing my poncho! We obviously settled for the pretentious manly other stuff called lager as we could not see any real ale on tap.


In the stadium, the away supporters were seated in a large very well covered stand, where seating although appearing worn was unallocated. The Gillingham travelling faithful were lower in number than previous away days but were in loud voice. Whereas the Swindon section next to us and that of the home Town End seemed somewhat sterile, saddening to see once again the sterile affect of plastic on the modern game which ended 2-2.

Although the safety of stewards had to be questioned who hindered our exit as we rode out of town. They was clearly playing some weird game of how close can you walk in front of our hooves before getting trampled.

So we decided it was time to get out of the Wild West and head off to Brazil, Sun, Sea and Samba to visit the Estadio do Maracana. Until my mate reminded me was only travelling on the M25 to Crawley not Heathrow!

Suppose I’ll have to settle for the The Broadfield Stadium then and great world cup memories. Now this might be lost on your average reader but i’m sure every Gills supporter will remember the day Matt Lawrence held aloft the Jules Rimet Trophy.

First stop though the Half Moon public house. The usual expected bouncers on the door but all very welcoming and friendly and the service inside was prompt and refreshing after the two previous away day ventures. Even food offered and our very own footy tv as we took to a seat.

So what is it about Crawley that brings out the worst in Gillingham supporters, nothing to do with our 3-2 defeat on the day but some past large Scottish guy, I can say no more than that, otherwise I may get arrested.

This was then followed to trips to Coventry and the supporters that stand on the hill, before one camel travelled alone to Crewe and the story of the stolen programme as I missed my first away game of the season. Before heading somewhere in the direction of the Welsh border;


My first thoughts asked is Shrewsbury in Wales, well I’m led to believe it was once somewhere in the Kingdom of Mercia. The mere mention of that word ‘Mercia’ brings thoughts of no mercy, when during our invasion in September 2008 we retreated back home with a 7-0 beating by the ruthless longbows of the Salops.


By coincidence, like some medieval jester sketch, Martin Allen asked the same question (see Gills Player) this week by saying ‘I think we go to Wales or Shrewsbury is that in Wales’ - reporter replying ‘close’...MA responds in typical style:


’that is what I don’t want, is it, is it or is it not, I don’t want the grey area, you know what I mean, it’s not is it, it’s in England.


Those words...is it, is it or is it not...it’s not is it, it’s in England. Could quite easily have been written by Chapman, Cleese, Gilliam, Idle, Jones and Palin, maybe a good starting line up for a Gills team, I only jest, on the basis of those opening eight games.


So if Martin Allen was to have a film made about him (see his newspaper column), what would it be, ‘Mad dogs and Englishmen’. I would probably class him more in a scene screaming, ‘here’s johnny’ as mentioned in my (brb) ‘youth v experience’ article about nine months ago.


Shrewsbury a town steeped in history, the birthplace of Charles Darwin (Darwin’s Shrewsbury), an Abbey, a Cathedral and Church’s galore, even a Castle along with some monument called Lord Hills Column so I believe, well you didn’t actually expect me to know all that, did you?


Quite frankly this all looks a bit too historical and far too intellectual for a working class supporter like me, like the repressed peasant that I am (read on). No wonder my companion for the day dodged this write up...


That was until a Python caught my attention, no not a bloody snake. It appears the much travelled Michael Palin spent part of his education here. So maybe a response in true Monty Python style is more fitting... MA it’s not Shrewsbury, in mad dog’s old English it’s Scrobbesbyrigscīr, get your linguistics round that one, if you can.


Surely with such a place name this has to be the new setting for a remake of the film Monty Python’s Holy Grail, I can just imagine it now, the legend of ‘Scally the King of the Gillingham’ and his successful quest in lifting a playoff trophy some seven months after that aforesaid drubbing, just a shame Darwin’s theory of evolution never really extended to Gillingham Football Club over the past 100 years. Although maybe our evolution is about to begin, we saw our Chairman going into our hosts ground today, so why was he there?


You don’t really get to see Shrewsbury the town because as soon as you arrive in the area you are more or less there at the ground. And plenty of ground there is...one large enormous car park. Coach area for whole fleets to be parked up and easily turned around. A Home team bar, which was banned to away fans, despite it strangely being at the visiting supporter’s end of the ground with the Away team and coaches parked right outside!


The stadium quite awe inspiring and minus the urban sprawl to be replaced by rolling hills, but what about the Town’s history and retailers along with traditional pubs, none of that here.


Now the awkward moment on how after a long journey to get into the home team bar for a desperately needed pint of beer, how thoughtless not to cater for weary travels. Worry not, nothing was going to stop these wise old boys of persuasion on gaining entry with jackets done up and shirts tucked in and refreshing it was at £3 a pint.


Anyway back to the story...


Martin Allen stands tall like the Knight that says ‘Ni’, having lifted the Holy Chalice in our centenary, so maybe Darwin’s theory is starting to fruit. Although in AD 2013 his thoughts of ‘smashing’ league one, I say ‘Ni’ as this appears a bigger task than a swallow carrying a coconut (you need to see the film) unless we spend a few nickels more.


Mart will demand nothing but sacrifice at Greenhous Meadow on the back of a consecutive two game win. Why did they drop the ‘e’?


The greatest sacrifice this season has been coming from Charlie Lee, the man that fights like a black knight, with the strength of many men and none shall pass, he moves for no man. It is but a scratch ‘a scratch, your arms off’?! – ‘I’ve had worse it’s just a flesh wound’.


Then between the sticks, we have the best keeper in league one, ‘England’s Number One’ also described for #AskNels as the banter king, could he be a future John Cleese, with a hairstyle like that it would be no surprise.


But the heroics for this game was shown by the younger breed, Callum Davies, time and time again, have you learnt anything yet Mart about the youngsters you allowed to depart.


I would like to have joked at the end, like the story of the black knight with no arms and no legs he insisted it was a draw. But there were no arms and leg limbs given in this game, hence we came home with a two nil defeat.

10 games in, four home and six away, finally saw Mart depart, so i’ll leave the last word to him;

’that is what I don’t want, is it, is it or is it not, I don’t want the grey area, you know what I mean, it’s not is it’

End of Part One