Cockneys, Cockles and C*ckups

"Not seen yer much before mates, me name's Phil Mitchell." Surely not. "Nah, really, it is. But I can certainly hold me Kentish 'ops better than that lout orf Eastenders. Still bit better ride this is than what we dun in the Firties when I was a kid. We used to go dahn Sarfend on the Medway Queen. Best part of a fharsund ov us cruisin' dahn the river. Sahns great dunnit, but corse it was usually in the winter. Darn great waves whippin' in from blinkin' Dogger Bank an' ev'ryone pukin' over the sides - an' that was before we'd sin the match!"

We remember Charlie Westwick telling us about the regular paddle-boat trips before the war across to Southend to watch the Gills. Southend played at the Kursaal Ground then, next to the funfair on the sea front. With winter weather, docking at the end of the longest pier in the world was often difficult, and then it was a mile walk to the shore if the little pier trains weren't running. By the time they all got to the ground the match had often started, and Gills were losing 2-0. Once when they got in late Gills were winning 2-0, but they lost 3-2. That sort of thing certainly hasn't changed much in away matches. And of course in winter it was pitch black coming back across the estuary.

We recounted this to our new-found friend. "Yer mate Charlie sahns like a bloke after me own 'eart. Gawd, it was as black as a coal-miners face comin' back over, an' yer could'nt see where yer was pukin' or whatever." Charlie hadn't told us about any of that. "Yus, yer see the ole Queen's bogs would 'ave given up the ghost long since leavin' Chath'm, an' wiv all the beer, cockles an' jellied eels people had put away them bogs was much needed. So yer just wandered up on deck an' puked or whatever in the general direction of the sea. Most ov the uninitiated automatically pointed the way we'd come, an' wiv the wind usually blowin' the ovver way the results were obvious. Never stand on deck in the pitch dark mates, yer finish up stinkin' like 'ell" and he laughed out loud.

Fortunately the train was now close to Southend, and we had plenty of time before the match started. Different kick-off times always throw the personal timetable. It was a pity the Kursaal funfair wasn't still there to kill some time. "Nah that's where yer wrong mates. The Spirit of the Kursaal lives on in a travellin' fair furver along the Front. Me bruvver is one of the attractions". We were too intrigued not to accept his invitation to go along and meet him. So while everyone went one way towards the ground, we went the other way to the sea front, and after a short walk past the cockles, whelks and jellied eels stalls we came to the travelling fair - dodgems, roundabouts, sideshows, sticks of rock - the lot. Kids these days don't know what they're missing.

"So which one's your brother, Phil?" we asked. "Come wiv me" he replied and we walked towards a sideshow which said "See The World's Most Tattooed Man". Oh no! Oh yes. We walked straight in and met Stan Mitchell, who in fact seemed to be a very affable bloke, and like his brother Phil was a big Gills fan. But it was a bit off-putting talking about football with a sort of seventy year old Charles Atlas type dressed merely in a pair of tight leopard-skin trunks and every part of his exposed body covered in tattoos.

Suddenly Stan said "I'll 'ave ter get back on me perch, 'ere comes some customers" and in walked a couple of real Essex Girls. They had a good prowl round the plinth where Stan was posing, making sure they got their money's worth. "'ear Jacks" one said to the other "bet 'e ain't got any of 'em on 'is wotsit." Stan leaned down and leered into her face. I thought he was going to head-butt her. "For another fiver I'll prove yer wrong" he said. They couldn't resist, which was of course Stan's plan to get some tax-free cash. He certainly dropped his trucks faster than the Gills back-line defends. We must admit we couldn't resist having a crafty peek from afar. It looked like the tattoo said "S O S". "Blimey", said one, "that ain't very impressive". "Maybe not now" replied Stan "but you wait till that sexy little blonde from the hoop-la stall with the 38DD's walks through 'ere an' that tattoo will say "SOUTHEND ON SEA."

Dirty Old Goat. We'd had enough of the Mitchell brothers for one day, so it was straight up to Roots Hall on our own for the one o'clock kick-off. And the big news was that Big Ron Manager had rung the changes. One of "the babies" (in GillsSpeak that's anyone under 30) Sean Clohessy was retained at right back with Trigger right midfield. Our bandanna man Sodje was back in central defence with Simon King at left back, and Craig Armstrong moving to left midfield. We were without our Welsh International, so would Crofty's absence mean our back line being more exposed than Essex Queen Ms Jodie Marsh on a night out at Strawberry Moons? Time would tell, and we'd have a close-up view as Gills defended in front of us first half.

We were on the attack straight away and got a shot in after three minutes. It went one bounce onto the top of the two-tiered stand at that end and then out into the street. Two minutes later Tommy Black appeared in exactly the same spot where he'd shot us into a memorable 1-0 lead and win two seasons ago. A reverse deja-vu - but he pulled his shot across Royce and we were safe. Three minutes later Southend's Bailey made a run down the left, there was an exchange of passes, Ian Cox was on the deck and Bailey was clean through. He ruthlessly buried a cross shot under Simon Royce and into the far corner. 1-0.

So Gills' record of never keeping a clean sheet for more than the first thirty minutes of a match this season was comfortably preserved again and we had a mountain to climb. And in truth we didn't make a bad job of it. There was more passing to feet rather than the aimless hoofing we've seen so far this season, but the end product was pretty tepid. The fore-mentioned Queen Of The Essex Girls Ms Marsh would have been decidedly unimpressed with the quality of our penetration. Gary The Goal Machine did get a shot on target, but he'd already been flagged offside. Southend were looking comfortable throughout the half, and right on the stroke of halftime nailed us with a second. An attack down the left turned our line, Southend's McCormack was clean through and Royce had no chance as he buried it. 2-0. Game over.

The second half wasn't really a contest, it was more a quiz - how many more were they going to get, would we score at all? Just like the old Third Division South regular thumpings Charlie had told us he'd seen here after risking his life on the paddle-boat trips. It's always a difficult place to come. Or perhaps because the kick-off had been at one o'clock we'd had difficulty adjusting to a higher sun profile. Whatever. In the event it was the same as the first forty-five - Gills playing it about a bit but lacking thrust, and Southend likely to power forward at any time. After fifty-nine minutes they really did, with another strong attack down their left and this time Leon Clarke was clean through. Simon Royce rushed out, but he had no chance. Clarke could shoot to the left of him, to the right of him, or over the top. He lobbed it over the top, and the ball dropped beautifully into the net. It was the sort of thing Terry Cochrane would have done when he played for us, but we don't seem to get players like that in our team any more.

Now it really was game over and our fans began to drift away, many turning to launch a final rant in the general direction of the pitch and bench. There was a flurry of substitutions - Brown for Clohessy, Graham for Armstrong, Stone for Lomas - and suddenly WE HAD A REAL CHANCE. Gary The Goal Machine got to the right byeline, he chipped it into the middle and Delroy Facey had a golden chance to head it into the net. But DelBoy must have been overdosing on watching the Rugby World Cup, and as the score was 3-0 he must have thought that if he headed it over the bar it would be 3-3 - so he did!

As the clock ticked down we were into help yourself time, as Southend took it in turns to take pot-shots. They hit the woodwork twice, and Simon Royce made several saves that kept the score down. The Gills fans were pouring out as the final whistle went. Those who had stayed to the bitter end were equally unimpressed, and they made their feelings known. Maybe it's a good job we don't go to Southend on the Medway Queen any more - there'd be quite a few chucking themselves overboard even before we'd sailed back past Sheerness.

So yet another hapless defeat away from home, but this time the rants and invective directed at the players and more particularly the manager had their effect. Within twenty-four hours, noon Sunday, Ronnie Jepson had resigned. Did he jump before he was pushed? Who knows, and frankly who cared? He had clearly run out of ideas on how to reverse a dreadful run of away performances and kick-start the promotion challenge that Chairman Scally demanded. The squad of players that we now had were performing well below any acceptable level, and the standard of football they were playing was terrible. It simply wasn't working, it looked less and less likely to, and in such circumstances the manager's departure is inevitable.