In a game between fellow Championship strugglers, Simon Hart watches the away side continue their poor travelling form, while a debut for the home manager and a hard-fought win sees optimism bloom in Yorkshire
“Normally you’d get 18 to 19,000 here for a Peterborough game but we’re expecting 24 today – a couple of wins on the bounce, a new manager, there’s a feelgood effect.”
Martin Warrillow warns West Ham fans of what to expect now that Birmingham City's former owners are in charge of their club
It was the jacket that did it. The spectacularly naff claret-coloured jacket David Sullivan was wearing when he swanned into Upton Park having, as he put it, “defied commercial and financial sense” by buying West Ham United despite their reported £110 million debts.
Matt Withers looks at a fierce neighbourhood feud between the clubs of a Cheshire market town
In November, a week prior to Northwich Victoria’s home FA Cup second round victory over Charlton, Graham Shuttleworth, enterprising secretary of town rivals Witton Albion, took to Addicks message boards. Albion offered travelling Charlton supporters parking at their ground for £2 on the day, along with opening the social club early to offer them “a comfort break, a drink or something hot to eat”, while “no doubt enjoying the build-up to your game on the large screen”.
by Robert Endeacott
Tonto Books, £7.99
Reviewed by Duncan Young
From WSC 277 March 2010
Dirty Leeds is an enjoyable read on some levels, but almost certainly not those envisaged by the author. With its provocative title and its projected first person narrative it seeks to inhabit the same niche as The Damned United by Robert Endeacott’s friend David Peace. However, whereas Peace’s Brian Clough offers a coruscating examination of the motivations of a well-known historical figure, Endeacott’s Jimmy O’Rourke simply reels off a history lesson through the eyes of a fictional would-be apprentice.
Forty years in the commentary box
Xby John MotsonX
XVirgin, £18.99X
Reviewed by Taylor Parkes
From WSC 274 December 2009
If you disregard the alarming cover, on which Motty appears to be offering you outside for a fight, this exhaustive autobiography is more or less what you’d expect. Spanning a gruelling 386 pages – the last 65 just listing the games over which Motson has jabbered and chuckled – at its best it’s warm and charming. At its worst, it’s slightly deranged. Mostly, it’s boring.