The DA

The DA continues the Footballing Cities United Tour in Plymouth

For the second Saturday in a row I was waking up early with the prospect of heading down to the West Country. That meant for the second Saturday in a row I was hurling my alarm clock at the wall at stupid O clock in the morning beginning to understand why supporting a local team is such an appealing proposition for the weekend lie in fan. I wasn’t particularly looking forward to my trip to Plymouth either. Having watched National Rail effortlessly cock up at every stage last week I couldn’t help but think an extra hour and a half onto the journey time couldn’t be a good thing and began to consider taking rations to last me a good two weeks just incase.

I was also somewhat blinded by the opinion of Exeter City fans, who last week painted a picture of Plymouth not dissimilar to how Picasso painted a picture of a face. With just a little bit of hatred. Unbeknown to me until last Saturday, Exeter and Plymouth are somewhat touchy about their patch of land, and more to the point, the proximity of one another on this patch of land, like how a dog might defend a bone in his territory. Fundamentally, I think both want to be the true representative of Devon and thus would very much like the other to go away. I was trying very hard not to let the Exeter opinion affect my view but a week of frustration tracing down Plymouth fans to no avail already had me cheering for one corner just a tad.

So extremely grouchy, immensely tired and with the prospect of fixing a somewhat dismantled alarm clock on my return, I set out into the fresh air expecting the worst. But for anyone in an exceptionally bad mood with life I recommend you take the stretch of railway that connects Exeter St Davids station with Plymouth. It is truly amazing. I had no idea such a place existed in Britain but for a good half hour we rolled along right by the side of the Southern coast, at times looking like we were floating over the water. The scenery was absolutely spectacular and to make things even better, the train had only gone and run to time!

Things were definitely picking up, and when I hopped off at Plymouth station, I felt brand new and ready to give Plymouth another shot. And what a nice city it is. Unfortunately, like so many cities in England the 70’s did not treat Plymouth kindly. Someone, somewhere in the 70’s decided that colour was for chumps and that big, grey chunks of easily eroded concrete was the way to go. I hope whoever that someone is currently spends their days in ‘building design hell’ with someone not too dissimilar to Lawrence Lewin Bowen teaching them the subtle differences between light Aureolin and Arylide yellow whilst constantly poking them with a fiery pitchfork.

But look past the vomit of the 1970s and the place was actually very pleasant indeed. The main streets are wide and bustling, filled with live music and cafes spewing out onto the street, the people are friendly and there is that beachside atmosphere about the place, but without all the tourists carrying inflatable dingys and sporting horrific sun burns that normally accompany such a location. Don’t get me wrong, the seafront still had all the usual suspects; pitch and putt, ice creams and a kids train full of adults looking like they suddenly regretted their hasty parting with £5, but not nearly as full on as some beachside towns. Perhaps if I were a holiday goer who’d just booked up a weeks break I might have been somewhat disappointed by the lack of activity along the coast, but seeing as I’d been expecting Exeter City’s version of Plymouth, I was really rather enjoying the tranquil surroundings overlooking the sea. I even took in a quick game of pitch and putt which received very strange looks from the groups of families around me. Here was a man playing pitch and putt by himself on a Saturday morning. I decided to overplay the seriousness of my game and began testing the wind with my finger and measuring the contours on the course. Needless to say I won a resounding victory and celebrated like I’d just lifted the Ryder Cup.

At around 1 I remembered I’d actually come to see a football game and took the gutting decision to cancel my arranged ‘cruise’ round the coast on a 1 hour boat ride that probably would’ve had me looking very similar to those previously mentioned parents riding the seaside train. So I headed off back to the city centre before taking a stroll through ‘Central Park’ (New York, you’ve got nothing in comparison let me tell you) to get to Home Park stadium, the home of Plymouth Argyle. My walk through the park was really beginning to heighten my fondness of the city. Everything was so close – the seafront, the shopping, the park. I could imagine quite easily spending my Saturdays here and falling into a good pre-match routine. As part of England’s World Cup bid I can see Plymouth being an absolutely terrific venue. Images of fans from all 32 different nations playing ‘World Cup doubles’ on the park’s vast open space got me quite excited at the prospect of England winning the 2018 bid.

I headed for the local pub, the Britannia, in a bid to find some fans that had been so elusive online. And it didn’t take long. With a pint in hand I took a seat on a long stretch of table and began chatting to a couple who’d been following Plymouth for nearly 40 years. They didn’t want to be named or photographed but Mr and Mrs Plymouth as I’ll call them were very enlightening about Plymouth Argyle. Not to be outdone by near neighbours Exeter, who boasted ties with Brazil last week, Mr Plymouth explained how a Plymouth Argyle side had actually beaten Brazil (Pele and all) in the 70’s in front of a packed out Home Park. He also shared how the capacity of over 32,000 had waited patiently whilst Brazil and Plymouth tussled over match earnings. As the story went Brazil arrived at the ground demanding double the amount of money they’d previously agreed on and refused to play until their demands were met. It’s a pretty genius plan all things considered because with a crowd of 32,000 fans waiting to see Pele, you wouldn’t want to be the hapless director that went out on the pitch and told everyone to maybe just hit the local pub or something.

What I did get from the conversation though, and from others around as well, was a sense of frustration. The city of Plymouth is now officially the largest city in England to have never been represented in the top flight of English football. The fans seemed confused as to why this was and blamed it on the usual shenanigans of boardroom mishaps and c*** managers. Even Peter Reid, who’d so far played just 3 games this season, losing only the 1, seemed to be getting a whole heap of criticism.

That theme continued in the ground, or the ‘Theatre of Greens’ as they call it. When Plymouth’s right back Karl Duguid was named in the starting 11 there was an obvious stir of disapproval and a fairly audible boo. That’s the home fans, booing a home player before he’s even kicked a ball. To be fair, having watched the match, I can see just why they vented their frustrations. Without being overly critical of Karl Duguid here he is probably the worst player I have ever seen play professional football. I can’t remember him successfully touching the ball once and if he did anything good throughout the 90 minutes I must have been busy blinking at the time.

They weren’t playing particularly badly though. The unfortunately named Craig Noone looked pretty lively and Rory Patterson perhaps should have made more of one or two chances carved open for him. But still the heckles continued. The fans, like the other two venues I’d visited, were great don’t get me wrong. Friendly, passionate and not taking themselves too seriously but the sheer apathy of watching football here was very noticeable. It was as if they were forced to be there, when really they could’ve been taking a 1 hour cruise around the coastline. After yet another bad touch from the ever reliable Karl Duguid one fan yelled ‘Duguid, do something good or f*** off!’ A stroke of genius one liner but maybe somewhat negative. Another supporter behind me, commenting on new loan signing Lee Molynuex looking quite sharp down the left added ‘he keeps trying to pass the ball. He won’t get on well here.’

Ultimately they were right, and maybe years of being proved right was the reason for all this cynicism. Peterborough, with a very dangerous looking Craig Mackail-Smith upfront started to take control and after the break established a hefty 3-0 lead which delighted the travelling away support…all 25 of them. The stadium emptied like it was sinking, and only those waiting behind to shout abuse at manager Peter Reid continued watching. The frustration at the team underperforming was just so obvious. Plymouth is a city with big, big plans – just look at the World Cup bid. I think the supporters want to see those plans being met with performances on the pitch.

It didn’t take the shine away from what was a great day for me though, and as we strolled through the park discussing the fatal flaws of the team and their seemingly never ending quest for disappointment I noticed the circus was in town, and felt like I really wanted to stay (bloody love dodgems). Whilst the Exeter fans probably won’t like me saying this, Plymouth really isn’t all that bad. The South West has so far proved a fantastic place to watch football and I’m somewhat saddened by the fact I won’t be making the trip down there again this season. Next up for me is Oxford and if that’s half as good as the last 2 venues you won’t see me complaining. Unless Karl Duguid secures a loan move there in the next couple of days of course…

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• Exeter v Bristol Rovers, week 2 – Exeter
• Crystal Palace v Leicester, week 1 – London
• Portsmouth players forced to do without their £40,000 for the week
• Round the World in a fishing boat
• SHEARER: ‘IF WE WERE PLAYING PLYMOUTH WE WOULD’VE SCORED’