To Gill a Shocking Bluebird

Gillingham (H) - EFL League 2 - 28th February 2026

We don't do clean sheets. Photo, the soccer

Brought to you by Cruzcampo and Beethoven's 7th

I'm sat at the dinner table, St James's, late 1980s. My little group of friends is talking football, or rather, we're trying to outdo each other in one-downmanship, which we're finding absolutely hilarious in that way you only can when you've yet to reach double digits. I support Coventry, says Peter. I support Luton, says Kurt. I support Gillingham, say I. The laughter subsides. The conversation turns, probably, to Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles or Dogtanian. But I'd done it, I'd actually said it, I'd claimed the sh***est team any of us could think of. No laughter, no comment. Just a silent, collective recognition: yeah, you're probably right.

But me being me, I didn't leave it at the dinner table. I set out to actually support this team I'd randomly plucked from somewhere in my memory. And in an analogue world, I went full in. I (my dad) wrote to the club and ordered a shirt. I got a friend to record Brentford vs Gillingham off what passed for Sky Sports back then, complete with satellite interference and tracking issues. Harvey Lim was in goal, I think, and they drew 2–2. Steve Lovell became the bizarro-world version of Cowps, and I even watched a game at Priestfield and bought a copy of Brian Moore's Head. Barrow were my team, obviously, but Gillingham were my second team for at least a few years. I was still rooting for them in that play-off final against Man City. The thought of Nicky Weaver still makes me feel slightly nauseous. My second team were rubbish, but the idea that we'd ever be playing them in a league fixture just a couple of decades later seemed utterly fanciful. And yet here we are.

Any fondness I had for that passing fancy has long since drained from my brain. They're just another League Two rival now, and one we desperately need to get something from today.

My day has started much as any other weekend, with a bit of Beans admin. Copies are in the post, folks. The long trudge to the post office, then a wander round town for some hand deliveries, all in the pi**ing rain. The glamour of a fanzine life.

By the time the game comes around, the sun is shining, and 2,300 hardy souls have taken their positions in the seats and on the terraces. The atmosphere is muted. I've read numerous comments and spoken to people who have simply said they're at peace now, like they've unburdened themselves of some terrible crime, or watched a loved one slip away quietly in the night. I can understand it. Results, performances, conceding late goals; it all has a fatalistic quality about it. I refuse to give up, though. It may feel like we're in a plane crash that never quite hits the ground, but we aren't in the bottom two. Theoretically, we could lose every remaining game and still stay up, Phil Brown, recurring. But realistically, we need points. And to get points we need goals. And to get goals we need to shoot. And to shoot, we need to create chances. You get my drift.

I've been doing my best to avoid writing about what was advertised as a game of football. Something football-adjacent occurred on the pitch. A ball was used, 22 men lined up against each other, there was someone dressed in a referee's uniform and two more men with flags. The ball was kicked and headed, and occasionally one lot of men tried to get the ball from the other lot. But calling it a game of football feels like a stretch. It was a game of football that had been photocopied a hundred times and faxed to a machine in the back office. A 96kbps MP3 of Brahms. At one point Rose closed their keeper down and blocked the ball for a goal kick. Does that count as a shot on target? We plodded around the pitch like we'd been attached to a sea anchor. The half-time whistle blew and the players jogged down the tunnel in all their 0.3 megapixel glory. VGA football. You'd get more excitement in an empty, darkened room.

The second half has two notable moments, both of which are fucking horrible. A lump of skin and meat in shorts called Ethan Coleman enters the vicinity where a football match is nominally taking place and almost immediately launches himself into the sort of tackle that should come with a DLA claim form attached. The sickening thud echoes around the ground as Malcolm is left in a heap. Referee Joyce, and I use the term referee in the loosest possible sense,  is mere yards away. Whether he suffers from some sort of condition that causes momentary absences (if so, do take the time and get well soon) or whether it is sheer incompetence, he doesn't even give a foul, let alone the red card that such thuggery deserves. It is entirely within his gift to offer players some degree of protection, but his appears to be full of dancing Dalmatians. He should not be refereeing at this level. Any level, frankly.

We also concede a last-minute goal, of course.

I don't have the skill set or imagination to make a report on this game entertaining. You cannot make a blockbuster out of the football equivalent of a television test card. I've had more fun picking scabs. We lost again, but I refuse to give up hope. If we keep doing what we are doing, we will pick up points, if only by the law of averages. We are no doubt a poor team, low on confidence. But the law of averages says we have to pick up some points at some point. Doesn't it? Are there two teams worse than us this season? Probably. I do have faith in Dino,  he's been dealt a poor hand, and this is perhaps his biggest challenge yet (notwithstanding that we aren't actually in the relegation places).

Whether he can coax at least some faint competence out of the busted flush that is Barrow AFC, only time will tell. If he can't, how do you pronounce DAZN?

February / March 2026

£3.20

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