The Battle of Henfield Common

Some memorable dates in modern world history.

1066, The Battle of Hastings, 1415, The Battle of Agincourt, 1588, English defeat The Spanish Armada, 1963, Kennedy assassinated, 1991, The Gulf War, 2002 The Battle of Henfield Common.

It started out as any other normal Easter Bank Holiday, much the same as those that had gone before, without anything untoward happening. But that was soon to change for one member of Hollingbury F.C.

Hollingbury F.C. were a group of overweight, and totally unfit individuals, that played out their football fantasies in the Sussex Sunday league.

The athletes met at the usual place on that fateful Sunday morning, it was a beautiful sunny summers day. The topic of conversation was varied, such as the movement of troops in Afghanistan, America`s possible bombing of Iraq, the passing away of the Queen Mother, and the one that was on everyones lips, did Darren the team goalkeeper, really break into one of his own £5 notes, and more to the point, would it ever happen again.

Just a normal Sunday.

We left the Hollingbury public house, feeling quietly confident about the days outcome on the football pitch, receiving the customary goodbye from our host and chairman, MR. Varns, two fingers thrust into the air in a victory salute, well thats what it looked like from a distance.

The journey up to Henfield was quite uneventful, tales of the previous evening`s antics at the pub were relived, such as shane being skint as usual, and betting people that he could get twenty, two pence pieces down his foreskin, this had kept him in free beer for years, plus no one ever wanted their money back, which was another bonus for him.

The convoy of rusting, untaxed vehicles, snaked their way through the undulating South Downs of Sussex, we traveled along the country lanes, that dissect the hills like a bead of sweat, trickling down between the firm alabaster breasts of a farmer`s young milk maiden.

We eventually came upon it, Henfield Common that is. It was a daunting sight, an eerie silence came upon all those present.

You could see from the road, that a lot of preparation had been done in readiness for this epic encounter. Many cows, heifers, donkeys, and other hoofed beasts had trod this hallowed turf, as evidence of their presence was there to be seen, in many shapes and forms.

The merry band of athletes made their way to the changing rooms. This was a very small room, which had a series of wonky wooden benches, leaning against the outside walls. The cold concrete floor was covered by an ill fitting Axminster style carpet, which had been gratefully accepted from the local curry house after their last refurbishment.

Maybe it was the history of the carpet that influenced the next event, the senior members of the team broke into a veritable fanfare of flatulence, this was a weekly occurrence, from time immemorial. An horrific sight to behold, the veins in their temples, and necks, bulging grotesquely.

The scenes that followed were quite sad, younger members of the team, who had just started to unwrap Easter eggs, that had been carefully concealed in their kit bags, by loving parental hands, were seen to toss them away, with total disregard.

They then, ran around the room, in a sort of demonic frenzy, hurling themselves against windows and doors, pressing their lips to any orifice which would be an avenue for fresh, cool, air.

Some were calling for mercy, others for their mums, some were so overcome, that they were heard ranting in tongues not heard for centuries on these shores.

But after a few hectic minutes of this changing room ritual, normality was restored, along with the younger players colour.

The match was about to begin. The managers choice of formation was bold, and adventurous, or as some were heard to say, "what the hell is he doing". But he stuck to his guns, would it backfire on him, only time would tell.

3-5-2 was the formation, with a player free to roam, Levitt, a nomadic stroller, he was later seen roaming alright, as if lost on some sort of magic mushroom enhanced trance.

The game kicked off, it started at a frightening pace, especially for the three centre backs, Purton, Watts, and Welch, who were left spinning like tops, when wave, after wave, of attacks bore down on them.

They looked for help from the midfield, but nothing came. We later found out that some had ran off earlier in the game, to join the local morris dancers, that were entertaining down the road, on that festive weekend.

They looked for Levitt, the nomadic stroller, he came back eventually, with some bluebells from the woods, and a very suspicious stain on the front of his shorts, which he told everyone was tree sap, from a young silver birch, we later found out, that the farmer had to destroy the goat.

As for the centre forwards, they were last seen hand, in hand, skipping off toward the Downs, gazing lovingly at each other.

The point that i am coming to, is this, it`s not his fault. Clive the Shelf Welch, that is, he was left alone in the middle of the pitch, with a cross to deal with.

It came at him at just the right height, all he had to do was swing his left foot at it, and the problem would have been solved, but no. In that split second, which must have felt like an hour to him, indecision struck.

Was it the pressure of the occasion, the last game, was it the capacity crowd, 15 people, three shetland ponies, two donkeys, or was it his wife, and small daughter, whose voice could be heard above all others, screaming, "no, Dad, no". Only he knows.

But in that split second he decided to do the one thing that he has never done before, head the ball. Everything seemed to be going to plan, until it happened, that massive expanse of beer belly, known as the Shelf, played it`s part.

Whether it was the fifteen pints of lager, he had consumed the previous evening, or the vast amount of food he had taken on board, we will never know, but just as he shaped up to head the ball, something shifted in the Shelf region.

It was like all the containers in a cargo ship, sliding down to one end, clive was thrown severely off balance, falling forward, like a giant Redwood, being felled by a strapping sweaty, lumberjack, in a Canadian forest.

He fell forward, making perfect contact with the ball, heading with direction and pace, and alarming accuracy, past the the groping hands of the goalkeeper, Darren, who was still trying to work out his change from that £5 he had broken into the night before.

There was a deadly silence that fell over the Common at that point. It was as if time itself had stood still, it was only broken by the sound of the ball zipping down the back of the net, and of Clive`s team mate`s, shouting in one voice, "you tosser".

The rest of the game was played out, and Hollingbury F.C. won the Battle of Henfield Common, but all the talk was of that goal.

As the crowd dispersed, fathers were heard reliving the moment with their sons, mothers with their daughters, and no doubt, in time they will pass the story on to their offspring. Henfield folklore, who knows.

Clive`s wife and daughter sloped off toward the car park, their heads bowed, not so much in shame, more in sadness. For they know, that this Easter, as every Easter to follow , will not be remembered for cute little bunnies, or fancy chocolate eggs, or indeed the sad demise of the poor old Queen Mum.

No it will be remembered that Clive the Shelf Welch, tried to head the ball, and scored a glorious own goal, the tosser.