Light in your head and dead on your feet on Non-League Finals Day

Two games on the same day at Wembley, as the FA Vase final between Whitstable Town and Whyteleafe, and the FA Trophy Final between Aldershot Town.

There’s a bit of a musical coming together going on at Victoria station in central London at 10.00 on Sunday morning. Coming from one direction, a song about the best things about Aldershot. It turns out to be “tits, fanny” and something I can’t quite make out. Coming from another direction are a bunch of songs about Whitstable in Kent. On the escalator down to the Victoria line on the underground, I can hear, “Sit down if you love Whyteleafe, stand up if you love Whyteleafe”.

I can’t tell whether they’re actually on the escalator or merely somewhere near the bottom of it. They’d better not have been on it. Had any Spennymoor supporters been spotted, it could safely be assumed that they’d got horrendously lost.

At Green Park, where those travelling to Victoria have to change for the Jubilee line to Wembley Park, supporters are trading songs on the platform while waiting for the tube, but it’s all relatively light-hearted, though there are also a large number of Sunday morning tourists and shoppers looking at them wondering, “Who are these people and why are they supporting a made-up football team at this time on a Sunday morning?”

You used to think that it was so easy
You used to say that it was so easy
But you're trying, you're trying now

Another year and then you'd be happy
Just one more year and then you'd be happy
But you're crying, you're crying now.

I’m alighting at Baker Street, so by the time I get off the tube train my head is swimming with Gerry Rafferty words. I’m meeting Nick, an FC United of Manchester supporter who I met at the FSA Awards in December, at the Metropolitan Bar adjacent to Baker Street underground station, which sounds like it should be the sort of place where you can buy a bottle of vodka for £500 and where most of the couples are of the escort-client variety, but is actually a cavernous ‘Spoons.

By 11am, of course, there’s barely a seat available. Still, at least you can get a pint for under a fiver, which is pretty much unheard elsewhere anywhere in London. Nick is meeting people from the slightly laboriously-named Association of Provincial Clubs in London (APFCSIL) to grab our tickets. They’re lovely, because of course they are. Everybody I meet all day is.

It’s been an early start. It’s Non League Finals day, and I feel extremely lucky to be here. A train at 8.30 in the morning was enough to ensure that I was at Baker Street well before 11, and we’re not in the pub long because the first match, the FA Vase final between AFC Whyteleafe and Whitstable, kicks off at 12.15. Fortunately,

Having the FA Trophy and FA Vase finals on the same day is, I’m prepared to admit, a pretty nifty move on the part of the Football Association. When we alight at Wembley Park, there is a proper cup final atmosphere. The smell of onions hangs cloyingly in the air. Hawkers are selling half and half scarves. The walk up to the stadium is punctuated by half-sung songs from young men who’ve been on the something since very early this morning.

The turnstiles are, of course, a nightmare. Small wonder so many people jumped over them at the Euro 2020 final. After around 25 scans, 15 of which are carried out by a security officer whose interest is piqued by my florid language at these repeated failures, we finally get in.

We are, I’m informed, in the fancy bit, which has been reserved for neutrals today and there certainly are a lot of non-league shirts on display. After taking out a mortgage and yanking out a kidney to pay for a pint, I go for a little wander round. The first thing I spot is some accidental googly eyes, which will never fail to cheer me up.

Wembley reminds me of The Tottenham Hotspur Stadium. If you’re not pitchside, this is largely a retail and hospitality experience. You can’t get a bottle of vodka for £500, though a single shot doesn’t cost that much less. There are a lot of bars, including one inevitably called Three Lions, and I am glad to be able to confirm that this was the only reference to that song that I either see or—far more importantly—hear, all day.

First up, then, Whitstable Town and AFC Whyteleafe. This is the match that I have a tiny bit of a vested interest in, since the three chaps from the Sound of Football Podcast all support the ‘Leafe. For the record, Whitstable have two nicknames; the seaside-esque Oystermen, and the Natives. Our seats are excellent, at the front of the second tier in one corner, offering a superb view of the pitch.

The teams emerge to bombastic music and the sight of flames bursting into the air. There follows a rendition of the National Anthem, which since 2023 I have been merely assuming is about me. Whyteleafe take the lead, a little against the run of play, through Daniel Bennett, and still hold that lead by the interval.

We miss the first fifteen minutes of the second half, but this doesn’t seem terribly important because it’s being shown on televisions in the bar areas too. Indeed, we’re not far off supping up and getting back to our seats when Harvey Smith’s daisy-cutter brings Whitstable level.

There’s nothing between the teams, and the match finishes 1-1 and heads into extra-time. The winning goal is scored 10 minutes into the first period by Ronald Sithole, whose name is definitely not a typo. Both teams seem pretty much out of energy by the time the full-time whistle blows. The stands opposite where we’re sitting empty. We head back to the bar for more chatter about the non-league game. One of the number we’re with supports Horley Town, who I saw in September getting knocked out of this very competition.

Next up is the FA Trophy. The Big Boys Cup. My first ever visit to Wembley was for the final of this competition in 1982, the start of a North London Double in which Enfield won the Trophy by beating Altrincham 1-0 after extra-time and the Spurs won the FA Cup a week and half later by beating Queens Park Rangers by the same scoreline after a replay. Happy days. I thought the world might be that way forever, but I was wrong.

The FA Trophy has a tendency to throw up wild card finalists and this year is no exception, with Spennymoor Town of the National League North travelling all the way down to London from County Durham. Their opponents are Aldershot Town, who may be the biggest club never to have played at Wembley before. They’ve brought 18,000 supporters with them today, not far short of half the reported attendance of 38,600. Spennymoor are the only one of the four clubs playing here today to have played here before, having won the FA Vase in 2013.

There turns out to be no fairytale ending for Spennymoor for their long journey home after the match. Aldershot are full-time professionals and it shows, though not really until we’re into the second half. It’s goalless at the break with the best chance having fallen to Spennymoor’s Rob Ramshaw, who messes up a decent opportunity from eight yards out.

The second half is a different matter. Three minutes in, Jack Barham gives Aldershot with a goal that could be the image on the Wikipedia page for “Bundled Over The Line”. The early goal makes a difference. Spennymoor have to push forward in search of an equaliser and there are gaps at the back.

But with twenty minutes to go the match is put beyond much reasonable doubt when Dan Ellison heads in from a corner, and the Shots save their best shot for last. There are only three minutes to play when Josh Barnett volleys in a third to guarantee the destination of the FA Trophy for this year.

There’s little point hanging around for that long afterwards. Spurs have been at home this afternoon too, so even though Wembley wasn’t at capacity, there may be a lot of people milling around. It’s the right decision. There are plenty of seats for the underground train to Baker Street.

This city desert makes you feel so cold
It's got so many people, but it's got no soul
And it's taken you so long to find out you were wrong
When you thought it held everything.

I’m home by 8.30, not especially happy but at least glad that the kids are bed and asleep. My ex-wife jumps in a cab and I slump down on the couch. It’ll be 3am by the time I get to sleep—my sleep is down to about 2-3 hours at the moment, my bed now unslept in for three and a half weeks—but at least I’ve got another couple of days off to look forward to, even if I am light my head and dead on my feet.