In Pleasantville no-one can hear you scream

Just as in Manhattan, where if you stray beyond a certain grid number (is it 125th?) you find yourself in some of Gotham’s meaner streets, so in Kingston if you wander from your perfumed enclave south of Richmond Road you’re liable to encounter a few – how shall I put this – things that go bump in the night if you’re not careful.

So let’s linger awhile among the mincing metrosexuals who clog up Pleasantville-Upon-Thames (epicentre: Eastbury Road) with their bonhomie and their nauseating good-neighbourliness and general niceness and those beatific smiles that make you think they’ve just come from an audition for a starring role in the Shining Happy People video.

Because for the last two Sunday mornings the smug, self-satisfied air around Pleasantville has been rent by uncomprehending screams of “But what are they saving it for? What the frigging fuck are they saving it for?”

The “they” in this case refers to groundsmen in the Kingston area in general, and specifically those based at the Hawker Centre and the Tiffin sports ground. “It” refers, of course, to the grounds that they tend.

And the owner of the voice that produced these blood-curdling screams? Not Ueli Lehmann, who, as a denizen of Pleasantville, has made his peace with the world and who sees football merely as a step along the path to spiritual enlightenment. No, the sounds emanate from Sniffer Towers, a bohemian enclave a couple of doors down from Ueli Acres owned by art Svengali and impresario Paul Stafford.

And the fact is, I completely endorse the sentiment behind the Snifferman's banshee wails - as does every single person who plays for Dinton Casuals and every player in every team that we play against.

We could ask the question another way: what is the point of having a sports ground to play winter sports on if you prevent those sports from being played as soon as winter conditions materialise?

I’m a pathetic and slightly weird human being, so I actually went down to the Hawker Centre this morning to investigate. I found a sunlit vista (see earlier blog), a hint of frost underfoot, and a ground which, though still engorged with rainwater, was nevertheless eminently playable-on. Judge for yourself (although the pictures here actually make it looker more overcast than it was).

And note the clock on the above picture - set at just before 10.30am, conjuring images of desultory pre-match shots at goal, laughable Gary Neville-style attempted crosses, and half-hearted keepy-uppy sessions. Oh happy times!