From Plymouth to Bournemouth, from 1996 to 2026, Rob McNichol takes you through his weekend, and how the past gives hope for the near future.
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Let me tell you about my weekend. No offence, but I bet it was better than yours.
Mine began on Friday evening, as weekends are wont to do. However, rather than a quiet night in, awaiting the game the following day, this particular weekend began with the celebration evening for the promotion-winning squad of 1995/96, which I had the honour of hosting.
When Argyle made their first ever visit to Wembley, I had not long turned 12 years old. My Argyle-supporting career had begun a couple of years prior with the second half of the Shilton ‘nearly’ season, and very young me could probably have been forgiven for thinking that kind of promotion-seeking, free-flowing footy would last forever.
That was not so, but by the time we had been relegated to the fourth tier for the first time, I was entirely indoctrinated, and everything green-and-white was the most important thing in my life, so you can imagine how special it was to me to be at Wembley on that day in May 1996. Actually, a lot of you will not need to imagine, because you were there too.
A childhood pal of mine came to that game, I recall, and on the way home, as the M4 felt chock-full of cars with green scarfs billowing from them, I remember him saying: “I feel like I made 30,000 friends today.” I know that sounds incredibly schmaltzy, but he said it, and I knew exactly what he meant.
That game, understandably, holds a huge place in the Argyle firmament, and therefore being around the squad from that day, 30 years on, was always going to be a joy.
However, if you had said to me at 4pm on Friday: ‘we’ll cancel the event, you can go home, forget it’, I might have taken it. I have a recurring pattern with those sorts of occasions. I look forward to them massively and then, very late on, my bottle crashes a little.
Obviously, I got through that, and thank goodness I did. It was a splendid evening, with 200 or so people in Club Argyle, including 14 of the 1995/96 squad, plus their manager, Neil Warnock.
As usual, the highlight for me on nights like that is to be in the room when players arrive, some seeing one another for the first time in many years, decades even. Adrian Littlejohn, resplendent in a white suit jacket, said he has not been back since he left the club; 30 years may have passed since the big day under the twin towers, but Chris Leadbitter has barely aged a day.
Players came through the main entrance, which has, like many things, changed a lot since the lads were, well, actual lads. Being ticked off as they entered, they said their names to Lily on reception. “Danny O’Hagan,” said Danny O’Hagan. “Chris Curran,” said Chris Curran. “Al Pacino,” said Gary Clayton.
(“You talkin’ to me?” I nearly said, realising just in time that that was Robert de Niro. Got away with that one.)
There was a terrific dinner, after which we got guests up in pairs to talk their way through the season. I began by inviting Clayton and Warnock up together, and in the ensuing 20 minutes or so I think I asked three questions, tops. Like a Sheffield version of Statler and Waldorf, the pair of old pals reminisced, while I – and the room – listened. It was great fun. I loved it, me.
Michael Evans and Littlejohn talked about their striking partnership; Steve Cherry and Martin Barlow discussed their impacts on the latter part of the season; Leadbitter and Paul Williams put the highlight on the glorious semi-final against Colchester; and, of course, Ronnie Mauge and Mick Heathcote focused on Wembley.
It was a cracking revisit to the season that had probably the most memorable conclusion in Argyle history, and it was my honour to steer the thing along.
As usual, a huge nod needs to go to the inimitable Paul Hart, for corralling the alumni and helping to raise money for Forever Green, making events like this possible, and swelling the coffers for when they are needed to support our former players.
It wouldn’t be the last I would see of that squad on the weekend.
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Typically, for a home-game Saturday, my main duties would be ensuring all is well for visiting press before and after the match, while also writing a match report. On Saturday, when the Greens took on Huddersfield Town, I had a slightly different role waiting for me. Something I had not done in nearly nine years.
It was April 2017 when I made my only previous appearance as the match-day announcer at Home Park for a men’s game. Actually, it was 1 April, to be precise. And we had had an idea.
I still maintain it was a good one in principle, but did not work in practise.
As you will all know, we pretty well always welcome a former player as a half-time guest to draw the 50/50 and chat to the crowd. On that occasion in 2017, since it was April Fools’ Day and all, we pulled a swerve. A friend of Club Chaplain Arthur Goode was brought out as a fake former player, and I interviewed him on the pitch, about his fictional career, to a less-than-stellar reaction.
It was a classic case of an idea sounding good in an office a few weeks before the event…and then when you are 1-0 down at half-time to Accrington Stanley, suddenly senses of humour – understandably – don’t quite stretch to me yucking it up with a pretend footballer. That one got put down to experience, and let us never speak of it again.
Anyway, back to the present, and the very rare absence of regular announcer Gary McLean created a void, and in I stepped. It’s a weird job; you are unlikely to draw many compliments, because the art is in being clear and informative, to get names right, and to be very much an ancillary part of the day. Fair play to Gary, who has done the job for a very long time, and helped Home Park match days run so smoothly throughout.
I did my best to hit my marks, say things at the right time, and to not embarrass myself. At half-time, though, the coincidence of Argyle being 1-0 down again was not lost on me. This time, rather than a make-believe Pilgrim (For-never Green?), I had 14 very real ones, and an iconic gaffer, too.
After I had overseen the Top Bins challenge – and got pelted by a sprinkler that legitimately took my breath away – it was back to the dugout-side touchline to introduce the Wembley crew. However, after I had done so, I looked up from my notes to find said players making their way to the centre circle. That was not in the script. They were meant to stay on the sidelines.
My colleague Carly scuttled off to intercept Mr Warnock so that I had someone to perform the draw, and answer a couple of my questions. I think we got away with it. Just.
Soon enough, the game was back under way and, not long after the restart, I got to do the one thing I wanted to do in 2017 – I got to say: “the scorer of Argyle’s first goal this afternoon…”
It was a lovely moment, too. There is a rumour going round that Owen Dale was six-foot-two when he arrived, and now he is about five-eight, he has run himself into the ground that much. I think the reaction to his equaliser against Huddersfield was a combination of relief from the Green Army that we had levelled in a game we certainly did not deserve to be behind in, and satisfaction that Owen had got his first goal in green. He deserves it.
The noise was incredible, and it felt like a wave throughout the second half. There seemed to be genuine belief that Argyle would win the game and, when a penalty was given around the hour mark, I heard another ‘first’, I believe.
I do not ever recall ever previously being at a game of football – and I would estimate having been to at least a couple of thousand in my life – where one player literally handed the ball to another player, and elicited a gigantic cheer.
There has become a custom now, in football - don’t ask me when it started – where a penalty is given, one player gets the ball and holds it, then physically hands to the taker. Ronan Curtis had it in his hands, but the Green Army were already singing their adaptation of a Spandau Ballet classic by the time Bim Pepple was handed the ball. The roar was enormous, matched only by the noise when the ball hit the net a few seconds later.
This is the sound, of a goal.
Now Bim has a ticket to the world, and we can’t wait for him to come back again.
(Yes, I know that’s a different Spandau song. Maybe it’s Robert de Niro’s favourite, who knows?)
Owen Oseni scored Argyle’s third, and the result was not in doubt from that point. During a hugely enjoyable second half, I watched from an unusual vantage point, for me, between the dugouts, and savoured it.
I asked a few people after the game if they thought that the ground was louder than normal, and they said they thought it was. I wondered if the acoustics from pitchside just made things sound louder, but I am assured that Saturday was right up there with the Cardiff game for atmosphere.
Then, we took a look at scores from elsewhere and…well, I don’t know about you, but before I handed my microphone in after the game, I did think, genuinely, for the first time this season: ‘we can do this’. And we can. We might.
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It was the second time in a week I had had that feeling. That sounds contradictory to what I just said, so let me elucidate – Saturday was the first time I felt that the men’s team could do it. The previous Sunday, I felt that belief for our women’s team.
On that front, it was nothing that Marie Hourihan’s Greens did, in particular. They have been tremendous of late, on a solid winning run, and the 3-0 win over Cheltenham Town at Home Park on 15 March was another dominant display. However, whilst on commentary for the game, an odd phenomenon was happening to me.
Yes, that’s right. On air, I spoke of my pleasure that Exeter City had scored.
Exeter Women were playing Bournemouth, and in a topsy-turvy affair, City got a 2-2 draw from the Cherries, denting Bournemouth’s promotion bid.
And that set up, perfectly, this past Sunday’s showdown. After the elation of Saturday had died down for me, I was soon saddling up again, as I drove to Ringwood, on the outskirts of Bournemouth, for a clash between the teams second and third in the FAWNL.
As brilliant a season as Argyle Women have had, it was feeling like for the Pilgrims to have a chance of getting into the top two, to enter a promotion play-off, we would have to win all remaining games, and that included going to Bournemouth and winning, which is something no-one does.
And yet…
For the first time since January 2023, Bournemouth lost at home, and it was in the kind of circumstances that make football truly special.
You probably know that we are making a documentary series about our women’s team this season. I’m not a spiritual person, I don’t believe in fate or fates, but occasions certainly fell fortunately to create the perfect story on Sunday, befitting of our current status.
Nominative determinism was on show, too; how appropriate that a player called Poole (Phoebie, of that ilk) put Argyle in front against Bournemouth, with Marie kicking herself for not having also signed Debbie Christchurch and Alison Sandbanks in pre-season.
Bournemouth equalised before half-time, and deserved to go in level at the break, but Argyle were brilliant in the second half, and looked the likeliest to win.
That said, I was doubting it, as we entered injury time. It was going to be a draw, and Argyle were going to need snookers in the league. But then, Roisin Kivel took a quick throw-in, Tamara Wilcock struck a shot off the bar - via a very good save, to be fair – and Una Lue followed in to tap home a winner.
To call the scenes pandemonium is to do a disservice to demons and pandas. Argyle players, subs, staff – and, in all honesty, me – scattered in a formation akin to when you lift a plant pot, and ants see daylight for the first time in months.
Eventually, we gathered ourselves, but only for a few minutes, as the final whistle went, and realisation dawned that theoretically the hardest game of the season had been won.
Argyle are second, a point behind Watford, six in front of Bournemouth. Watford have three games to play, Argyle two, Bournemouth four. And Watford play Bournemouth on the final day of the season. Top team goes up, the second heads to a play-off with their Northern division counterparts.
There is one more game left at Home Park, and that’s Oxford United at home on Easter Sunday. The girls really, really deserve your support for that one. Get along if you can. It’s a team with the Mayflower badge on their kit, and it’s a fiver. It would mean a lot.
And I’ve gone this long without even mentioning next Saturday’s cup final. Argyle meet Bournemouth again, this time at Loftus Road, in the FAWNL Cup final, which is essentially the equivalent of the Vertu Trophy.
For the women, a cup and promotion double is a genuine possibility. For the men, a play-off place, the prospect of which once trivialised the idea of pipe dreams, is within reach, too.
Let’s be clear, nothing is sorted. An awful lot of games have to be negotiated and won before the end of the season. There is a fair chance that no cups are won, and both teams reside in the third tier next season.
But…
Why should we not dream? That is the point of this game, isn’t it? It is vital we enjoy the moments along the way, to savour Lue’s winner, Bim’s penalty, Dale’s first, Oseni’s tap-in, Tom fist pumping in celebration, Poole’s opener, and all of it.
We dream, because we know what it can mean. And we dream because unlikely stories sometimes happen.
In 1995/96, Neil Warnock’s Argyle lost the first six games of the season, four in the league. Before they won 5-0 at Bury, kicked off their run, and then completed their story at the national stadium eight months later, imagine if you suggested to those lads that they would be feted as heroes three decades on.
The next six to eight weeks are going to decide so much, that much is true.
Time for our teams to write the next lines.
