Let’s be clear: supporting Weymouth FC has never been a hobby for the faint of heart. It is a spiritual trial, a test of faith that would make Job himself shrug and say, “Nah, you’re alright, mate.” In the grand taxonomy of football fandom, following the Terras is less a pastime and more a prolonged act of secular penance.
The recent unravelling of commentator Ben Ashelford—a man who held an unpaid role for four years, which in volunteer years is akin to a full monastic lifetime—is not merely a club staffing issue. It is a case study in the erosion of the human soul. To watch Weymouth’s gentle decline from the National League to their current perch, nervously glancing over their shoulder at the drop zone, is to require a level of stoic patience not seen since the saints of old were being cheerfully boiled in oil.
First, you must achieve the serenity of Saint Francis of Assisi, who found grace in poverty. You must learn to love the threadbare budget, the desperate loan signings, and the existential dread of a Tuesday night away trip to a village with a smaller population than the Bob Lucas Stadium’s away end. You must preach to the non-believers about the virtue in the struggle, all while a voice in your head whispers, “But what if it’s just… bad?”
Then, you must cultivate the righteous fire of Saint Michael the Archangel, ready to confront the institutional demons. This is the phase Mr. Ashelford found himself in during his fateful commentary. His live, on-air challenge to the board—his accusation of “six years of abject crap” and his poignant, if anatomically creative, questioning of their collective “nuts”—was not unprofessional. It was a prophecy. It was the frustrated cry of a man who has seen the promised land of stability recede into a mirage of managerial turnover and false dawns. To witness this and not feel the urge to scream into a microphone requires the emotional detachment of a statue.
But the final, most advanced stage of Weymouth sainthood is the one Ashelford failed to master: the diplomatic silence of a Vatican diplomat. After the outburst comes the Club Statement. You must have the fortitude to read phrases like “mutually agreed” and “boundaries were crossed” without emitting a hollow laugh that frightens the dog. You must nod along as the chairman describes a sacking as “simply an adjournment,” as if the commentator has just popped out for a brief theological debate and will be back after the tea break.
This is where true sanctity is proven. It’s the ability to absorb the corporate-speak, the perceived missteps, and the sheer, unadulterated cheek of it all, and still turn up on a drizzly Saturday to cheer on a team facing down another relegation battle. It is a faith built not on miracles, but on the desperate, flickering hope that next year the “abject crap” might be upgraded to merely “mediocre.”
So, as the club begins its search for a new, presumably more placid voice for Radio Terras, let us not see Ben Ashelford’s departure as a dismissal. Let us see it as a failed canonisation. He had the passion of a saint and the tongue of a prophet, but in the end, he lacked the one quality essential for anyone involved with Weymouth FC: the divine ability to suffer fools gladly.
The role of a Weymouth supporter has always required a saintly disposition. The role of a Weymouth commentator, it seems, requires the patience of a saint who is also an experienced HR manager. May God, or at least the non league system, have mercy on them all.
