Warrior Race

Those of you not suffering from cognitive degeneration will remember my piece about a trip I took to Greenock Morton v St Mirren on January 2^nd (http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/2018/01/bounty-hunting.html)  and the grand time I had there. Fuelled by my Pictophilic love for all things Scotch, I resolved to haste me back, to which end I eagerly scanned the fixture lists for another opportune date to head north. News that my beloved Benfield’s game away to North Shields had been moved back one day to Friday 23^rd March was enough motivation to firmly schedule a visit. All I needed was a game to go to.

Obviously, I wanted to see somewhere new, which immediately restricted my choice. Additionally, with it being an international weekend (Scotland bravely lost 1-0 at home to Costa Rica at a mostly deserted Hampden on the Friday night, in point of fact), the recondite glamour of the Premier League was off the agenda, leaving me marooned with 5 out of 12 top flight grounds visited. In the Championship, with St Mirren and Falkirk (been there) inactive as Inverness Caledonian Thistle and Dumbarton were facing off for the Scottish Challenge Cup at St Johnstone’s McDiarmid Park (not been there, but couldn’t go as it kicked off at 4.30 for BBC Alba’s viewer), I also discounted Morton and Queen of the South as they had already been done, leaving only Dundee United possible in a division balanced equally between ticked and unticked grounds. Albion Rovers’ gloriously shambolic Cliftonhill had been paid homage to in League 1, though back in 1997 I did see Airdrie lose at home to Hibs while tenants at Clyde’s Broadwood Stadium. I could theoretically have gone to their Excelsior Stadium, or to Ayr, Arbroath or Forfar to try and up my 30% completion rate. Finally, League 2: currently precariously balanced at 4 v 6, Berwick was obviously done decades ago, Clyde was a vicarious tick and Peterhead, without a railway station, is impossible for a day trip, unlike the two potential favourites of Stirling Albion or Stenhousemuir.

I decided, being the classical liberal I am, to allow the market to dictate and visited www.thetrainline.com in the search for competitively priced travel options. As is ever the case, travel north of Edinburgh starts to get pricey, especially once you leave Fife and cross the Tay. Bye bye Arbroath, Forfar and Dundee United then. Ayr was similarly expensive, while I was content to leave Airdrie and Clyde in the questionable tick zone, meaning the realistic choice came down to Stirling against Cowdenbeath or Stenny versus Elgin City. The latter won, partly on price (£15.70 return) and partly on train times. If I’d gone to Stirling I’d have been hanging around Waverley for an extra half hour, forced on to the stopping train that always seems to be full of drunks.

Anyway, having slept soundly following Benfield’s third trouncing of North Shields in 2017/2018, I caught the surprisingly deserted 11.45 to Waverley and then stepped on the 13.30 Dunblane service. Of course, there is no Stenhousemuir station at which to alight; the place I was looking for was Larbert. Through beautiful Linlithgow, on to Falkirk (where Andy Hudson and I had seen them beat Aidrie 4-3 in January 2014) and Camelon, whose Junior side always seem the latest to finish their season at the wee ground by the canal and then off at Larbert. Unlike the West of Scotland, the Forth Valley, in which Larbert is situated, is just the kind of charming, upright, prim small town that The People’s Friend would feature on its cover. While Ayrshire and Lanarkshire seem to be populated almost entirely by zombified Buckfast addicts in Old Firm shirts, shouting incoherently at traffic islands and park benches, Larbert is almost reserved and deserted. The walk-up football crowd is singularly absent, other than one fella in his 60s, sporting a black and white scarf; as it turns out, he will comprise 25% of the travelling support.

The journey to Ochilview Park should take 11 minutes on foot. Because of my legendary map reading skills, it takes double that as I purposefully strode out in entirely the wrong direction down the Main Street linking Larbert with Stenhousemuir. Only when I spot the A9, offering me the choice between Falkirk and Stirling, do I turn on my heels and shuffle embarrassed past deserted family shops, where prim assistants regard my untimely reappearance with distaste.

Eventually I turn left up the magnificently named Tryst Road and the ground almost looms before me. A vision of maroon drenched brickwork, the turnstiles beneath this beautiful façade are closed. Instead access is through a side door into the stand, which appears to be called the Norway Stand. I had hoped this was on account of something along the lines of the Gothenburg System of pubs once so popular in Fife, whereby temperance was encouraged by making hostelries particularly drab and dull. Despite the presence of Stirlingshire’s last remaining Goth in Fallin, only 10 miles up the A9, I was mistaken. It was simply a sign of gratitude for the repeated presence of so many Scandanavian groundhoppers over the years, whose regular visits and thirst for merchandise has helped keep the club afloat in the bad times, which have been most of the times. That said, I first fancied going to Ochilview in the mid-90s after seeing the highlights of their amazing 2-0 defeat of Aberdeen in the Scottish Cup, which hastened Willie Miller’s departure from the Pittordie hot seat.

My personal hot seat was the highly appropriate C86 in the stand, almost as a tribute to the legendary Pete Astor who I’d seen the night before. To my left were the snack bar and club shop. To my right and opposite was a concrete path, populated by ball boys not supporters. Behind the far goal was a covered enclosure, where about 100 Stenny teenagers congregated and gave their misinterpretation of ultras terrace culture. They had a couple of drums they banged incessantly and arrhythmically, not to mention a loud hailer that the youth wielding it barked ferociously and incomprehensibly through, augmented by the occasional squall of painful feedback. It was like listening to an embryonic Mark E Smith tribute act. I enjoyed it tremendously; indeed, it was much better than the football on display.

 Stenny’s previous game had seen them lose at home in midweek to basement club Cowdenbeath; it was the Blue Brazil’s second win since August, with the first being 3 days earlier away to Elgin. Despite the two of them sitting in 4^th and 5^th places and consequently in a battle for the play-offs, this was a contest between two out of form teams. The game began in a timid, hesitant fashion, with both sides unable to string together any discernible passing moves as play was so disjointed as to make the drummers in the enclosure sound like kings of syncopation. I was delighted, for many reasons, to meet Derek Steel, editor of Razur Cuts, Bairns fan and punk rocker for life, who’d crawled out of his sick bed to meet me. He was great company, persuading me to head back up to these parts on June 9^th for the launch of Razur Cuts V by generally being more entertaining than the game.  But you know it’s good sometimes to watch a game where the score really doesn’t matter.

Suddenly Elgin scored; a break down the left saw the ball slipped into the path of the on-rushing Chris McLeish to bury with some aplomb. The goal was greeted by silence, then a grim exhalation of disappointment by over 400 stony-faced home fans and the polite applause of the hardy few down from Elgin. There was no reaction on the pitch. There wasn’t much of anything from either team. In the case of the home side, the situation got worse as the afternoon wore on; out of the whole 90 minutes, only the opening 10 of the second half, when they emerged from the dressing room after a good bollocking, saw them play any football. In that brief window of adequacy, they made and missed 4 presentable chances before conceding one of the most banal, mundane goals I’ve seen in my life.

An unnecessarily conceded corner is slung in by the veteran Jon-Paul McGovern, who was playing in the Northern League 4 seasons back for that ill-starred vanity publishing exercise Celtic Nation. There are no defenders awake.  Darryl McHardy heads it into the net, unchallenged, from inside the six-yard box. The exhalation from the first goal is replaced by a groan. It turns into a grumble when the home side’s ace up their sleeve is the introduction of McGovern’s equally aged former Celtic Nation team mate, Colin McMenamin. He does nothing of note, like all of his team mates, with the exception of David Marsh who earns a thoroughly pointless red card for one stupid trip and an equally idiotic tug on an opponent’s shirt. This is after 70 minutes. In the time remaining Warriors fans in the 422 crowd begin to drift away on a sunny, windy and pleasant afternoon.

 Full time is greeted by desultory booing and semi audible clapping from the jubilant visitors. Derek gives me a lift to the station. There are 2 Elgin fans in the same carriage as me, but no Stirling Albion or Cowdenbeath supporters fresh from their 2-2 draw in front of 768 punters. Scotland slips past and after a smooth change at Waverley, I’m back in Newcastle for 8pm. The station is full of half drunk posh people in Ralph Lauren who’ve been watching the Falcons beat Northampton. It’s like a Russell Group alumni reunion. They ignore me as I head for the bus, planning my return for a Juniors fixture at the end of May or start of June. This was a good day.