Buchaneering

As I'm off to Ellesmere Port to see Benfield in the Vase against Vauxhall Motors FC this weekend, I had a bit of a ponder about my previous trips to other non-league grounds. The title is a crap pun based on The 39 Steps. Sorry -:

This wet weather is playing absolute havoc with non-league fixtures. Incessant teeming rain put paid to another Benfield fixture on 23 November, when the home clash with Sunderland RCA became the second home Saturday game in a row to be called off because of a waterlogged pitch. Of course, this is where 4G surfaces are a lifesaver; in the top division Stockton Town cut the gap on leaders Hebburn Town by beating the South Tyneside outfit 3-1. In Division 2, top dogs West Allotment Celtic pulverised Sunderland West End 8-2, raising the intriguing possibility that both divisions could yet be won by sides who play their home games on a synthetic pitch.

As you know, I’ve long advocated 4G surfaces as standard for step 7 sides who don’t own their own ground. Yes, for clubs such as Percy Main, Seaton Delaval and Wallington, their historic grounds are emphatically worthy of preservation as they are, but other teams don’t have such storied histories or emotional investment in their home surroundings. It seems the message is getting through; certainly, the tranche of games down Coach Lane and beyond demonstrated positive action in the face of dreadful downpours. Having consulted the fixtures, the first half of Chemfica v New Fordley in the Alliance Premier, kicking off at 2.00, then Killingworth v Whitley Bay Reserves in the George Dobbins League Cup, beginning an hour later, were my games of choice.

 

I took the Metro from Tynemouth to Four Lane Ends, where a Brexit Party canvasser had the temerity to ask me if I’d like one of their leaflets. As you could imagine, this wasn’t the message I was hoping to hear, and I unleashed a volley of intemperate, oath-edged abuse in his direction. To be frank, it may not have been my most eloquent and lucid diatribe I’ve ever issued, but it needed to be said and I headed off with a spring in my step and a large Latte from Greggs to entirely the wrong game. According to New Fordley’s Twitter, their game against Chemfica was taking place at Coach Lane, which is where I headed for. In actual fact, they were playing at the Newcastle University Longbenton Sports Ground just a bit back up the hill. The game I ended up watching instead was a friendly between Benton Cons Club, a Corinthian League side I’d never seen before and the star-studded retirement home for former Benfield players, Cullercoats. Managed by former Heaton Stan and Bedlington full-back Dan Iredale, they boasted Carl Patterson in defence and a still classy Brian Dodsworth in midfield, as well as the impressive, sculptured facial hair of John Grey. They looked lithe and supple in attack, but conceded two silly, soft goals to trail 2-1 at the break when I left.

 

In the absence of my bike, I took a number 1 a few stops down the hill and arrived at the Benfield School 4G cage just in time to see kick-off. As expected, Killingworth were dangerous every time they attacked, with Malky Morien, who looks more like a Game of Thrones extra every time I see him, a constant threat. Alex Nesbit was more than a cut above every other player on the pitch, imperious in the middle of the park. At half time Killingworth lead 2-0, but Whitley, young and spirited, weren’t finished. The direct ball over the top gave them plenty of joy, as Killi failed to deal with it every single time. Twice they panicked into conceding first a free kick and then a penalty, both confidently dispatched, which bookended a horrific mix up that saw the young Seahorse walk the ball home. However, it wasn’t all Whitley; Killingworth got the goals to squeeze through 4-3, both from inside the 6-yard box. Firstly, the Whitley keeper got a back pass stuck under his feet and hit it against a Killingworth attacker and then Nezza nodded down a deep cross for Malky to stab home. A decent game with plenty of goals for free entry made for a good afternoon out, despite the persistent rain.

On the Metro home, I mused about my next trip which, weather permitting, will be away to Vauxhall Motors in Ellesmere Port with Benfield in the Vase next Saturday.  What occurred to me was how poorly travelled I am outside of my Northern League heartland in Steps 1 to 5 across the country. So, in preparation for next week, here are my recollections of previous visits to non-league grounds other than those in the Northern League.

Step 1:

Almost uniformly, my visits to teams playing at this level have been when the hosts were in the Football League. Alphabetically, Barnet come first; though I used to work next to their new Hive ground, it was dear old Underhill I visited in January 1998. On the day before Newcastle infamously drew at Stevenage in the FA Cup, my mate Jon Williams and I took in Barnet’s 3-1 win over Colchester United. It was a joyful, unpretentious ramshackle collection of mismatched sheds, with and without seats. Another dead ground is Saltergate, where I visited for a pre-season friendly in July 1998, to see the Spireites draw 1-1 with Nottingham Forest. Stood on the open terrace, it didn’t seem to be as decrepit as long suggested, though I didn’t get a close-up view of the death trap in waiting that was the main stand. The Shay is still in existence and it was rocking on New Year’s Day 1998 when Halifax cuffed Gateshead aside by a score of 2-0. The bizarre tarmacking of the old speedway track makes this one weird ground, which is the only one I visited at the same level as it is now.

In July 2002, Ben and I bought tickets 1 and 2 for the Newcastle end at Harrogate Town, ahead of even The Undertaker, who had been travelling back from Holland with the first team. I think the Reserves had been too; we lost 3-1, with the highlight being an absolute stunner from the now-discredited Peter Beardsley.  Hartlepool against Preston in February 1992 ended 2-0 to the home side on an achingly cold afternoon for a mid-table third tier clash. I’ve always loved the Victoria Ground and will go back one day. The day I visited Meadow Lane, the place was having a fiesta; Sam Allardyce’s side won the fourth-tier title in March 1998, beating Orient 1-0. I’ve always had a soft spot for the Pies and hope they recover their League status soon. Finally, Stockport County’s Edgerley Park was a powder keg of emotions on the opening day of the 2005/2006 season, when Mansfield came to visit. The appearance of former County boss Carlton Palmer in the away dugout was a cause for much consternation and invective in a breathless 2-2 draw on the night I had the worst curry of my entire life at the Stockport Tandoori, 375 Buxton Road; never, ever go there if you value your taste buds.

Step 2:

At this level, leagues begin to split regionally, but as you’d imagine, the North has far more impact on my totals. Firstly, Blyth Spartans; it took until April 1995 for me to visit Croft Park, where I saw the home side beat Workington 2-1 in a fairly drab game. Darlington are a strange club; I’ve seen them at every level from the Football League to the Northern League at 3 different home grounds. In September 1992, they battered Crewe 3-0 at Feethams, on a day when the PA was turned off, so it didn’t disturb the cricketers on the adjoining field. I was at the last ever game at Feethams when Shildon beat Synners on penalties to win the Northern League Cup, but I only frequented the white elephant Reynolds Arena on one occasion; a 2-2 draw with Morecambe on Easter Monday 2007. It was the most functional football ground I’ve ever been to; absolutely no economy was spared, to the extent that hot drinks were dispensed from a Maxpax machine! On Easter Monday a decade later, I visited Blackwall Meadows to see the Quakers wallop FCUM 4-1. If Darlo accept they’ll never be a Football League team every again, it seems to be an ideal home for them.

One place that will never be an ideal home for anyone is the International Stadium, which I first visited in July 1974 for Gateshead’s home debut in a 3-2 friendly win over East Fife. At the other end of the spectrum is St. Albans City’s eccentric and homely Clarence Park, where I saw them beat Boston United in the FA Trophy quarter final in April 1999.

Step 3:

Atherton Collieries were at Step 6, North West Counties Division 1, when I visited with Benfield in the 2015 FA Vase. They comfortably beat us 2-0, treat us like royalty in the clubhouse, then went on a run of good fortune and form that saw them get 3 promotions in 4 years. Well done to them; a good club. AFC Rushden and Diamonds are the opposite of Atherton Collieries, in that the plummeted from League 1 to dissolution. I visited for a pre-season friendly in July 1995, seeing Les Ferdinand score his first goal for NUFC. Now the phoenix club, without the patronage of Max Griggs, are crawling back up the Pyramid and sharing with Rusden and Higham, while Nene Park has been bulldozed. The other 3 clubs I’ve visited that are currently at this level were all Northern League members at the time; Morpeth Town 1 Ashington 0 for the first time on Good Friday 1996, when it was a far simpler affair than it is now, South Shields 1 Washington 2 in November 1995, which was the first time I met Harry Pearson and a sold out Whitby Town 3 Tow Law 0, in April 1997 a week after they’d reached the FA Vase final.

Step 4:

Another 5 clubs have been graced by my presence at this level, including Dunston, where I saw Shildon win 5-0 on my first visit in February 1996, and Marske United, who beat Ashington 1-0 in September 1996, both in the Northern League. Elsewhere, a random Tuesday night in April 1998 at Pickering Town for a 1-1 draw with Northallerton in the North Yorkshire Senior Cup was complemented by Hanwell Town 2 Rugby Town 1 in the FA Trophy in October 2006, with my pal Little Richard McLeod. Down in London for a wedding celebration, I took a trip out west to the home of The Geordies, as they are known, and found myself immediately supporting the home side in an absorbing game. Finally, Workington; I visited glorious, aged Borough Park for an FA Cup qualifying replay with Benfield in September 2018, which we sadly lost 5-3. Entertaining game mind!

Step 5:

Of course, I’ve been to all current Northern League Division 1 sides, but in addition there are a couple of Northern Counties East visits I’ve made. Both Goole and Knaresbrough Town, in towns diametrically opposed in terms of economic and social factors, hosted Benfield in the FA Cup, in 2017 and 2019 respectively. Happily, we won on both occasions; 1-2 and 1-3 being the results.

Step 6:

Again, we’ll take it as read that all Northern League Division 2 grounds have been visited and again a brace of Northern Counties East grounds have been graced by my presence. Recently that includes the glorious North Ferriby phoenix project that I wrote about a few weeks back ( http://payaso-de-mierda.blogspot.com/2019/11/light-out-of-darkness.html), while all the way back to Easter Saturday 1998, I was at the original Emley against the original Runcorn; it ended 2-1 to the home side and sadly I remember little of it. Perhaps it was altitude sickness?

Anyway, Vauxhall Motors should be my next Step 6 tick after a mammoth bus journey next weekend. I really wouldn’t mind about 4 subsequent trips to grounds at steps 5 and 6 after this one, if you understand what I’m saying…

Rock & Rock & Roll

For a change, this week’s blog begins with an apology. However before the Strawberry Blonde Sturmabteilung kick off their stirrups, dismount their high horses and start with their best Gene Awtry impersonations,  I need to clarify that my sorrowful imprecations are directed to the finest Man of Gwent, Jon Boy Langford. The friendliest Mekon in the entire world played The Cumberland Arms on Saturday 16^th November and, in the normal run of events, I’d have been the first one through the door. However, my attendance was prevented by prior engagements.  As a one of the most important figures in the post-punk era, I’m sure Jon is fine with knowing my absence was caused by Ben and me heading to Glasgow for The Raincoats at Mono. Jon’s devotion to Newport County will also allow him to nod in sagacious support of me and the young’un taking in Dumbarton versus Falkirk in the afternoon. Those of you who know your Scottish football nicknames will immediately recognise this as being a contest between The Sons and The Bairns. I’ve no idea if Dumbarton women’s team is called The Daughters, or whether Ayr United’s are the Bonnie Lassies…

 

Following on from trips to Stirling Albion and North Ferriby, this was my third trip away and second to Scotland in a month. At least I didn’t have to worry about Benfield’s fate in my absence, as the away game at Shildon was rained off well before Ben and I escaped the party of braying Proscecco loutesses en route to an Old Reekie birthday weekend piss-up, who’d thronged our carriage to Waverley.  Having blown kisses to Sam Smith’s Park and Easter Road at both ends of the East Coast journey, we took the typically empty service to Queen Street, averting our eyes from both Murrayfield and Swinecastle, arriving in time for the 13.06 way out west to Dumbarton.

The other week a few of us had been reminiscing how, in the olden days, the way to spot a football ground in an unfamiliar city was to look for the floodlights. Of course, since the predominance of identikit concrete bowls in the name of progress, most places don’t have floodlights these days. Dumbarton do, but there’s a slightly larger landmark to follow; Dumbarton Castle, which sits on a 240 feet high plug of volcanic basalt known as Dumbarton Rock, with the football ground at the foot of it. You can’t miss that notable landmark from Dumbarton East train station. However, we weren’t there to sightsee; instead we went in search of a pint.

 

In Scottish League 1, Falkirk are unquestionably the side with the largest home and away support, so Dumbarton made this game all ticket.  With the final attendance being 986, only marginally higher than the previous league best of 970 against Raith Rovers, which was still considerably less than the 1,394 who came for the visit of top-flight Motherwell in a League Cup group stage game, it is questionable whether this was the best decision economically, bearing in mind the C&G Systems Stadium has a capacity of 2,020. Whatever the arguments, it meant the 1872 Bar in the back of the stand was out of bounds for travelling fans, which was a shame as it appeared to have plenty of intriguing memorabilia about one of Scotland’s oldest teams. Instead, we headed down the very end of the spit of land beyond the Castle to Rock Bowling Club, where we were meeting Falkirk fan and Razur Cuts editor, my pal Derek Steel and East Stirlingshire’s celebrity fan (the Shire were playing Sunday), Dickson Telfer; an accomplished writer and musician, recently bassist in the delightfully lush and off-kilter L-Space. Check them out.

Two pints and then to the game, arriving right on kick off, when the venom began to pulse in earnest. In all my years of attending football, I can’t recall many more choleric away supports than the Falkirk zealots in the first block of the stand. From the very start, an undercurrent of abuse towards board members and manager Ray McKinnon in particular was never far from the surface. Only a few weeks ago, Falkirk had shown signs of shaking off their post-relegation torpor, by going top of the table. Since then, the expensively assembled squad, in Scottish League 1 terms, have gone completely off the boil. In this game, the only true quality was to be found in the play of former Dundee United and Senegal playmaker Morgaro Gomis, whose skills on the ball and effortless array of passing kept The Bairns on the front foot. Typically, after 3 presentable scoring opportunities, Dumbarton came up the other end and took the lead with their first serious attempt on goal. Rangy striker Isaac Layne touched in Joe McKee’s cross from a yard out, meaning the first 30 minutes of Falkirk industry went to waste. Their fragile confidence was demonstrated by the unimpeded progress of McKee’s hopeful ball and the subsequent disintegration of the Falkirk gameplan.

 

Half time saw the players, management and board booed off by the irate Bairns. And the second half got no better, as a modest Dumbarton side, managed by serial dug-out failure Jim Duffy, kept a maddeningly shot-shy Falkirk easily at bay. McKinnon’s insistence on 4-5-1, even when bringing on former Wigan and Ireland blunderbuss Connor Sammon, who was stuck out on the left wing, ramped up the vicious abuse. In the 90^th minute, Falkirk were awarded a somewhat generous penalty for handball, but even after Declan McManus proved his aim was true (geddit???) from 12 yards, there were no celebrations on the field or off. The final whistle was again greeted with a storm of invective and incessant booing. The game had been terrible; I’d enjoyed it immensely.

We bade Derek and Dickson farewell, then headed for the station. Amusingly about 20 Dumbarton neds who fancied themselves as a kind of trainee Young Team threw a few insults at Falkirk from 50 yards away in the park, where anonymity was provided by black darkness. Soon the train came and we headed to Charing Cross, booked into our miniature hotel room, before heading for Mono. Having eschewed the opportunity for a Scotch pie at the football, a snack was imperative, so we went less than native with a quick Subway before the gig. Waiting for it is when I received a text from Derek rejoicing at the fact McKinnon had been given his cards. Not a wasted day on the terraces for the travelling Bairns after all.

The queue for entry snaked almost to the road, so we abandoned thoughts of a quick one in the 13^th Note and showed patience, in the bar queue subsequently as well, then found a good spot at the end of the counter, to rest our pints of Merchant City New World IPA, which had a little too much of a banana tang for me, and Joker IPA, which consistently remains the most reliable of all Scottish beers and the reason why I’d loved to visit Alloa Athletic sometime soon.  You know, I could probably spend every weekend in Glasgow if it weren’t for the fact stumping up for the train and a bed means you’re looking at a baseline £100 before you’ve even had a coffee. I mean, Alex Neilson curated an evening the week before with Lavinia top of the bill at The Hug and Pint while this weekend coming sees The Pastels supported by Lightships up in Maryhill. What a city. What a venue. What a gig.

As I said to Stephen Pastel afterwards, after all the gigs I’ve seen in all the years I’ve been coming to Glasgow, this was perhaps not the best, but it was the most significant. The Raincoats were an incredibly important band to me; I fell in love with them after watching the South Bank Show special on Rough Trade, which sent me to Listen Ear on Ridley Place to purchase Fairytale in the Supermarket in June 1979. I’d almost played it to death by the time the first album came out in November that year; on the same day as all the macho tough guys were buying London Calling by The Clash.  In many ways, that’s a great album, with Lover’s Rock and I’m Not Down being my favourites, but it doesn’t hold a candle to The Raincoats.

Undoubtedly, the truly iconic nature of The Raincoats is reflected by how their first album changed the way women in the post punk scene were regarded by participants and non-participants alike. The main effect of Vicki Aspinall, Gina Birch and Ana Da Silva’s work was to establish women could be regarded as equals; as human beings. Sure, The Slits were great, but they didn’t set themselves up as feminist fighters, looking for equality. The likes of Kleenex, Delta 5, The Flowers, Essential Logic and Prag VEC similarly showed that in the inclusive DIY aesthetic of post-punk, creativity and integrity mattered most. As a gauche teenage wallflower, I loved these bands, and The Raincoats most of all, not just for their incredible music that inspires me to this day, but because their existence and body of work allowed me to reject all versions of masculinity and the patriarchal narrative. Most of this ideological rebellion was in my head, though I did wear a Rock Against Sexism badge, even when stood in the middle of the Gallowgate End.

The Raincoats had been due to play Newcastle on 18^th June 1980, at a long-gone warehouse on the Quayside, which I think was the day I finished my O Levels. For some reason, it didn’t happen, so I didn’t get to see them until June 1994 at the Riverside. They had Steve Shelley on drums and were promoting the release of their Blast First John Peel Session EP; it’s great and they were great, though they didn’t play most of the first album, which was sad.

This time, they began with a triumphant Fairytale in the Supermarket, before charging through the first album. Other than perhaps Thirteen or Bringing it all Back Home, I struggle to think of an album with a more powerful first side than The Raincoats. Joy; No Side to Fall In. Ideology; Adventures Close to Home.  Defiance; Off Duty Trip.  Celebration; Black and White (and how jealous I was of the London audience who got to see Laura Logic playing her part on stage). Revolution; Lola. Their passionate versions of these obscure songs from 4 decades ago elevated the audience’s attitude to stratospheric levels of love towards these strong, brave, indomitable women. Shambolic and endearing, but so fucking important, they played side 2; The Void, In Love, No Looking; you know what I’m talking about. The same night Liam Gallagher was playing Glasgow and Gerry Cinnamon Newcastle. Men are fucking shit when you think about it…

The final 4 songs were the Peel Session EP and they were so fitting in this context. Gig over, I purchased Ben a copy of The Raincoats and got myself Odyshape, the second album I’d only ever had on cassette. It remains an endearing and experimental step forward that requires closer listening than the first album, as it still eschews immediacy in favour of craft. Ben also got himself the EP by support act Hairband. Now this Glasgow quintet knows their feminist musical history and by goodness they can play a storm. Perhaps with more of a hint of C81 era funky pop than 78 industrial miserabilism, they understand what Rough Trade did for us all back in the day. Ordinarily, I often find myself trying to talk to bands post gig, but not this time. As a bloke I didn’t want to invade spaces where I wasn’t required. I still had a chat with Stephen and also the very wonderful Tam Dean Burn, both of whom loved the gig.

Drunk on nostalgia and rightful aesthetic inspiration, we grabbed an Uber and a late night pizza on Sauciehall Street, before crashing out. Cheers to The Raincoats, Mono, Hairband, Derek, Dickson, Dumbarton FC, Falkirk FC and Joker IPA. I wish I belonged to Glasgow, but I’ll see you soon.

Light out of Darkness

Apologies for the lack of a blog last week; I was hors de combat after a prolonged bout of man flu. Anyway, my trip to North Ferriby....

For me and many other football fans, the advent of Twitter has opened up a Pandora’s Box of delights, in terms of conversations, from the intense to the banal, with fans of other clubs. In no particular order, I’ve forged on-line friendships with followers of Stoke, Wigan, Everton, Man Utd, Man City, FCUM, Tooting and North Ferriby. To a greater or lesser extent, I follow the fortunes of these clubs, well apart from the Mancunian duopoly of course, with more than one eye on how their results are refracted across the internet.  Indeed, with some of them, I’ve gone to the extent of penning regular pieces for their fanzines, which is where my connection with North Ferriby comes from. I got to meet the founder of View from the Allotment End and all round good guy and semi-groundhopper Darren Norton, watching his dad’s team Bridlington knock Whitley Bay out the FA Cup back in about 2014. Whenever work has brought him to Tyneside, I’ve seen him at other grassroots grounds places, including my beloved Benfield’s Sam Smith’s Park, though as we lost to Dunston that night, we don’t want him back any time soon. Or his dad, whose Bridlington outfit put us out the cup two qualifying rounds later.

Darren’s Twitter account, and that or several of his pals, who were similarly disillusioned Hull City fans, driven away from their original club by the intransigence and wilful mismanagement of the Allams, reflected the events of a breathless 6-year helter-skelter ride up and down the non-league pyramid. In 2013, NFU won the Northern Premier League and were promoted to the Conference North. Two years later, the beat Wrexham at Wembley to lift the FA Trophy. In 2016, they won promotion to the Conference, which seems scarcely credible, considering the size of village and ground. One can just imagine the fevered twitching of net curtains in well-heeled Ferriby when the Lincoln Transit Elite arrived en masse. Sadly, this was the high water mark.  Ferriby were relegated in short order from the Conference in 2017 and National League in 2018. They began last season back in the Northern Premier League, under the ownership of a certain Jamie Waltham. Things didn’t go well. In the 33 games they played, the Villagers managed just two wins and four draws, accumulating 10 points and putting them at the foot of the table. North Ferriby's remaining fixtures were cancelled and the club was not permitted to finish the season, after Waltham petitioned to have the club wound up on 15 March 2019 due to outstanding debts of £7,645.25. Considering an 18 year old University student is expected to pick up a minimum of £9k in loans for their first year fees, it seemed and seems, a ludicrously disproportionate reaction, borne out of spite after fans revolted against Witham’s plan to move Ferriby into Hull, because of the supposed “potential” to “grow the business” this would have offered. Thankfully, the FA looked favourably on a supporter based phoenix club and North Ferriby won a place in the Northern Counties East First Division, two steps below where NFU would have found themselves at the start of 2019/2020.

Having seen the incredible supernova of the team from the prim and prosperous hamlet on the north bank of the Humber, with the bright lights of Hull and huge bridge that acts as gateway to Lincolnshire a few short miles to the East, interpreted through the on-line and printed thoughts and observations of fans of the club, I had long held an inkling to visit, which was transformed to an urge to see the place in the flesh and gauge how the phoenix club, now denuded of the United suffix, are coping in the less than exalted realms of the Northern Counties East Division 1. Hence, the visit of Swallownest, who hail from Rotherham, on November 2^nd, seemed an irresistible draw. As a fanatical remainer, it also amused me to think I could spend a day in the Haltemprice and Howden constituency, for so long represented with trademark idiocy and stylish incompetence by the most farcically inept of all the shower of UK Brexit Ministers, Super David Davis. The only unfortunate thing was that the game wasn’t taking place 48 hours after Boris Johnson had been found dead in a ditch.

The day broke in autumnal beauty on Tyneside; the gold and russet hues of damp but not drowned nature extended until almost Doncaster, where we had darkness at noon and vivid imagery of trackside trees bucking and rearing in response to squally gales. Changing trains at Donny, I took a deserted, freezing, two-coach rattler, where the smeared and filthy leaking windows ran slick with rain water, though the promising sight of players warming up as we passed Goole Town’s ironically named Victoria Pleasure Grounds strengthened my resolve.

I can never take the train towards Hull without thinking of a pal I went to University with. Chris was from Hessle; fond of beer, Throbbing Gristle and Hull City, he gained a third in Philosophy and returned to Humberside to manage a branch of Burger King. We kept in touch. He married, had 3 kids, was even best man at my wedding, and then decided he needed change. He spread his wings, travelling to teach English as a Foreign Language; a decade shared between Slovakia, Qatar and Korea, before changing gender. Chryssy, as she now is, completed a PhD in the politics of gender and is now a post-doctoral researcher at London University, investigating the effect of dementia on elderly trans people. I’ve no idea if she still follows Hull City, but she’s reinvented her world to make herself happy. Could supporters of North Ferriby United do similar?

The walk from Ferriby station to the ground is short and was completed in brisk time as the sight of receding green and white scarves and hats in the distance hinted at the location of Church Road. It’s a charming ground in a charming location; there’s a cricket pitch across the way, with a friendly cat that deserved a stroke and a pet, half hiding in the hedge of a house on the driveway to the entrance. Egress is obtained for the amazingly reasonable price of a fiver. If that doesn’t keep the fanbase loyal then nothing will. In the ground, there’s a club shop that takes card payments, so I get a hat to keep the rain out and a programme to read on the way back. Additionally, there are cheese, mash and onion pies the size of a bin lid, with a dash of mustard for added piquancy, at only £2 from the tea hut. I’m neither an epicure nor a vegetarian, but these are the best comestibles I’ve had in a football ground in years.

Suitably assuaged, I head into the bar and meet Darren. He’s here with his dad and grandkids; 3 of the 4 generations of Norton down on the rattler from Hull. Man United’s loss to Bournemouth is wearily unfolding on Sky, but most punters in the thronged room are concerned more with the prospects of Hull away to Fulham and for any play here, as the rain continues to sling it down. The ground drains well, so there’s no danger of a postponement and the Norton clan shuffle me outside, as we take our place among the 285 crowd (brilliant for this level, good for a lousy day, but a tad disappointing as Hull are away and many other local sides have called games off) behind the dug outs as the deluge stops at kick off. There’s a bunch of other friendly types to meet as well.

Without exception, the fanzine contributors and Ferriby fans Darren introduces me to, are salt of the earth football fans; they may have been driven away from Hull by the expense and idiocy and they may have feared the worst when NFU bit the dust, but they’re here and proud to support the phoenix by the Humber. This is their club and the lads on the pitch are doing them proud. The contest, such as it is, involves Ferriby’s strikers peppering the Swallownest keeper and the young lad repelling the attacks with everything he’s got. Finally he’s beaten; debutant Dale crashes a header against the bar, then follows up to knock the rebound in. It’s scant consolation for their dominance, but The Villagers are delighted to go in at the break with their noses in front.  Elsewhere Hull, Benfield and even Newcastle United have all eased into 3 goal leads.

The half time cuppa turns into a flask, as the second period is delayed because one of the assistants has a calf injury. She’s replaced by an apprehensive looking and somewhat aged assessor, as the game gets back underway somewhere near 4.10. The rain has returned, but presents no danger to the game; despite the very low bounce there is neither spray nor standing water. Where we do have a problem is the flickering of the far end floodlights. Any debate whether a few missing bulbs might cause a cancellation seems to be ended when Birch taps in for 2-0. Swallownest are football people; they know they’ve lost and certainly don’t want to be dragged back here with a bare XI and the management pretending to be the subs on a midweek night for a real mauling. Ferriby have their dander up and the fans are a fraction away from roaring the side home. Suddenly, on 81 minutes the referee, capriciously, calls a halt to proceedings; while it’s pitch black outside the ground, the 75% of lights illuminating the game, are more than adequate to get the home win done. This cuts no ice with the officials, who stump off even as the lights come back on. Rather like Brexit, the whole process has failed to reach a conclusion after dragging on unnecessarily long.  Nobody’s won. Nobody’s lost. Nobody’s satisfied. However, thoughts always return to the good news that there is still a football club in North Ferriby to support. Let’s all ensure it stays that way eh?

Unlike Brexit, North Ferriby FC is a good thing. Similar to my old pal Chryssy, rebirth has brought strength and satisfaction. I strongly recommend you get yourself along to Church Road for a game… on a dry day… when the clocks go forward again…