I’m not sure
if I’ve mentioned it before, but the best thing about my particular section at
work is that not one of the dozen of us are active Newcastle United fans, which
means I don’t have to sit through endless days of ignorant and ill-informed
griping about Ashley and Broooootttth. That alone is reason enough to get out
of bed in the morning.. There’s a couple of
armchair Mackems, a disenchanted Mag and a Man United fan who opted to
go to the dentist rather than his lot’s home game against Norwich earlier this
season, which tells you everything you need to know. Finally, there’s Canadian
mate Dave, who is a devoted Calgary Flames hockey fan and a long time NUFC supporter
from back in his early days in Ontario; quite possibly because his dad Big Al
hails from Barnard Castle and follows the Black Cats.
Throughout
my working life I’ve always viewed management as the enemy, questioning the
motives and integrity of anyone who sought to climb the greasy pole. Indeed
most of the very worst examples of humanity I’ve had the misfortune to
encounter have been in supervisory roles that enable the weak and inadequate to
wield instrumental power over their moral and intellectual superiors. The Guardian’s recent obituary of Hosni
Mubarak had cause to use the following adjectives to evaluate his life: ruthless,
autocratic, stubborn, uninspiring, dictatorial, venal, thuggish, authoritarian,
squalid, corrupt, ambitious, entitled, impassive, deluded, unpopular, hated,
impulsive, callous, incoherent, detested, abusive, cruel, farcical, tragic,
intimidatory, incomprehensible, crude, oppressive, repressive, violent,
intolerant and nervous. All the characteristics of a typical boss eh? The opposite opinion has been my attitude to
co-workers, comrades in the class struggle, who I regard with respect and
affection, providing they aren’t grasses, lickarses or Tories. David is none of those things, so I decided
he would be the lucky one to accompany me on my latest Caledonian jaunt, with
Alloa Athletic versus Ayr United our ultimate destination.
The train
tickets were cheap; £25 return, though that’s more than the £18 I paid for
January 11th’s unsuccessful trip, when I got as far as Stirling
before learning that Alloa’s 4G pitch was flooded, necessitating me doubling
back to Stenhousemuir versus Brechin City to see balls kicked in anger. While
the weather had been rancid, with improbably named weekly storms decanting
torrential rain, sheet showers and howling gales across the land in the week
leading up to our trip, this game was always going to be on.
Laura’s
flair for catering and inherent Canadian goodness caused her to prepare a
sumptuous repast for us two travellers; a treat so fantastical I didn’t
introduce David to the delights of a steak and haggis pie, tragically enough. I
could hardly carry our picnic as far as Central, where I met Dave. Our platform
was thronged, but mainly with disappointed passengers for the massively delayed
10.35. Our train was the 10.41 and it was deserted, so we arrived in Waverley a
couple of minutes early, enabling us to walk on to the 12.20 to Stirling, where we cracked open
bottles of ready mixed Fentiman’s
G&T, enabling us to watch the world slip by and toast Bella Caledonia . Getting to Stirling at 1.00, we chanced a very
quick pint in an Irish pub that was showing the Brighton v Palace game. It
didn’t entice us to stay and soon we were making our connection with about 50
Ayr fans and a bloke in a British Sea Power hat, for the single stop to Alloa.
Despite
having a reputation as the ancestral home of Scottish brewing and the place of
birth of the mighty Joker IPA, Alloa doesn’t seem to be awash with real ale pubs. There was the ubiquitous Wetherspoon’s that I
obviously wouldn’t set foot in for ideological reasons, and the apparently
sterile Old Brewery in town centre. Neither of which appealed, so we navigated
the outdoor swimming pool that the main car park had become, to find ourselves
in the distinctly unpretentious Station
Bar. The presence on tap of Schiehallion, Harviestoun Brewery’s
delightful craft lager from Alva, barely 10 miles up the road, meant our
presence among the crowd of loud and lively semi-jakeys on canned Tennent’s with large voddy and coke
chasers, was compulsory until 14.40 or thereabouts. We met half a dozen of
Alloa’s Young Team, who gave us directions, and a very friendly Ayr fan that we
had a couple of pints with. Not the most luxurious boozer I’ve ever been in,
but friendly enough.
And so we
struck out, in the face of a gusting wind, towards Recreation Park, or the
Indodrill Stadium as it’s known for sponsorship purposes. Rather like the
Station Bar, it isn’t the most luxurious of grounds, but certainly one of the
friendliest. Like Stenhousemuir and
Stirling, it offers a glorious view of the Ochil Hills which today, blessed by
a thin covering of snow, looked almost sugar-dusted. Having paid our £18 entry,
we took our place, leaning against the fence in front of the main stand, among
a gathering of 915, at least half of whom appeared to be Honest Men who had
journeyed east from Ayrshire. I regret again not asking an Ayr fan the
important question as to whether their women’s team is nicknamed The Bonnie
Lasses.
Just before
kick off, David asked me for a score prediction; I said 0-2, reasoning that as
Alloa had not lost in 2020 and Ayr had been stinking in a home loss to Morton
in midweek, the two sides would resort to league table type. So it came to
pass; a stuttering nervous Alloa offered precisely nothing in the opening
period, allowing Ayr to get ahead with an impudent back heel by Drinan after
home keeper Wright got into a dreadful tangle with the ball at his feet. Wasps’ manager Peter Grant was animated and
agitated on the side-lines, steadily upping the ante after the break when a
vastly improved showing from the home side repeatedly hinted at an equaliser.
Sadly for Grant, all the hope was crushed when Alan Forrest curled home a
precise finish on 82 minutes. Game over; Ayr moved up to 3rd and
Alloa stayed 8th, a point above Queen of the South who inhabit the
relegation play-off spot.
As the train
for Waverley didn’t leave until 18.20, we got a preparatory craft ale carry-out
from Aldi, before a return trip to The Station Bar, where I laced David at
pool, in a contest apparently decided by who potted the cue ball the least. We
caught the train, arrived in Edinburgh and risked a quick pint in the glorious
Guild Ford Arms, before catching the 20.00 south. It appeared to fill up as we
journeyed further, pouring ourselves off around 21.40 at Central. One last,
frankly unnecessary, beer at Box Social and then off home.
Roll on
April 25th and Aidrieonians v Peterhead!!
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