Poppy Cocks

As ever, Mott the Hoople got it right back in 74 when they extolled the virtues of live music at the weekend. Unlike that mouthy, toupee toting Brimson wannabe Reg Hercules Dwight who claimed Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting, Ian Hunter and the lads were keen to point out; “we got off on those Saturday gigs and you did, you did.”

It may have something to do with my, as yet unresolved decision whether to prefer music or sport, but I absolutely adore live gigs on a Saturday, especially during the football season. The cricket season not so much, as 8 hours outdoors in the heat (or cold) can be exhausting. So far, I’ve been to 3 gigs in 2022; 2 of them were on a Saturday (TQ’s Auntie Joy 2 in Ryton and Teenage Fanclub at Leeds Beckett) and the other (Band of Holy Joy) was on Good Friday, which is effectively a Saturday with a side order of martyrdom thrown in. Each of these gigs was accompanied by a game of football; two of them dreadful, while the decent one saw the team, I was supporting lose a local derby. Curiously, the Auntie Joy performance was a noon to 2.15 affair, so the game came afterwards. Incidentally, I’m not proposing to discuss the live music in this blog; the events themselves will be evaluated in a subsequent blog post at a later date.

Following TQ’s stupendous Auntie Joy 2 event at Holy Cross Church in Ryton village, on a glorious sunny Saturday in March, I headed further west into the Tyne Valley to Crawcrook, for promotion chasing Ryton and Crawcrook Albion’s home game with Bedlington Terriers.  I always like a trip to Kingsley Park; it combines eccentricity in the shape of decommissioned bus stops for covered standing with absolutely stunning views down the hill to Clara Vale and across the river to Close House and Wylam. It’s as bucolic a spot as you could imagine watching a game and only a fiver to get in. Mind, that was daylight robbery in a first half that plumbed the depths of execrable anti-football. Forty-five woeful minutes saw wayward big boots up the middle achieving less than zero, with no discernible difference in style from either of the abysmal sides on show. This was one of the worst displays of kicking by both keepers that I’d ever endured. To be honest, if the musicians I’d just seen were playing either or both of these sides, they’d have gone in 3-0 up at the break.

Eccentricity was on display in the bait cabin too, where an intriguing chicken and cheeseburger filled a hole at the break. As I munched, I mused. The last time I’d seen this fixture, Ryton waltzed to a 5-0 win, but there was zero chance of that today, as Terriers were marginally less dire than the hosts. A stalemate seemed nailed on, until Ryton undeservedly won it with a sublime free kick from 30 yards in the last minute of normal time, causing an orgiastic pile-on that was as deserved as the goal had been unexpected. The game wasn’t the highlight of my day, Christian Alderson’s percussion masterclass took that award, but it wasn’t the lowest spot either; that involved an undrunk bottle of red wine and unvisited bars on the Fish Quay, but we won’t talk about that now. Instead, let’s go to Leeds…

Two years ago, Teenage Fanclub announced a series of dates to promote their latest album Endless Arcade. Then COVID happened; the album was put back until April 2021, as were the gigs, though a subsequent delay saw them eventually slated for April 2022. As we’ve established, the gigs were on a Saturday, which made football possible. There were 4 of us going to the gig; Ben, Lucy, Sara and me. Departure time was determined to be 10.00, so I had plenty of time to take in a game. On account of having done every Yorkshire ground in the 92, non-league would benefit from my patronage. Scouring the fixture lists, I found I had 5 realistic options. In the National League North, Bradford Park Avenue welcomed Chorley and Farsley Celtic hosted Kettering Town, though somehow, I’d got it into my head that Gloucester City or Kidderminster Harriers were visiting. Meanwhile, the Northern Premier League East offered the delights of Frickley Athletic v Lincoln United, Ossett United v Worksop Town or Yorkshire Amateur v Marske United.

While all the games were 3pm kick offs, some of them were ruled out of court fairly quickly as my starting point for any journey was Sara’s parents’ house, my ex-in-laws in point of fact, in Darton, between Barnsley and Wakefield, with the 12.36 fast train to Leeds being my gateway to the West Riding. The first faller on Grand National Day was Bradford PA, as their Horsfall Stadium is a good shank south west of the city centre and getting there for kick off wasn’t guaranteed. This was proven to be a wise decision by the eventual 0-0 scoreline. Similarly, Frickley Athletic, despite being a mere 12 miles from Darton, was a total no go because of the complexity of the route. Whether I took a bus and then a train, a train then a bus or even 2 buses, it would take too long to get there, despite the last leg to Leeds being less than 20 minutes on the train. Shame really, as a 4-1 loss to Lincoln United sounded quite entertaining. One day I’ll get to Ossett United, but not today; 90 minutes on a couple of buses and an hour on an hourly service to Leeds wasn’t my idea of a fun way to travel, despite the multiple chances for David Peace style Damned United puns. They did beat Worksop Town 1-0.

In the end, it came down to Yorkshire Amateur up in Potternewton, behind Chapel Allerton Hospital, or the train to New Pudsey and a wander to Frickley. The 12.36, stopping at Wakefield Northgate and Leeds only was packed with bevvying, coked-up proles, heading for a serious session on Grand National Day. Leeds station is huge, and it would have taken an age to get out into the open air and probably another age to find, catch and ride the bus, with my disastrous sense of direction to be factored in, so I opted for Farsley and missed the Ammies losing 2-1 at home. An almost deserted train to Halifax and the deserted streets of New Pudsey provided no impediments to my journey. Having bought my ticket online (£13!!!!), I easily found myself inside The Citadel; a handsome little ground that was 50% uncovered standing and 50% covered seating.

Having availed myself of a tasty pork pie and a flavourless coffee, I took a seat in the main stand and learned that, despite the preponderance of hooped shirts and Celtic references in the programme and clubhouse, this was the real White Riding, as the home team ran out to Eye of the Tiger and warmed up to Marching Altogether. There wasn’t a lot of warmth about, as frequent hail and snow showers made me relieved that I’d decided against wearing shorts. In fact, the only regret was I’d bothered going there at all, as the game was incredibly poor when contrasted with the stunning Blyth v Gateshead game in the same league I’d seen back on January 2^nd.

The visitors, accompanied by some of the most irritating, grumpy pensioners I’d ever had the misfortune to hear, took the lead with a decent strike on 20 minutes; a well placed strike on the turn, that found the bottom corner via the post. In contrast Farsley relied on the big boot, utilising the strong wind with ruthless inefficiency. Remarkably they levelled on 40 minutes, following a bout of pinball after a corner. That’s how it stayed, with the only highlights being the half time DJ treating us to Ms Grace and Summer Breeze by The Tymes and The Isley Brothers respectively.

The final whistle was greeted with a roar of approval by the Ralph Ineson soundalike home fans; not because the quality of the product merited it, as the game had absolutely nothing to recommend it, but because the result left them 6 points above bottom side and fellow Yorkshiremen, Guisley, with only one side set to be relegated. Not only that, it had stopped snowing as I skated back through disappearing slush to the station and the 17.15 train to Leeds. Soon after I was supping Cloudwater in Brownhills and awaiting my family, before heading off to see the Best Fucking Band in the World.

My version of The Long Good Friday involved football, then music. At noon, North Shields went to Whitley Bay and won 3-1 to clinch the Northern League title at their bitterest rivals’ ground. I wasn’t there, choosing to bite the bullet and watch my formerly beloved Benfield for the first time in an age, away to local rivals West Allotment Celtic. Of course it had to be away, as I’m still banned from Sam Smith’s Park. I’m not going into that situation again, so I’ll just say I made the journey as a bag of nerves. I loved Benfield and being denied access to them hurt me grievously.

On entering, several people asked how I was; I told them the truth. I’m suicidal and have been lower in my life. Those hearing were, by turns, amused, embarrassed and supportive. One groundhopper called Nigel was brilliant, as were Benfield players Andy Grainger and Dennis Knights. It helped reduce my agitation and I could watch a pretty good game that was won, slightly against the run of play, by WAC, though they did also miss a penalty. I was just glad to get through the game without incident and find my way home for a nap before the Band of Holy Joy gig.