Meadowlarks

 Me and Gary went to FC Edinburgh to watch Falkirk with Derek and Jim. It was brilliant.

It’s a darn good job Newcastle United have made it to Wembley for the Carabao Cup final, as that achievement, minor though it is, expunges any awful memories of the Sheffield Wednesday tie at the start of last month. You see, historically, the last weekend in January has always been FA Cup 4^th round weekend or, as it is generally known on Tyneside, the mid-season break. Mind, I have to say I’m not exactly happy at the distribution of cup final briefs as I’ll not be getting one, simply on account of binning my season tickets back in 2009. I mean, where’s the loyalty my club should be showing me? At least I can rely on Falkirk coming up with the goods, and in particular my great pal Derek Steel, editor of the ever-wonderful Razur Cuts litzine, eternal punk rocker and general good egg, staying true to his word.

Me and my mate Gary Thompson, the secretary at Newcastle Benfield, have been promising each other for years that we’d have a dodge across the border for a gentlemen’s Saturday and an opportunity came up when I decided I could live without a trip to see Percy Main amateurs away to Whickham Under 23s in the Bill Gardner Cup and the Northern League gave Benfield a free Saturday on January 28^th. Never mind that The Lions subsequently ended up with Guisborough at home being slotted in, some prime contacts had already sorted us out with cheap (and I mean cheap) rail travel, while Derek gave the assent to our attendance at FC Edinburgh against his beloved Bairns, Falkirk. We were off!!

Regular readers may furrow their brows at this point with my blessing. Yes, I am avowedly a Hibernian fan of 50 years standing. Yes, Hibernian were at home on that very Saturday to Aberdeen, with Easter Road lying no more than a couple of miles from Meadowbank. Yes, I was passing up the opportunity to see what had been christened El Sackico, mainly because I am frankly in despair at the current state of my beloved Cabbage. Continual panic stations in the boardroom have led to the hiring and firing of an ever more inadequate set of managers, who have presided over a catastrophic decline in the quality of players on the books and the attendant performances on the pitch. Hence, I wasn’t prepared to lend any support to a regime that does not have the first clue what the best interests of Hibernian FC are, never mind doing anything tangible to look after them. In all seriousness, this was a line in the sand moment for me and I don’t regret it for one minute. Well, the cheers after each one of the six unanswered Hibs goals did leave me a little nonplussed by events, but it’s always a hoot watching Falkirk away. I mean, it isn’t at home, as it’s often torture viewing the games, but at least you get a laugh, if you like swearing and that…

Anyway, Gary got to Central so early I think he must have messed the bed, while I turned up in the nick of time, courtesy of a lift from the late running Ben Cusack who, in his entire 28 years on earth, has never knowingly been early or indeed on time for anything. This is the lad who was born 6 days late of course. Gary had bought the coffees, then drank his while waiting for me. We got on an almost deserted train that started at Newcastle on account of the engineering works that were paralysing the East Coast Line south of Newcastle, enjoying the relative peace of travelling without squads of Prosecco fuelled ladies of a certain age spilling across the aisles.

Up in Edinburgh on time, we hopped a 24 for Seton Sands, alighting at the ground and letting Google find us a bar. First choice it gave us was Moira’s Nail Bar, so I refined the search to “pubs” and within 10 minutes we were settling onto high stools in The Limelite and enjoying cool Tennent’s. I’m not a fan of cooking lager at all, but when more than 50% of the pints sold in Scotland are of this fine Caledonian brew, you can’t argue with the demographics. There’s got to be a reason so much of it is sold. About 3 pints or an hour later, traffic-delayed Derek and his pal Tourette’s Jim arrived from Falkirk. As ever, brilliant to catch up with this fine gentleman and even better to become proud owners of Razur Cuts snoods. It’s what the sophisticated jakey round town is wearing to all the games these days.

Around the time the two captains were shaking hands and tossing a coin, we left the bar and wandered back down the road. As ever, the size of the travelling support had left the home organisers utterly unprepared; two turnstiles meant we got in when the game was already underway, but nothing of significance had been missed as an injury to a home player in the opening minute, which caused him to be withdrawn, meant the game was stopped.

This trip to Meadowbank was a revisit for me, as I’d been to Edinburgh City, as they were then called, when they shared Ainslie Park with Spartans, for a 4-1 demolition of Elgin City back in December 2018. You see FC Edinburgh are now back at the ground, or more properly the site of the ground, where they became tenants once Meadowbank Thistle (formerly Ferranti Thistle) headed out to Almondvale and became Livingston back in 1996. Their decamping to Ainslie Park in 2017 was made necessary by the decision to redevelop Meadowbank, building what is effectively the fourth iteration of a football ground on this patch of land.

 

Well, building is stretching things a bit. In 2017, the 5,000-capacity stadium that was built to host the 1970 Commonwealth Games was razed and, in its place, a 1,280 capacity, 500 seat, municipal leisure facility of a running track with a 4G pitch in the middle has been thrown together. Oh sure, it’s got good quality, heated toilets which play piped pop music (Madonna’s Greatest Hits when we visited), but it’s got abysmal sightlines and less atmosphere than Neptune. Walking the length of the stand to find our seats was as flat as taking the outside lane in a sprint.

From the off, Falkirk looked the better side, but the aged Liam Fontaine did his best to marshal the FC Edinburgh back line and, with chances at a premium, we went into the break scoreless. There was no chance of a pie at this ground, with the burger van 150 yards away by the entrance and seemingly dealing with the rest of the 1,017 hungry punters who’d turned up that day. In any case, the second half was a football feast; Falkirk went 2-0 up by the hour, courtesy of a lovely header by Oliver and a solid, unflappable finish by Morrison and the game was won. Of course, this is when the frankly appalling refereeing performance of Steven Kirkland comes under the microscope, and it needs to be addressed. Not only did he allow Edinburgh a goal back after an outrageous barge by the curiously named Ouzy See, but he ignored two clear penalty shouts, one for handball and one for the mightiest shove in the back I’ve seen in years. At least The Bairns held on and cut Dunfermline’s lead at the top of League 1.

Come full time, we cheered the boys off and located Deek’s car, parked at the summit of Salibury Crag I believe, and took a lift to the top of Leith Walk. Thousands of smiling Hibees thronged the pavements. We’d heard the roars that accompanied their massacre of  a deflated Dons outfit, who had already sacked Jim Goodwin by this point. The Hibees were on a high; The Dons were devastated and the attempts of the Central Area teenage Neds to whip up a storm by pretending to be Falkirk’s Young Team were frankly silly.

Gary and I enjoyed the walk up to Waverley, then nipped across the road to West Register Street and the beautiful Guild Ford, Edinburgh’s finest pub. A few pints of floral Leith Juice and some people watching (did you know Leonid Brezhnev and Miriam Margoles are alive and well and living in Balerno?) kept us busy, until it was time to get a carry oot for the train. 90 minutes in the company of some Columbine High School lookalikes and a Colombian drug baron on his day off kept us entertained until we arrived slightly early into Central. A swift black took Gary back to The Rising Sun to collect his fatha and I headed home, falling asleep within seconds of bidding a fond hello and equally warm goodbye to Shelley who was off out with her pal Kristina. Still, at least I’d remembered to bring her 8 cans of Tennents, because I’m romantic like that…

 Simply can’t wait for the next awayday…