The clocks
may have gone back the weekend before, but the transition from October to
November always seems to psychologically mark the end of autumn and the onset
of winter, regardless of the weather. It was particularly noticeable this year
because of the dates falling over a weekend.
Friday 30th saw the continuation of West Allotment Celtic’s
fine upturn in form as they completed a double in the space of 6 days over
North Shields, in front of 338. Not a bad crowd, but dwarfed by the 844 who
made their way to Heritage Park for the FA Vase game between Bishop Auckland
and South Shields. The reborn Mariners triumphed 2-1 and their large fan base
appears to be making friends wherever they go. Fair play to them; they deserve
it, after the years of strife and grumbles that have gone before.
Personally,
I made neither game; my allegiance to the League of Ireland kept me in front of
the computer, watching RTE’s coverage of Limerick’s 3-2 win away at Sligo
Rovers. This result for Stab City XI, in conjunction with the 5-3 defeat of
Drogheda United at the Halting Site versus the Tallaght Corinthians, ensured it
was the Diamond Drogs from Hunky Dory who made the definite drop into Division
1, no doubt precipitating a severe financial crisis that will see the club teetering
on the brink of oblivion. Meanwhile Stab City’s win saw them scrape second
bottom place and a play-off with Finn Harps, who overcame UCD for a shot at the
big time. A week later, Finn Harps completed a 2-1 aggregate game and Dundalk
overcame Cork City, the only Premier League I’ve yet to visit, after extra time
to complete a domestic double. So it looks like that in 2016 I’m on that Shels
bus to Cobh, Drogheda and Limerick; we’ll take the DART to Cabo, if the L of I
are still paying their subs.
Saturday
morning was as glorious as the week before had been wet. Winstons’ home game
against Wingate Cons (Convicts? Conservatives? Same thing really) had been
called off the day before, allowing my trip to Atherton Collieries with
Benfield to take place with a clear conscience. We assembled at Sam Smith’s for
a 9.00 departure, which became 9.15; the players and a grand total of 3
supporters. We had further pick-ups at Washington, Rushyford and Brighouse,
before a thirty-minute refreshment break at Hartshead Services. The 20 of us clambered down to get coffees
(committee) and eat KFC while losing money on poker machines (players),
observing the presence of a dozen coaches of Norwich City fans en route to Man
City. It wasn’t a scene from Green Street
to be honest, nor was it when Whitley Bay, heading for their Vase game against
Manchester Northwich Villa at Irlam, arrived. Two coaches from the coast; one
of players and committee and the other of supporters, putting us to shame,
especially as they left before us to continue their journey, while our team
were still breaking the bank at Monte Carlo.
Eventually
back underway, we arrived at Atherton, which is in Wigan but is really Bolton,
about 1.45. The home committee had naively expected about 100 Benfield supporters,
which was a little optimistic to say the least, though the number of fans
swelled to 6 with the arrival of the suspended Steven Tobin, his dad and
brother. Atherton Collieries are a lovely, genuine, welcoming football club.
They graft off and on the pitch, which is muddy and on a slope like Tow Law’s.
Frankly they deserved their 2-0 win and a home tie against the side that put us
out last year, Chadderton.
Sadly, at
full time Benfield manager Steve Bowey tendered his resignation, as he felt
he’d gone as far as he could with the club. It was truly humbling to see how
upset he was by the outcome and I wish him well for the future. There we all
stood; 5th bottom of the league, out of every cup before the end of
October and three hours from home. Nowt for it but to get drunk; we imbibed in
the clubhouse and got ourselves a large carry out from ASDA to get us home.
About 9.30 I tumbled off the bus, half plastered, scrounged a lift home and
fell asleep on the sofa during Match of
the Day; apart from the game, it had been a blinding trip.
After the
emotionally wrought events of Saturday, Sunday 1st November saw me
experience a whole new ball game; a trip to Kingston Park to see Newcastle
Falcons versus Exeter Chiefs. Having managed to acquire free tickets for
Newcastle Thunder versus Barrow Raiders and then the Magic Weekend at SJP, I’d
seen a couple of games of Rugby League in 2015. Somehow because of this, I’d
ended up on some database which sends me weekly emails from the RFU; back in
September I’d noticed an initiative whereby, if you’d never seen Rugby Union
before, you could apply for a pair of tickets to a number of games. I’d fancied
Saracens v Northampton, but since I’d have to pay for my own travel, I thought
it best to stay local. Obviously as I’ve been to some form of rugby before, I
didn’t register my interest under my own name, but Laura’s. The alarm on her
face when she thought she’d have to go and watch a sport she despises was
priceless; instead I took my mate Jamie, on the basis he could drive me there.
If Halloween
in Atherton had been pleasant, climactically at least, the Day of the Dead in
NE13 was positively tropical, though I did recall that a year before, to the
actual date, Benfield’s 3-0 win over West Auckland had been played on an
afternoon so warm that mosquitos were discernible in Walkergate. So much for global cooling; especially as
Kingston Park’s micro climate has most often been compared to a
Post-Apocalyptic Nuclear Winter.
Strolling in
shirt sleeves on a baking lunchtime towards the ground, it seemed clear there
were more heading to watch than NUFC Reserves, Blue Star and the Thunder could
ever hope for combined, though the only time I’ve seen the place sell out was
when Steve Wraith arranged a charity game between the 1996 NUFC and Liverpool
teams, to replay the famous 4-3. It wasn’t as close as that scoreline when they
repeated it; possibly because Steve replaced Pav in goal in the second half…
Anyway, into
the stadium we went; no turnstiles, no searches, just a smiling steward
ushering us in. If football is the working man’s game and rugby league is the
long term claimant’s game, then rugby union’s demographic is surely hewn from
the base metal of Telegraph-reading, Tory-voting, Top
Gear-watching, NE3-dwelling, public school and Russell Group educated,
professionally-employed, bourgeois, class-enemies who will be first up against
the wall when the glorious day comes. Well, not really; admittedly this
well-heeled Ralph Lauren, Blue Harbour and Gant attired agglomeration would be
more likely to trade stocks and shares than take out a Provy or hide under the
table when the rent man came knocking, but it wasn’t wall-to-wall Nigel Farage
body doubles either.
It’s
undeniable that rugby union is middle class in our region; that may not be the
case in Wales, Limerick or Cornwall, but it is up here. There were plenty
students, plenty middle aged professional types and plenty of the Ponteland and
Darrass Hall female horsey set; and their beverages of choice were telling.
Blokes on the real ale (hand-pulled beer in a major sporting event; how I
regretted my desperate hangover) and women on wine (and not a bubble-gum Rose
by the pint either). The food was better too; hog roast baguettes and steak sandwiches
rather than pies, several types of filter coffee instead of Bovril. All very
civilised and pleasant. Not the sort of thing football fans would be allowed to
enjoy. Then again, the rugby league crowd at Magic Weekend were getting it down
their necks like the cast of Shameless
on a freebie to the Munich Beer Festival and there was no serious mither then.
It really does disgust me how we football fans are the most regulated,
legislated and repressed sport supporters in the country. Debate rages as to whether
fans at Northern League games ought to be allowed a pint while watching the
game.
So, what
about the rugger? Well, our boys took a hell of a beating. After going 3-0 up
in the first couple of minutes from a penalty, given for something I didn’t
understand (this was the case for much of the game for me, despite Jamie’s
knowledgeable insights), the Falcons were then blown away by an Exeter side who
seemed to view push-over tries as the highest form of sporting excellence,
though the first try was courtesy of a charged down kick from a Falcons player.
Five tries, none of them eye-catching, and three conversions, left the half
time score 3-31. Interestingly though, none of the 5,196 crowd seemed keen on
booing the team or the officials off; rugby union still contains vestiges of
the “best team won” philosophy that went out of English football, either after
George Eastham won his case or the Scotch invasion of Lancashire in the 1880s
heralded the dawn of professionalism.
If the first
half was depressingly one-sided, the second period was one of the dullest
sporting events I’ve ever attended and I had a season ticket at SJP in
1990/1991 remember. Exeter soaked up 30-odd minutes of ineffective, impotent
Falcons pressure, too often disfigured by poor handling and bad decision
making, before easing to another converted pushover try and a last second
penalty to win the game 41-3. The spectacle was interrupted by 16 replacements
(8 for each side), which destroyed the fluency in the way mass substitutions do
in international football friendlies. Sure there were grumbles and moans,
especially by the RP-accented fellow in russet corduroys the row in front, who
did 3 pints in each half, but the crowd were fairly philosophical about the
loss, as it was expected. I enjoyed it on a freebie, but I can’t see any way I
would pay to watch The Falcons again. I might be tempted by local rugby though;
Blaydon? Tynedale? Percy Park? We shall see…
The Falcons
have lost all 4 games so far, but so have London Irish. Only one team goes down
from the Premiership and only then if they lose a play-off against the lower
league champions, who have to pass a series of stringent financial tests before
they can even take part in the play-off. Finishing one place above the drop
zone will be as much a cause for rejoicing in Kingston Park as emulating such a
finishing position will be at SJP.
Ashley OUT!
Richards OUT! Come on Gos!
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