Academic Failure

So, me & my pal Davey went to the Scottish Junior Cup final at Hamilton Accies -:

Of all the Scottish league grounds I’ve yet to visit, the neighbouring Lanarkshire towns of Motherwell and Hamilton Academicals were both right at the top of my list. As regards Scottish footballing events, the Junior Cup final was the absolute number one target. When the stars aligned and this year’s final was moved from Rugby Park, which is having some form of drainage works performed on the 4G pitch, to New Douglas Park and my good pal David Stoker offered to do the chauffeuring from his home in sunny Bathgate, it seemed too good an opportunity to miss. Sadly, and with enormous gratitude to Davey for the driving duties taken as read, Auchinleck Talbot 2 Largs Thistle 0, which was my 64^th game, 29^th ground and 6^th new ground of 2018/2019, was also probably the most disappointing and disorganised event I’ve been to all year. That’s a real shame, because just about everything else about the day was a fabulous treat.

Rising hungover and groggy from an afternoon and evening’s bevvying to celebrate Tynemouth’s tense 3 wicket win over Burnmoor and obliterate the dismal Champions’ League final, I made my way to Central for the 11.00 to Waverley. I’m more used to Saturday journey’s in that direction, on trains replete with eager stags and hens ready to drink their bodyweight in Strongbow Dark Fruits before we reach Dunbar. This train was full as well, but mainly with hungover Scottish women, all unironed hair and Heath Ledger style smudged make-up, who’d been to see Westlife at the Arena the night before. Those who bevvied were on Prosecco mainly, but the fire had been extinguished by theirheavy night before. I whiled away the time reading the very excellent STAND #30 and View from the Allotment End #13, rather than infuriating myself with the obsequious social media toadying towards Liverpool from most points east and south of Merseyside. The fawning hagiographers who willingly divested themselves of their dignity in 280 characters or less displayed not only pitiful, cloying sentimentality in their cyber billets doux, but also hinted at the endemic anti-Semitism of Corbynism by hitching their wagon to the train of riches based on slavery and religious bigotry that is the main historical legacy of Liverpool, rather than the vibrant, tolerant, inclusive multi-cultural, multi-ethnic milieu of north London that has made Spurs the great club they are today.

Talking of great clubs, Davey collected me from Livingston North, right in the heartland of West Lothian junior football, where every dismal ex mining village boasts its own local club. In many ways, the area reminds you of the former Northern League strongholds of West and East Durham, or South East Northumberland, if you remove the ubiquitous Orange Halls, Masonic Lodges and Loyalist graffiti; scruffy former pit settlements once home to proud clubs at the hub of communities now bedevilled by heroin and cheap booze, where the only businesses making a go of things are tanning salons and takeaways. I’d already skirted Pumpherston at Uphall, before Davey took me to the real jewel of urban deprivation in the Lothians; Armadale. Their Volunteer Park looks as much of an ageing, crumbling gem as Kilsyth, Arthurlie or Shotts and the fact it will host next Sunday’s Thornton Property’s League Cup final between aforementioned Pumpherston and Fauldhouse United, is tempting me northwards again. If it was Saturday, I’d definitely be there, but there’s the small matter of Northumberland v Cheshire 20/20 at Jesmond or Tynemouth v Ashington v Boldon in the 2^nd XI 20/20 at Preston Avenue to consider.

There are other football options next week as well, with an array of finals to choose from. The West of Scotland Cup is being contested at Irvine Meadow XI’s Meadow Park, between Kirkintilloch Rob Roy and Beith, though having already been there, I’d not regard that as one worth attending. On the Saturday, the East Region offers either Carnoustie Panmure versus Broughty Athletic at Lochee United’s ground in Dundee for the D. J. Laing Cup or Whitburn against Dundee North End in the highly prestigious repechage that is the Consolation League Cup. Davey had been there on the Saturday to see the home side squeeze home 8-1 again Glenrothes in the latter’s final junior game before quitting for the East of Scotland League. The choice of venue for the final was   made by the fabulously scientific method of a coin toss that Whitburn won. In the NEPL, Whitburn’s Village Ground is probably the most picturesque venue for cricket at that level; Whitburn Juniors FC’s Central Park isn’t in that class, but it’s certainly a step up from Volunteer Park.

From there we headed south and up in the clouds to Forth; a horseless hamlet 1,000 feet above sea level in South Lanarkshire. Entering the village on your left is Kingshill Park, home of Forth Wanderers. I’ve played on plenty of dreadful surfaces in my inglorious career and seen games on dozens more, but I don’t think I’ve seen a more undulating pitch than Forth Wanderers. They need to get some horses back in the village and graze the grass down to ankle level. Honestly, I’d love to see a game up there some time. It’s just as Davey described it; the Scottish Tow Law, though without the foot and mouth burial ground.

We left Forth, wending our way back down through the clouds to Hamilton via Kilncadzow, Carluke, Lanark, Larkhall, though we didn’t pass Gasworks Park I’m sad to say, then up the M74 to Hamilton.  One thing you can say about Hamilton is that there are zillions of free parking spaces. Davey found us a spot and we headed to New Douglas Park, possibly the only 2 not attired in some manner of amber and black favours, the colours of both sides, which was romantically accessed via the basement level of Morrisons’ car park. Emerging near the turnstiles at the corner of the wee temporary stand and the big one behind the goal, all enjoyment was sucked out of the day from that point onwards.

It was chaos. With neither signs to direct people, nor stewards to help and with a few random mounted police proving as much use as a glass eye in the bottom drawer, there was nothing to do but find a queue and stand in it. We decided on the Largs end. For the vast majority of last season, Hamilton Accies averaged about 2,500 in a ground that holds 6,018. The only games that exceeded today’s gate of 4,629 were the visits of Celtic (4,688) and the Huns, who assembled 5.013 and 5,887 reprobates from their Presbyterian Lanarkshire heartland. Each of the visits by the Old Firm was all ticket; today, even at £10 entry and £5 for concessions, the speed of access was a farce. It must have taken us a good 30 minutes to shuffle 50 yards to the pay box. Luckily, the Largs lot were good natured; a few half pissed wannabe Neds and Casuals, as well as many day trippers who’d probably never seen the team play before.

Once inside, the ritual steak pie was purchased, after another inexplicable wait to be attended to. The two sullen, incompetent teenage lasses behind the counter needed to take time out before, during and after each order to check their phones, eyelashes, hair, make up and so on. That was bad, but not quite as bad as the cardboard pastry jacket that rendered the pie almost indigestible. Still, at least I had a thimbleful of warm Diet Coke, price £2.30, to wash it down with. Indeed, I’d just dissolved a chunk of viscous trans fat from the roof of my mouth by the time Craig McCracken stooped to head home a Jamie Glasgow corner after 5 minutes. Largs were stunned, but not deflated, though I sensed they didn’t believe they could win against the side that had already won the league and were gunning to retain the trophy and take it to Beechwood Park for the 13^th time. After some timid Largs probing, the Bot broke away and Keir Samson stroked home a textbook finish on the counter attack. Both teams were in their change strips; Bot in a fetching blue number and Largs in red and white stripes. This choice minimised any sense of sympathy I may have had for them.

Largs were finished and the second half didn’t happen. Like a slow motion version of the Champions’ League final, the two sides passed the ball around to little purpose. Largs didn’t threaten at all and Auchinleck almost got a third when Mark Shankland hit the underside of the bar. The game drifted to the inevitable anti-climactic conclusion and with the whistle still in the ref’s mouth we were away down the road, in time for me to grab a Costa in Bathgate (I kid you not) and settle down to follow Tynemouth’s fine win away to Chester le Street in the Banks Salver. Summer is probably here.