I would
never claim to be well-travelled, other than in Ireland and Scotland. In this
country, it is a source of much embarrassment for me that, other than enjoying
many repeated visits to Manchester over the years, I have almost no knowledge
of the North West other than the Cottonopolis. While I’ve been to most grounds
than make up the 92, in its many iterations, there are some shocking gaps in my
knowledge of Lancashire, Cheshire and the Wirral. Don’t even start with my
non-league ignorance of this area. Consequently, Benfield’s reward for crushing
Guisborough 4-0 in the previous round, an away trip to Vauxhall Motors in
Ellesmere Port, was a chance to visit an area I know nothing about and a place
I’d never been.
Once I’d
digested the draw, the reality of the distances involved struck home; coach
travel may be less of an ordeal than the 1980s, now we have WiFi, charging
points and flush nettys, but 4 and a half hours each way is a challenge for
this notoriously queasy road traveller. Mind, the bus was the only option as
train fares to Ellesmere Port were an eye-wateringly prohibitive £95 return,
with no cheap deals available on a journey that would take longer than the bus.
At least it wasn’t a trip to Vauxhall, SW8; home of the horrid Kate Hooey I
suppose.
Two days
after a majority verdict by the jury had found David Duckinfield not guilty of
95 cases of manslaughter after a retrial at Chester Crown Court, showing that
there is still no justice for the 96 victims of Hillsborough, I apprehensively
picked my way up the frozen pavement of Benfield Road from Walkergate Metro
around 9.00, taking the seat behind the driver, as our coach proceeded to peel
away from a frosty Sam Smith’s Park for Ellesmere Port. After a month of incessant rain had cancelled
all but one of our games since the last round, the clear sky and dazzling sun
mocked us, as sub-zero temperatures caused another raft of postponements in our
area. One glimmer of hope was that it was a good 5 degrees warmer on the far
side of the country than this, so we travelled hopefully.
Before noon,
we pulled into Hartshead Services where Consett, heading for Wythenshawe Town
and Hebburn, on their way to Lower Breck, 250 yards from Anfield on a day when
Liverpool were at home, had already stopped for a breather. Handshakes and good
luck messages were exchanged, before Vauxhall Motors tweeted that the game was
on, unless the officials said different. We left Hartshead in good spirits;
certainly better than 2015, en route to Atherton Railways, when I ruined a pair
of emerald green New Balance 420s by stepping into a quagmire, searching for a
bin to deposit an empty coffee cup and only 3 Benfield supporters made the
journey; Allen, Gary and me. This time we’d an almost full bus, though there
were many notable absentees, and I’d tipped up £25 for a dozen cans of assorted
craft ales from the Waitrose within.
They would help me celebrate or commiserate on the long journey back, depending
on what the afternoon had in store.
The rest of
the journey on the baking, arid bus, was spent half listening to the first half
of Newcastle v Man City, while gazing out on a solid landscape that showed no
signs of yielding, though when we dropped altitude, the earth softened, probably
on account of the pollution pumped out by the various factories on the Runcorn
to Ellesmere Port corridor. I’ve no idea what the towns are like, but the
landscape was reminiscent of the A19 by Billingham; empty green fields with
tall chimneys belching out effluent, standing guard. We arrived just in time
for the second half of NUFC versus City. If there were to be any doubts as to
the allegiances of the locals, that was dispelled by Shelvey’s raking equaliser
that almost took the roof off the impressive social club that adjoined the
ground. The 2 points dropped by City make it ever more likely that Liverpool
will win the title.
Everything
about Vauxhall Motors FC was impressive; the ground, the facilities, the
welcome. It spoke of a club used to play at a higher level, even if they were a
step below us, though probably not for long as they’ve now won 14 successive
games. They won this one with ease as, frankly, we didn’t show up. It was not
the Newcastle Benfield I’ve long adored, but a frozen shadow of the side we
are. The scoreless, attritional first half gave us a false sense of comfort,
before VM took us apart after the break. Their performance deserved to be seen
by more than the 134 hardy souls who braved the cold. Like Chadderton in 2014,
Atherton in 2015 and Northwich Vics last season, we never got started against
another one of those determined, muscular sides from over the Pennines, who
insist on ruining our best efforts to gain some glory in the FA Vase.
Of course we
had chances; a stonewall penalty for the keeper taking out Brassy on the hour that
wasn’t given was the turning point, as they broke and scored immediately. A
long ball over the top was misjudged by Brad Varga and a VM player nipped in to
poke the ball home. Dennis Knight and Cyril Giraud came on, to give us an
attacking threat, but another long ball did us. Reece Noble brought down the
last man and the red card, penalty; goal triumvirate of doom sealed our fate.
Matty Parker’s last second red for 2 yellows was just a sad, though fitting,
codicil for the whole day.
After the
final whistle, we drank a sad, final glass and clambered back towards home. Stu
Elliott came on the bus and, gutted though he was, apologised for the result
and performance. It was a great gesture and kept spirits up, as did the big bag
of cans, until we landed; drunk and still in despair, around 9.30, by which
time thoughts had turned from Wembley to Whickham on Wednesday night.
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