Hectic

You may have noticed I have not been here.  This is because I have been everywhere else, including two trips to the Cheshire commuter belt (only one of which was intentional), three football matches, about twenty-three pubs, one chance bar-room encounter with the unofficial club historian of Stockport County FC, and a short course in Swedish existentialist comedy, courtesy of the good folks at IKEA.  My hectic week was to end in triumph, with the news that the kindly editor of When Saturday Comes had seen fit to dip into the pockets of his handsome greatcoat and proffer me a shiny five Kroner piece for my troubles.  Which I realise is a joke for precisely one person- so before I confuse you any further, perhaps we should just start at the start.

Like all rollercoaster adventures, my week started with a trip to a non-league football match.  Propelled by an unstoppable urge, I had driven to Altrincham to take in their Unibond League game against Lancaster City.  The visitors included in their ranks a fancy-dan midfielder going by the unlikely name of Ryan 'Zico' Black.  'Zico' was saddled at birth with his preposerous middle name (that of a genius Brazilian midfielder of the 1980s) by a dad keen to encourage his infant son in the general direction of sporting superstardom.  I don't know if Lancaster City was quite what he had in mind; after all, this is an outfit which contributes precisely four supporters to a rain-spattered crowd of 500 at Altrincham's Moss Lane, and which is absent-mindedly referred to on the back page of the match programme as 'Stafford Rangers'.  It is, indeed, probably the furthest along the footballing spectrum as it is possible to get while still wearing a pair of boots, but thankfully for his no-doubt fragile self-esteem, young Zico appears blissfully unaware of this inconvenient reality- he spends the first-half strutting majestically around the muddy pitch, entertaining us all with a series of samba-style feints, which inevitably end in clattering tackles from a succession of burly, and pointedly unimpressed, Altrincham defenders.

To be fair to young Zico, his cultured promptings do lead to the first clear chance of the game, in the form of a penalty, which is drilled wide.  From then on Altrincham take over, and an opening goal just before half-time is succeeded by three more after the break.  By the time of the last- a sumptious finish by an unhurried, unmarked right-winger at the end of a silky six-man move, the Robins' effortless passing is being rewarded by a succession of 'Ole's' from the home terracing.  It is just like watching Brazil- but Zico-Black has long since had enough, and has forsaken his own showboating in favour of stumbling morosely across the turf, aiming the occasional spiteful kick at a passing Altrincham midfielder.  I just hope his dad isn't watching.

On the following day- Sunday- I eschewed flat back fours for the flat-pack and 4 x 4 world of IKEA, in the less salubrious Cheshire district of Warrington.   The three of us piled into the Fiat Punto on a mission to acquire a bathroom cabinet, which you would think was easy enough- after all there are numerous pictures of these very items in the catalogue, and when you get to the showroom, you find the same fellows, hanging alluringly on the walls in many shapes and sizes.  It is simply a matter of picking your favourite cupboard, jotting down its number, and trotting off downstairs to pick one up from the warehouse.  What could be more simple?

Well, as it happens, most things. For a start, the warehouse is roughly half the size of Warrington itself, and is crowded on Sunday afternoons with the entire population of that town, as well as half the people of Liverpool, Manchester and Bolton.  Despite this seething, multi-accented mass of northern humanity, you are succesful in finding the numbered aisle and location you had jotted down upstairs- only to find it populated by, rather than the whole of your cabinet, just the walls.  It is only now that you realise just how IKEA are able to offer such an apparently vast array of furniture in so many colours and designs; there are really just a half-dozen very similar cabinets, which have been broken up into their constituent parts and spread around the county of Cheshire.  Except for the doors, which, just to keep things interesting, are stored in another warehouse somewhere in the next county.  The idea is that you embark on a fourteen-mile hike around Northern Britain, picking up the different bits of your cabinet as you go.  It is indeed remarkably straightforward, as long as you have diplomas in orienteering and advanced conflict resolution.  Oh, and a degree in Swedish.  The following is presented as an illustration of the challenges involved, and is an excerpt from our conversation (I think it was on aisle 33):

Aha! I've found it- yes- Morben'.

'But we need Norben, not Morben'

'Are you sure?  I could have sworn it was Morben!'

'No, I've written down Norben on here- look!'

'Are you sure it wasn't Schmorben?  because I saw some Schmorben back on aisle 26-'

'-For God's sake it was Norben.  N- O with the little dots on top- R- B- E without any funny dots on- N.  Norben.  Aisle 43, location 117, shelf B.  How hard can it fucking be- now you go over there while I mind the baby!'

The baby, by the way, enjoyed the whole experience immensely.  Well next time he can go on his own.  Eventually, with the aid of an incredibly helpful young man with a computer and a photographic memory (if you are planning an assault on the Himalayas any time soon and are short of a couple of Sherpas, I would recommend the warehouse staff at IKEA Warrington) we had our entire cabinet in hand, and  could go to the canteen for the traditional Scandinavian reward of a plate of meatballs.  They came all in one place, fully formed, and liberally coated in cranberry sauce.  I only wish I could say the same for the furniture.

By Tuesday night I had succesfully assembled the cabinet, and almost as succesfully digested the meatballs.  It was time for another footballing adventure- I was off to Stockport County FC, partly to take in their mouth-watering relegation struggle with Bournemouth, but mostly to gather material for an article I have been trying to get published by the national football magazine When Saturday Comes for two months; I needed to find articulate, representative supporters who could give me an insight into the fans' feelings towards the club hierarchy.  Once in the ground, I try sitting in the stand looking journalistic, and hoping someone nearby will launch unprompted into a two-hundred word editorial, but for some reason this does not happen- perhaps it is because I have forgotten my notebook. 

After the match, my 'research' takes me to a pub behind the ground, where I sip Robinsons bitter and try to engage the locals in conversation.  I am about to give up (the bloke next to me has told me he travels to every game from Hampshire so has 'no bloody idea' what the local supporters think about anything), when I decide to chance my arm with the garrulous fifty-something drunk in the County shirt who has spent the last half-an-hour unsuccesfully trying to chat up the barmaid.  My stuttered enquiry- 'so, you been following County for a few years, then?'- is rewarded with a passionate twenty-minute long discourse on the history of the club, majoring in the glorious cup run of 1962 but providing a detailed analysis of the lean mid-1970s years of fourth-division struggle.  It turns out the bloke is the unofficial historian of Stockport County FC and regularly appears in the local press.  I mention the revered name of When Saturday Comes and he hands me his card.  He even has a card!  'Anything you want to know about County- talk to me!', he shouts as I run for the last train.  Piece of piss, this investigative journalism, isn't it?

I spend Wednesday morning typing up my article, send it off to the kindly editor with the handsome greatcoat (a joke for one reader- twice!), and at half-past three, head off to the pub across the road.   I have got the day off, because tonight I am off to Manchester City's ground, to take in the match versus Newcastle United in the company of three thousand geordies, including a trio of exiles of my own acquaintance.  The excitement rather goes to our heads and by half-past-four we are on our third pint.  The match kicks off at 7:45 but we arrive ten minutes late, stuffed full of Guinness, and already singing The Blaydon Races at the top of our voices.  We enter the packed away end just as it rises en masse six feet off the ground and lets out an almighty roar- Shearer is peeling away in celebration, having scored a classic goal, driven in high from twenty yards out, that our drunken idiocy (OK, my drunken idiocy, I insisted we could make it from town in 10 minutes in a taxi) has caused us to miss by seconds.  Nothing of any interest at all happens for the rest of the match, but we amuse ourselves by trying to catch the attention of the Newcastle United goalkeeper, thirty yards away to our left, by shouting 'We love you Shay!' repeatedly at the top of our voices.  I told you we were over-excited.   

Our continuing euphoric state forces us to head back into town after the game and continue drinking furiously, eventually emerging from Fab Cafe, a downstairs disco with a dalek on the dancefloor, at some unholy hour.  As a result I spend Thursday morning answering telephone calls cheerfully with my face-down on my desk, escaping at lunchtime to fall fast asleep on a park bench near the canal.  This impromptu siesta works wonders, and in the afternoon I am transformed into a model of efficient customer service professionalism.  Well, I have stopped dribbling quite so much, at least.  On the stroke of five o'clock I stumble out of the office, intent on an early night.  Except it doesn't happen.  Instead I end up on the platform at Wilmslow station at one o'clock on Friday morning, wondering how I am going to get home. 

This strange turn of events originates at tea-time on Thursday.  I get home to find there is a message from my uncle, who is in town unannounced for one night only- how about a swift half?  Well, it is impolite not to, so we meet for last orders and enjoy a couple of pints- all very civilised in the mid-week style- before going our separate ways -Mark back to his town-centre hotel, me to catch the last train back to Levenshulme, which trundles in to the usual platform at the appointed hour of 23:33.  I am just thinking I should be in bed with luck by 23:45, when the ticket inspector comes along:

'tickets please'

'aye, single to Levenshulme mate'

'oh- we're not going to Levenshulme.  Was there no announcement?  This train is going non-stop all the way to Wilmslow'.

I panic.  Instead of going home for some much-needed sleep, I am being transported into the furthest depths of Cheshire in the middle of the night- and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.  I make a frantic call home with a borrowed mobile, and settle down to enjoy the journey, as the darkening southern suburbs of Manchester are replaced by leafy lanes and farmers fields.  Eventually a man comes and sits opposite.

'I understand you have the same problem as me.'

It turns out half the population of Levenshulme are marooned on the last train to deepest Cheshire.  Three of us share a taxi back to our lowly suburb, at a cost of £25.  We exchange stories of missing announcements, surly platform staff, and finally, post-it notes with our addresses on, resolving to claim the money back from the train people.  After all, one person getting on the wrong train is maybe their own fault- but three of us?  I refuse to believe that the average inhabitant of Manchester M19 is so stupid they can't tell inner city Manchester from leafiest Cheshire.  Ooh, that's good, I think I'll put it in my letter.

Friday is quite uneventful.  I manage not to have a nervous breakdown in Swedish, get kidnapped by three thousand geordies and forced to go drinking until dawn, or go by mistake to another part of the country in the middle of the night.  All in all Friday goes quite well.  But then Saturday comes, and with it, this month's edition of When Saturday Comes, the respected national football magazine.  And this is when I finally get my reward.

Not that my Stockport article is in.  No, that would be too much of a fairytale ending, even for this rollercoaster seven days.  Instead, just inside the back page, there is a regular feature entitled 'A season in brief'.  This month's season is 1983-84 in the old second division, the year Newcastle, inspired by a swashbuckling final playing season from Kevin Keegan, got promoted, along with Chelsea and Howard Wilkinson's Sheffield Wednesday.  As I know very well, because I wrote the article myself, four months ago, and have been rifling to the back page of WSC every month since to find out if they have finally put it in. 

And now it is there- it seems that my far-off teenage months of standing on the terraces at St James Park in NHS spectacles, and my more recent hours spent foraging through reference books in Sportspages, surreptitiously scribbling down interesting snippets about Pat Nevin, have borne fruit.  The kindly editor of When Saturday Comes, with his handsome greatcoat, shining silver watch protruding from his breast pocket, and handkerchief of finest woven silk (don't go away, I promise you, this is the very final time!) has seen fit to reward my labours with a gleaming five kroner piece. Or whatever the going rate is for a page of copy in a national football magazine. 

I should hope it is more than a third of the cost of a late-night taxi from Wilmslow, although probably not quite as much as an eight-hour drinking spree with Premiership match tickets, and a dance with a dalek, thrown in.  Somewhere in between would be nice- and would feel like ample reward for my hectic week.  But that is for another day.  Right now, I am just ridiculously happy to see my name in print.  I exclaim in delight, run through to the kitchen to tell Charlotte, and settle down to read my article, noting how it has been lovingly presented, complete with contemporary footage of Chrissy Waddle in his pomp.  And then I fall fast asleep.  Thank you for reading, and goodnight.

Comments

[John]

What do you mean nothing of any interest happens for the rest of the match. Have you forgotten the sublime skills of SWP and the lumbering failings of a certain
mr. Bramble which combined to create the well deserved penalty spot equaliser for the 'mighty Blues'
OH how quick you desert your other team.

[jonathan]

Well I was ashamed to admit it, but I missed the equalising penalty as well. I was still waiting for one of my exiled Geordie friends to finish his half-time pint.

Twenty eight quid for a ticket and we manage to miss both goals. Now that is just downright careless, isn't it? Oh well, at least we got to sing 'Shoes off if you love the toon' while waving our trainers in the air. It is not every day you get the chance.

You will be pleased to hear I had my City hat on again by Sunday lunchtime, however, just in time to follow your sterling efforts in wresting a point from Chelsea. Now if you can just find a way to overcome the West Bromwich Albions of this world, you could really be going places...

[abby]

As I write this, from a windowless shoebox office somewhere underneath the majestic shadow of the empire state building, where my blood has been boiling because of a rather nasty run-in with some soulless bureaucrats from human resources, I find that my heart once again springs with hope at the thought that the kindly editor has reached into his pocket for a shiny silvery coin and flung it your way.

I suppose that you have already spent a feverish amount of it on bread and cheese and then spent the afternoon in the park composing a three-volume treatise on philosophical consciousness or a pamphlet on the crimes of the future. I have heard that those when saturday comes articles are pretty far-reaching sometimes.

Anyway, congratulations on making it to the big time!

[jonathan]

Well I did have a funny experience the other day. One minute I was sitting on the 191 bus going past Uptown Girl in Longsight, the next I was emerging from a 16-hour hallucogenic slumber on a park bench down by the docks with a scrumpled-up piece of paper in my hand, covered in barely legible notes. I think it was either a thesis on the moral abyss at the heart of modern Western capitalism, or a tribute to the ball skills of Imre Varadi.

[jamie]

Hahaha - 'Zico'. My laptop is now sporting a fine spray of lukewarm coffee.

[Knut Hamsen]

I am astounded to think that you know of my existence and have written a joke specifically for my benefit, not once but three times in a single article. Sir, I must go now. I am hungry, but I cannot accept your left-over half sandwich.

[skif]

Enjoyed this - found my way here via silentwordsspeakloudest. Congrats on the WSC article - am a subscriber myself and look forward to the Stockport article.

It's certainly an ambition of mine to get something in WSC, but as yet I can't think of anything that is of interest to anyone other than myself, so fair play to you.

My blog covers footballing experiences so I have put a link to yours in my 'misc links' section, just so as you know.

[jonathan]

Welcome to Crinklybee Skif, and thanks for the link. Strangely enough I also found you via Ben at Silentwords, just the other day. I was reading about your trip to Altrincham and nearly put a comment... but then you got here first. I wonder if you were the bloke behind me on the terraces versus Lancaster wielding a notebook- it seems there are nearly as many groundhopping bloggers at that ground as there are 'regular' supporters....

And Mr Hamsun, well it goes without saying I am honoured to count among my readership Norway's foremost 19th century existentialist. We do not seem to have heard from you for a while, what with you being dead and all... perhaps you should consider taking in some non-league football and sharing your views with us via this here new-fangled medium? Apart from anything else, the half-time cup of bovril could be just the thing for that darned hunger of yours...

[Knut Hamsen]

I'm not really dead you know, just severely ostracized due to some unfortunate misunderstandings about politics. Nothing a little non-league football couldn't clear up, mind, with a bit of bovril.

[looby]

Very entertaining. And well done - fame at last!

[Grandad]

Congratulations on the WSC.Looking forward to a possible follow up covering the "gunfight at the OK corral" or was it "The Horseshoe bar" in Levenshulme where we spent a quiet Sunday afternoon watching the Sheffield United/West Ham game with the Irish lads.