Crinklybee

We Hate Blackpool Mechanics; When Punk Football Came To Stockport

It was lunchtime at Levenshulme station when I realised this first footballing Saturday following the death of George Best would be an extraordinary one indeed.  The silence on Platform Two was broken by an high-pitched voice chanting 'Red Army', and seconds later a child of nine or so emerged from the stairwell accompanied by his father.  Both wore football scarves- the traditional 'bar' style,with no lettering disfiguring the red, white, and black stripes- and an unmistakeable sense of Saturday afternoon purpose.  I sidled over to make enquiries as to the kick-off time, and in the process revealed this was my first visit of the season to watch 'this lot'.  The dad shot me a conspirational glance:

'Oh, you'll enjoy it', he said.  'You'll enjoy it, all right'.

The father-and-son matching scarves were in the colours of Manchester United, but the 13:03 train was not bound for the Theatre of Dreams but for a more modest venue: Stockport County's Edgeley Park, where FC United of Manchester- the club formed by militant United fans in protest at the hostile takeover of their club by the American tycoon and baseball club owner Malcolm Glazer-were due to play their 'away' fixture versus Cheadle Town in the Second Division of the North West Counties League.

The term 'away' is used here advisedly.  The fixture was originally scheduled to take place at Cheadle's tiny ground, but, in common with most of FC United's away fixtures this season, has had to be moved to a larger venue in order to accommodate the visitors' phenomenal support; in a league where average crowds struggle to reach triple figures, 'FC' are regularly arriving accompanied by upwards of 2000 travelling supporters.  Backwater footballing towns like Leek and Winsford have never seen the like; this afternoon it will be Stockport's turn to witness what is already being called 'Punk Football'.   

After a short train ride and a couple of refreshment stops I find myself at the turnstiles- or rather, about forty yards from them.  There are just five minutes till kick-off, but the queue of red-and-white clad humanity is stretched right around the residential block skirting Edgeley Park.  It's pay-on-the-turnstile, you see, just like the old days- except, it is already apparent, without so much of  that old-fashioned nastiness.  As three-o-clock approaches with the queue showing no great signs of shortening there is none of the anger, pushing and shoving, and sudden intervention of police horses veterans of the terrace era will associate with such moments- just a good-humoured impatience to get in and join the massed ranks inside.  Sure enough, our good humour is rewarded with good sense on the part of the Edgeley Park staff-as I am clinking through turnstile 19, a  supervisor appears to instruct the operator 'never mind tickets, son- just get seven quid of each of them and get them in!'

It's supposedly all-seater in the Cheadle End, but as I climb the steps all are standing to carry out the one minute of applause for George Best, and nobody sits down when it finishes.  I find a place high up behind the goal, just on the edge of a tightly-packed row.  A harassed steward in a day-glo jacket moves among us, parading up and down the slither of yellow concrete that remains of the walkway.  'Keep this area clear, now.  No standing on the pathway', he intones.  Nobody takes a blind bit of notice.  Eventually the young functionary dissappears, muttering darkly to himself- something about it never being like this when Sale Sharks are in town, I fondly imagine.  Down below us, a football match has sprung into action. 

On the terrace the play is being followed, of course- but without, at this early stage, the kick-by-kick intensity- all plaintive, individual shouts of 'come off it. linesman!', and 'Man On!'- that you will find at a league game. The truth is everybody is too busy singing to get worked up in an unseemly manner over the odd misplaced pass.  And make no mistake, the variety of songs on offer here more than makes up for the occasional lack of quality on the pitch.  Within twenty minutes I take part in more terrace ditties than in the last five seasons of sitting in sometimes libraryesque Premiership stands.    There are old time numbers- including, of course an anthem to the departed Best- and Old Trafford favourites of a more recent vintage, including one which, as a Newcastle fan, I pointedly don't join in with, as it extols the comparitive value for money offered by Ole Gunnar Solksjaer over one-time United transfer target Alan Shearer.  But the numbers belted out with most gusto of all are a whole raft of newly-composed protest songs targeting the hated Glazer regime.

It's not just the American tycoon who comes in for some stick, though.  Among ditties making unflattering comparison between the facial features of the new chairman and those of a garden gnome, the massed ranks of the Cheadle find time to make the surprising claim that FC's rather, er, uncomplicated centre-back is 'better than Rio', and also to show a healthy lack of respect for that one-time socialist firebrand turned corporate apologist Sir Alex Ferguson.  Notably, that pre-season jibe in which Fergie said fans may as well 'go watch Chelsea' as follow this upstart, no-hope rabble of a Fan's team is remembered with no little glee.

Oh, and the football: I had nearly forgotten. Cheadle, who earlier in the season came out of a cup-tie between the teams on the wrong end of a 5-1 hiding, score first through Lindon, but find themselves 2-1 behind by the break courtesy of strikes by Torpey and Carden.  They keep plugging away, though, and to the obvious astonishment of their fifty-strong support huddled together for warmth in the main stand, find themselves 3-2 up with just five minutes remaining- Brain and Martin having upended the scoreboard with a well-worked strike apiece.  It seems this will be the end of matters- until the visitors are awarded a late, and slightly contentious, penalty. 

The outstanding FC performer of the day, a subistute winger named Paterson, steps forward to take- a trifle too confidently for my liking. As he waits for the protests of the Cheadle players to subside, the fellow is actually playing keepy-uppy with the ball on the penalty spot.  I seem to recall the young Ryan Giggs putting on a similar exhibition prior to missing a vital shoot-out kick against Southampton in the cup, and express fears of a repeat.  'Oh, this guy's more like Cantona', says the bloke behind me.  'Never misses.'  Sure enough, he does- smashing the twelve-yarder off the inside of the post and back into play. 

Surely now, it seems FC are set for only their second defeat of this barnstorming first season- but we are not finished yet.  As the first signs of anxiety start to creep across the away end (and not before time, we are in the ninety-third minute now) a far-post cross is nodded exultantly home by Chadwick (no, not that one) triggering scenes of mass jubilation; it may be the North Western Counties League in 2005 but it could be a balmy, balmy summer's night in Barcelona six years ago for all these lot seem to care. As we move towards the exits a song goes up that seems to sum it all up (you will recognise the tune):

'We Hate Blackpool Mechanics, we Hate Cheadle Town Too (and Flixton). We Hate Manchester City, but United We Love You'.

And it really does seem, as we stream back out into the tightly-packed Edgeley sidestreets, that FC United of Manchester is beginning to mean as much to these displaced Stretford Enders as the original footballing love of their lives ever did.  This impression is confirmed afterwards in the Armoury (I've had to go for a post-match pint just to calm down), when I get talking to a couple of them.  Andy from Heaton Moor is a Stockport fan who had been dragged along by his mate Tim from Didsbury, a Old Trafford  season-ticket holder of fifteen years's standing.  Tim says he won't buy official United merchandise- or pay for the likes of MUTV- any more, and the only thing stopping him giving up the season ticket altogether is 'the emotional connection'.  Other fans- especially those who never had season tickets to start with- have deserted Old Trafford altogther in favour of following the 'Fans' Team'.

And don't think it's all down to Glazer, either- the gnome-lookalike's takeover may have been the catalyst for the FC phenomenon, but Tim is typical when he talks of tickets at £50 a shot to get into Stamford Bridge, and the exhorbitant contract demands of the errant Ferdinand as issues which first caused him to question a lifetime of unswerving loyalty to the Old Trafford cause.  There is more here than meets the eye.

Myself, I have no troublesome matters of historical allegiance to wrestle with- at least until my team, Newcastle United, forms a Punk Football Fan's Club to rival this one in ambition.  Today, I'm just a football fan who came for a day out and found himself transported to some alternative universe- a sort of joyful, hooligan-free version of the 1980s, before seats, Sky and sponsor-friendly sanitisation started to suck the last remaining drops of fun from the Saturday afternoon footballing experience. 

Remember fun?  Something tells me I may be back for more of it- and that regardless of the outcome of the Old Trafford power-struggle, so will thousands of disenfranchised football supporters like me.  FC United of Manchester play home games at Bury's Gigg Lane every fortnight, and on alternate Saturdays, travel to footballing outposts the length and breadth of the North-West and Midlands.  People of Flixton, Blackpool, or Glossop, be prepared: punk football- and some rather uncomplimentary songs about Rio Ferdinand- are coming your way soon.

30 Songs- an Indiepop Odyssey: songs 13-15

13        Fat Tulips               Its So True

Nottingham’s Fat Tulips were a sort of poor man’s Talulah Gosh, which is to say, of course, that they were very fantastic indeed.  This single (which I think I sent off for from a fanzine) came wrapped in a DIY gatefold cover featuring a cartoon of a quintessential indiepop girl complete with floral dress and lollipop, and a mini-fanzine written by the lead singer, in which she apologised for the record ‘not quite coming out as good as we thought it would’.  I wonder if she went on to a succesful career in marketing?   

14 Another Sunny Day         I'm in Love With A Girl Who Doesn't Know I Exist

Another Sunny Day consisted, apparently, of one of the fellows out of the Field Mice sitting in a flat in Bristol with a set of instruments and a primitive recording machine, churning out exquisitely maudlin odes to unrequited love.  This one is just one and a half minutes long but they are the mst perfect ninety seconds of unadulterated tweeness you could hear in a long days walk in your Doc Martens.  I used to alternate this one with Brighter back in the day, during a time when I was (as befitted my status as a Sarah Records devotee; it was a badge of honour, like your floppy fringe and possibly stolen Marks and Spencers cardigan) In Love With A Girl Who Didn't Know I Existed.  Some years later I heard it again, rather surprisingly, on Radio Nacional de Espana, where it was introduced, featuring an instructive use of the present subjunctive tense, as Estoy Enomarado de una Chica que no sabe que yo existe, by Otro Dia Ensolelado.  They know their indiepop in Madrid, you know.

15 Wedding Present     Nobody's Twisting Your Arm

Did I ever tell you about the time me and a mate spent an hour talking to David Gedge's very charming girlfriend at a gig in Barcelona, until the man himself appeared from nowhere and scowled at us in a most unindiepop fashion until we skulked away into the darkness?  Oh, I suppose I probably did- it is to date my only face-to-face meeting with any pop music luminary.  I always expected Gedge to write about it, but maybe he doesn't remember the incident with quite such clarity.  I don't remember the gig all that well, but I do remember our ill-fated and drunken attempts to get home afterwards to my mate's house somewhere in the Catalunya countryside.  We walked around Barcelona in circles for three hours, then slept on a park bench until the Metros started running again at dawn.  Happy days.

The Things I do for you (part 2)

On the wall in me mam and dad's living room there is a framed photograph of me and my sister (and regular commenter on these pages) Abby, taken when I was three years old and Abby was a mere baby of six months or so. We are sitting side-by-side in our Sunday best and smiling into the camera, the very picture of angelic 1970s innocence.

It was only recently that we found out the apparently straightforward portrait had taken some time to achieve; my baby sister was too young to sit up on her own so it was my job to hold her up from behind- but I, in turn, was too young to understand this simple instruction- so would keep letting go at exactly the wrong moment.  Apparently somewhere on a studio floor in Kendal, Cumbria, there is a film and a half-worth of shots showing my beatific infant features with a prone, screaming baby somewhere in the background.  The whole job was made even more complicated by the fact that the 'professional' hired to do this family portrait- a bloke me dad had met down the pub- had arrived for the evening rendezvous just a little worse for wear, meaning that on the rare occasions I managed to hold Abby still for long enough, he still got an out-of-focus shot of Bruce Forsyth holding forth on our black-and-white telly, while a standard lamp loomed menacingly in the middle distance.

Anyway.  I was reminded of these bygone scenes of domestic bliss this very lunchtime, which I spent by the Rochdale canal trying to take the latest set of pictures for our ongoing indiepop odyssey.  In place of the three-year-old me we had a Fat Tulips record, which was struggling against the stiff breeze to hold up straight its younger sibling- an early, and rather flimsy, Wedding Present single.  Instead of a drunken photographer we had our friend the vintage digital camera, which on the rare occasions the wind stopped for three seconds would shut itself down, or delay shooting for several agonising seconds.

So- I am typing this with frozen fingers in the few seconds left before the afternoon shift, and we have several lovely shots in the camera of some bridges from the industrial revolution obscured by tumbling, distressed indiepop records, or by no indiepop records at all.  However- just like the framed shot on me mam and dad's living room wall- there were three pictures- one for each of this week's singles- that came out just right.  They will appear on these pages tonight, along with the usual paragraph describing each record and its place in my indiepop life story.  I know, it's very exciting indeed!

Until then, then.  Just three hours to the weekend (unless you are in America in which case  understand it has started already)- hurrah!

30 Songs- An Indiepop Odyssey; songs 10 to 12

(note: the records themselves are this week pictured in a series of arty poses captured when they came with me on a trip to work this morning.  Click on the images to see larger versions of their adventures in Levenshulme train station)

10        Brighter                        Does Love Last Forever?

 

Well does it?  Brighter were the quintessential Sarah records act,  in that they were shambolic, shimmering, ephemeral, eternally lovelorn and probably recorded their throwaway jinglyjangly songs about unrequited bedsit passion in a damp attic using borrowed guitars which they didn’t really know how to play.  I certainly hope so.  Anyway this is the third of three songs on their one-and-only (as far as I know) 7-inch release and for a good few months in Wolverhampton I had to stick it on the turntable as soon as I woke up.  I would play it while drawing furiously on the first of the day’s forty Silk Cuts, surveying the French New Wave cinema portraits on my wall, and generally considering myself some kind of Black Country Indie Pop Jean Luc Belmondo.

11        Rythym Sisters              American Boys

Who the hell were the Rythym Sisters?  Where did they come from and what became of them after they produced this maniacally catchy ditty (it’s like something an indie-pop Bananarama might have come up with) about those pesky American Boys, who apparently fancy themselves as Elvis Presley, and ‘think that they are so damn sexy’?  Something tells me that the Rythym Sisters’ only experience of American Boys was watching Starsky and Hutch in their Leeds bedsit, but that doesn’t stop them being damn wonderful, whoever they were.

12        Darling Buds                Its All Up to You

The Darling Buds were briefly everyone’s favourite band in 1988, until they signed for a major record label and became persona non grata in indiepop circles.  Time has treated their seemingly throwaway slices of furious-paced pop more kindly, even if I did once come across their entire back catalogue in the bargain bin outside of an Oxfam shop in Keswick.  This seems cruel; I would rather dwell on my favourite Darling Buds memory, which is of stumbling out of their gig at the Newcastle Riverside and, disorientated by the preceding jangly onslaught (and several cans of Red Stripe) becoming hopelessly lost in the labrynthine passageways of the Swan House roundabout.  If I had not been rescued by a fellow concert-goer and pointed back in the direction of the number 12 bus-stop at Eldon Square, I might have been still there now. 

The Things I do for you...

This morning I took some old seven-inch singles out to join me on my trip to work and, much to the amusement of the assembled commuters, captured them in various arty poses on the platform at Levenshulme train station.  These will feature in the fourth part of our ongoing indiepop odyssey (here are the first three parts), just as soon as I can get home, connect my ancient digital camera to the computer, and give a good hefty pull on the starting handle.

But first I've got to do a day's work.  So if you've come looking for your weekly dose of indiepop please come back after teatime.  In the meantime, you could do a lot worse than heading just down below to have a look at the second and concluding part of my recent adventures in non-league football, which has been described by no less eminent an authority than the FA Qualified referee Looby as 'fantastic stuff'.

Right then. Got to go- back tonight...

Saturday Afternoon Safari- Part 2

The goalkeeper's mother-in-law was right- it really is only a five-minute walk from the Star boozer to the HQ of Glossop North End FC, who I have travelled from the suburbs of Manchester to watch this afternoon in action against Romulus (whoever they may turn out to be) in the First Round Proper of the FA Vase.  However I still have time to bump into another acquaintance of the home team's playing staff.  Ambling up Surrey Street I ask final directions of a young teenage boy who has just emerged from a terraced house followed by a fierce-looking pit bull terrier.  'Oh, are they at home this afternoon?', he replies.  'My brother might be playing.  Hey, Brian!'.  These last two words are accompanied by a stern point of the forefinger towards the inside of the house, in response to which the dog whimpers in disappointment before turning on its heels.  The boy slams the door shut behind it and follows me up Surrey Street to the turnstiles.  It is five minutes to three- we should be just in time for kick-off.    

At first sight it looks as though we could have done with bringing Brian the Pit Bull Terrier with us, if only in order to swell the crowd to that staple if cliched attendance figure of non-league football, two men and a dog.  The railings around the touchline are all but deserted, and on the far side of the pitch, prospective FA Vase spectators are comfortably outnumbered by grazing sheep.  Just as I am preparing mysef for a long, windswept and lonely afternoon on the crumbling terraces, a peel of laughter in the middle distance alerts me to the whereabouts of the crowd- they are all still in the club bar, soaking up the last few moments of Chelsea versus Arsenal on Sky TV- and maybe one last pint of best bitter- before braving the unseasonal chill outside.

In the Gents I get talking to a man in his sixties whose Chelsea baseball cap reveals he has more excuse than most to stay with the televised action until the last possible moment.  In the twenty seconds it takes us to reach the side of the pitch I am provided with a cheerful rundown of this elderly supporter's recent medical history ('They reckon it's an ulcer- right on the lining of me stomach!') as well as an assertion as to his true loyalties.  'Glossop's my team,', he announces, the accent veering alarmingly between Chas n Dave and Little 'n' Large.  'Glossop through and through, mate!'.

We have arrived pitchside just in time to see the eleven men of North End- clad Chelsea-style in all-blue- emerging from the Portakabins serving as changing facilities.  I take a place on the covered terracing just one-side of half-way, on the edge of a vocal group made up of the displaced Chelsea fan and a half-dozen of his fellow die-hards, who, it is immediately apparent, have all been coming for years and enjoy a status here akin to that of the feared Ultra Sur of Real Madrid.  Together they form a similarly intimidating sight for the away support- or at least they would if there was any away support, and if they weren't all old enough to be the Ultra Sur's grandads.  As it is, my presence brings the average age of the North End Bovver Boys down to about fifty-eight.

As I am completing this mental calculation I realise the match is underway.  The action on the pitch is fast and furious but in true non-league fashion the supporters are cheerfully ignoring the football in favour of taking every opportunity to heap loud abuse on the match officials.  In the first fifteen minutes the linesman nearest to us- a young, timid-looking great beanpole of a man who looks like he would rather be at home washing his car- has given four throw-ins, flagged for offside twice, and been called 'a useless lanky bastard' on approximately sixteen occasions. 

While near-anarchy reigns on the terraces, the match settles into a comfortably familiar pattern of aimless helter-skelter scurrying.  And then, disconcertingly, a football match breaks out.  Glossop win a penalty which is converted with aplomb by a young blond centre-forward.  'He's our darling, that one!', the Chelsea fan advises me- a comment which is notable for being the first time all day a local has referred to one of the players without claiming some close family connection.   Just as I am reeling from this shock, Romulus go up the other end and score- twice.  The second is actually scored for them by a Glossop defender, who somehow contrives to meet an away corner with the side of his head and send it ricocheting into the top of the net.  'Hellfire, Blues!, shouts one of the aged Ultras, amid an outbreak of mumbling.  Discontent is short-lived, however.  The pacy blond darling of the side terracing is clear again, and plants a firm finish under the advancing Romulus goalie.  Two-two at half-time then, which means I have already had one goal for each pound of my turnstile admission.  Along with what looks like the entire crowd (with the possible exception of Brian the Pit Bull's young owner) I retire to the club bar to celebrate this happy turn of events.

The second half passes in a haze of further goals, blustery rain and Embassy Regal fumes.  Glossop have the upper hand and lead 6-2 with ten minutes to go.  The denizens of the side terrace are at pains to let me know they don't always get it so good.  'You should have been here last Tuesday night mate', one of them shouts across.  'Lost three-one to Maine Road in driving sleet- bloody diabolical, they were!'.  I demur gracefully, happy to accept that I will need at least thirty years more service to the all-blue cause before hoping to be accepted as a true fanatic.  The die-hard in the Chelsea hat sounds like he has been coming for nearly that long, and until last week I imagine he was viewed by the true-born locals as some kind of dangerous dilettante.

Back on the pitch the visitors Romulus, roared on by their impressive away support of absolutely nobody at all (they're from the outskirts of Sutton Coldfield, which I suppose is some excuse), rouse themselves for the last ten minutes of play and launch a spirited comeback which is only curtailed by the referee's final whistle ('and about bloody time too, you daft useless old bugger!') with the home team hanging on perilously to a 6-4 winning margin.  North End are safely through to the second round- sorry, the second round proper, whatever that means- of the FA Vase. 

Six-four, though!  The meter has stopped at just forty pence a goal, so I am duty-bound to celebrate with one last pint back at The Star.  The goalkeeper's mother-in-law is still behind the bar.  'How did he get on?', she asks.  'Well' I start, 'the bad news is he let in four.  Do you want the good news?'  I take a bag of peanuts for good measure and settle down to give any other interested parties a full and unbiased account of an enjoyable afternoon spent in the grip of that frighteningly virulent malady, FA Vase fever.  By the time I have finished I quite fancy coming back for another dose in a few weeks' time.  Hell, they already know my face in The Star; in just a few short decades I could be accepted as one of the wizened Ultras of the side terracing.  Glossop through and through, indeed.

30 Songs: an indiepop odyssey. Songs 7-9

What's this all about then?  See here for explanation and songs one to three, and here for songs four to six.  Oh and by the way this whole thing is also being serialised also at this fine music blog (which contains much more up-to-the-minute stuff as well).  Right then, without any further ado, this week's three...

7            Everthing But The Girl             These Early Days

They wore sensible cardigans and sang about bringing up babies- what could be less rock and roll than these two middle-aged-before-their-time musos with the short back and side haircuts?  On the other hand they were very finely-crafted tunes, and even better- produced cardigans.  I ended up falling slightly for the music, but wholesale for the attire- every term I would go into Wolverhampton Marks and Spencers and spend forty pounds of my grant on something designed to be worn by my grandad.  Hell, if I’d asked him he probably had a few he could have lent me.  Everything But the Girl have a lot to answer for.

8            Madness                     Waiting for the Ghost Train

You’d better get used to obscure Madness tracks cos there’s going to be a few of them.  This one was their very last single before they broke up- only to launch the first in their interminable series of nostalgia-fuelled comebacks.  I still think it is one of their very best, though.  Apparently Suggs’ opaque lyrics concern politics in Apartheid South Africa, but if you believe that then you probably think Baggy Trousers is a stinging critique of Fidel Castro’s Cuba.  Really I think it is about trains. 

9          Voice Of The Beehive                        I say Nothing

Some remnants of the Madness rythym section (this is before the start of the interminable series of nostalgia-fuelled comebacks) got together with a pair of kooky American girls they had met at a bus-stop, or somewhere, and the result of this happy pop union was Voice of the Beehive.  They were like Blondie only with better tunes and if there was any justice in the world would have been just as famous, or at least somewhat more well-known than Katrina and the Waves.  As it was ‘The Beehive’ had to settle for being swooned over by a handful of discerning devotees.  I was one of them and spent six months in Valencia playing a cassette of their one and only hit album on a tiny tape recorder which was constanty in danger of melting in the forty-degree heat.  Come to think of it, I think it eventually did.

Songs ten to twelve to follow this time next week (by which I mean Friday)... if anyone would like a tape of all thirty, just let me know.  It's first come first served till I run out of blank ones....

Saturday Afternoon Safari

For the seasoned football supporter, the concourse of a mainline train station late on Saturday morning holds much the same fascination as the African savannah must do for a trained naturalist at the height of the migration season.   This thought comes to me as, bringing a plastic pint of lager to my lips with the same practiced movement as David Attenborough employs to focus his field binoculars, I peer out over the balcony of the Yates Wine Lodge at Manchester Piccadilly and take in the colourful array of 'wildlife' on the move. 

Down in front of the departure board, for example, that herd of creatures with unmistakeable blue-and-white quartered torsoes must be Bristol Rovers supporters on their way north to Preston.  And in the queue at Costa Coffee, a flash of red alerts me to what looks like a mating pair of exiled Liverpool fans, taking a short rest before the last short leg of their flight to Anfield for the fixture versus Crystal Palace.  And that lone red-and-white striped beast chomping meditatively on a cornish pastie at the entrance to WH Smiths?  That's a tricky one- but a quick perusal of the Daily Mirror fixture guide rules out Sunderland, who make the short trip south to Middlesbrough this afternoon, and places the smart money on this being an example of a rarer species, an aficionado of Lincoln City, caught half-way into the arduous journey West to Blackpool.

I could stand here all afternoon indulging in this Saturday afternoon safari, but I've got a train to catch.  Not for me, mind you, the bright lights of the Premiership, or even the dimly-lit backstreets of League Division 2.  I am taking a trip to the real grass-roots of the game this afternoon- I'm off to Glossop, a market town just across the Derbyshire border, to watch the town's North End FC take on Romulus (whoever they may turn out to be) in the First Round Proper of the FA Vase.

This short trip- just half-a-dozen local stops out of Piccadilly-hadn't been my intention at all twenty-four hours earlier.  All week I have been telling anyone who would listen that I am off to Carlisle to watch my 'second' league team Stockport County.  But a combination of the early morning start and the extortionate train fare has caused me to reconsider, and after a brief flirtation with the heady allure of Hyde United against Redditch in the Nationwide Conference, the promise of knockout football a couple of stations further East has won the day.  I board the 13:02 for Hadfield positively brimming with that little-reported ailment, FA Vase fever.

Arriving at my destination with an hour and a half to go to kick-off, I decamp across the road to The Star, which I recall from a visit a decade ago to be a rare friendly boozer in a town, despite its comparative prosperity, notorious for drinking dens that wouldn't be out of place in the Wild West.  The cheery landlady, who seems only a little surprised that anyone would be interested enough in the fortunes of Glossop North End to travel from the suburbs of Manchester to watch them in a cup-tie, remarks in passing that her son-in-law will probably be in goal for the home team this afternoon.  Now that's something you won't get in the Premiership.

There is plenty of time for a pint or two (the goalkeeper's mother-in-law has assured me that the distance from the town centre to its 'north end' can be measured in yards, not miles) so I settle into a quiet corner of the bar with the Glossop Chronicle.  It has been a busy week out here, apparently.  The shocking news of a toaster catching fire at the hospital (loss to life was averted when an alert canteen assistant pounced with a damp tea-towel) has been relegated to page two by the startling discovery of an escaped pet boa constrictor in the grounds of the secondary school.   This momentous development is given the in-depth treatment one would expect from a serious publication such as the Glossop Chronicle; there are interviews with the children who discovered the errant (but harmless) snake; their teacher; the relieved pet-owners; and finally, with the snake itself, who reveals it was attempting to make a break from the tedium of small-town life and start a new life in Droylsden.

For a moment I wonder whether the excitement of Glossop might prove too much for a simple Manchester lad like myself.  But no, I have a football match to go to- and so, fortified by a further pint of best bitter, I step out of The Star and begin the short journey to Surrey Street, home of Glossop North End FC.

TO BE CONTINUED.....

Things You Only Know When You Have A Baby. Number one: There are sixty-seven different types of stairgate available, but none are the right size to fit on your stairs

I say sixty-seven, but it might have been forty-five, or ninety-three.  There were certainly a dizzying array, however, lined up on a rack in Stockport's giant Toys R Us.  There were wooden stairgates and metal stairgates.  Stairgates with double-hinges and three slideable sections.  Stairgates with European-approved safety catches and a smooth-action side-handle for extra accessibility.  Stairgates with extra-long reinforced slats and a revolutionary release mechanism based on technology developed by NASA.  Stairgates.   Feeling like Billy Connolly the time when he went into Boots the Opticians and was faced with seventeen rows of shampoo ('jojoba- what the fuck is jojoba?)  I took a deep breath and got the measurements out of my top pocket.

Forty minutes- and several conversations with harassed shopworkers who were just about as confused as us- later we had narrowed down the choice to the only two that could be adjusted to fit our apparently funny-sized staircase (well it always looked normal to us but you live and learn).  There was an 'Easy-to-Assemble' wooden one on the one hand, and on the other, a Heath-Robinsonesqe contraption supplied in kit form comprising seventeen constituent parts which were to be attached together using an accompanying bag of nuts, bolts, miniature flanges, and, I don't know, carburettors- the 'kit' looked like someone had taken a small hatchback car, smashed it up with a sledgehammer, and stuffed the resultant smithereens into an attractive box. 

Easy-to-Assemble or Degree in Mechanical Engineering Level of Complexitiy?  Well given my less than blemish-free track record in the realm of DIY (my greatest achievement was the overhead indoor bikerack, which served its purpose for an impressive two months before inexplicably giving way and sending a heavy mountain bike toppling from the heavens and rather painfully off the side of my head) this would normally be something of a no-brainer.  However the former option was Easy-to-Assemble for a reason- instead of complicated nuts and bolts the thing was to be attached to the sides of your stairs by kind of sucker things attached to- get this- a horizontal bar set at ankle level across the width of the stair.  So you would open your stairgate, baby in arms, and stride confidently forward only to stumble over the trip-bar with calamatous and in no-way amusing consequences. 

Still, Easy-to-Assemble, eh?  Even death-traps disguised as safety devices have their charms for the committed DIY-phobe.  Fortunately for young Frankie's chances of making it to his second-birthday in one piece, his mother is made of sterner stuff.  Ten minutes later we were levering the Heath-Robinsonesque thing into the back of the Fiat Punto and heading back to Levenshulme, intent on having the whole contraption in place in time for the baby getting up and setting out on his daily full frontal assault on our fixtures, fitting and furniture the very following morning.

That was three months ago, and the thing (oh you will never guess) is still not attached properly.  Well one side of it is- the hinges attaching the gate to the stairgate are exquisitely realised and would be the envy of TVs Handy Andy himself.  It is the other side- the all-important release lock that makes the difference between a gate and just some lumps of metal hanging forlornly from your bannister- that have proved more of a challenge.  Presently the only thing stopping the 'gate' swinging open into the hall-way leaving Frankie a free run at the steep wooden Victorian staircase is... the cloth belt from Charlotte's dressing gown, tied at one end to the corner of the abominable contraption and on the other to the fourth banister-post up the stairs, just high enough- for now- to evade young Frankie's ever-curious grasp.

A sad state of affairs.  But it's not all my fault, honest.  You see, when I first opened the box, full of enthusiasm and only a week (OK maybe three weeks) after that fateful afternoon in Toys R Us I found upon laying out the bag of nuts and bolts that there was tiny but irreplaceable screw missing.  Going back to the shop to change it (and then recovering from the ordeal of having to visit Toys R Us not once but twice in the same lifetime) added another three weeks to the job.  And then there is the hideously brittle plaster on our hall walls (was this what the Estate Agents meant by 'numerous original characterful features').  And then there was the supposedly super-strength 'no nails' adhesive which appeared to have been made by a crack team of junior school children armed with self-raising flour and lukewarm tapwater.  And then there was... oh OK I admit it, my rather less than perfect command of a screwdriver, as evidenced by the mountain-bike on the head incident of 2002.  Whatever.  The fact is we have a safety-gate held flimsily closed by a piece of cloth, and several unsightly holes gouged clumsily out of the walls of our house.

Still, at least young Frank has emerged unscathed from this catalogue of misadventure, so far.  There was a scary moment earlier in the project when I walked out of the living room to find him swinging from the bottom of the gate rather like that silent-movie clip of the guy hanging from the hands of Big Ben as it struck Ten o'clock.  Still that was in the days before our innovative use of Charlotte's dressing gown, which has made everything safe and sound- at least until Frankie is big enough to untie the knot, at which time, I suppose he will also be big enough to walk up the stairs.

For that matter it won't be long before we can hand Frankie a screwdriver and leave him to finish the job himself.  Come to think of it there's a few shelves need putting up and all.  I'd better get that boy of ours a toy Black and Decker tool-box quick, before he starts filling his head with la-di-dah books like his dad and learns no practical skills whatsoever.  Hell, there's enough damn wordsmiths in this family of ours already- time we started raising ourselves a Handy Andy or two, and got our ramshackle old houses in order.  Now where's that old bike rack got to?

30 Songs- an indiepop odyssey- songs four to six

So now you see why I never promise you all new content on a certain date- real life intervenes (in the shape of an energy-sapping midweek trip to a meeting down South, I will spare you the details) and I just don't have time to even to copy and paste, never mind go out into the front garden during the hours of daylight to take pictures of old seven-inch vinyl singles with my vintage digital camera that doesn't really work all that well either inside or when it's not sunny.  Still, better late than never, eh?  And I promise- promise!- that songs seven till nine of this trawl through one man's halcyon indiepop youth will follow next Friday- hot on the heels of what is coming up right now.  Without any further ado, then, here are songs four to six ....

Song 4            Fuzzbox                      What’s The Point?

I say Fuzzbox, but of course this quintet of violent-haired Brummie lasses really called themselves We’ve Got a Fuzzbox And We’re Going To Use It, and for a few short months in 1987 it seemed their curiously engaging brand of electro pop, the shambolicness of whose execution made early Talulah Gosh look like the Birmingham Symphony, was about to take over the world.  Tragically good sense prevailed and the Fuzzbox girls went back to playing on their bontempi organs and scrawling their schoolgirl-crush lyrics in marker pen on West Midlands bus-shelters.  A sad loss.

Song 5            Colourfield                   Thinking of You

Terry Hall left the chart-busting Specials, dissappeared off the face of the earth for a couple of years, then reappeared on Saturday Superstore with a new female vocalist (who he had met a bus-stop or something) and this mournful, plinkety-plonk offering, the sort which gets into your head and refuses to leave for twenty years.  Treat this apparently throwaway melody with the respect it deserves!

Song 6            Specials                       Friday Night Saturday Morning

  ‘I hope the chip shop isn’t closed, because their pies are really nice’.  Terry Hall (for it is that man again) is evoking the end of a typical weekend night out in his native Coventry- but it could have been Liverpool, Nottingham, or Newcastle in the early 80s, as unemployment soared and a nation’s dissaffected youth sought solace in drinking, brawling, and late night steak and kidney puddings.  Friday Night Saturday Morning was the B-side of the more celebrated Specials ‘State of the Nation’ address, the number one hit Ghost-town.  The B side, I say!  These boys were so talented they had songs like this to throw away, apparently.