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.

Comments

[Iain]

40p a goal sounds like pretty good value to me - almost makes me long to see some FA Vase excitement myself. Almost ;-)

[looby]

Fantastic stuff Jonathan. I followed those two sections rivetted. You perfectly captured the atmosphere of non-league football - the family connections, the small town atmosphere, the grim physical conditions and the stadium pundits' comments. And as a 9st weakling with the FA's Preliminary Referees' Certificate myself, how I empathise with the "lanky bastard" linesman :)

[guile]

nice, cozy place you got here :)..

[jonathan]

Thank you Guile. That's a word I meant to use somewhere in my match report to describe the creative second-half probings of the Glossop midfield, but it seems to have gotten lost in the Embassy Regal fumes.

And thank you very much, Looby- your comment made my day! And a qualified referee, eh, as well as an expert on Eurovision... you truly are a man of many parts...