Atherton LR 0 Cammell Laird 9

10may06
North West Counties League Division One
Crilly Park, Atherton
att. 102

It is times like these you have to work hard to avoid the temptation of following the vidi-printer blueprint and dust off the old parentheses. I know there’s plenty of completists out there though, that will be devastated and probably also unsatisfied with my use of the popular abbreviation of the home side. For those people,

Atherton Laburnum Rovers 0 Cammell Laird 9 (Nine)

Hope that settles you down. Moving on, I was reading the other day a thing about the one-sided games that occurred in the 1938 World Cup. Apparently one French reporter remarked after Sweden’s 8-0 mauling of Cuba, “Up to five goals is journalism. After that, its statistics.” Rest assured though, the lies and damned lies you’ve come to expect won’t be squeezed out but also be warned, this is going to be a long ‘un.

With most other leagues all tucked up in hollowed-out trees for summer hibernation, the North West Counties league still rocks along but, where one might have hoped for a gallop to the finish, FA restructuring announcements meant the removals business was tied up well ahead of time. It was confirmed that due to the league changes at Step 4 of the Pyramid, three clubs would be able to ascend from the NWCL and, once Nantwich Town had followed up their Vase win with only a draw two days later at Salford City, it became clear that Alsager, Skelmersdale and Cammell Laird would be those ascending, the latter two fighting it out for the title, Lairds a point behind with three games in hand, one of which being their season finale against relegated Stone Dominoes, gubbed 10-0 by Lairds in their prior fixture. Lairds will want the league won by then, and I imagine the Dominoes would favour that scenario too.

For Stone, and fellow descenders Formby, the door handle really has hit them in the arse on the way out, as a consequence of their demotion is that they will criss-cross on the NWCL’s escalators with the upwardly mobile FC United of Manchester. Not only relegation to cope with then, but also the lack of the unprecedented pay-day that North West Counties Divison Two sides have enjoyed this season courtesy FCUM’s massive, nose-thumbing support. With that in mind, and the shiny Vase in the trophy cabinet, you can imagine that Nantwich have coped better than might usually be expected when missing out on a promotion.

Atherton LR will also be breathing a huge sigh of relief, but in this case it is mainly that there were two teams even worse than them this term, considering their Runcorn-like upheaval, which has seen 61 players appearing in the yellow and blue, several heavy drubbings and 4 managerial changes (the original coaching team resigning because they felt that “not enough was being done behind the scenes of the club regarding the state of the pitch and fundraising towards the budget for players for next season”). Even more reason then to rub their hands with Fagin-esque glee at the prospect of the forthcoming luchre. The Manchester boys are good for a £12 advance too, as 3 fully kitted up FCUM followers turn up at the gate today, “checking out the competition for next year”. Considering Lairds will be off the radar by then, their scout report may well have taken the form of an old 78 of ‘The Laughing Policeman’.

Money is always an issue down in non-league though, and Atherton not only have to cope with nearby Wigan and Bolton, but also Atherton Collieries, who operate just about a mile away, and in the same division, effectively splitting the local football vote. The derby games would sugar that pill, if anyone bothered to turn up for them. A mere 76 checked in for the Easter Monday set-to, only 19 higher than their season average. They end the season today with their best attendance of the campaign. By one. I have my uses, y’see.

I am rather glad I did chose to come here too, rather than opting for the night in watching Middlesbrough fall at the last UEFA Cup hurdle. Fully justified by them brackets, I’d say, but how to sum up such a game? Well it’s not easy, but quite simply Lairds played like a team trying to guarantee their third successive league championship, and not like one resting on the laurels of a third succesive promotion, looking to make hay both while the sun shone and while it set.

Now Laburnum Rovers originally began as a boys club that grew eventually to County League level, where the geographic prefix was attached, since when they have peaked with an FA Vase semi-final appearance and a couple of Northern Premier League seasons in the nineties. This season, their 50th as a club, appears to have been like a regression, many of the players responding to Lairds graceful but aggressive onslaught in a manner akin to tugging on their own scrotums for comfort, their heads never dropping but often looking around with hastily dying excitement as though left behind in fairground car park by an absent minded auntie.

We impatient punters have to wait a whole eight minutes for our first goal. A corner floated in is watched lazily by the defenders, and by the Laird forwards, the ball hitting Lee Atherton and plonking in. Two minutes later, a brilliant dummy sets Ronnie Morgan free and, after playing a fortuitous one-two off a defender, he floats a sublime chip that dips in the slight gap between the keeper’s paw and the bar.

After 18 minutes it is three, Sakhi Idder has only to head the ball back about six feet, but manages only three, Anthony Hargreaves nipping in to flick the ball past the keeper, James McCoy making sure from two yards out. Behind the shed end, the Wigan to Manchester trains pass at a considered pace, as though rubbernecking Atherton’s drink-driving advert of a performance. A fourth goal, and a second for McCoy, follows on 33 minutes.

Four minutes prior to half time, Eddie Jebb twists, turns and undoes the LR defence like an oily zip, his show of trickery deserving several goals, but he fires at the keeper’s legs. A mesmerised LR defender clearly feels this to be unjust, kindly shinning the ball back to Jebb’s feet with one of which he slams it into the roof. Before remembering exactly who it was who supplied the final pass, the guilty defender yells “offside”. I imagine if he were ever to find himself locked out of his house in just his bath-towel, he would attempt to set fire to the towel, his embarrassment not so much covered here as it is layered.

Half time then. 5-0. So dominant are Lairds, each pass is another crack of the cat-o’-nine-tails on Atherton’s sweaty back. You know that panicky pirouette that players do when they’ve nodded the ball directly up in the air and aren’t sure where it is? Well, LR spend the entire game doing almost exactly that, regardless of where the ball is. Someone unaware of NWCL goings-on would certainly guess wrongly if asked which team had been playing once every two days for the best part of six weeks, and which had been able to recharge for a fortnight while waiting for their turn on the merry-go-round. Atherton expend much of their energy today arguing amongst themselves, but this aggression at least allows them to rally in the second half, forcing several decent chances during the course of the back forty-five.

However, they still cannot cope at the back. After several near misses, James McCoy’s run down the left is cut down short just outside the box and just inside the byline. The free-kick is then arrogantly tapped in for Atherton (Lee) to flick into the top corner. The defensive wall was about three yards away at the time of the kick, but rather than this being a quickly taken effort, it was more a case of the ref seeing really no point in enforcing the full ten. Five minutes later, McCoy completes his treble, lifting it like a snooty prince over the keeper.

For the home-side there is probably no consolation in an ‘Atherton’ also bagging a hat-trick, but he does just that with quarter of an hour to go. A free-kick is floated in from the left, the Atherton defence following its progress like a baby spellbound by a soap-bubble, Athers nodding it in with a untroubled smile on his face. The ninth follows with seven minutes to go, substitute Bull latching onto a long through ball, beating a defence long gone sleepy bye-byes and the result is inevitable, a flick over the keeper into the roof of the net.

I’m not sure about delving into statistics, but when the LR physio walks past, asking me “is it 9 now?,” full confidence in one’s ability to follow a simple arithmetic progression seems far more pressing. “I think so, don’t quote me” I reply with all the held nerve of a press-feeding government mole with a sudden sniff of an unexpected promotion. The physio has just come around from attending to one of their strikers who, after receiving the ref’s signal to return to the field, shrugs with a resignation that suggests “Do I have to?”

In the 90th minute, the exciting Jebb goes on another mazy run, a la Maradona in ’86, but again his shot connects with legs. With that, the final whistle blows and “thank God for that” is the sigh from one LR supporter, but there are promises from the board that things will be different next year. The die-hards will hope so, as this defeat really could have been a whole lot worse.

So, for the first time in a long season, and at just the right time, Lairds sit atop the North West Counties League needing only a point from their final 3 fixtures. I had originally planned to follow them 2 days later to Salford City but I reckon a 9-0 is a more than decent way to complete a season’s tread. Plenty of windows have been peeked into on here since Rhyl last July, and I’ll wrap up some of the stories in the next few weeks as we await the World Cup.

Thanks for reading in 05/06!

Resources
Sleight, H. ed. (2006) FourFourTwo complete guide to World Cup 2006. London, Haymarket.

Links
Atherton LR website
Cammell Laird website

Mold Alexandra 3 Acrefair Youth 0

03may06
(Nizam-Druid) Welsh National League Premier Division
Alyn Park, Mold
att. 22 (approx.)

Recently, the Football Association of Wales’ decision to spend a £1.1 million UEFA grant on shiny new offices, rather than plough it into promotion of the much maligned and sparsely attended leagues under their jurisdiction, was met with heated criticism, and with some justification. However, those involved within the Welsh pyramid should surely by now be used to decision making that rarely ranks higher than a bored teenager ringing a doorbell and running off.

One early warning shot should have come in the first season of the League of Wales in 1992. Now, here was a newly formed national league in a relatively minor UEFA nation trying to separate its identity from big bro next door. Surely they would have done everything in their power to ensure all its founder clubs were ready to sparkle on the ‘big stage’, right? So you would have thought. As it turned out, after their first match at home to Inter Cardiff, Mold Alexandra were kicked out for failing to meet the ground criteria. In terms of their approach to emergency surgery, the FAW were clearly the bogus quack turning up to theatre with a canine kidney in a sandwich bag. It would be nice to think things have changed, but somewhere in South Wales, there’s a bulk invoice for new staplers and desk tidies that says different.

After hastily erecting a stand and some floodlights, Mold were re-admitted for the rest of the season, staying in the top flight until 1995. I would assume the stand built then is the one that remains today. One child spends most of today’s game climbing its skeletal, dilapidated frame, which is possibly a little unwise as you couldn’t dismiss the threat of imminent collapse with any confidence.

I would say the ground has seen better days, but not by much. Certainly, most of what once was a pristine ‘Mold Alex FC’ sign above the stand has slumped to the floor and although a previous version has been dusted off to plug the gap, some letters have yet to receive their invite to the new union while the ‘e’ has been the most dramatically squeezed out in an apparently hostile take-over. This haphazard truncation may well have been the result of vandalism and the perpetrators should probably be warned that the new arrangement now, essentially, reads DAL-X, and we know how vengeful they can be. It is certainly evident that the stand is put to use outside of football fixtures though, an oil drum bin next to it being topped up with about 20 empty cans of Carlsberg.

Since relegation from top flight, Mold have had quite a troublesome few years. After a further demotion from the Cymru Alliance in 1998, they looked into the possibility of a merger with Mostyn, but instead opted for relegation, expecting to be put back into the third tier Welsh National League that operates around the Wrexham area, that had been their home between 1947 and 1990. However having been placed in the Welsh Alliance League, and an appeal to the FAW voted down, they somewhat radically decided to turn their reserve team, currently playing in the lower reaches of the Wrexham area league, into the senior side so as to remain in their more geographically ideal strand of the Pyramid. A couple of promotions and a relegation later and they are back in their favoured 3rd tier berth in a division currently led by the side representing nearby satellite village Mynydd Isa.

Their ground may be quite rundown in appearance but you certainly can’t accuse them of not looking after the spectator. When you pay a mere quid for entrance and find the programme comes at no extra cost, you might not expect much from it, but it is certainly no fob off. The last fortnight’s league results may be the norm, but Mold supply the WNL Premier Division results for the entire season, as well as all the World Cup game schedules. Possibly the most startling thing about the publication though is the terrifying sketch of Lord Kitchener on page 7, ‘Your club needs you. NOW!’ written large beneath his demanding eyeballs and unyielding handlebar.

Elsewhere, they supply full page photographs of some of the players, each of which, rather ambitiously, contains a white box marked ‘autograph’. A further section is taken up with ‘Alex the Anorak and his amazing soccer stories’ while they also find room to advertise the on-site refreshment shed. “Visit the Colonels Café at Alyn Park, for tea or coffee – a cold drink, crisps or a choccy and possibly a hot dog”, they cumbersomely suggest, clearly believing we’ve been looking a little gaunt of late and need fattening up. As enticing as the Café’s cover-all-bases headline might be, it might need someone to tell them that their follow up line “it may seem like the Outer Limits or the Twilight Zone run by Basil Fawlty but it is worth a visit” could well undo all their good marketing work, however real the possibility of a hot-dog might be.

There’s dogs on the footballing menu as well, one panting young lad ambling about in front of the linesman on the far side on occasion in the first half. As the lino in question is the Mold assistant manager whose sole responsibility is to call for throw-ins, he shows precious little concern. Now I’ve heard people suggest that the Welsh Premier League is not much better than a pub league, which seems a little harsh on the decent pro's and semi-pro’s knocking about in the top-flight. However when only one official is available for an end of season 3rd tier game, and members of each bench are required to man the flags, while the ref takes the best guess approach on offside calls, you might think the ‘you-got-yer-team-out-the-boozer’ suggestion of teams at this level might not be so misleading, particularly when the Mold Alex pen-pics on their website make as much of their drinking capabilities as their footballing ones.

However lower-level players often belie their on-paper standard, a gorgeous one-two between two of the home-side’s midfielders almost leading to an early goal. They are certainly keen to test the Acrefair keeper, whose early handling suggests he is more frequent a spiller than a novice egg and spooner on a slackening high-wire, but they find his shot-stopping more than makes up for his Pietersen-esque shelling.

Suddenly, a mini-bike revs up behind the far goal, although the kid pouting beneath his crash helmet appears less impressed, folding his arms sulkily as his mother speeds off, like a drunken cowboy, into the distance. Not long after Mold open the scoring, their number 8 dribbling into the box, a last-ditch Acrefair tackle merely squeezing the ball to Dave Pitson who thumps home from 8 yards out.

This gets the Acrefair tempers rising, as a minute later, after a hard challenge, one of their defender’s wails “Fucking cheat. I’ll fucking have ‘im, he fucking took my fucking legs.” The ref responds sharply, “Quit moaning”. “Do something then” demands the troubled centre-back, the ref replying swiftly, “I will do, I’ll give a free-kick against you.” However our whingey friend does contribute something other than incessant carping to the game, as he later floats a visionary free-kick that drops in front of their 9 who lobs the keeper only to see it drop against the stanchion behind the goal.

In the second half, Mold start to assert their authority, bringing further errors from the Acrefair keeper, although he does enough to get behind one free-kick that appears slo-mo, collapsing on the ball so slowly it is more swoon than save. After dabbing at his eyebrows with a lace hankie, he welts the ball back into play. Soon after though he is picking the ball out of the back of the net again, Chris Boulton, the most impressive player on show, dances arrogantly through the defence, twisting and turning before slotting home on the angle.

They make it three after 73 minutes, their no. 7 beating the offside trap (well one assumes) and having all the time in the world to draw the keeper and slide a pass to sub Wes Brereton who in clumsily tripping over the ball sends it bobbling over the line. Mold, seemingly unsatisfied with their goal threat at the correct end, attempt to score a spectacular one at the other, a centre-back’s header bringing a fingertip save from his goalkeeper, and while that is the last of the chances, there is still some more animal action, which seems a prerequisite for me this season.

Our dog from earlier, having worked out the pitch dimensions on his earlier stake-out, speeds directly along the half-way line like a daredevil amongst the legs of an, err, dogged midfield exchange. There’s a cheeky glint in his eye, this run clearly his way of thumbing his moist schnoz at the ‘No Dogs Allowed In This Ground’ sign in the car-park. Sadly, none of the players from either side cheer him through though, nor bat an eyelid, as they wind down the game on the balmiest evening of the year thus far.

Links
Mold Alexandra website
Welsh National League website

Shrewsbury Town 0 Lincoln City 1

29apr06
League Two
Gay Meadow, Shrewsbury
att. 5,170

If you only see one Football League match this season, make it Shrewsbury v Lincoln. It’s a marketing approach they could have used had the raging hyperbole not been so evident. However it is an accurate appraisal of this season’s tread, the beaten track being more keenly avoided than usual this term. Aside from a dreadful friendly at Preston and some cup action at Liverpool, Newcastle, Oldham and Sunderland, the league action among England’s professional classes has been unconsciously avoided. That is until now, and where better to come, as the spring sunshine peeks between the spread fingers of broken cloud like an unethical hide and seeker, than a Meadow.

The great John Peel was schooled near to Shrewsbury and would watch the football team on occasion, but always retained his emotional tie to Liverpool FC. His son William Robert Anfield Ravenscroft often complained about his third given name but his Dad was always quick to point out how much worse it could have been if he’d been hooked in by the Shrews instead. If that had been the case, at least William would have legitimate cause for a deed-poll alteration next year, as a move to a ‘New Meadow’ is planned for summer 2007. For Shrewsbury supporters, to leave a charming, albeit old-fashioned, ground like Gay Meadow, only a couple of years prior to its centenary, will certainly not be easy even if most acknowledge that it is the only way for the club to progress.

Shrewsbury, on first glance, certainly doesn’t strike you as a footballing hotbed, and their recent year-long tour of duty in the Conference disguises the fact that twenty years ago they were regular top-half finishers in what is now the Championship. Aside from that, the place appears just too damn picturesque in itself for locals to pay too much attention to any game, beautiful or otherwise. Everywhere you turn, it looks magnificent; the many churches within the centre’s square mile, some with bells chiming into the bright afternoon; the chunky Abbey standing stoically; the Salvation Army band serenading those taking their lunch in the main shopping precinct; the Tudor buildings, little antique shops squeezed beneath their overhang; and the Severn winding through the town, famously bowing right past the football ground. Gorgeous stuff.

There are three libraries, each trying to out-ornate each other, Castle Gates possibly winning with its statue of Charles Darwin stood in its entrance garden. This building, built between 1594 and 1630, was the site of the old Shrewsbury school and was where the nation’s favourite evolutionist was educated. Not that he seems entirely pleased about it in his sculpted form, which captures in him an air of disgruntled camp. As he sits on a chair with papers resting on his crossed legs, his look is unmistakable, “I’ve read this f***** paragraph ten times, can’t you lot play outside” conveyed with dignified, but slightly prissy, silence.

Despite the town having many concessions to modern living, particularly in a standard array of shops, it assimilates almost seamlessly. It’s fairly cosmopolitan a place too, as around yet another corner, Unite Against Fascism are hosting a ‘Rock Against Racism’ festival, campaigning against BNP candidates fighting for council seats next week. A young steel band are working through ‘Hot Hot Hot’ as I approach, and with Shrewsbury and Lincoln shirts dotted amongst the onlookers, the concept of unity has yet another dimension added to it. Police are visible here, as they are outside the station, expecting a large Lincoln travelling support, but the atmosphere all around town is more than relaxed.

The Lincoln following is indeed plentiful today and I join them on the Station End terrace, albeit without the sombrero and Sanchez ‘tache that several have opted for. Part of the reason I am here is that Lincoln are part of my growing army of soft-spot sides, solely due to a former housemate of mine being a committed and native Imp. Today it is my turn not to just be a recipient of score texts, but to be a provider as, being a copper, he is working and expects to be grilling low-rent villains all day.

With two games of the season to go, Lincoln are currently hanging on to the final play-off spot, but with Peterborough, Darlington, Bristol Rovers and the Shrews themselves all swinging lassos around their heads behind them, two wins would be their only guarantee. They don’t make the best of starts with Shrewsbury having the best of the attacking play, unsurprisingly given they have opted for a 4-2-4 formation. They may have an outside chance of the play-offs themselves, and would require many results to go their way, but this makes Gary Peters’ intentions very clear. Mark Stallard and Jamie Tolley both go close in the first ten minutes and later Sagi Burton’s athletic overhead kick drops onto the top of the net.

In the face of this pressure, one Lincoln fan clearly tries to redress the balance by going down to the fence to goad Shrewsbury sub Gavin Cowan. He receives support from his mates further back on the terrace, “Tell him you’ve bummed his mum”, they instruct; “Oi 16, I’ve bummed your mum” he complies, lamb-like, and then engages in lengthy conversation with Cowan who bristles increasingly with just-about-restrained ire, although he appears quite amused by the presence of the Pink Panther who proceeds to add his own brand of banter to the exchange. Buoyed by this, Cowan foolishly accepts an offer of a reconciliatory handshake through the fence from our original gobshite but as he proffers his paw, Gobby withdraws his, placing his thumb to his nose and waggling his fingers. Not long after another unsuspecting Shrewsbury sub makes the same schoolboy error. Meanwhile, as the first period comes to a close, Lincoln have their best chance, Nat Brown nodding a foot wide of the post from a corner.

In the second half, Lincoln look much improved and more confident in dealing with Shrewsbury’s dervish fit of a formation, and on the hour take the lead. A free-kick floats in from the left, Gareth McAuley’s head arriving just before keeper Joe Hart’s fist, the ball dropping and ambling onto the net causing a joyous Imp surge towards their players who gather in front of and upon the fence. Somewhere in Lincolnshire, a tape comes to a close with the words “YYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEESSSSSSS! COME ON! Oh, err, interview terminated at 16:22.”

News from around the country is also reaching those of us here and despite their own lead, the Lincoln fans are instead singing in celebration that, at Brisbane Road, it is “2-0, to the Orient”, Peterborough’s fortunes almost as important as their own today. In the final third of the game, Lincoln have to hold out against sustained Shrewsbury pressure, a succession of corners coming as the game approaches injury time, Joe Hart sprinting upfield twice to add to the bodies in the box.

The last action sees a free-kick awarded to Shrews just outside the penalty area, Richard Hope bends down as though to re-place the ball but instead stubs it from between his hands to Neil Ashton whose shot speeds through the crowded box without touching a single limb and thus easily into the arms of Alan Marriott.

Upon the whistle the Lincoln fans celebrate wildly, knowing that with other results working handsomely in their favour, they only need a single point from their final game at home to Rochdale, who are no longer concerned about relegation, to get to the play-offs. It would be the fourth season in a row that Lincoln have made the play-offs, with two unhappy trips to Cardiff all too clear in the memory. Here’s to third time lucky.

Resources
Peel, J. and Ravenscroft, S. (2005) Margrave Of The Marshes. London, Bantam Press.
see side bar for regular information sources

Links
Shrewsbury Town website
Lincoln City website

guestTread: Grange Harlequins 2 Bangor City 3

30apr06
Welsh Premier League
Leckwith Athletics Stadium, Cardiff
att. 122

For the first time, we have a contribution by a guest writer trying out the hobo lifestyle in their new environment. Thanks to Ben who, as you will know or become very aware in the first paragraph, is a Newcastle United follower. Usually found blogging about the Toon at Black and White and Read All Over, he's been tinkering with the Welsh Premier for the first time. Enjoy!

A long-relegated team who, after promotion last term, have been hopelessly out of their depth in the top flight all season, playing home games in a soulless near-empty stadium firmly in the shadow of their near neighbours. No, not Sunderland, but Cardiff Grange Harlequins.

In truth, Quins are an even more pitifully awful outfit than the Mackems – hard to believe, I know, but just look at the brass tacks. Prior to today’s match they’ve conceded a staggering 107 goals in 33 matches, and scored just 21, losing 7-0 no fewer than three times and 8-0 once. They could tell Jose Mourinho a thing or two about squad rotation, having used an incredible 58 players over the course of the season. The same principle seems to operate at a managerial level too, Steve May being their third gaffer of the season. The farcically parlous state of the club was highlighted shortly before Skif visited in December, when first manager Paul Giles and six players walked out following a dispute about contract payments. Leaving the city centre en route for the Leckwith Stadium, I note that the Samaritans centre is located in the same direction – a good thing, too.

Arriving at the ground for their final game of the season, against Bangor City, I part with a fiver (a decision I suspect I might come to regret) and take my seat in the one large stand. The stadium is rather shabby and faded, in need of a good lick of paint – appropriately enough, given the way Quins’ optimism at promotion last season has been tarnished. Hurdles are stacked up trackside – Quins fell long ago. The teams take to the beach of a pitch and I sit back in anticipation of the one-way goal avalanche.

And yet, incredibly, Quins draw first blood, just three minutes having elapsed. Unperturbed by the fact that every bounce of the ball raises a puff of sand, the red-shirted home side attack purposefully down the right edge of the area. The ball falls to the feet of 16-year-old striker Nathan White, who, having seen his first scuffed shot blocked, prods home to the equal delight and surprise of the home fans.

It’s very nearly two shortly afterwards, a 20 yard free-kick bouncing back off the face of the bar with Bangor ‘keeper Ian Havard a statuesque spectator, but the opposition are soon back into the game, missing a golden chance to level following a defensive mix-up, a lob curling inches wide as we collectively hold our breath. The equaliser duly arrives on 11 minutes, Paul Roberts tapping home from a low left-wing cross. Pacy danger-man Carl Jones nearly turns things on their head, latching onto a superb cross-field ball only to lift the ball over bar as well as ‘keeper, and a free header from a corner also sails over the top as the Quins defence reverts to form.

At right back for the visitors, lumping the ball forward in a fashion that couldn’t be more agricultural if it had a Norfolk accent and an ear of corn hanging out of the corner of its mouth, is a familiar face: former Man Utd, Middlesbrough and Wales defender Clayton Blackmore. Now 41, Bangor’s player-manager was never the most naturally gifted of players, and – how can I put this diplomatically? – age seems to have caught up with him. In fact, an arthritic snail could probably catch up with him. To say he’s stocky would be charitable in the extreme, and the less said about his tikka tan the better.

Meanwhile, one player catching the eye for Quins is 19-year-old Omar Abdillahi, one of five teenagers in the home side and a creative midfielder who shows some very neat touches but all too often tries to take on one man too many or allows himself to be muscled off the ball too easily. The pace has been furious and the tackling full-blooded, but over twenty minutes have passed before the first card is shown, to Bangor’s Kieran Killackey, who is substituted soon after.

When referee Phil Southall’s whistle blows for another offside decision against Bangor, a visiting fan voices his discontent with the linesman in the most polite terms possible: “Get away!” A few minutes later, his griping about the award of a free-kick inspires a rather less delicate response from a Quins supporter: “Shut up you old bastard!”

The chances continue to flow thick and fast. Quins, more than holding their own against all the odds, strike the post when scoring looks easier and another shot drifts just wide, while at the other end Jones is unlucky not to find the net having rounded Quins ‘keeper Gareth Williams and Blackmore waddles forward only to punt his shot into orbit. A wonderfully flowing move from Quins with Abdillahi at its heart ends with a splendid Havard save, but the home defence continues to look frighteningly brittle when confronted with the simple tactic of long balls over the top for strikers Roberts and Michael Linnecar to chase, and Williams is called into urgent action on more than a couple of occasions.

Then, with a minute to go before the break and the game tantalisingly balanced at 1-1, some brilliant skill creates an opportunity for White which the striker coolly converts, rousing me to my feet with a punch of the air (much to my surprise) and restoring Quins’ unlikely advantage. There’s still time for his strike partner Tomas Lubusky to shoot wastefully straight at Havard and then find himself in the referee’s book for a cynical shirt-pull having surrendered possession in a dangerous area.

Aware that Hobo Tread match reports extend to catering facilities (and beyond), I feel duty-bound to report on the poor quality of the half-time refreshments on offer at the Leckwith. Prawn sandwiches? If you bring your own, yes. As I queue for a scummy synthetic machine coffee (for the princely sum of 50p), I find myself stood next to the referee, who is busy availing himself of a chocolate bar from the neighbouring vending machine while chatting to a Bangor fan. What would Jose say? You don’t even have to go into the ref’s dressing room to influence him…

Any thoughts of the second period being an anti-climax after the breathless and hugely enjoyable first are banished in a frantic opening quarter of an hour. First White is cruelly denied his hat-trick by a bizarre offside flag within a couple of minutes of the restart, having dribbled his way solo through the Bangor back line. Fired up and aggrieved, Quins attack again with menace and are desperately unlucky to see a shot cleared off the line with Havard, out of his goal, well beaten.

Then it’s Bangor’s turn to curse the officials, a headed equaliser rightly chalked off for offside. But that leveller isn’t long in coming, a catastrophic cock-up in the Quins defence giving Roberts a clear run on goal. Despite getting a hand to the subsequent shot, Williams can’t keep the ball out.

Then, with passions running high, Abdillahi is fouled on the near touchline, responds by shoving the perpetrator and then collapses theatrically in a heap clutching his face. It’s like Arjen Robben and Jose Reina all over again. Incensed players from both sides leap in and suddenly it’s a free-for-all with nearly everyone on the pitch involved. Arms are raised, though there don’t seem to be any haymakers thrown. Once the officials have regained control of the situation, three bookings are handed out. Needless to say, there would have been several reds if this was the Premiership and not the Welsh Premier.

When play resumes, Lubusky opts to blast across the face of goal wildly and selfishly when White is well-placed to score, and at the other end Williams twice comes to Quins’ rescue. Deciding to replace Havard with Andrew Price, the Bangor staff need access to the locked dressing room, and someone has to come up into the stand to find the chap with the keys – who, like the rest of us, is engrossed in the game. One mouthy Bangor fan turns round to address the whole stand calling Quins a two-bit outfit (or slightly less civil words to that effect). Cue a volley of abuse.

The second half gradually begins to tail off, the calm after the storm, both sides seemingly content with a point. But then, three minutes from time, the real kick in the bollocks for Quins. Blackmore heads off the line and Bangor break swiftly down the other end for Roberts to complete his hat-trick with ease. In the aftermath Abdillahi is shown a second yellow card for dissent, and before the final whistle sounds both Ben Tingley and a frustrated White are also given their marching orders as Quins stupidly lose their heads. Snatching a thoroughly undeserved defeat from the jaws of a draw, and finishing with eight men – it’s a suitably farcical end to a farcical season.

So, Bangor can look forward to Sunday’s FAW Welsh Cup Final against Rhyl with a measure of confidence. No doubt Blackmore will reflect on the fact that he’s enjoyed a happier weekend than two of his former Man Utd colleagues, Steve Bruce and Bryan Robson… As for Quins, they return from whence they came, having amassed just 15 points during their solitary season in the top flight (one point was deducted for fielding an ineligible player, as if they needed that) – but if they can bring on young talents like Abdillahi and White, and work on curbing their temperaments, then the future could yet be bright. And given the entertainment served up this afternoon, I may well be back to witness it. Ben B&W&RAO.

reTread: Runcorn FC Halton 0 Farsley Celtic 7

27apr06
Northern Premier League Premier Division
Valerie Park, Prescot
att. 101

This past weekend has not been the best I’ve ever experienced. Havant & Waterlooville, despite being in the play-off spots for virtually the whole of the season, dropped out of it with 4 days to go, meaning our final game needed to be won with Histon losing at already relegated Maidenhead. Our side did their bit, making the most of an injury to famously rotund goalkeeper, ice-cream salesman and eater of company profits Wayne Shaw, to thrash Eastleigh 6-2 away from home. Histon, though, gubbed Maidenhead for 3 goals without reply.

The promotion dream is over for another year, a single point being the difference less than a week after our appeal against a 3 point deduction was dismissed. However, you can also identify a number of lacklustre performances against those in the relegation mix as being equally important. You could point the finger at any number of things but it won’t change a thing. My thought is that we focus on by-passing these play-off things next year. I believe we have the manager in place that could achieve that, particularly as it is looking unlikely that any full-time pro sides will be in our midst next season, as was the case this term with champions Weymouth.

Despite this positive thinking guff, I have to admit I feel pretty low today. Even trying to cheer myself up by sending congratulatory texts to my Portsmouth supporting chums couldn’t gee me up sufficiently. With this cloud hanging over, it is probably just as well that I made the very short bus journey back to Valerie Park in Prescot to once again catch up with struggling tenants Runcorn FC Halton. When your team wins by 6 away from home and you feel utterly miserable, it is perhaps good to have recent memory of watching a set of supporters applauding their team off after a seven goal home defeat to retain a sense of perspective.

Factor in that Runcorn’s previous five games finished 0-5, 0-5, 0-7, 1-8 and 0-8 and their warm ovation only makes you more aware that your team not achieving a play-off place isn’t the end of the world. A team in long-term isolation from their ‘home’, haemorrhaging money, support and playing staff, already relegated and facing the potential of liquidation would have a much better claim for the whinging rights. That said, a number of supporters, both lapsed and loyal, are certainly wondering whether starting again in the North West Counties League wouldn’t be the best all round.

A Supporters Trust has been re-awakened to try and explore all the potential avenues, with a return to Runcorn a priority. The current regime believes staying in the Unibond, albeit in the second tier after this relegation, is best for the long-term future for the club. Some might say it is merely delaying the inevitable, particularly when there are plenty of fans who consider the club to have ‘died’ when they left Runcorn to share with Widnes Vikings in 2000. After their 80’s Conference glory years, to be exiled in this way is too much for some to take.

Really speaking, my visit back in September when they thrashed their landlords on their own patch, was probably the highlight of a very long season. Manager Steve Carragher has shown incredible loyalty in the face of all the financial problems which has seen an endless procession of players leave the club in the process of cutting costs. Essentially, he has had to assemble three different playing sides this season, only goalkeeper Robbie Holcroft sticking with the cause until the bitter end, and winning the Player of the Year award for his commendable trouble (as well as keeping recent scores merely embarrassing rather than devastating). The side that has seen the season to a close has contained a number of fresh-faced teenagers and players Carragher has gathered on favours called in, no doubt. Indeed, it was only a week ago this fixture against Farsley was postponed as he was unable to raise a side provoking fears that a similar situation to that which Spennymoor United’s demise caused in the last few weeks of last season would occur.

Farsley have seemed to be a constant thorn in Runcorn’s side all season, beating them in the FA Trophy and Unibond League Cup, and the league games have caused no end of problems. Indeed, the other league game between the sides, at Farsley, only took place two days before this. In total, the arranged dates between the sides this season have seen 3 postponements and one abandonment. In addition to his, quite bizarrely, Farsley’s final league game of the season, two days after this thrashing, was away to Prescot. Familiar surroundings by now.

The first half of this game saw some unexpected fighting spirit from the Runcorn scratch XI, even though the ball hardly ever left their half, and to go into the break only one goal down was probably seen as a decent effort. Farsley could not hide how easy they were finding it though, with a number of wide shots met with indifference and, in the case of one of their strikers, sustained Dr. Hibbert style chuckling. A more jovial footballer I have never seen.

However, it is in the second half where things totally unravel, Ahmed Iqbal scoring a second in the 46th minute, and while Runcorn stayed firm for a little while longer afterward, their determination eventually slipped, as did any sense of formation. Holcroft asking of one of his team-mates “You’re playing right back, yeah?” was hardly a good sign, but for Farsley it was like birthday and Christmas and for a quarter hour period from just prior to the hour mark, it was a procession, Farsley’s giddy attackers ambling through the Mersey tunnel size gaps in the hapless Runcorn defence. Damien Reeves added a 3rd after 57 minutes, Holcroft screaming “I can see it’s not offside from here” in response to his team-mates blame-game finger-pointing. In the 8 minutes between the 64th and 72nd, Dominic Krief helped himself to 4 goals.

In this atmosphere, I felt like a bit of a ghoul, particularly after the final goal when a punch-drunk Holcroft turned to those behind the goal and asked “How many is it? 6?” Enough to break your heart, but there’s a dignity in it, as there is in the fact that a group of around 10 Runcorn fans stood gamely behind the Farsley goal for the entire 90 minutes before venturing round to clap their side off.

This past Saturday they finished their season at Ashton United.

They lost 6-0.

Links
Runcorn FC Halton website
Farsley Celtic website