Dissolution in the Dales

Matlock Town vs Whitby Town

19 April 2007



Small-town charm springs from the Dales at Causeway Lane, home of Matlock Town Football Club. Insofar, that is, as charm can spring from a motley collection of 'grand' stands and brieze-blocks-for steps. But that's not bad at all, is it?

Loftily surveyed from the heights of Riber Castle's lofty but crumbling crenallations (do all of Derbyshire's buses look like this?) and soundscaped for 90 minutes by the tireless campanologists of St. Giles (which is illuminated into the night), this place oozes 'modest provincial sport' and 'corinthian spirit' like almost no other.

Those who've been to the Gay Meadow, Tunstall Road or Feethams (rest in peace) may pciture the scene, however, and it's a small but vocal crowd that doubtless enjoys it that way - a gaggle of well-lubricated patrons who can visit the Gladiators' Social for a plastic pint of Mansfield Best, then perch themselves contentedly on the steps outside. From here, they can watch the game as it bobbles back and forth against a backdrop of church bells and blossom.

The to-ing ands fro-ing of drinkers elicits spirited resistance and no little defamatory mirth from the bar staff, who have left their realm unattended to hang lazily over a couple of crush barriers (though I hesitate to use the term in the context of Causeway Lane) with little intent to return to their posts.

Every now and again, a squadron of ducks strafes the arena, picked out in the halogen glare as the skies darken. A handful of spectators have taken cover in their cars, with Thermos flasks and a brace of marmite-'n'-mighty-white, no doubt. These drive-in die-hards evoke TUTD's magical mystery tour to Prestatyn two weeks ago (an occasion I probably won't blog about, save to say that Sammy was born in Stoke and therefore It Is Done: he must embrace Rhyl and Prestatyn).

The effect doesn't last long, but it's a nice sunny evening, and there's a similarly refreshing breeze skipping down from the hills. None the less, the occupants of the vehicle in question continue to monitor the Matlock goal mouth as if they're daydreaming a path towards the distant horizon, trying to visualise landfall in the soft-focus of their mind's eyes.

In all, 263 souls witness the razing of Whitby's resistance, and the dissolution ends 5-1 to the home team. The visitors are managed by former Quaker legend Lee "Nogoals" Nogan, who spends an appropriately ascetic evening agitating the gravel on the edge of his dug-out.

Nogan was a sturdy enough centre-forward in his day, but spent so much time running sideways that you suspected he was mounted on an invisible fussball axle. He is joined by fellow former Feethams men Alex Janes, Phil Brumwell, and Matty Appleby, who have amassed league games aplenty between them.

It all leaves me reflecting on how utterly naff Darlo must have been in the last few seasons. Perhaps - despite the introduction of two up, two down a few years back - it remains fair to say that the Football League is all but a closed shop, with the door to the Conference still only slightly ajar. Most of the clubs in the fourth tier really are much of a muchness, I guess, and our seasons tend simply to wilt as spring approaches.

"Whitby were away so Whitby lost again" surmised the Seasiders' webmaster cheerily. I'd imagine he didn't feel much like appending a fulsome report, but, hey, it may have seen the light by the time you read this.

Diary Milk

Meir KA vs Cadbury Athletic

10 April 2007

Unbelievable, even for me.

I've just returned from a trip to the Springbank Stadium, my second time in two weeks, and indeed only my second time ever. It'd been a while since The Groundhog and I had popped out, and therefore about time our plans coincided. That's my excuse, anyway. That, and it was a particularly nice evening in north Staffordshire as the yawning floodlights oozed pale disinterest throughout tonight's big event.

While the self-regarding Man Ure kicked seven bells out of their 'other' some fifty miles north, Cadbury emerged from the dressing rooms with the purple swagger of a brummie Viola stuck indefinitely on step six. By the end of the night they'd be more a discarded pack of Silk Cut, as KA grabbed one goal for each graduation in the hallowed pyramid.

About thirty tifosi took note, including one undisputed ultra - a pleasant fellow and sometime acquaintance of TG's who really has to be a fan if he's going to do this every week (which he does).

Several miles up the food chain, the 92 clubs that traditionally define our 'national game' are asking for more and more so that they can keep reinforcing the mega-brand values of the Premiership and Champions' League, either directly or as the knock-on effect.

Fans, meanwhile, can less and less afford twenty quid plus travel to watch our fourth-tier teams flounder every week, and while I'll still travel with the mighty Quakers, that's as far as it goes; the rest is just TV.

Egan's post on the corinthian spirit of football in Finland seems to apply equally to the Meirs of this world: "it's safe to say that they will retain the personal touch that often makes smaller football clubs friendlier, more welcoming places. So what if [our] pro teams aren't the best in Europe?"

A place in the sun

Stone Dominoes vs Squires Gate

4 April 2007



A radiant spring evening announced the beginning of a long weekend and with Sammy and I having fulfilled our obligation to the ducks - who were engaged in a mass exodus from the lake to the rose garden - I myself fled the homestead for what is surely Meir Heath's third most prestigious visitor attraction.

The Springbank Stadium - normally home to Meir KA - sits in a pleasant acreage a little way out of the city. Endearingly, it boasts an improvised 'hospitality suite' picked out in bright red and perched inhospitably above the gents' urinals.

There's also a two-step terrace set some way back from the pitch. The roof of the latter rises only a little over six feet in height, and leaves you feeling like an extra in <i>Being John Malkovich</i>. Behind the dugouts is a proper paddock backed by leylandii, a steep and vacant slope that recalls the way in which most modern stadia began. This also saves the embarrassment of having to run and get the ball from under the bushes (such is Stone's big-time status), as wayward passes tend to drizzle back towards the field of play.

So, under a blood-red sky, a rather sparse crowd of 45 or so had gathered - the chosen few, U2 might say. The game was unremarkable, though fast-paced, and 'The Gate' were easily one up by half time, having enjoyed the best of the play. A gaggle of Blackpool supporters to my right began to ponder loudly on whether to give up on the Tangerines altogether.

For only the second time ever, though, I left the match early at 0-2. Doubtless one or two of you hardier souls will scoff, but I'd pledged to return home nice and early so that we can plan tomorrow's trip to the seaside with the offspring.

None the less, I witnessed one of the finest goals I've ever seen - a 50-yard volley from a Gate midfielder that nobody realised had gone in until the centre was taken. Such outrageous skill was thereby celebrated to a fitting backdrop of rapturous slurps from Thermos flasks.

Can't wait for the trip to Notts County now :-)

Saturday, 3.40pm

I stumbled across this post about the Valley Parade fire today, and suddenly realised that the TV pictures of the disaster on the Six O'Clock News must be among my earliest football memories - nothing much to speak of, just the bulging inferno etched somewhere on a childhood memory under the name Valley Parade.

The archive film remains absolutely shocking, though I'm not sure I've seen it since I was really young. Perhaps it's no wonder that I used to have nightmares about fires as a child. But it's particularly sobering when I consider how I love these old ramshackle football grounds nowadays; many of the most atmospheric grounds I visit with Darlo still have an old wooden stand or two - and Everton cram thousands into the thundering wood-floored Bullens Road balcony, which dates back to the 1920s, and gives Goodison Park a real sense of memory.

3.40pm - when the fire started - signifies a Saturday reverie for me. I'm generally people-watching, reflecting on how dull the match is, or just generally ignoring the game. In all likelihood my toes are freezing and I'm contemplating a half-time cup of tea.

Granted, things have changed since 1985, but it's sobering to watch the initially unremarkable footage - management and supporters sat or stood looking equally glum - and know that in four minutes' time over 50 of those people would be dead or fatally injured. Then Heysel happened just days or weeks later.

I'm sure that thought will cross my mind again, and I have found myself wondering what would have happened if that grandstand had been filled with plastic seats in the name of safety - and only the occasional stairway along which to flee, as is the case with the majority of grounds 'improved' since Hillsborough.

Nothing less than chilling.

Lull, lol.

My first post in over a month and FAR be it from me to debase this blog by lauding a multinational pharmaceuticals corp - but this product is officially worthy, and **oh!** such good value at something like ten quid per precious, soothing drop. Indeed its every appearance has in recent times been heralded in these parts by a choir of angels.

So now that wee Sammy is colic-free and chitter-chattery again by day (this boy quite literally has an appetite for his books, many of which are currently spread around the house drying off), it's about time I gave this radio station the TUTD endorsement, a little sleepy somewhere to stream to in the small hours. Almost as good as the Metasciences' Intergalactic Lullaby, which I keep plugging but gets greater with every play.

"These things aren't real until you blog them"

And they're barely blinking real afterwards, either.

Born Stoke-on-Trent City General on 11 July 2006, at 05.16am, weight 8Ib 6oz.

Early signs of labour began with the final Italian penalty, Kate was in hospital from 2.30pm on Monday, and delivered the baby by Ventoose at 5.16am after too many brave, exhausting hours. She's the greatest, and he looks just like her.

His name is Samuel James (maybe after the dreamer Coleridge; Js. in memory of my brother), but we'll just call him Sam for now.

Off to see him again in a min :-)

The Enemy Within

Via pendletoday.co.uk

"TWO Pendle men have appeared before Pennine magistrates accused of having "a master plan" after what is believed to be a record haul of chemicals used in making home-made bombs was found in Colne."

Sadly, we can't send this lot back.