Archive | February, 2018

Masochistic Away Day.

23 Feb

It was another insane idea. I think I must be going a bit dopey in my old age. The choice was as follows: have a relaxing day at home or undergo 8 hours of train travel and hanging around draughty stations to almost inevitably experience disappointment. I chose the latter of course. I would travel from deepest Cleveland on the north east coast, to the far north west of England to support my team, a team that was next to bottom of the whole football league and had just lost 4 matches in a row. Many people would regard this as mad but I went because it was an adventure and I wanted to show support and loyalty to the team. I think support in times of adversity is real support. If you’ve read my previous blog you might understand this a bit.

I love travel as much as I love sport. Every journey is potentially an exciting adventure. In this case I was travelling to Carlisle but I was also journeying into the unknown. What would happen on the way? Would all my connections work out? What would I find when I got there? This is what happened.

It was an early start. The alarm clock rudely interrupted my sleep at 6-45am. This was like being back at work, a feeling I have largely forgotten since I retired. By 7.55 I was at Saltburn station, joining a small band of sleepy commuters going to work in the shops of Redcar and Middlesbrough. I huddled into my seat as our little, old diesel -railcar ground its way over the points, heading slowly west. I live at the end of a long branchline, and the first stage of any rail journey usually involves painstakingly trundling our way to the main line at Darlington, about 28 miles away. I settled into my book, hoping the miles would disappear more quickly that way. On this journey though, I didn’t have to go all the way to Darlington. I was routed via Hartlepool and Sunderland so had to change at Middlesbrough, and then have a slow but scenic train journey up the Durham coast. The changeover was only 10 minutes and soon I was on my way again. In 1 hour 20 minutes I would be meeting my fellow football masochist, Ian, at Newcastle Central station. Together we would catch the Carlisle connection.

However, you know what they say about the best laid plans. My second train went only one stop to Thornaby ( south Stockton) and then just stood in the platform. I found myself getting restless and started to wriggle around in my seat.After this had been going on for 10 minutes, the guard told us there had been a power failure in the main signal box and until it was fixed, no trains in the area were allowed to move. An electrician had been sent for ( there were none on site) and he had got stuck in traffic. I could see my Carlisle connection going up the swanee and even the one after that. Maybe I would miss the match altogether? Then, an idea started to form in my head. Out of the window I had noticed a regular stream of taxis coming down a drive into the station and dropping passengers off. As worry and frustration bubbled up inside me, I hit upon an escape plan. Seeing another taxi arrive, I leapt off the train, ran across the platform and knocked on the taxi man’s window as he was checking his money. The worst case scenario was that he wouldn’t accept me as a customer because I hadn’t made a proper booking, and then the train would suddenly depart with me stranded on the platform!  That really would have been “sod’s law!”As he wound down the window I asked the driver if he could take me to Darlington station and, thank God, he said “yes.” So in a few seconds, I was on my again, weaving through the rainy, grey streets of Thornaby, heading for Darlington and the main- line.

It was one of those chance encounters one sometimes experiences on journeys. I told the taxi driver where I was going and why, and he replied with stories of the travails of Darlington football club which had gone bust and dropped out of the league. His son had had trials there as a teenager and also at Hartlepool United, another struggling north- east football club. He hadn’t been accepted. The taxi man concluded cynically that success in football is about who you know not about what you can do. He said the whole system is corrupt and very harsh. I think I agree with him.

Within 20 minutes we were at Darlington station on the East Coast mainline. With a bit of luck, I would soon catch a fast train north to Newcastle. As I was paying the fare and saying my goodbye, another taxi man ran up and told my driver that he had a near flat tyre at the back. We looked and the rear passenger- side tyre was doing a good imitation of a pancake! It was only luck that had prevented us from having the flat on the A66 dual- carriageway a few minutes earlier and having to stop to change the wheel in the pouring rain! I caught an Edinburgh express within 10 minutes and as it glided out of the station I saw my taxi man still struggling with his jack and his wrench. I hope he got it sorted alright.

The express sped smoothly northwards only affording a brief glimpse of Durham’s magnificent cathedral and castle as we raced by. Soon we were crossing the Tyne on one of the 6 famous bridges. We swept round a corner and came to a smooth halt in Newcastle Central station. Ian was waiting for me with a welcome cup of coffee. ( I had texted him of my progress.) Meanwhile ( I heard later) my original train was still stuck at Thornaby. It was delayed for at least an hour. I would have been going spare by then!

The next stage of the journey took us along the beautiful Tyne valley and into Hadrian’s Wall country. A long gentle escarpment led up to the remains of the Roman wall and then dropped steeply away. It’s lovely empty countryside. Northumberland merged into Cumbria as we headed forever westwards. We caught glimpses of hill farms surrounded by grazing sheep. As we neared our destination we passed the shell of an old castle. Quite suddenly, the scenary switched from rural to urban as we were sucked into the suburbs of the City of Carlisle.

Carlisle is a border city. Scotland is not very far away. It has seen much conflict over the centuries. Coming out of the Citadel Station we immediately saw the 16th century round, stone towers ordered by Henry VIII to strengthen the city’s defences. Further in we came across the sturdy, red stoned castle that has witnessed much bloody conflict. Edward 1st had stayed there before going on to “Hammer the Scots.” In an earlier age Carlisle had actually been part of Scotland. It’s the only large English town not to have been recorded in the Domesday Book, ordered by William the Conqueror in the 1080s. It was left to his son, William Rufus to reconquer Carlisle for the English. One might expect that, given this troubled and violent history, its citizens would be tough, hard-bitten and wary of strangers. Of course, we found them to be just the opposite as the border battles and struggles  have now faded into the mists of time. Ian and I entered a nice little cafe near the station to have lunch. No staff were available to greet us but several customers encouraged us to sit down and told us the routine. When I thanked them, a lady commented :” No problem, we’re friendly in Carlisle.”

After our teas and toasties we had a bit of time to explore. Beyond the chain stores and coffees shops there was a very atmospheric and interesting historical quarter. Some streets were cobbled and we passed many old Georgian and early Victorian buildings in striking red sandstone. We strolled along narrow lanes and along a section of old town walls. The medieval cathedral and its close are magnificent. One feature is a spectacular barrel shaped ceiling painted in sky blue with golden stars. We made a note to return for a longer visit when football was not dominating the agenda.

After more helpful directions, we started to walk towards Brunton Park, Carlisle United’s football stadium. This took us up the busy Warwick Road and the leafy avenues that run off it. This is quite unusual as many of the original football grounds are found in more run down areas surrounded by humble terraces. One of the graceful Georgian town houses we passed had a blue plaque. It turned out it was the former home of the mother and grandfather of the American President Woodrow Wilson. He was one of the main architects of the Treaty of Versailles at the end of the First World War. His mother, Jessie Janet Woodrow Wilson had been born in Carlisle and her father, the Reverend Doctor Thomas Woodrow, originally from Paisley in Scotland, used to preach in a nearby church. Carlisle was only a temporary staging post however, as the family subsequently emigrated to the United States where the future president was born.

Arriving at the football ground we looked at the fields and streets that had been severely flooded by Storm Desmond in December 2015 and January 2016. The nearby river had burst its banks. The pitch went underwater too and for a while, Carlisle Untied had to play their “home” matches in Preston, Blackburn or Blackpool. When the water eventually receded, all the community turned out to clear up the muddy mess in the ground. Even the players mucked in to help. The disaster had brought the team and the fans together in a united effort.

There now ensued a tense 20 minutes or so while we waited for Lesley. I had met Lesley at the Chesterfield box office a fortnight before when I was there for a home match. To my frustration she told me that the tickets for the match at Carlisle had not arrived yet, so could I pop in the following week? Not living in Chesterfield anymore, I said I couldn’t. So Lesley said she would bring my tickets on the team coach on the day and give them to me outside the ground before kick off. This seemed a neat arrangement but inevitably, when we arrived at the away supporters end of Brunton Park, Lesley was nowhere to be seen. We weren’t the only ones waiting and worrying. A small group of Chesterfield supporters who did not actually live in Chesterfield now gathered together. I met one guy who had travelled down from Glasgow. This was the closest he got to a “home” match. Thankfully Lesley at last appeared and we collected our tickets and entered the stadium.

Being in Brunton Park was like going back in time. We showed our tickets to a real person instead of introducing a bar code to a scanner. Inside I was surprised to see that both ends behind the goals didn’t have seating. People stood behind crash barriers just like in the old days. The opposite stand to us only had seats in the top half and the rest was for standing. I thought that since the Hillsborough disaster, all grounds had to be all seaters, but apparently, this rule only applies to clubs in the top two divisions.

Before the match, as we watched the players going through their warm-up routines, a strange thing happened. The Carlisle mascot came out sporting a fox’s head. Now I had always thought that it was Leicester City who were nicknamed “The Foxes”. But now it seems that Carlisle claim that name too. They used to feature a fox on their logo because of the local connection with the legendary huntsman John Peel. In 1976 for instance, the club badge featured a golden fox jumpimg over the abbrieviation CUFC. Later, a fox was shown jumping through a ring of stars. Not any longer is a fox featured though. Now the club badge shows the castle, a shield with the cross of St George and 2 red dragons. Maybe Leicester had threatened to sue them!

I was just digesting all this when the foxy mascot brought out a real stuffed fox mounted on a base and placed it in the centre circle. It stayed there until just before kick off, presumably to bring the team good luck. Football is full of these peculiar traditions and superstitions. I later found that the stuffed fox is called OLGA, which is an anagram of GOAL.

Finally at 3pm, the match kicked off. Chesterfield put in a miserable performance and were lucky only to lose 2-0, although we were very unlucky to have what looked like a good goal, ruled out for a marginal offside. Because this was real life and not on a telly screen, we were unable to watch slow-motion replays to check if the referee’s controversial decision was correct. For a moment we had all gone berserk, in a sudden surge of emotion, but now we returned to stoical acceptance of the inevitable. There was little atmosphere in the rest of the ground. Half of the Carlisle supporters seemed to be asleep. They only woke up when they scored or when there was a disputed throw-in near where they were sitting. There were just under 4000 of them and we numbered 248. We call ourselves the “Spireites” after Chesterfield’s famous and bizarre crooked spire. Even though we lost, I was pleased to be there, enjoying a couple of noisy, raucous hours amongst the Spireite faithful. The away fans nearly always make more noise than the home fans even though heavily outnumbered. Rather than acting like separate individuals they close ranks, feel the warmth of camaraderie and lose many of their inhibitions. A funny moment came when a Carlisle player finally got back on his feet after laying on the turf injured. Some of our number thought he was feigning the injury to waste time and break up the play. One Spireite fan lept up and sarcastically bellowed ” Hallelujah! Praise the Lord! He is healed!” So we lost and we trudged despondently out of the ground and into the darkened streets. I was disappointed with the result but had half expected it. I was still glad that I had made the effort to be one of the valient 248!

Ian and I walked back into the city centre and ate a tasty happy-hour pasta at a jolly Italian ristorante. Then we were back at the station ready for the long journey home. This time we were joined by gangs of Saturday night revellers — young people on their way for a night out in Newcastle. It was noisy but good humoured. At Newcastle, Ian and I parted company and I went on to catch 2 more trains, travelling south and then east. Some young lads I talked to had been drinking in Newcastle and then in Durham city. They were now on their way to Darlington for yet more drinking before getting taxis home to Bishop Auckland. They couldn’t believe it when I told them I had gone all the way from Saltburn to Carlisle and back to see a football match and had  not touched a drop of drink! I think they thought I was mad. It was the last interesting encounter on my long away day. Some may think of it as masochistic, others may think I was insane. Maybe they have a point, but there’s no getting away from the fact that I really enjoyed  it! It would have been even better if the Spireites had won but one cannot have everything!




It’s Only a Game — Or Is It?

15 Feb

I’ve been feeling slightly sick inside for a couple of days now. No-one close to me has died. The house has not collapsed. I have not had my income cut-off. I am not really ill with a sickness bug.( I had that over Christmas)  So what is the problem? I know you will laugh when I tell you. You will probably advise me to “get a grip” and “grow up.” The cause of my malaise is a football match played about 130 miles away from my home, in the lowest tier of the English professional leagues. I wasn’t even at the match. Yet when I saw the result flash up on the screen, it hit me like a punch in the stomach! Even 2 days later, now that I have had time to pull myself together, I am still wandering around in a semi-daze.


You see, I am not ill in the conventional sense, but I do suffer from a terrible, life-long debilitating disease. I am Stuart Bates and I am a Chesterfield FC supporter! It’s an affliction which I know I will never get rid of. It all started when I was born. Yes, you’ve guessed it — I was born in Chesterfield. It’s a little known Derbyshire industrial town in the East Midlands. It has seen better days and it’s traditional industries such as coal mining, engineering and steel making, have all declined. It now lives in constant fear of being swallowed up by its giant neighbour to the north, the city of Sheffield. Chesterfield’s most famous claim to fame is that it’s parish church has an alarmingly crooked and twisted spire. Unseasoned timbers caused the spire to warp and twist back in the 13th century. Ironically, that big mistake by those medieval builders has given an other-wise non-descript town, a unique and special identity. It is the Pisa of north-east Derbyshire, although lacking the Tuscan sunshine, it doesn’t attract quite so many tourists.

So I was born in Chesterfield, spent my childhood there and as I became a teenager, I started to support the town’s  football team. Chesterfield FC are the 4th oldest club in the whole English football league. They have never risen out of the lower divisions. I think they nearly got promoted to the old Division 1 sometime in the 1930’s, but lost out on goal difference. So near, yet so far! They have never reached those dizzying heights since. Commemorating the town’s most famous landmark, the team is nicknamed “The Spireites.”

Supporting the Spireites has always given me a sense of belonging. I left the town of the crooked spire to go to college in Manchester when I was nearly 19, and have lived in various different towns and cities since. But I have always had that strong feeling that my roots are in Chesterfield. When I visit the town I always feel that I have come home. The feeling begins as soon as I spy the crooked spire on the horizon or as soon as a bus driver or shop assistant calls me “duck”, the local Derbyshire term of endearment. I have lived much of my adult life in the land of “Bonnie Lad” and “Pet” but, silly as this sounds, I always experience a strong surge of pleasure when I hear the word “Duck.” The Derbyshire/ Nottinghamshire/ South Yorkshire accent is not the most beautiful in the land, but because I was immersed in it as a child, it is music to my ears.

Just as I identify with the town, I identify, but in a more concentrated and powerful form, with its football team. In the ground on a Saturday afternoon, anything from 4000 to 8000 Spireites are gathered together, united by a common love and a common cause. The numbers are no- where near those who go to watch the top Premier Division teams, but it is still a potent feeling to be amongst so many like- minded people. Spireites come in all ages from young children to so called senior citizens. They include men and women, though the former still predominate. At matches I have seen babes in arms, parents and children, young, raucous men, people in wheel chairs, blind and partially sighted, genteel couples and moaning old “codgers” giving the linesman some stick. In other words one can see a large cross section of the humanity at a Chesterfield match. I have encountered Spireites from Belgium, Spain and even Japan as well as from all over UK. I even met one at British passport control in Calais, who when he had studied my documents, exclaimed “Up the Spireites!” What unites us all is support for the team and identification with the town in some shape or form. I described it as an illness above, but a more accurate word is “addiction.”

“Addiction” sounds quite alarming, as it can be of course. I have already admitted that it has made me feel a bit ill. But don’t worry, I have it under control. ( I think!) For me, being a footballer supporter is like having an alternative, vicarious life. This is particularly so when one identifies strongly with one particular team. The situation will only get serious, in my opinion, if this alternative existance starts spilling over and swamping real life. The bad result last Tuesday made me ill- at- ease and out of sorts. I had to deal with disappointment, shock, and anxiety. Chesterfield are having a terrible season and are in grave danger of being relegated out of the football league altogether. Some of my fellow Spireites use exaggerated language such as : “disastrous”, “gut-wrenching”, and feeling “gutted.” I have said such things too, while in the grip of strong, negative emotions. One of my friends described the threat of relegation as staring into “the abyss.” That’s how many people would view death — the end of existance. Even for a big football fan like myself and ardent Spireite, I admit that that is a bit over the top. The despair of a defeat or the elation of victory are the causes of such colourful language. But, hopefully, these heightened emotions are only temporary and after a calming down period, lives, even Spireite lives, inevitably return to normal.

Being part of something is a powerful feeling. It’s great not to feel alone. I remember feeling wonderful when I marched in a massive torchlight procession for CND in the 1980’s. We were all united in our wish for World peace and for the banning of weapons of mass destruction. That same feeling of togetherness is evoked by headteachers when they tell pupils to be proud of their uniforms and of their role as representatives of the school. Belonging to a team, an institution, a movement or a political party can stir up great pride and satisfaction. It’s just the same with football. I’m not talking about the fake “glory hunters” who pretend to support whichever team is top of the league. Look how many Leicester City “supporters” suddenly and miraculously emerged a couple of years go when the Foxes were Premier League champions. Where are they all now? I’m talking about a deep-rooted and long-lasting support of a club and team. My support for Chesterfield was somehow born inside me. My dad passed it on to me and he got it from my granddad. I have been to many matches with my cousin  and my uncle.( sadly now passed away.) It’s both a joy and an affliction. It’s part of our lives.

Life itself is all about ups and downs. For every high there seems to be a low. Sport, including football, copies life. At the moment I am worried and depressed because my team is not doing very well. Two weeks ago I was worried and depressed because we had a burst pipe under the kitchen floor. Both situations made me feel stressed and temporarily out of control. One was much more trivial tha the other of course. That is the important point I think. My football supporting life must not be allowed to dominate and ruin my real life. Following Chesterfield FC is, or should be, like living in a parallel universe. It’s am alternative world to escape to every now and then. So, since the defeat I’ve lectured myself with phrases such as: “it’s only a game”, “it’s not the end of the world”, and “get a sense of perspective.” Also in the world of football there is the old adage: “there’s always the next game” Thus I have grounded myself in reality and then returned to my Spireite fantasies with a renewed feeling of hope. At the moment, hope is concentrated on an away match at Carlisle on Saturday.

For some insane reason I will endure about 8 hours of train travel to get there and back. Many would see that as a waste of a day — all to watch a poor, struggling football team in a far away corner of England. But I will travel in hope, revel in the gathering of hundreds of Spireites and will enter upon an emotional, 90 minute roller coaster. Whether I (we) emerge happy and elated, or crest-fallen and in despair, depends entirely on whether our 11 men beat their 11 men in a “silly” game of kicking a ball round a field. Hopefully my vicarious sickness will not have taken a turn for the worse by Saturday evening!