Glossop North End (NWCFL Premier Division)

Hooligan autobiographies found themselves, rightly or wrongly, under many a football fan’s Christmas tree yesterday. Fearless gang leaders from Aberdeen to Aldershot have taken to the typewriter to publish their gritty memoires and here at Abbey things are no different. In an explosive new tome, Abbey chairman ‘Big’ Jim Whittaker charts the 2012/13 activity of his own mob, the Just For Men Crew.

Taking their name from the famous mens hair colouring product, the Just For Men Crew quite simply refused to dye, whether that be their grey/white locks or out on the battlefield. And holding down respected committee positions at the club allowed the mob to creep around the North West Counties Football League Division One undetected. In this exclusive chapter Jim tells us about the lads’ visit to Rochdale Town away last season, arguably the Just For Men Crew’s finest hour.

Big Jim: In 2012 there were a lot of really useful firms operating out of the North West Counties and the Just For Men Crew were one of the best in the business. The problem was, because we were new, we were always on the outside looking in. It was time to make a bit of a noise and show them we could handle ourselves.
Three of our top boys, Derek ‘Daggers’ Denby, myself and Gordon ‘Left Hook’ Lester, decided we were going to take Rochdale Town in their home end, the main stand at Butterworth Park. On the face of it, it was a ridiculous thing to do. They were pretty handy and had a big reputation, but that didn't mean nothing to us. We were ready to make our mark and didn't care how we did it.
We got there early and kept a low profile. Among the Bovril drinkers watching the warm up were two Rochdale pensioners chatting away to themselves. “They call him Killer you know,” said one to the other pointing at Abbey striker Martin Pilkington, unaware that our killer pincer move was actually underway in the stand.

Pretty soon the whole place was filling up. There were quite a few rum faces in there but I can't say it bothered me. All I was thinking was: "You're going to get it, you pie munching numpties!"
It was actually their chairman who clocked us. I can remember him saying something like: "I can think of a number…the three goons stood over there," and it all kicked off. Even though they hit us with everything they had, we took it. All I can remember is Daggers screaming: "Hold the line, just hold the effing line," and we did.
I didn't think they could believe that three of us had taken about 40 of them at their place. They just melted away, flicking the V's at us and looking like a total set of girls. I saw their match-day secretary with blood dripping from an open head wound but to be honest I was too wound up to care.
We walked away from there with our heads held high. The Formby Boys would have to take notice now. The Just For Men Crew had well and truly arrived.

 

We’ll Never Dye, the story of the Just For Men Crew, is out in all good book shops from Jan 1.

AFC Liverpool (NWCFL Premier Division)

With the Merseyside delegation in town I have a small confession to make. I once lived in Liverpool. Between 2000 and 2003 I was a resident of L7 and a full time attendee of Liverpool Art School.
Making the move west wasn’t a decision I took lightly. Football had and still has a huge bearing on a lot of my life choices. As a United season ticket holder the city was both a blessing (a relatively short commuting distance from Manchester compared with other university towns) and a curse with at least half of its residents actively despising my beloved club and city.
Despite surprised reactions from friends and family I was determined to use the move to assess for myself whether the stereotypical views of scousers were true to life given my only real experience in the city had been on school trips. So were they? Well, yes and no. 
The tracksuit part definitely was. Grown men on my course unashamedly gave jeans the swerve in favour of brightly coloured and often obscenely priced Lacoste tracksuits. The attitude was best summed up by one of my classmates who came out with the following on the coach as we returned from a field trip: “Ah, Liverpool, the only place in Britain where yer can wear yer trackie with pride.” 
Beyond that though the locals took me to their hearts in a way I never thought they would. And as the weeks went by it became clear that Merseyside and Greater Manchester share a lot of common ground. The trouble is both sides are just too reluctant to admit it. 
My classmates from Huyton and Wavertree were as fiercely passionate about music and football as I was and weren’t shy in expressing opinions. I liked that. 
However, there was the underlying natural football animosity between us that raised its head in spectacular fashion when our sides met. Tribal mentality took over, horrendous things were said, blows were narrowly avoided and it was often a good two weeks before things returned to normal.  
When I wasn’t too hungover I played football for my local Sunday League side. It was run by a Mancunian and comprised a steady mix of students and locals.

I’ll never forget the time our team’s big Scouse centre half berated the referee in hilarious fashion. The ref had been supplied to us by the Liverpool Institute of Performing Arts. To say he was light on his feet would have been an understatement. The exchange went something a little bit like this.

- Look, if I was a proper referee I’d have given a foul...
- Yeah?! And if I was a proper man I’d  knock your fucking head off. 

Such comedy moments weren’t restricted to the football pitch either. Taxi drivers came into their own in Liverpool. Each one thought he was funnier than the last, often with some justification, and we had some cracking conversations. 
One quirk-pot once pulled over, switched his meter off and gave us a full lecture about the construction of Sefton Park. Another was more scathing. “Worra’yer studying?” he asked my ex-girlfriend. “Childhood Studies,” she replied. “Why, did yer not have one?” was his retort. Fair play, it made me laugh.

When I think back there are a number of things I miss about life at the wrong end of the East Lancs. The back street pubs on the grand Georgian cobbled streets off Hope Street. The friendly nature of seemingly anyone over 50. The compact city centre. The weather, bizarrely.

I have a lot of time too for the Anglican Cathedral and on a clear day loved getting the rickety lift to the top for a good old stare out to sea. Its views are unrivaled.

But my United links and excess of civic pride meant I couldn’t settle down in the long term over there no matter how much my Irish girlfriend at the time wanted us to. The threat of inter-city mither was never far away especially in suburban pubs.

But would either tribe want it any other way? I broke up with the Irish girl, moved home and, to this day, have only been back to Merseyside on football business which included Abbey’s recent trip to Prescot for the reverse of today’s fixture.

Here’s hoping the Gorton Rossoneri fair better than they did last time out.

West Didsbury and Chorlton (NWCFL Premier Division)

Last Saturday started brightly enough. Gorton bathed in winter sunshine and I took full advantage of it by hopping on the bike and taking to the Fallowfield Loop cycle path for a steady 23km ride.
Even loading up the car with the nephews before the 50 minute drive north for Abbey’s meeting with Bacup and Rossendale Borough we were squinting in the sunlight. It was perfect football weather. Then the sky turned angry. I can pinpoint the exact moment the clouds set in as well - Waterfoot, just between Bacup and Rawtenstall. With the possible threat of snow imminent, it became clear very quickly why the club at the top of the hill fail to fulfill so many of its fixtures.
We found the ground without any bother despite it being a new one on us. The lad on the turnstile questioned my request for two concessions for the youngsters. “Just look at them,” I said. Neither could successfully buy cigarettes without scrutiny let alone booze. Judging by the average age of the crowd, kids don’t go to the match in these parts.
With the grey haired fan in the majority it was heart warming to see a good turn out of old boys from Abbey. Derek and the gang filed in one by one and it soon became clear that the East Manchester delegation might well outnumber the home fans. It was also nice to see ever-friendly Abbey legend Barrie Walker make the trip.
Once our red and black ‘Abbey Hey – 1902’ flag had been hung at the back of an empty main stand we took to the Martin Peters Sports Bar for a brew. The tagline above the entrance boldly stated ‘the place to be seen’. Unsurprisingly it wasn’t. What it was though was hospitable and, crucially, warm.
The local girl behind the till and her daughter kept the troops happy with homemade meat and potato pie, chips and warm Ribena. While the lads scoffed theirs I took a tour of the walls that were adorned with gold framed faded memories of yesteryear. Among the faces were ex-Manchester United men David May and Tommy Docherty. Small world.
At three the teams appeared and we made our way onto the hard standing area in front of the main stand. The match started brightly but was sadly marred by the sending off of Tom Murray for foul language. Had a precedent been set earlier on then the decision would have been easier to take but after watching several of the home players continually berate the referee’s assistants, the call smacked of double standards.
Nevertheless the second half proved to be a blood and guts display and ironically the ten men in red played better than they had in the first with Justin Pickering going the closest to scoring.
In the last five minutes you felt a winner was possible from either side as numerically strong Bacup threw everything forward and Abbey tried to get them on the counter.
Nil nil was as far as it went but once again the three of us, who watch the bulk of our football at the higher end of the pyramid, left Rossendale satisfied and looking ahead to the next game.

Alsager Town (NWCFL Premier Division)

Last Monday saw my favourite band The National roll into town. The Ohio-cum-New York City five-piece sold out two nights the Apollo almost as soon as tickets went on sale. A great achievement but their rise to fame didn’t happen over night.

I first saw them in 2005 at the much smaller Academy Three venue at Manchester University Students Union. Tipped off by a friend in the know, I soon connected with their moody, melodic but delicately layered brand of indie rock.

Singer Matt Berninger’s warm baritone and detailed,intelligent lyric writing style complimented the music side well. They were an interesting band. Three solid 8/10 albums followed that tour and with each Manchester date the venue got bigger.

One of life’s simple pleasures, in my view, is taking in agig on your own. No distracting small talk, no trips to the bar, just you and the band. As Mrs Mager doesn’t go out on a school night I was free to indulge and indulge I did.

The two hour set flew by as the lads ran through a good mix of songs from their six-album back catalogue. The sound was tight and the crowd interaction between songs was limited as the group tried to fit in as many numbers as possible.

Berninger was flanked on the frontline by identical twins Aaron and Bryce Dessner whose complimentary guitar work was fascinating to watch. While Aaron looked after the more structured rhythm side, Bryce was in charge of sound effects and solos. At one point he played the strings with a violin bow. Whatever works I suppose.

Backing them up were The National’s second set of brothers, Scott and Bryan Devendorf, on bass and drums respectively. The drums were always a driving feature of the band’s earlier albums, maybe most notably on 2007 offering Boxer. While they’ve calmed down a little on current album Trouble Will Find Me it was nice to see a few tracks from Boxer get an airing.

The highlight for me was when suited-up Berninger came into the crowd for a frenzied encore of old favourite Mr November. He was greeted with the kind of Mancunian adulation that is usually only reserved for the likes of Morrissey. Everyone wanted a hug.

His voice may be showing the smallest signs of wear and tear that a long year on the road can bring but overall he was on top form. Intense to the very end.

For the final song the guitars were unplugged and a mass audience sing-along was encouraged. 3,500 happy souls belted out 2010 track Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks with gusto. It was a marvellous end to a marvellous show.

Ashton Athletic (NWCFL Premier Division)

October saw the DVD release of Shane Meadows’ Stone Roses documentary Made of Stone. As well as celebrating the resurrection of one of Manchester’s finest musical exports, the project saw a coming together of my favourite band and one of my favourite filmmakers. A potentially heavenly combination.

Meadows, who shot to fame with the brilliant This is England, also has another couple of superbly gritty films under his belt in A Room For Romeo Brass and Dead Man’s Shoes. I can safely say this one isn’t in the same vein. What it is, is more of a love letter from an ardent music fan.

Made of Stone comprises three acts. The first being the free gig the Roses laid on for their fans in Warrington to mark their come back, the second being their problematic European tour that saw drummer Reni storm off the stage in Amsterdam and the third being that wonderful summer performance at Heaton Park a few weeks later in front of 75,000 elated fans.

Stone Roses frontman Ian Brown invited the filmmaker to cover the band’s press conference in which they announced their triumphant return. The film was born as a result. Despite Meadows being of an age to attend the Roses’ legendary 1990 show at Spike Island, he missed it due to having taken a bad acid trip the night before and subsequently lost his ticket.

The shot at redemption after years of the four-piece snubbing opportunities to reform comes across as a massive relief to the filmmaker as he is afforded access all areas for the duration of their tour. You can tell how much he loves the band as he switches off the cameras during the turbulent Amsterdam gig to avoid heightening tensions further.

The highlight for me is when Meadows gets to sit through a private rehearsal. The band’s beautiful number Waterfall is played out in its entirety and, in intimate surrounds, we get to see what’s truly at the heart of The Stone Roses: four excellent musicians. In 20 years they’ve not lost it.

Being too young to see them in the mid nineties, I too felt the buzz of the second chance that the Heaton Park show afforded us. It was an incredible night that was played out rather predictably in the north Manchester rain. Watching this documentary just over a year later felt like the perfect souvenir. Get it watched.

Winsford (NWCFL Premier Division)

“It’s 7am,” said Big Kev with a grave look on his face. “We’ve missed our flight.”

I sat up with a jolt in my hotel bed. At first I thought he was joking. A quick look at the clock on my phone confirmed he wasn’t.

It was the morning of the Champions League Final in Rome and our connecting flight from Frankfurt had left the German metropolis some 50 minutes earlier.

Having attended 45 out of the previous 65 Manchester United fixtures, the big final in Rome against Barcelona was supposed to be the icing on the cake.

We’d chanced our arm and booked flights to Rome via Frankfurt for next to nothing while United were at the quarter-final stage and it was in a sweaty Frankfurt hotel room at the airport where we now found ourselves.

We’d only gone out for a quick drink in the local pub. This was until a bevy of Scandinavian beauties decided to join us. Turning out to be hostesses from Ryanair they were up for a party and at the time it just seemed plain rude to turn them down.

While Jason, our third travelling companion sat in a chair struggling to come to terms with news I leapt out of bed and attempted to formulate a plan.

We found the Ryanair desk and tried to book another flight. There was one available but it landed ten minutes after kick off. No dice. The only alternative was a hire car. We Google-mapped the route and discovered that Rome was a 12-hour drive away. We had 13 hours to play with. This could work.

A deposit was laid down on a VW Golf and we set off at breakneck speed onto the German autobahns where apparently anything went speed-wise. While half of me feared we’d crash, the other half was firmly focused on the task in hand.

We soon realised that Germany is massive. Town after town passed by until we reached the Swiss border where the roads suddenly became beautifully smooth and the scenery idyllic. We were doing well for time and our friends at home were eagerly tracking our progress from workplaces across the north west.

The picture postcard Swiss landscape got hillier and the Alps soon came into view. Crossing mountains limited our speeds especially through tunnels that were up to 20km in length.

At 5pm we dropped into Italy and cleared Milan in rush hour. So far, so good. An hour south however and our worst nightmare came true. There’d been a huge car crash and the tailbacks stretched out as far as the eye could see.

Italians were getting out of their cars and convening on the hard shoulder. It spelled disaster. Game over. We sat in the traffic for two hours before it started moving again ever so slowly.

With only half an hour to go until kick off we gave up pulled off the motorway with our tails between our legs into the first town, which happened to be Piacenza.

It was the world’s worst hangover multiplied by a million. We were devastated. A local restaurant took pity on us when we showed them our match tickets and let us in to watch the game. 

To add insult to injury United were severely outclassed on the pitch and lost the match without so much as a whimper. The restaurant’s chefs laughed as we headed back on the return journey. With no accommodation booked we decided to stop off at the highest point in the Swiss Alps and slept in the back of the hire car.

The only good to come of this sorry saga were the laughs it brought as my best man recalled it in his speech at my wedding two years later. I sometimes think back to it and think that maybe it was a blessing that United lost. If they’d have won I’d have probably have had to move to the moon…or maybe the Swiss Alps. I hear they’re lovely in May.

Eccleshall (NWCFL Challenge Cup)

While the nation poured over Sir Alex Ferguson’s much anticipated autobiography, Abbey boss Luke Gibson was busy plugging a paperback of his own. Released initially in his native Isle of Man and printed on the back of till roll stolen from the Nelson, Gibson’s tome charts his Abbey career thus far. Here is an exclusive extract about our club’s pre match build up to a match at WD&CFC away.

As we arrived at West Didsbury and Chorlton’s suburban ground I already had a bad feeling. The newly promoted club was already proving to be a somewhat prickly thorn in our otherwise tough exterior. Even though we were clearly the better side on the three occasions we met last season, I wasn’t sure that would change today. 
A waft of burning incense hit our nostrils almost as soon as we entered the club house. Not entirely unpleasant. I looked at the label on the burning stick. Jasmine, just as I thought.
On entering the dressing room we found eleven friendship bracelets strategically placed on each of the coat hooks. I later found out these had been produced by the WD&CFC club secretary entirely out of fair trade yarn. 
It was the Chorlton way of saying hello but we didn’t know what to make of it. 
Such a gesture may have curried favour in a more bohemian quarter of life but this was the rugged rough and tumble world of the North West Counties. What were they thinking?
As we made our way onto the pitch for the warm up things took a turn for the worse when my captain Paul Smith tripped over a large yucca plant that had been strategically placed in the tunnel. 
Was this an underhand tactical maneuver from our hosts or simply a bit of Feng Shui? We’ll never know. Either way we had a stubbed toe that needed some immediate attention.
Ambient ocean sounds poured out of the club’s PA system and our opposition warmed up with a series of exercises inspired by Bikram yoga. Their seamless transition between the Cobra and the Standing Bow was majestic. They looked happy and at one with the world. 
If only I could have transferred some of that composure into my lot. I looked to my left and there they were giving each other wedgies and pile-ons like a bunch of schoolkids. 
I looked for my assistant Aggis in an attempt to restore some order but was dismayed to find him in the thick of the high jinx tormenting my left back James Moss. Mossy was in a headlock and on the receiving end of a severe nuggie. I shook my head.
When the fun had died down we returned to the dressing room where Jonny Mac, our stalwart goalkeeper presented me with another problem. One of the Chorlton players’ wives had given him a Henna tattoo across his hand which required 90 minutes drying time. 
I could overlook the snidey yucca plant but this was the final straw. I marched straight into the referee’s dressing room in an attempt to call the game off but found that the hippies had gotten to the match officials too.
Halfway through a box of complimentary cannabis-laden space cake, the ref and his two assistants were grinning from ear to ear.
I shrugged my shoulders. If you can’t beat them join them, I thought and took a bite out of one of the remaining sponge cakes. It was going to be an interesting afternoon.
 

Squires Gate (NWCFL Premier Division)

Last Saturday marked a small milestone for me. While the lads were being handed a drubbing on the pitch, I was busy chalking off football ground number 75 like a bad anorak.

I’ve been a ground obsessive for as long as I can remember. My school homework diaries are punctuated with highly detailed sketches of mid-nineties stadia and a trip to the match was, and still is, as much about the setting as the game itself.

North West Counties grounds proudly sit among my quota alongside their larger Football League counterparts and are living proof that bigger isn’t necessarily better. Call me an old romantic but peeling paintwork, creaking turnstiles and weather beaten terracing beats pricey identikit all seaters any day of the week. 

Looking through my list I’ve tried to recall a stand out feature or memory from each of the 75. With a deep breath, here goes.

The quaint bench seating at our very own AbiStad. Tractor tyre marks on the pitch at Alder Street, Atherton. Futuristic space ship like curves at the Amsterdam Arena. A Ringo Starr style announcer at Anfield, Liverpool. Blue seats for a team that plays in red at the AWD Arena, Hannover. Lifts to reach the top tiers in the Bernabeu, Madrid.

A nice old clock on the main stand roof at Bloomfield Road, Blackpool. 30 away fans spread across a large all-seater stand behind the goals at Boundary Park, Oldham. A long walk up a steep hill to reach Bower Fold, Stalybridge. One row of seating at Brookburn Road, Chorlton. A caravan on top of the main stand roof at Butterworth Park, Rochdale.

Friendly locals at Celtic Park, Glasgow. Views of rowers on the Thames at Craven Cottage, Fulham. A public gym under the stand for the fatties at Deepdale, Preston. A wire cage on the front of the away end at El Madrigal, Villarreal. Hostile locals at Elland Road, Leeds. Scenic mountain top views at Estadio Olimpico, Barcelona. Two stands running down one side of the pitch at Ewen Fields, Hyde.

7,000 loud away fans at Ewood Park, Blackburn. Condemned terracing at Gigg Lane, Bury. A bloke selling old mobile phones at Goodison Park, Liverpool. Rain, rain and more rain at Harrison Park, Leek. Away fans on all four sides of the ground at Hillsborough, Sheffield. Open terracing at both ends at Hilton Park, Leigh. Slack jawed locals enjoying their new build at Huish Park, Yeovil.

Astroturf and nice coffee at Lambeth Grove, Stockport. Beautiful symmetry at the Lia Manoliu, Bucharest. Soldiers with guns and big hats at the Luzhniki, Moscow. Four stands built in four different decades and Victorian bogs at Maine Road, Manchester.

Flat pack stands and a nice club house at Millbank Linnets Stadium, Runcorn. City centre convenience at Molineux, Wolverhampton. Difficulty parking at Moss Lane, Altrincham. Flooded toilets at New Wembley. Open air vastness at the Nou Camp, Barcelona. Bird shit every where at Nou Castalia, Castellon.

Riot police and dogs at Oakwell, Barnsley. A home from home at Old Trafford, Manchester. Retail park blandness at Pride Park, Derby. Peppered steaks on the burger vans at the San Siro, Milan. A ground that backs on to another ground at today’s visitors’ home of School Road, Blackpool. Icy Irish Sea winds at Seaview, Belfast. Scenic views of the castle and Pendle Hill at Shawbridge, Clitheroe.

A muddy pitch at Silver Street, Irlam. A hill in the corner at Spotland, Rochdale. Panoramic cityscape views from the car park at St Andrews, Birmingham. Endless staircases at St James’ Park, Newcastle. Nothing to write home about at St Mary’s, Southampton.

Cans of lager by the dug outs at Stainton Park, Radcliffe. A hotel built into the back of the stand at Stamford Bridge, Chelsea. A nice long terrace at Tameside Stadium, Ashton. Chilly open corners at The Britannia, Stoke. Efficient bar service at The Etihad, Manchester. Steep stone steps leading down from the main road to reach The Crown Ground, Accrington.

Straddling the Welsh border at The Deva Stadium, Chester. Northern Soul and nice pies at The DW, Wigan. A narrow walkway behind the stand at The Hawthorns, West Bromwich. Open stands and a running track at The International Stadium, Gateshead. A pitch invasion at The KC Stadium, Hull. Seven hours on a bus to reach The Liberty Stadium, Swansea. Superb acoustics at The Milenium Stadium, Cardiff.

Fields as far as the eye can see at The Reebok, Bolton. Short-sleeved locals in winter at The Riverside, Middlesbrough. Beers in the bowling alley by the side of The Stadium of Light, Sunderland. Manchester prices in a London borough at The Valley, Charlton. The cow shed at The Willows, Salford.

Open terracing and a waterlogged pitch at Turf Moor, Burnley. Wannabe hooligans at Upton Park, London.

Shallow single tiers at Vale Park, Stoke-on-Trent. A crumbling fifties relic of a main stand at Valerie Park, Prescot. Elevated views from the clubhouse balcony at Valley Road, Flixton. Green crush barriers at Victoria Stadium, Northwich. Beautiful brickwork at Villa Park, Birmingham. A car factory next door at the Volkswagen Arena, Wolfsburg. Scruffy wooden seats at old Wembley. Compact stands and a lovely pitch at White Hart Lane, Tottenham.

And relax. Here’s to the next 75.

Runcorn Town (NWCFL Premier Division)

Some time during the last week of August a spray-painted mural appeared on a wall in town that caused quite a stir. It featured a close up portrait of a bespectacled middle aged man with a goatee beard accompanied by two chemical symbols. While this striking piece of artwork was lost on some, many recognised the man to be Walter White, the protagonist-turned-antagonist of cult US television show Breaking Bad.
The award-winning series reached its climax on Sunday night with a blockbuster finale that, judging by its reviews, went down as favourably with online viewers on this side of the pond as it did with those in the States.
My wife and I first got into the show last year. As it was never screened on a terrestrial UK channel, finding out about it was pretty much a word of mouth affair. After rave reviews from friends we finally caved and four seasons were quickly acquired. Evening by evening we brought ourselves up to speed and I’ve got to be honest, it exceeded both our expectations.
The show centres itself around mild mannered struggling chemistry teacher Walter White who is diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer. Teaming up with a former student Jesse Pinkman, Walt turns to a life of crime, producing and selling the illegal and highly addictive drug methamphetamine, in order to secure his family’s future before he dies. Breaking Bad’s creator Vince Gilligan said his goal throughout the show’s five seasons was to turn Mr Chips into Scarface. He certainly did that.
Without giving too much away, the descent of Walter White into the murky crystal meth underworld via his alter ego Heisenberg is an utterly gripping affair. Just when you think it can’t get any worse, it does, and then some. And to add a bit of flavour to the mix, Walt’s brother-in-law Hank is a drug squad copper.
The show is shot in an incredibly cinematic manner, with utmost attention to the most minute of details, in the dusty setting of Albuquerque, New Mexico. The city on the edge of a desert lends itself brilliantly to the series and offers us a window into this relatively under-chartered part of the US as well as an insight into the country’s drug problems.
It was ultimately the show’s main characters though that kept us hitting the play button. Their interaction was heart warming and amusing at times and down right shocking at others.
If you’re in the market for a new DVD box set to watch, as the dark winter nights set in, you could do a lot worse than get hold of this gem. It’s available on Netflix too. But be warned, like Heisenberg’s crystal meth, it’s very moreish.

Stockport Sports (NWCFL Premier Division)

Faking a concerned expression…it’s agony uncle time again

Dear Mager League,

Since stepping down as the Abbey first team manager I’ve found it very difficult to adapt to life outside of football. For example, yesterday I was having a tyre replaced on my Ford Sierra. When the mechanic asked whether it was an offside or nearside wheel that needed attention, I instinctively bellowed ‘OFFSIDE!’ and waved my hand in the air. I just don’t know what came over me. Please help.  

Baz Walker

Mager League says:

What a nightmare. Your time at Abbey was obviously very important to you and I can understand how hard it must have been to let it go. I think you need a clean break though, a new hobby, maybe. Ever tried line dancing? You’d be ace at it, I reckon.

Dear Mager League,

Every time our strikers blaze a shot over the Railway End crossbar it’s my job to climb two sets of ladders and retrieve the ball from the other side of the fence. This often results in me missing vital periods of play such as corners and sometimes even goals. Can you have a word?

Gary H

Mager League says:

I feel your pain Gary. Sometimes I’ll miss the first five minutes of the second half myself. Admittedly this is more down to eating pies and drinking tea in the clubhouse than anything else but it has caused me to miss a few goals this season. As for having a word with the strikers, have you seen the size of that lad Kwame Barnett? He’d rip my head off if I criticised his game. It’s another few months on the ladders for you I’m afraid pal.

Dear Mager League,

I tell you what the Abbey Stadium needs and has done for a long time. A speedway track. A rival to Belle Vue would definitely bring in some more punters. What do you say and could it be done this week in time for Runcorn on Saturday?

Paul

Mager League says:

As pleased as Derek the groundsman would be to build a dusty motorsport facility around the perimeter of his prize turf I’m not sure everyone else would be as enthusiastic. One of the joys of watching Abbey play from a fans perspective is the how close you get to the pitch. A track would compromise this and maybe even drive away the fans we already have. Couldn’t we have a look at a more realistic sport to branch out into? We could start small by installing a dartboard or a snooker table in the clubhouse perhaps. 

Dear Mager League,

I think my Michael Jackson obsession has gone a bit too far. While my Billie Jean ringtone was deemed acceptable by the lads in the dressing room, they’ve drawn a line when I asked them to start referring to my house as Neverland. Smithy suggested I write to you to sort this out. Please help.

MJ, I mean, Sam Jones

Mager League says:

I think the answer to all this lies, rather ironically, in the lyrics of Michael Jackson’s hit Man in the Mirror. You need to sit down in a darkened room, have a good long listen and indeed ‘change your ways’. Alternatively carry on as you are, every dressing room need a nutter. SHAMONE!

St Helens Town (NWCFL Premier Division)

Jibbing is a term deeply woven into the fabric of the Manchester football match going culture. It essentially means gaining entry to a football ground by any means necessary and an infamous mantra of ‘to pay is to fail’ is seen as a code to live by for thousands.

As a mainly straight-going football fan I’ve tended to do things quite boringly by the book. I might have got away with paying £7.50 a match at Old Trafford up until the age of 19 but this was mainly down to my youthful looks than any turnstile trickery.

My one magnificent exception to this orthodox approach though occurred ten years ago at Goodison Park, Liverpool, some 20 minutes further down the East Lancs from the home of today’s visitors.

It was May 2003 and Manchester United had just secured their 15^th top flight league title. I was a penniless third year student living in Liverpool City Centre, a university destination I had chosen three years earlier for it’s proximity to Manchester – in three years of living there I missed one home game.

My financial situation dictated that, save for special circumstances, away games were going to be beyond my means for the duration of my time there. So when it was announced that United would be presented with their trophy at Everton away, some two miles from my front door, I knew I had to be in that ground.

Spare tickets were thin on the ground. I’d been out of the loop and quite rightly there were scores of Reds ahead of me who were more deserving. Touts were quoting prices of £70 for a £25 face value ticket. To us that figure may has well have been £1,000.

I wracked my brains and then it came to me. Marcus. My Prestwich flatmate had been supplementing his student loan by working on a pie stand at Goodison and had been boasting about landing the United job. I asked him to put a word in for me but it proved fruitless. The company Workbank weren’t taking any more staff on. Time to formulate an alternative plan.

This came in the form of the photocopied pricelist and a map of Goodison Park that Marcus had been sent to memorise. I took the documents to our local shop, photocopied and stapled them and replaced them without him or the Asian elder behind the desk suspecting a thing.

Come the big day I caught a midday bus up to Goodison with Marcus with my makeshift passport safely tucked away in my jacket. As I let him go ahead of me in the queue at the staff entrance he told me I had no chance of getting in. He was about to be proved most wrong.

A quick flash of my papers was enough to get past the old boy in the blue baseball cap on the gate. Now for the hard part. I joined another queue of Workbank employees deep within the bowels of the stand and when my turn came approached the admin desk and gave the girl my papers.

“You’re not on the list, Rob. But seen as a few haven’t turned up we’ve got a slot for you. Ever done bar work?”

Result! A staff wrist band and a blue jumper were exchanged for my jacket and I was off to the Park End having never pulled a pint in my life.

My workmates for the day were six orange faced old girls from Bootle. They had etched on frowns and spent the first hour of the shift complaining about their rotten husbands.

At half one fans started to filter in. I served a few but was useless with the mental arithmetic side of things. Some lad from north Wales actually came back and said: “You’ve given me too much change mate.”

At 3.10pm I headed up a stairwell and watched most of the first half from the Park End with a wily old steward. “Imagine if I told all these yer a Manc, lad,” he said smiling. My stomach churned. To our right, a jubilant United end was in full voice. Lucky gets.

An oversized scowling Ooompa Loompa poked me ten minutes later and made it clear that I was needed for the half time rush. I duly returned to my post where chaos then ensued. I was taken off serving duty and put on pint pouring. I was equally crap at that too. Pints went out with a head on them so big that a floating Flake bar wouldn’t have looked out of place.

By 4.15pm they’d had enough. “Oh, go watch the match,” ordered the boss. Right you are, I thought and headed back to the main stand to retrieve my jacket.

I watched the remainder of the second half with Marcus from the hardcore Glawdys Street End and, for my own safety, had to feign outrage at a Ruud Van Nistelrooy goal. Come the final whistle we climbed over the fence in the Bullens Road Stand that separates the home and away fans and joined the elated 0161 delegation as Roy Keane lifted a glistening silver trophy skywards.

Ten years on there is a well earned £20 that is rightfully mine still floating away in the system but as you can imagine it’s not something that keeps me awake at night. My pint pulling skills, or lack of them, however, are another story entirely.

Maine Road (NWCFL Premier Division)

Maine Road FC were formed in the mid fifties by a group of blues who wanted to play football. I caught up with Macca, a time-served Salford blue, for a chat

What have the past five years been like and were you sad to see the back of Mancini?
‘Sad’ is probably the wrong word – I will always be grateful for what he did for us but I’d been hearing a lot of stories from behind the scenes for a while which made me doubt if he could be in place long-term.

He seems to have a ‘one size fits all’ approach to man management and appears incapable of realising not every player can be treated in the same way. We all know Premier League players are precious but you won’t change that and you have to adapt accordingly. He seemed unwilling to change and some of his public tantrums regarding Marwood (no matter how justified) and others were far from great.

The last five years have obviously been a bit odd for someone born a month after we won the League Cup in 1976 – going from absolutely nowt in my lifetime to an FA Cup and Premier League title in successive yearstakes some adjusting to. As I always say though, we got lucky, simple as that. I don’t look back on the bad times with fondness because they were bloody awful. Anyone who yearns for those days wasn’t actually there.
I like the idea of this kindly old chap with the sharp brain replacing the nowty young manager who was causing friction, but I’ve not formed a real opinion on him yet. We were excellent against Newcastle, awful against Cardiff and pretty average against Hull so I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little worried. Early days though – I know.

What have been your highest and lowest points as a blue?
Highest is not what you’d expect. I don’t think I’ll ever top the feeling of when that ball hit the net at Wembleyfrom Dickov’s boot in 1999. It’s dead easy to sneer because it was a third tier play off final but if we’d lost that game everything would have changed – we were screwed. I was at University at the time and my dissertation was on the new ground and City at the time and, believe me, if that goal hadn’t have gone in there’dhave been no new ground, and there might not even be a Manchester City now. Things were that bad.  

Aguero’s goal left me euphoric but Dickov’s goal resulted in a cocktail of emotions I don’t think I’ll ever experience again – unless I’m pulled from the burning wreckage of a plane before it explodes in later years.

And the worst?

1996-1999.

What was your first City game?
Crystal Palace at home in 1984. All my family are reds and I’d been taken to Old Trafford before but just didn’t take to it. Within five minutes of being at Maine Rd for a second tier game as an eight year old I knew it was more to my liking. I’ve always been an awkward get.

Do you miss Maine Road (the ground)?

Terribly. I know we had to leave and I know it was a ramshackle old imbalanced mess in the end but it was great. Loads of my red mates miss it as well because there was nothing like a Maine Road derby.  All those little rat runs and that uneasy feeling in your stomach that the next blind corner could lead to a whole load of trouble – loved it.

Get to many non league games?

I go to none and I’m not proud of that. I’ve been threatening to tag along with my FC United mates for a mooch when City haven’t a game now and again but never have done as yet. No reason why I shouldn’t pop down to Salford City though in fairness. 

Ever seen Maine Road FC play and what’s the perception of them among the blues you know?

I’ve a story about Maine Road FC. During Pearce’s last season in charge which, in all fairness, was hell on earth, a few fanzine people and other blues had a meeting about the possibility of a ‘breakaway’ club (a la FC) such was the depressing atmosphere at City at the time. Not only was the football abysmal but the stewarding was heavy handed and the prices were higher than they are now. I attended more out of interest than anything but the meeting finished with it more or less decided that; rather than start a new club, people would commit more to Maine Road FC. Perhaps some people in that room did but, I have to admit, I’ve never seen them play, but I’ve not heard a bad word about them at the match. I think it isrecognised there is an established link there.

My Dad (who I still sit next to at the game to this day) got released by United at 16 years of age and had a good non-league career – Prestwich Heys and Runcorn being his main clubs when they were in the upper echelons of the non-league world (he’s 71 now bless him – but still quicker than me). So I really should make the effort.

What’s the best thing about Manchester?

The Northern Quarter.

And the worst?

The Northern Quarter.

How do you think the derby on Sunday will go?

I don’t even want to think about it. Worst days of my year. 3-0 City.
 

Congleton Town (FA Vase)

This week I opened up the floor to questions. An Abbey agony uncle if you will. Here’s the best of the bunch.

Dear Mager League,
When I signed for Ashton United the lads wouldn’t stop going on about the hot dogs at Ashton IKEA. They sounded good so I went into try one. This was two weeks ago. Since then I’ve not been able to find my way out. The place is just so big. I’m currently stranded between bedding and lighting and have missed three matches. Please help.
Martin Pilkington
Aisle Five

Mager League says:
What a predicament, Martin! I told you nothing good would come of you leaving Abbey but you wouldn’t listen. My only advice is to adapt to your new surroundings. Why not sign up for the IKEA staff football team to pass the time? I hear they play with a flat back four. 

Dear Mager League,

I’ve got a longstanding problem with linesmen. They just make me so mad. I’m normally a nice easygoing chap but put me within 10 yards of a sideline match official and I lose the plot. Please help.

Kind regards,

Derek D

Mager League says:

In cases like this I’d usually be tempted to offerthe same advice as I would to someone with road rage. Try counting to ten or picture a calming scene, maybe a meadow, some bunny rabbits or a duck pond. In this particular instance though I’d say crack on old boy. I’m not very fond of linesmen either, you see.

Dear Mager League,

I’m asking this for a friend. He’s recently been appointed as the manager of a local non league football team. During games he feels compelled to stand on top of the dug out and gesticulate wildly with his hands. What does this mean and should I be worried for him?  

Luke Gibson (Asking for a friend, remember)

Mager League says:

This sounds very serious. I remember a case just like it in the Isle of Man District League. The lad in question thought he was Mick Jagger.It got to the point where people would turn up to watch him rather than the team. This did nothing for morale and they were relegated soon after. Behaviour like this may very well be acceptable in the middle of the Irish Sea but here in Gorton we do things differently. Buy a deckchair if you really must take up an elevated viewing position.

Dear Mager League,

Since injuring my hand I’ve grown accustomed to watching the game from the side lines. I’ve really started to get into it. The pies, the beer,the craic with the grey-haired lads, it’s miles better than actually playing. Now my bones are healing, I’m worried about actually having to play again. Can you do anything about this?

Jonny Mac

Mager League says:

Great isn’t it. I wouldn’t worry too much just yet. The form young Ross has been showing of late would suggest that getting back in the team might not be as straightforward as you think. If however Gibbo decides to call on you I can write a sick note but it won’t be cheap. €400. In cash. Today.