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!