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.