Barnoldswick Town (NWCFL Premier Division)

“Three hours? Three hours?!”

Mrs Mager was a bit shocked when she discovered the running time of black comedy The Wolf of Wall Street. It was a tad longer than the typical 90 minute’ers she’s used to but previous Martin Scorsese and Leonardo DiCaprio collaborations have form for this. And if I’m being completely honest, the time literally flew.

The picture charts the real-life rise and fall of ambitious New York stockbroker Jordan Belfort (DiCaprio) and for the entire duration we are treated to a visual whirlwind of nineties excess as Belfort and his mates bring new meaning to the phrase ‘work hard play hard’.

Dwarves, candles, monkeys and even goldfish all feature among the gang’s high-jinx in a drug-fuelled world of sex and crooked deals. Belfort even pays one of his employees a cool $10,000 to shave her head provided she spends the money on a boob job. Rum but fascinating.

Our own Joanna Lumley makes a decent cameo appearance as one of Belfort’s in-laws but the best supporting actor in the whole production is Jonah Hill who lines up alongside DiCaprio as odd sidekick Donnie Azoff. Younger readers will recognize Hill from right-of-passage teen comedy Superbad.

The aspiring actor’s desire to work with legend Scorsese saw him pocket just $60,000 while DiCaprio walked away with a cool $10million. On the strength of this Oscar-nomination performance though it was probably the best career move he ever made.

As it’s all based on a real life story the film inevitably turns serious when the FBI decides to wage war on Belfort’s crooked empire and attempts to bring him down. The game of cat and mouse that ensues is superb.

Scorsese’s triumph in my eyes is in engaging the viewer with a world of extremely shallow unlikable characters. He certainly has a knack of making you root for the bad guy. So if there’s one film you see this year then make a date with The Wolf. You’ll be howling.

 

 

 

 

Bootle (NWCFL Premier Division)

“When's the right time to judge David Moyes? Now? Three months ago? End of the season? End of next season I think...”

Abbey gaffer Luke Gibson’s tweet on Wednesday night was extremely telling. He of all people knows first hand what is involved in following in the managerial footsteps of a club legend. When Sir Alex Ferguson called time on his Manchester United career last May so did successful Abbey boss Barrie Walker. Both men left on a relative high. Fergie by winning his club a record 20th league title and Walker leading his team to a well deserved promotion and a cup final.   
Manchester United and Abbey Hey may be a million miles away from each other in football terms but with both clubs having replaced successful retiring managers with younger candidates there are a few parallels that can be drawn between Gibson and Moyes at the minute. 
First off it is fair to say that the two men received something of a hospital ball when taking up the reins. In Moyes’ case he inherited a squad that had overachieved under Ferguson and was in need of some major surgery. In Gibson’s it was the vultures of the North West Counties Football League that posed a problem. By waving wads of cash at Gibbo’s star men, paying clubs scuppered any chance of Abbey’s talented team of youngsters from realising their potential. In just a matter of weeks the dynamic class of 2013 side that Barrie Walker had nurtured and moulded was unfairly torn apart. 
Secondly both managers have approached their new positions with a long term view in mind and a commitment to continue to place trust in young talent. At Old Trafford Moyes has thrown Belgian starlet Adnan Januzaj into the action at every opportunity. His faith has been repaid as among his side’s up-and-down performances, Januzaj’s have been the ones that have consistently stood out. At the AbbeyStad too we have seen Gibson give the nod to up to three or four home grown players at a time in an attempt to acclimatise them to life in the Premier Division. 
Results so far have been mixed for both bosses with each recording slightly more defeats than they would have liked. But to suggest either man is any where close to being on the ropes at this stage is utter lunacy. The hierarchy and fans at both clubs recognise the size of the task that lies ahead and have given the pair a solid platform on which to work their magic.
The problem is that we live in an impatient world where instant success and fame is expected without realising that sometimes things just take time. Luckily in the cases of Gibson and Moyes that is exactly what they have. I wish them well.

Wigan Robin Park (NWCFL Premier Division)

Just behind the clubhouse side of this ground is a cycle path. I’m sure many of you are familiar with it. The lad who sometimes cycles to the match with his missus almost certainly is. I’ve become very familiar with it of late as I’ve developed a completely unexpected love of life on two wheels. Let me tell you how it started.
We were visiting friends in Dalston, north London, a few weeks ago. We’d been on the beer all day and had had a nice curry to round things off. At about 1am we were sitting about with a few can of Red Stripe listening to music when one bright spark came up with an idea. A bike ride. Now. Around London. 
We thought he was joking but as others piped up and voiced their enthusiasm the absurd proposal suddenly became very real. Three slightly worse-for-wear lads on the wrong side of 30 were soon pulling bikes out of a shed and heading out onto the road without helmets or lights.
I went mental quoting alarming statistics of London cycling casualties but my warning fell on deaf ears. Two hours later they returned having covered some 30-odd kilometeres and visited all the main tourist spots. Photographs of the pissed up trio on London Bridge confirmed this. I was livid but also a tiny bit jealous. 
Relaying this tale to my old man a few weeks later he pointed out that he had a bike that was gathering dust in his garage. It was a Peugeot racer that hadn’t been out in ten years. I was welcome to borrow it. Having not been out on a bike myself in over 20 years I was apprehensive. But after some careful planning and the purchase of a few cheap cycling accessories I set out on the aforementioned cycle path also known as The Fallowfield Loop.

And what a ride it is. A thin eight-mile linier park stretching from Gorton in the east all the way to Chorlton in the west. The gateway to south Manchester if you will and a leafy world away from red brick madness. I find myself on it most weekends and by the time you read this I’ll have probably already done a good 30km.

If you’ve access to a bike then why not give it a go. I recommend getting on at either Abbey Hey or Ryder Brow and heading west towards Fallowfield. Come off at St Werburgh’s Road Metrolink station in Chorlton and head through the four banks in central Chorlton onto Manchester Road, down Kensington Road towards Stretford.

From there you’re in easy reach of cycle-friendly Old Trafford and Manchester’s stunning waterfront at Salford Quays with all its attractions. Last week’s ride took me to the Imperial War Museum North. A world class museum that costs nothing, save for a donation, to visit.

With parts of this year’s Tour de France taking in the north of England there’s never been a better time to be showing an interest in pedal pushing. I draw the line though at wraparound sunglasses.

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.