SATURDAY NIGHT
AND THURSDAY MORNING
- Fifteen Years On
by Dave Espley
Copyright © Dave Espley 1997, 2011
The right of Dave Espley to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 1997 by JCA Publishing
This edition published 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.
ISBN for 2011 edition: 978-1-4478-6682-4
Main cover photo: Dave Espley
Cover design: Andrew Espley, based on an original design by Dave Humphrey
For Anna,
Julia, Christopher and Andrew
Special thanks to Graham Allsop
Foreword to 2011 edition
I can predict with a fair degree of accuracy where I was when I had the idea for “Saturday Night and Thursday Morning” - probably cycling down Chester Road towards Woodford. I used to cycle to and from work in those days, a six and a half mile journey that took me about forty minutes. Not very impressive, I know, but it did give me a fair bit of time to think.
Like many people, I’d read quite a few of those humorous, self-deprecating travelogues that were incredibly popular at the time - stuff from writers like Bill Bryson and Pete McCarthy. I’d also recently read Harry Pearson’s “The Far Corner” which took that genre and applied it to football. What about doing the same for County, I thought.
I discussed it with Anna, and we agreed that I’d give it a go. However, I knew it would be a fair old commitment from someone who’d never done a full season before. I know there are those County fans who’ve done it for years; I’m not trying to claim I was anything special. Just that in my own case, it was something I wasn’t used to doing. We therefore agreed that I’d only do it initially for, say, three months, and if I couldn’t get an agent, I’d stop.
In the old pre-ePublishing days, the options for getting your book into the hands of a reader were fairly limited. You could self-publish (which early on in the process wasn’t something I’d even considered), or you could - if you were very lucky - get a commercial publisher to take you on. Submitting your manuscript directly however, meant that it would go in the slush pile - literally, a pile of similarly unsolicited stuff - and be read months, if not years, after you’d sent it. Given that this book would be a bit pointless if it was published a couple of years after the events it described (and even then, it would probably have been knocked back), I knew I needed an agent.
I therefore approached a few in the accepted way (covering letter, samples of a couple of chapters), and one, Jonathan Harris, seemed interested. We agreed via letter that I’d carry on writing for the first three months or so of the season and then send him what I’d done. This was prior to the Millwall game, which was the most arduous early trip, and one I didn’t particularly want to make if the book wasn’t going to come off. At the end of September, then, probably round about the time of the Sheffield United away game, I printed off what I’d written so far and sent it to him.
He phoned me at home the same evening he’d received the stuff. He seemed very keen to represent me and, after a fairly brief conversation, we agreed that he’d take me on; he said he’d send a contract for me to sign. He specialised in sports books, particularly football, and also represented, amongst others, Geoff Hurst, Bobby Robson and Terry Venables (the Venables connection was highlighted a few years later when Tony Blair’s nanny attempted to sell her memoirs, and the Blairs took out an injunction. Her agent, who was Jonathan, was portrayed as some kind of dodgy character, the villain of the piece, demonstrated by the fact that he was also the agent for wideboys like Venables).
It’s difficult to convey how important getting an agent felt, and thus how excited I was. Getting a book published in the traditional way is extraordinarily difficult. It’s very slightly easier getting a non-fiction book published than a novel, but it’s still incredibly hard. There are thousands of manuscripts created each year (everyone’s got a book inside them, yes? In most cases, it should stay there), and only a tiny percentage make the bookshelves. The process is made much easier if you manage to be taken on by an agent. There’s nothing guaranteed, as I was to discover, but being represented by an agent means, at least, that publishers will read your stuff.
So, I was excited. This book was going to be published, and I could carry on attending every game of a season that was, at that point, starting to take off. I carried on writing.
I’d made the decision, almost as soon as I started, to write it in the present tense. I’m not sure why, but it just seemed right, somehow. Looking at it now, I think it helps to convey a sense of immediacy, which enhanced the feelings of being there. Whatever the tense, though, I did find it very easy to write. I took notes, on paper first then via a Dictaphone, and then wrote them up into the narrative within a couple of days of the game taking place, never being more than two games behind. The jokes flowed easily enough, and I didn’t worry about editing - that would happen at the publisher.
As the season went on, however, there was no news from Jonathan about actually finding a publisher. You’ll read in the Southampton chapter how I managed - quite legitimately, I keep telling myself - to wangle a hotel trip to see us beat the Saints at The Dell. I had another work trip lined up - even more legitimately in this case, as I didn’t arrange nor even suggest it; I was asked to go. This one was to London, so once the morning work was done, and there was nothing else planned for the afternoon, I excused myself and got on the tube to Kensington High Street, where Jonathan’s office was.
I was astonished to meet him; on the phone he’d sounded tweedy and refined, and I’d guessed he was in his fifties at least - possibly older. He was a literary agent, after all - they were all that age. However, bounding down the stairs to greet me was a long haired guy who was probably younger than me - possibly even in his late twenties. He greeted me with that astonishing voice; look away and he gained thirty years in age.
He still seemed confident of finding a publisher, but said that what he’d come up against, again and again, was the perception from publishers that whilst the book was good (little consolation, ultimately), the market for it was too small for them to take it on; the sales figures simply didn’t add up. Nevertheless, Jonathan said he’d continue to try. Before I left, he did tell me an interesting tale; he’d been speaking to the sports editor of the News of the World, who was apparently a County fan, and had shown interest in my book (but only as a fan - he wasn’t about to pay for serialisation rights!)
Jonathan also said that he thought the title was a good one. I was happy about this, as at the time I was unsure about it (I now think it’s great). This uncertainty lead me to add the subtitle, which I think is horribly clunky, but required, I thought, in order to clarify exactly what the book was about for the hordes of non-County fans that were going to read it.
A day or so after the Chesterfield game, with still no news from Jonathan, I got a call from Trevor Baxter of the Manchester Evening News, who told me that he was writing a book about County’s great season, and he’d like to interview me, to get a fan’s (specifically a fanzine editor’s) perspective. I didn’t tell him I was also writing a book because at that time I was beginning to think it might never see the light of day, and I didn’t want to appear as though I was the foil in Peter Cook’s famous joke: “I’m writing a novel” “Really? Neither am I.” Nevertheless, here was someone who was definitely going to get a book published, and I was still struggling. The excitement I’d felt when being taken on by Jonathan had all but disappeared and I was beginning to think all my effort was going to be wasted.
The season ended, and I delivered the final manuscript with again, no positive response from Jonathan. Trevor Baxter’s book (which was, incidentally, great - a really enjoyable and professionally produced record of the season) came out, and I featured fairly heavily - an irony which seemed to mock my own efforts, still being hawked around publishers with no joy. Then rumours started that Dave Jones had also written a book about the season - why the hell was mine the only one being ignored?
Stupidly, I thought that perhaps Jonathan wasn’t earning his corn, and I therefore did something unethical and bypassed him, deciding to send the manuscript to publishers myself. However, the replies proved that Jonathan had indeed been doing his job, as more than one said, effectively, “wha...? We’ve already seen this…”
One of the them, however, planted the seed. His reply said, like the others, that whilst the book was good, they couldn’t take it on because it was about Stockport County. Not enough sales. However, he suggested, why didn’t I self-publish? He gave an example of a book that had been self-published by a Norwich fan. Hmm, I thought. I’m used to getting fanzines published - how much more difficult can it be for a book?
The answer was “not very”. I used the same printer as I did for the fanzine (a mistake, in view of the fact that with a number of copies, the pages fell out after repeated readings), and got in touch with the guy who designed the covers for the County videos that Cavalier Studios produced. I took a couple of photos of a scarf hanging out of the window of my car, and got permission from the Stockport Express photographer to use the picture of the Chesterfield celebration. Add in my photo of the scoreboard from Millwall, and it was job done. 2,000 copies ordered, and a print bill of several thousand pounds. Ulp.
I promoted the book pretty extensively in “The Tea Party,” as by this time the new season had started; I got a few hundred flyers printed, with an order form, and put one in every copy. I also sent review copies away, getting one decent one in Match of the Day magazine, and a couple of lukewarm ones elsewhere. I also got invited onto the GMR sports show, where I was interviewed by Jimmy Wagg. As it was whilst Coronation Street was on, however, I’m not sure anyone listened.
Because I’d used the fanzine printer, I had a period of grace before I had to pay him, but I still needed lots of sales. Luckily, the delay in getting the book out meant that we were now in the pre-Christmas period, so for a few weeks sales were very healthy. I’d agreed a deal with two of the three major Stockport bookshops, Dillons and Waterstones, but WH Smiths wanted too much commission (over 50% of the cover price, as I recall, whereas the other two agreed to 35%). The County club shop also took some, also at 35% commission. It was fortunate, then, that I was able to pay off the print bill in full, albeit via two instalments, within a couple of months of the book coming out.
Reaction from readers was almost uniformly positive. That’s probably down to the fact that the readership was almost exclusively County fans, and you couldn’t really go wrong writing an account of that particular season.
It was, as I’ve mentioned, the third book to be produced about 1996-97. By the time mine came out, Trevor Baxter’s had been joined, of course, by Dave Jones’ “On The Edge.” Whilst it was great, of course, to read the manager’s view of that season, I felt it was a worse book than Baxter’s, for a couple of reasons. First, and most trivially, it was absolutely riddled with errors - not just typos, but factual clangers, which the most basic amount of research should have removed. And secondly, and far more importantly, part of it amounted to nothing less than a hatchet job on Danny Bergara. It was clear that Jones and Bergara had issues towards the end of the Uruguayan’s reign at County, and equally clear that Bergara wasn’t wholly blameless. But the impression given of Bergara by “On The Edge” was not just inaccurate, it was unfair. Not to counter the criticism with an accurate account of the miracles he’d worked at County was wrong.
I also wonder, when considering Dave Jones’ book, whether I had an inadvertent hand in its conception. I heard after it had come out that it had been ghosted by a tabloid sports editor. Could it have been the same tabloid sports editor that my agent had shown my manuscript to, all those months earlier? Not that it was a problem, of course - I’d rather have had Jones’ version of that season than not, and my book wasn’t affected in any way, but it was frustrating at a time when I couldn’t get mine published.
*
So that was the story of the production of the original version of “Saturday Night and Thursday Morning”. Of course, these days it’s all a lot easier, and there isn’t the financial gamble involved. If you’re holding a physical copy of this book, the only expense for me was the single copy I had to buy myself, for proofreading purposes. If you’re reading this on an e-reader, there was no expense at all.
*
I hope you found the foregoing interesting. If you didn’t, I’m sorry, but not to worry - there’s something far more interesting about to start.
Introduction: Monday June 17th 1996
When does the football season start? Cynics might be forgiven for thinking that, with a major championship - European or World - every other year, and close-season innovations such as the Intertoto Cup, the football season doesn't start, as such, because it doesn't actually finish. This is, of course, complete crap, and such cynics can go and take a running jump (as can anyone, indeed, who cannot recognise the attractions of the beautiful game). The start of the football season is a moveable feast, but will usually fall around the second week of August.
Or at least that's when the actual points gathering begins. For me and thousands of others, the actual football season starts with the publication of the fixtures in mid-June. This, frankly, is when you can start planning a large part of your leisure time for the nine months beginning in August. This year, for instance, will start with a short trip to Crewe for the opening game, easing me into the season nicely. Wrexham on Boxing Day could be worse, and the home fixture on New Year's Day (York) compares favourably with last year's ridiculous trek to Brighton. However, the Football League's fixture computer - cheeky scamp! - has decreed that the greater part of Easter Monday will be spent travelling to and from Bournemouth, and the first two away games of 1997 will be the longest of the season, at Plymouth and Gillingham, on successive Saturdays. That'll take some domestic negotiation.
People who aren't afflicted by the madness that is supporting a lower division team, in person, home and away, will wonder, in view of problems such as these, why? Why bother? What's the point? I wish I could give you an answer. Looked at from a purely footballing perspective, Stockport County, realistically, are never, ever, going to win a major trophy. It's probably only slightly less likely that they will ever even play in the Premiership. To do so would involve an ascent almost as dramatic as Wimbledon's from 70s Southern League to 90s Premiership, but, logically, the very fact that Wimbledon did it reduces the chances that County will follow suit (there's a lot that people blame Wimbledon for, but, surely, holding them responsible for reducing Stockport County's logical chances of playing at the pinnacle of English football is a first). The chance that I will see my team play in the top division in England at some point during my lifetime is, therefore, infinitesimal. Sobering thought, that.
So, then, why follow a team condemned to the eternal damnation that is lower division football? I offer in my defence only that I was first taken to County by my dad - also a lifelong fan - and that they are my home-town team. In this regard, it annoys me intensely that there are thousands - literally - of Stockport bred football fans, however, that take a different view. It annoys me equally intensely that were County to draw either Manchester City or Manchester United in cup competition, the cars, buses and trains heading back to Stockport would have a majority of either red or light blue colours being sported. But what annoys me most of all is that, should County lose, the majority of Stopfordians disembarking from train, bus or car and making their way into their Stockport homes would be feeling the warm glow of victory, and saying smugly to themselves "well, I wonder who we will get in the next round”. Not "they" - "we".
Paranoia aside, this book will, in many respects, describe a large part of the leisure time of a perfectly normal person. I don't have any pre-match rituals, as I consider myself well-enough adjusted to know that wearing a certain colour of underpants, or driving a particular way to the ground, will not have any bearing whatsoever on the result (the fact that if I step on a pavement crack with my left foot, I need to step on the next dozen or so with my right in order to balance out the feelings in both feet need not concern us here, as that is a complex psychological obsession wholly unconnected with football, and more to do with the fact that I am probably a bit of a prat).
My trouble is, you see, that I recognise the inherent absurdity of what I do. And, make no mistake, it is absurd. To travel thousands of miles and to spend hundreds of pounds, watching eleven men - who, let's be honest, couldn't give a toss about me - play a game against a similar group, in the name of the town where I happen to have been born is, let's face it, pathetic. It's almost as pathetic as feeling preposterously proud (of them? of the town? of myself?) when they win.
Recognising that I have a problem is one thing, however; curing it is something I am neither willing, nor, if the truth be told, able, to do.
[2011
update: So that kicked off the 1997
edition. You could be forgiven for thinking that this introduction
was written after the event; the mentions of the successive long away
trips, and the reference to us never going to win a major trophy
(okay, so we haven’t, and won’t, but we got to a semi this
season) are a bit convenient,
aren’t they? Well, nope. This was written, as it implies, before
the season started. I have, perhaps, been a touch economical with the
truth elsewhere in this book (and will, in the spirit of full
disclosure, supply full details after the relevant passages), but not
here. Any fortuitous references are merely more evidence that
choosing to do a full season, for this
season, was a decision that was blessed.]
AUGUST
Saturday August 17th 1996. Crewe Alexandra (away)
The 9 month, God-knows-how-many miles odyssey begins today with one of the shortest journeys of the lot (discounting the 3 or so miles from my house to Edgeley Park, which, although an integral part of the odyssey, is hardly comparable to the Twelve Labours). Whilst it's true to say that following a team - any team - for a minimum of 50 games in nine months, represents quite a trip, however, I don't really expect to meet man-eating giants at Turf Moor, or goddesses promising immortality if only I agree not to continue on my quest to Deepdale. Neither do I expect to return home after an arduous journey to Plymouth to find my wife (who in any case is called Anna, not Penelope) surrounded by suitors bent on seduction whilst simultaneously trashing my house.
Nonetheless, an odyssey, albeit in a purely metaphorical sense, it most certainly is. An average of just over a game a week, each and every week, August to May, is not a commitment to be undertaken lightly. Neither is the expense of such devotion. I estimate that by the time the season is finished (and not including possible playoffs which, being at the expensive dump that is Wembley, represent a second mortgage in themselves), my bank balance will be lighter to the tune of well over a grand.
But such details lie ahead. For today, there is only the thought of this afternoon's match with Crewe Alexandra to concern us, and the happy feeling which the first game of the football season engenders. All teams are equal when the whistle goes in a couple of hours or so, for the first and only time in the 46 game marathon. No matter what successes and failures concerned us during the football season which ended a mere 15 weeks ago, we are now on equal terms with all our rivals, and we view the coming year with the anticipation of children who've just seen the pile of presents on Christmas morning.
It's a sunny day, of course - the first Saturday of the football season always is (and people wishing to plan successful barbecues would do well to bear this in mind). As I am picking up fellow supporter Tom, in the Reddish area which lies to the north of Stockport, I elect to travel on the longer, but quicker, motorway route. As we trundle down the M6 as quickly as my 950cc Ford Fiesta will go, we discuss the forthcoming game, and season, with genuine optimism. Whilst Tom regales me with tales of last night's Man City v Ipswich match (being one of the large number of ''bisexual'' County fans whose allegiances are split between Maine Road and Edgeley Park, he attended in person), and how neither team would have given County much of a game, I inform him that should County and Newcastle both win their respective leagues, I will be richer to the tune of £518.25, thanks to the generosity of William Hills in offering 25-1 for County to win the Second Division title.
There is some justification for such positive thoughts. County's pre-season friendlies were an unqualified success, with the side losing only twice, both in a pre-season tour of Portugal, and both defeats mitigated; one by the fact that County fielded a team of Portuguese triallists, and the second because the Portuguese team they were playing were pretty good (mitigation, in my eyes). We also beat Tranmere 3-2 at Prenton Park, and Birmingham at Edgeley, 4-0, with goals from Andy Mutch, Alun Armstrong (2) and captain Mike Flynn. Birmingham didn't have new strikers Paul Furlong and Mike Newall playing, but the rest of their side was strong enough for County to take heart from the victory, containing as it did recent Premier League stars Barry Home, Gary Ablett and Steve Bruce. Bruce in particular was unimpressive, being left sat on his arse after Armstrong turned him to score County's second, and I would imagine that more than a few of the Birmingham fans dotted around Edgeley Park's Railway End must have harboured doubts about the coming season. The County fans had no such reservations, however, as ''you're so shit it's unbelievable" made its first appearance of the season. It's boorish and crude, of course, but I do so hope it's not the last.
That said, it's dangerous to attach much significance to pre-season games. Indeed, the pre-season friendly itself is a peculiar beast. Ostensibly to provide teams with valuable match practice before the season proper starts (or continues, for those who think the football season never actually finishes but, rather, pauses for a quick breather), pre-season games serve a far more complex purpose. There is, of course, the chance for the fans to get their first sightings of the squad - the new signings, who's put on the most weight during the summer, who looks the most tanned. Friendships are renewed in the stands (in fact, I myself have friendships which exist wholly and exclusively within the confines of Edgeley Park), and whilst the game itself, with up to a dozen substitutes freely rotated by both sides, is hardly the most competitive of encounters, it's football all the same, and there's something tremendously relaxing about watching your chosen pastime whilst reclining languidly in the stands, fully aware that even if County score, you're not expected to celebrate with anything more arduous than a cheer (an ironic one at that, if it's the 14th goal against local team Offerton Corinthians) and a desultory round of applause. Serious goal-celebrating comes later in the season for now, it's time to enjoy the unique experience of watching football whilst wearing a t-shirt and sunglasses (pre-season friendlies are also always played in blazing sunshine).
One of the most memorable of County's pre-season games occurred at Morecambe in 1990 - a celebrated occasion of mass democracy, when the crowd provided themselves with far more entertainment than that which the professionals and semi-pros had managed to serve up.
The size of the County following had been seriously underestimated, with the result that about 500 County fans were "policed", if that's the right word for such an inadequate performance, by a lone copper and his dog. The half time score was 0-0, and the match had been less of a spectacle for the fans than an opportunity for the usual social gathering. However, the boredom of the game was only partially dissipated, and it was clear that something more was needed. That something turned out to be an impromptu kick-around between a group of spectators and a couple of brightly coloured plastic footballs, newly acquired from the shop fronts of Morecambe. This spontaneous game soon became far more enjoyable than the real thing, with more and more spectators entering the field of play - so much so that, sensing the possibility that friendly football supporters might be about to start enjoying themselves on a large scale, the authorities decided to clamp down. As the stewards attempted vainly to clear the pitch, one man and his dog decided it was time to round up some troublemakers.
Trouble was, the two teams contesting the game were by now so big that the copper could only chase small groups of fans at any one time, while the game continued around them. As soon as the dog's attention turned to another group, therefore, the previous "chasees" rejoined the game. The dog was getting more and more frantic, as indeed was the copper, as they realised they were fighting a losing battle. Then it happened.
One fan, a member of the small group being chased at the time, unfortunately lost his footing and fell to the floor. Rover, seizing his chance with both paws, pounced, and sank his teeth into the posterior of the poor unfortunate, before recommencing the chasing of another small group. The bitten fan, his pride undoubtedly hurt - as well as his rear end - got to his feet, calmly dusted himself down, trotted to where the dog was currently chasing, and booted it up the arse as hard as he could. Exit Rover, pitch left, yelping.
The copper, realising he was seriously outnumbered without his injured canine pal, beat a hasty retreat, and the game continued. Even the pinching of one of the balls by a steward who, presumably, proudly related his triumph to Mrs Steward over the cocoa that night ("I dived in and nicked their ball, I say, nicked their ball. That stopped 'em!") didn't halt proceedings, as the game merely continued with the other ball, only stopping when County and Morecambe emerged for the second half.
The "real" game ended 1-1, with full-back Lee Todd scoring County's goal. History doesn't record who scored the County fans' winner in the half-time game. As a postscript, however, about 10 minutes into the second half, the cavalry approached in the form of lots of coppers, who seemed to have arrived expecting a riot. All they found was a rather boring pre-season friendly, and a police dog with a sore bum.
Back in 1996, we arrive in Crewe, and at the main roundabout before the ground, clogged with pre-game fan-traffic, I perform the experienced queue jumpers' routine of ignoring the jam which wants to go ahead to the ground in the left hand lane and joining the lane ostensibly to turn right. I zoom along this empty boulevard to the roundabout, drive gaily right round its circumference and, with a cheery wave to the seething mass I have just trumped, join the exiting traffic for the ground. We park up in a side street just off Gresty Road, and head for the away turnstiles.
Crewe Alexandra's ground has undergone major redevelopment in recent seasons, although it remains one of the smallest of lower division grounds. Away fans get the Gresty Road end - once a tiny terrace, and now an equally tiny stand, a mere 10 or so rows deep (indeed, in the equivalent game last season, with County holding on desperately to a 1-0 lead late on, and deep in their own half, there was a frenzied cry from a fan of "put it in row Z, Mike!" "They haven't got a row Z!" countered another. "Well put it in row fucking E then!”). Sadly, the rest of the ground remains in proportion, with an even punier stand behind the opposite goal, a marginally bigger ''Popular'' Stand to our left (if that's "popular", I'd hate to see "unpopular", arf, arf, arf), and the old wooden Main Stand to our right. Towering over the Popular side is a massive British Rail building (this being Crewe, after all), the windows of which would seem to give a splendid view of the game. Indeed given the relative size of the two buildings, it's probable that the BR windows would accommodate slightly more spectators than the stand.
It might be an uncharitable thought, but if the extent of Crewe's ambition lies in home attendances of, at most, 5,500, it seems that they - or at least their Board - seem happy for Division 2 to represent the pinnacle of their aspirations. That said, it could be argued that they are simply being realistic, and will build or relocate if and when they progress up the league. It remains true that most supporters of lower league teams remain ridiculously optimistic concerning their own sides. Ask them about future elevation to the Premiership, and the vast majority will say that it is a question of "when", rather than "if". This opinion flies in the face of all the statistics, of course, but it doesn't help their delusions when teams like Carlisle, Northampton and Wimbledon (the worst offenders, as not only did they make the top flight, they were ridiculous enough to stay there) actually climb to the top of the greasy pole. It does make far more sense, though, in view of the facts, for teams like Crewe (and County?) to accept their limitations, build cheaply enough to accommodate their average home attendance, and accept that on the relatively rare occasions that they draw a big team in one of the cups, they'll disappoint a few fair-weather supporters.
In that case, Gresty Road represents a smart, modem, lower division ground (although despite what the marketing types would have you believe, I still cannot use the word "stadium" to describe such a place). Try telling that to either home or away supporters, however, and you'd get extremely short shrift. "Shit ground, no fans" puts in an early appearance from the County support (unintentionally ironic, in view of our own still-recent history), and one can almost sense the home fans, whilst seething, thinking, en masse, "well, they have got a point".
Sweltering inside, the fact that County have sold out their quota of 1,200 tickets seems to have taken the stewards by surprise, and there is no attempt at ensuring fans sit in the seats allocated. I actually find my row - away from Tom, who bought his ticket separately - but, as I cannot see any spaces, let alone on the 30th seat along, where I should be sitting, and do not fancy the prospect of struggling past 29 hot and sweaty fans to debate the issue with whoever's sitting in seat 30, I flop into the vacant space at the end of the row, and hope against hope that whoever's seat I've sat in is already situated elsewhere.
I am disappointed to discover, however, as I sit down - and here is just one of the reasons, albeit a fairly trivial one, why the all-seater utopia is often shown up for the myth it is - that I am sitting next to a person who is not only fat, and sharing his BO with the rest of us, but cannot - or chooses not to - sit, as he should, within the confines of the width of his seat, but rather sits with legs splayed akimbo, crassly invading my space. Even seizing the opportunity to re-establish my territory when he swivels in his seat to share a joke with his cronies, by means of whipping my legs swiftly and firmly to the extent of my domain has no effect, as he simply forces his knees against mine, and wins the battle of wills which ensues - neither of us actually pushing, but my resolution breaking first, as I'm disgusted by the feeling of a fat and sweaty male knee squashing up against mine.
The game starts with the traditional roar from the crowd that greets all kick-offs, enhanced by it being the first such opportunity of the season. It soon becomes clear, however, that the teams are too evenly matched, and - perhaps it is the heat of the day - all 22 players seem to be struggling to find any rhythm.
The pretty boys of Crewe (a not altogether unfair description, as they are and remain media darlings due to the fact that their team consists of many young players, and their passing game causes otherwise streetwise local sports reporters to drool uncontrollably) spray the ball around liberally, as usual, and quickly move to support each other, but lack any kind of penetration; they have a number of shots from 20 yards or so, none of which cause us any disquiet. County, meanwhile, have a couple of decent breakaways, but lack any firepower up front, with twin strikers Armstrong and Mutch receiving little support from the midfield. Half time is thus greeted with something approaching relief, there having been no incidents of note to take the mind off how hot it is.
Amusingly, I am told later that an overflow of County fans, who have been seated in the old wooden Main Stand can quite clearly hear manager Dave Jones berating winger Kieron Durkan - a mid-season signing from Wrexham last year, who has signally failed to live up to his promise - in no uncertain terms. The hot and sweaty County fans in our end, meanwhile, packed together and perspiring under the low roof, debate the first half. "Fuckin' hell, that was shit, wasn't it?", "Where’s our attack?", "Durkan's playing crap", "We definitely need a new striker". It's almost as if, having come to the match prepared to let off steam - as do most football fans - with passion and noise, and having been prevented from doing so by events on the pitch being so torpid, they feel the need to make up for it at half time.
The second half starts marginally better for County than the first, as we have a twenty minute spell of pressure, during which we are unlucky not to score. However, following such frenzied excitement, the match resumes its previous pace, and the only interest for me is in listening to a group of County fans sitting in the aisle to my right (none of them finding their allocated seats, and not even bothering, like me, to find an unallocated seat) discussing arrangements for their trip to Moldova in a couple of weeks to watch England. There is some confusing talk of visas, which concludes with one fan revealing that he is actually going to travel to Brussels in person after Tuesday's game with Chesterfield, in order to pick up his passport, duly authorised that he can then fly to Moldova a week or so later. Such dedication is by no means unusual. I work with Alan, a man who is planning trips to Italy, Poland, and possibly Georgia to see England's World Cup qualifiers. He's not a shaven-headed, tattooed hooligan, and has no intention of going to these places to cause trouble. On the contrary; when he travels abroad to follow England, or his own club, Leeds United (all too rare an experience of late), he deliberately arranges to stay for a couple of days either side of the game, thus allowing him to experience many of Europe's most beautiful cities. I know for a fact he is not alone in such arrangements, yet because he is a football fan, he and his travelling companions will be looked down upon and reviled by people whose idea of "abroad" is a fortnight in Torremolinos (or even a summer in Tuscany).
The game looks to be meandering to a 0-0 draw (and both teams were lucky to get nil, Brian, hur, hur, hur). A point on the first day of the season, away from home, isn't a bad return, although considering the pre-game optimism, when a win was almost taken as read, a draw would be a disappointment. What would be unthinkable, however, would be an 88th minute slip up by County's full back, new signing Damon Searle, allowing the Crewe right winger to swing in a cross to the far post where Tierney would be waiting, unmarked, to power a header into the net. The goal is all the more painful for me, sitting behind the opposite end, from where it can be seen that County's poor marking has left such a wide expanse of goal that even I could have nodded the ball in. The worst sound in the world for away football fans - the roar of the home support washing in on a time-delay from three sides of the ground - announces Crewe's winner, for although County immediately go into a speeded-up, Benny Hill "let's press for an equaliser quickly" routine, a winner it is, and one which gives County their first opening day defeat in nine years.
To make matters even worse, the first league table shows us at the bottom, alphabetically last of those teams which lost and didn't score (number of goals scored, rather than goal difference, decides placings in the Nationwide League) and, ridiculous as it is to even produce a table after one game, it only adds to the depression. The only note of optimism is offered by the fact that the defeat can be excised as early as three days hence, when County play their first home game of the season, in the Coca Cola Cup. Roll on Tuesday.
[2011: That tortuous opening classical metaphor didn’t really work, did it? God knows where I got the information from, either, in pre-Wikipedia days. Truth to tell, this whole opening section wasn’t one of the best. If you’re writing a novel , you try and hook the reader from the start; same with non-fiction ideally. Trouble was, the game was so turgid it was difficult to make it sound interesting, which was why I shoehorned in the pre-season story Things soon got better, though. Honest.
Interesting to see that this game predated the massive stand Crewe built a couple of years later, to replace the old wooden main stand to which I refer. What’s that you say? It’s not interesting in the slightest? Oh.]
Tuesday August 20th 1996. Chesterfield (home) (Coca Cola Cup R1)
The League Cup - or Coca Cola Cup, or Littlewoods Cup, or Milk Cup, as its various sponsored incarnations over the years have lead it to be known, and apologies if I've missed any benevolent, philanthropic, football-supporting company out - has provided County with the majority of their giant-killing exploits. Apart from an incredible near-miss against Manchester United at Old Trafford in 1978 (of which more later), we've beaten (old) First Division West Ham at Edgeley, (old) First Division Crystal Palace at Selhurst Park, (old) Second Division Crystal Palace at Edgeley a year later, and, last year, (new) First Division Ipswich Town over two legs. Back in 1980, however, came arguably the biggest upset ever.
County had just won a fairly rare place in the second round of the plain old League Cup, by virtue of beating the mighty Chester over two legs. I eagerly bought a copy of the Manchester Evening News on the day the draw was made, to see who we had landed... Sunderland. Crap! Big club? Well yes, in the sense that they were well supported and riding fairly high in the (old) First Division at the time, but they were hardly the sort of glamour team we had hoped to get. They had no star names, yet would probably be good enough to give us a sound beating, without being enough of a draw to attract a big crowd, which would thus cushion the blow with decent gate receipts.
Such fears were realised, to a certain extent, when the crowd for the home leg proved to be only around 6,000. County started well, however, and went in at half time 1-0 up, thanks to a Dave Sunley goal, the result of a sweeping move which culminated in a great cross field ball to the left wing, a first time cross from record £15,000 signing Tony Coyle, and a stooping header from Sunley, which flew into the Cheadle End net.
An indication of the small crowd was given by the fact that I was able to change ends at half time, and thus saw the Sunderland equaliser from behind the Railway End goal. Ah well, we all thought as we made our way home, at least we held them to a draw, and now we can (all together) "concentrate on the League" (or, more realistically in those days of re-election, concentrate on trying to avoid being thrown out of it).
I wasn't able to travel up to Roker for the formality of the second leg, being still an impecunious 6th Form College student at the time. I had the trusty radio, however, and, amazingly for them, Manchester's Piccadilly Radio had a reporter at the game, one Doug Weatherall, who was obviously freelancing, as he also wrote the report in the following morning's "Daily Mail". He was also as completely unbiased a Geordie as the next Sunderland fan.
When the inevitable first Sunderland goal was reported as having gone in, I debated whether or not to end the agony by turning the radio off, and doing some homework. It was no contest, really, as I never did any homework anyway, just debated whether or not to. That night, as ever, it was a pretty one-sided debate. I was lying on my bed, filled with spotty teenage angst, therefore, when the ridiculous jingle that was used on Piccadilly at the time to announce that goals had been scored, rent the air. The pre-recorded, manic "It's a GOALLLL!" screech broke into the record that was playing at the time, and, with the sixth sense granted to all radio-listening football fans, I instantly knew that it was County who had scored. Sure enough, wor Doug came on air to relate through his tears how Dave Sunley had scored his second of the tie.
The nine o'clock news started, and the newsreader glibly reported the day's events, inconsiderately deciding not to give a score flash from Roker Park between each story. She did recap the night's scores at the end of the bulletin, however, and after reading details of inconsequential games involving United, Bolton, Bury, et al, uttered the words I will never forget as long as I draw breath, "... and up at Roker Park where the score is Sunderland one, Stockport County (pause) two, now". She could hardly keep the note of surprise out of her voice, but went on to read the bloody weather, oblivious to the shouts of joy that were heading along the A6 from the direction of Stockport.
The sports presenter put us out of our misery when the programme rejoined him in the studio, however. No messing, "straight up to Roker Park, now, and Doug Weatherall..." Dougie could hardly contain his woe, but told us back home how Tommy Sword had buried the penalty that had set County on the way to the victory which was duly confirmed ten minutes or so later.
I can't remember much of the rest of the programme, switching off the radio at full time so I could bask, gloriously, in the magnitude of the result. Amazingly, it wasn't the lead story on News at Ten, so I went to bed early, willing tomorrow to come quickly, like a little kid on Christmas Eve.
The next day, I bought all the newspapers I could afford, including the Manchester Evening News in the afternoon. The fact that Tommy Sword scored the winner probably had most of Fleet Street's sub-editors weeping with delight the previous evening, as their job had virtually been done for them: "Roker Put to the Sword"; "The Sword Killer"; "Tommy's Pork Sword" (Okay, I made the last one up).
I revelled in the papers, but couldn't really gloat at college. I'd finished at St Augustine's, an all-boys grammar school, in the June, where every major football match was analysed ad nauseam (had it not been a Grammar school, with compulsory Latin, the matches would probably have been analysed over and over), and, as the only County fan (the school was in Manchester), I'd have been in my element. Aquinas 6th Form College, however, was more than half full of girls (the feeder schools were overwhelmingly female-only), and football was, fairly understandably, far from being the main topic of conversation. Even my male friends had only a passing interest; it was most frustrating - if only the game had happened a year earlier.
Not to worry, though. We were in the draw for the next round, and we had luck this time, being drawn out immediately prior to Arsenal. We again made the back pages of the tabloids the following day, chiefly because some desperate photographer had persuaded Tommy Sword to pose outside the Railway End with a plastic sword brandished over his head. To make matters infinitely worse, he apparently did it without being paid.
The attendance for the Arsenal game was much better, as the Stockport public proved, not for the first time, how adept they are at woodwork-vacating when the big boys are in town. There were around 13,000 packed in, as I recall, and, to my mind, the writing was on the wall after an awesome display of warming-up (yes, warming-up!) from Arsenal. Willie Young in particular looked sharp, at one point sending a header bulleting into the top corner of the net, pausing only to stop, breath on his nails, and then polish them on his shirt.
Sure enough, Arsenal cruised to a comfortable 3-1 win, after our keeper, ex-Evertonian "star" Dave Lawson, had picked up his usual big-game injury, this time when desperately trying to get out of the way of a John Hollins blast that put the visitors 1-0 up. The match had a couple of incidents that made it worthwhile, however. The first was when Kenny Sansom scored what I'm convinced must have been the best goal of his career, a thirty-five yard blob of a shot that almost burst the net in the Railway End goal. The look on his face as he ran triumphantly across the field, only to see a linesman standing smugly with upraised flag, was something to treasure forever. An Arsenal player had apparently been standing in an offside position when he ducked to avoid being decapitated. It was one of the most unfair decisions I'd ever seen, and therefore also one of the funniest.
The second incident occurred when County scored their consolation goal. 3-0 down, and County striker Les Bradd ambled tokenly after a ball that was bouncing gently back to George Wood in the Arsenal goal. The defender who was shepherding it back, however, suddenly decided that, for a bit of sport, he'd run crashing into George, leaving Bradd to tap the ball gleefully into the empty net, and George on the floor needing treatment. Oh how we laughed.
Tonight's game is not without interest as, during the close-season, Chesterfield signed one of County's longest-serving players, Chris Beaumont; one of the last links with the team ex-manager Danny Bergara built which launched us on our recent upward surge. In addition, yesterday County re-signed, albeit on loan from Sunderland, another member of that team, and one of our most prolific goalscorers of recent seasons, Brett Angell. Whether County will smash their existing transfer record of £150,000 (paid to Preston North End for current captain Mike Flynn) in order to make the move permanent (Sunderland reportedly want £200,000) will probably be dependent on him performing at least as well as he did in his previous spell at Edgeley Park for the three months he is with us now.
I decide to buy a ticket for the Vernon Building Society stand - the one opposite the Main Stand which runs the length of the pitch. This is not so much for aesthetic reasons as for the fact that the County Board decided that the Cheadle End Stand - a 5,000 seater monstrosity behind one of the goals - would cost the same this season as the Vernon stand: £9 (it had previously been a pound cheaper). Although there are disadvantages to sitting there - the main one being no fewer than five roof support stanchions - you do therefore get a side-on view for the same price as behind-the-goal.
However, it is clear that I am in a minority, as most of the paltry crowd of 3,088 prove to be creatures of habit, and decide to remain in the Cheadle End; the Vernon Stand thus has the echoey, deserted air of a reserve game. Nonetheless, this allows me not only to pick and choose which seat I wish to sit in, but also to change ends at half-time, the age-old ritual which virtually disappeared with the arrival of seats.
County seem solid enough, and control the early exchanges. Bottle-blond striker Armstrong is playing well, his flicks and knock-ons a class apart - which means that a lot of them are wasted by team-mates not attuned to his abilities. Nevertheless, Andy Mutch opens the scoring in the 21st minute, gleefully hammering home after Armstrong has headed forward Sean Connelly's free kick. There is no more scoring in the first half, although the way County are playing lifts the spirits slightly after Saturday. Chesterfield were ahead of County for much of last season, and only missed out on a play-off place late on because of fixture congestion. They were never going to be a walkover, therefore, and County can thus take a certain degree of heart from being ahead (the fact that the same arguments can also be said to apply to Crewe, defeated in the playoffs last season, hardly matters. County were so pisspoor on Saturday that it would have been disheartening even had the opposition been AC Milan).
I spend half time glancing at the one match programme I will buy all season. Despite County's publication being one of the best examples of the genre, the fact remains that programmes (or "Matchday Magazines", to give them their full, pathetic, title) are, to be frank, crap. They contain hardly anything worth reading, most of it being tediously formulaic and predictable (ghost-written "Manager's notes", "commercial corner", how the reserves/youth team are doing, which sad local company is offsetting the cost of a match ball against their tax this week...). What is stranger still is the buying of away programmes. Fans who do so for every away game in any given season presumably want to read, as well as those riveting items mentioned above - only less interesting, if that were possible, as they concern a club with whom you have no affinity whatsoever - exactly the same pen-pictures of their heroes 23 separate times.
I bought a copy of tonight's programme simply to see how the traditional annual redesign has gone. It proves amusing, however, to try and spot the various misprints, and typos that the printers have introduced (and equally amusing to try and spot which ones are simply grammatical errors by the various contributors that have remained uncorrected). The funniest misprint concerns a letter from a woman on the rather fatuous ladies page (called "No Man’s Game", ho, ho, ho), which raves about how sexy defender Matthew Bound is. The same letter is inadvertently reprinted over the page, in the children's section ("Not Kidding" - KID-ding, geddit?), where it forms a bizarre counterpoint to letters from 5 and 6 year olds concerning their favourite player, and what they do at school and how they liked their first visit to Edgeley Park. That said, I suppose it's possible that the letter may have indeed belonged on the children's page rather than the previous one, and County are producing some particularly sexually precocious young fans.
The second half starts, and the sense of optimism and general well-being (it should actually be passionate and frenzied support, but the low-key nature of the game, emphasised by the lack of atmosphere produced by the sparse crowd means that optimism and general well-being is the order of the day) is heightened early on, when Mutch gets a second. It's an amusing goal too, as the Chesterfield keeper allows a well-directed but weak header to squirm under his body.
County are cruising at this point, but in the 64th minute, a Chesterfield striker bursts through towards the away fans in the open Railway End to my right. County's Matthew Bound seems to get in a good, ball-winning tackle, but the referee, about forty yards behind play but catching up as fast as his little legs will allow, blows for a foul, a penalty and a sending off. It would be interesting to be party to the referee's thought-processes at this point, as he makes his decision despite being forty yards away from the incident, and despite his linesman nearer, better sighted, but merely a bit-part player in the drama that is "I'm In Charge," starring Graham Frankland, from Chester - not flagging for an infringement.
Some near me trot out the line that as it was deemed a foul, Bound had to go. That's as maybe, but it seems to me that even assuming, in the face of all the evidence, that the referee was right, and Bound didn't get the ball, it seems hellishly unfair that, having genuinely attempted to, he receives the same punishment as he would had he rugby-tackled the forward, ripped his head off and flobbed down the hole. Well, okay, he would probably have been prosecuted as well in that case, but you get my point. Surely a penalty is enough punishment in such circumstances? Chesterfield score, it's 2-1, and they're back in the game.
County regroup, with Jim Gannon replacing winger Kieron Durkan to shore up the defence, and manage to weather the inevitable storm that the confidence, which surges through the Chesterfield team as a result of the goal, engenders. In the 77th minute, Brett Angell makes his re-appearance to a loud ovation from the County fans, and misses a great chance a couple of minutes later, heading over when he should have scored, following another brilliant cross from John Jeffers. County manage to hold on for a win, despite Chesterfield hitting a post late on.
It's the kind of result that will make for a competitive, not to say nail-biting, second leg in two weeks' time. Despite the European-qualifying teams being given a bye to the third round this year, this competition, seeded as it is from round 2 onwards, represents the chance of a big pay-day for clubs like County which, despite the fact that it is the supporters that will be ripped-off to provide that payday, we are constantly told is good news.