Frolics in Southport
Our good friends from West Bromwich were without a game last Saturday so decided to watch Hereford United at Southport. The following is an edited account of their day. The original can be found at http://www.baggies.com/diary/?id=281
Our Southport saga began around ten this morning, when we headed on out, after a short pit-stop to get Steino, of West Brom Market fame, stocked up with Dicks galore - so if you haven't got one, you live in that area, and aren't going to tomorrow's game, then I'm sure he'll oblige willingly come Monday. Handing out fanzines, that is - what else did you think I meant? That small matter sorted, it was then onto the gloriously sunny M6, and the long trundle to Lancashire. No Noise today - I'm sure Jayne had him fully occupied doing other things than talk ten to the dozen - but we did have the pleasure of The Fart's company for the long trek to the coast.
As we bowled along the slow lane towards Lancashire, one thought in particular struck me; it was remarkable the numbers of people who managed to end up getting their cars pranged on that motorway today. Nothing serious. Just shunts, as far as I could tell - but I'm still quite mystified as to how that sorry stare of affairs came about in the first place. Visibility perfect; strong sunlight, no fog, no ice, the temperature outside was a tad on the low side, but no more than that - and there was still around four accidents that I saw after the event. I really do wonder sometimes. Still, the resultant delays didn't impinge too much on our travelling time. Oh - an apology is called for; im Indoors tells me the last one resulted in a car ending upside down. Trouble was, I was asleep! The queues were mostly caused by rubberneckers, as far as I could see, and once past the scene of the various crashes, the traffic density simply melted away, which meant we made landfall on the outskirts of Southport around half-twelve.
Right then. Hands up all those readers who have visited that seaside town at some stage or another. That many? Blimey, what a sophisticated and well-travelled lot you are! You'll know what I'm about to relate, but for the benefit of those who haven't, here's a thumbnail sketch of the place. Firstly, as I said yesterday, it's the sort of seaside town that is very much living on its former glories; the shopping area, every store complete with a (presumably) Victorian wrought-iron canopy above its entrance, tries to be genteel, but doesn't quite succeed. Take the coast road, however, and you enter a world of closed-down pleasure beaches, funfair rides and similar summery detritus. It's also the world of The Mall - those American-style retail abominations one generally finds on the outskirts of towns - not slap-bang in the middle, next to the tourist stuff. Oh - and there's a "Lawnmower Museum" there! Don't ask me, I saw the signs and I couldn't figure it out either! Still, the sun was shining fit to bust, the wind wasn't all that much a nuisance, so having ditched the Dickmobile in a nearby car-park, we decided to take a walk along the nearby pier.
The last time I'd trod those boards in earnest was when I was about ten, so it was a testimony of sorts to the people who run the place now that I instantly recognised just about everything on there. Even the train, which now charged a rip-off couple of quid for the dubious privilege of riding to the end in comfort, tootling busily along in the opposite direction as we made our way back again. But that's getting a little ahead of myself. Back, then, to the outward journey. I'd already warned both Im Indoors and The Fart beforehand that they probably wouldn't see the sea and I was spot-on. Loads of sand, but of the old sodium choride in strong solution, there was not a whisper. At least you could still see Blackpool Tower from the end, just like forty years ago.
Also at the finish of the pier was a curious building; half café, half amusement arcade, with a soupcon of souvenir shop thrown in for good measure - when the staff could be sufficiently arsed to man it, that is - but with a curious twist indeed. Go inside, and you quickly discovered all the amusement machines on display were of a vintage that wouldn't disgrace the average museum. And, what's more, they were all in working order. What you had to do was change a normal post-decimal coin in the machine provided - 50p, say, for the sake of argument - and you'd get all your change in genuine old pennies, which was the proper currency all these antiques were built for. There were even some "What The Butler Saw" machines there, which must have been at least 90 years old - what really amazed me, though, was their timeless ability to pull in the customers, four or five generations down the line. Every time I looked, there was a clutch of giggling, shrieking teenagers having a crafty dekko at the saucy contents, in a manner that would have got great grandmother incandescent with fury, were she not pushing up the daisies right now. Surely the subject matter wouldn't raise even a hint of a blush on the face of a maiden aunt these days? Er - would it?
Even better, though, was the distant ancestor of those bar football machines you used to see everywhere. No plastic to be found on these babies, just hand-painted wooden figures, dressed in hand-knitted little woollen "shirts", one "team" red and white striped, and the other similarly clad but in blue and white, with little metal knobs outside to control them with. And the backdrop? Look at any photograph of Twenties or Thirties football terraces, and you'll see similar; the difference was, this had also been lovingly painted by hand, all those little cloth-capped and muffler-ed figures. Reet nostalgic, it were, lad! While The Fart went in search of someone to flog him a fridge magnet, we had a punt at the sweet-grabbing crane thingy nearby. Pretty successful, too, was my other half; three goes, three sweets. At the far end of the building was a section that narrated the history of both the pier and the beach itself; the former had been torched at least three times in recent years - arsonists, of course - while the beach itself, its expanse of sand running for miles, made it an ideal surface for early aviation ventures. Apparently, in 1910, every activity in the town came to a juddering half the day a certain Claude Graham-White put his "stringbag" machine down on those expansive sands, and an airfield of sorts existed there as recently as 1961.
Back to the Dickmobile, then, and to the ground, which we'd spotted on our way in earlier. Bathed in golden sunlight, its small size belied the fact that up until comparatively recently, League football had been played there. Not that they're anywhere near that standard any more; they were in the Conference proper, but got relegated again a few years back. Their games these days are played in a league below the Conference, where it bifurcates into a "North" and a "South" version; Southport are in the northern half, as you might expect. They might not enjoy League status these days, but what they do have is a cracking little social club, which is about par for the course at this level; in fact, its fair to say that a goodly chunk of clubs income at that level comes in via the "demon drink". Needless to say, we popped in for a small pre-match wetting of the old lips.
Out, then, about 15 minutes before the start, and through the turnstiles, the seated admission charge just nine quid, with quite a sizable reduction (£5.50) for Old Farts. Once inside, it was into the main stand where our Hereford-supporting chums were hanging out. Three of them, female, follow the Bulls both home and away; what makes this all the more remarkable is the fact that one of them, Mavis's mate, is in her eighties, yet still travels by coach week in, week out, rain, hail or shine. I reckon the nearest Albion equivalent is Vic Stirrup, who also attends both home and away, despite being of a similar age, and having not long had both hips replaced. I wonder if today's telly-reared lot will be as enthusiastic about the beautiful game when they finally collect their bus passes? Somehow, I doubt it.
As we settled into our seats, I spotted a delightfully-retro touch; a Southport follower, sporting a genuine rosette! Blimey. I'd though that sort of thing went out of fashion around the time of Johnny Giles and Willie Johnson; quite a nostalgia injection for both The Fart and myself to see someone actually wearing one once more. And, talking of our Crimean War veteran, just before the start, a verbal classic from him: "You know, this is the first FA Cup Round One game I've ever seen"... I can only assume time's healing balm had ensured The Fart's memories of our two seasons in the old Third Division were thoroughly scabbed over, then! And, to be fair, when I pointed out the mistake, Tel did agree with me!
On paper, the tie, with 20 grand or so up for grabs, should have been a Hereford shoe-in. The visitors, one division up, and currently residing at the "right" end of the table, were theoretically too strong for the home side. Mind you, there was an Albion connection about the game. Not just the presence of former Albion reserve players Tam Mkandawire, and Carey-Bertram, all his barrels, that is - the Southport side boasted the presence in their ranks of none other than Kevin Kilbane's brother! Goes by the name of Farrell Kilbane, he does. And they also had in their ranks a Jimmy Somerville look-alike; the Hereford lads took great delight in pointing out the similarity every single time he had the ball!
No "O Worship The Swede" ceremony (which involves a "team" of supporters kicking one the entire length of the pitch before banging it into the back of the net, pre-kick-off!) before the start, sadly! Digressing slightly, I have it on good authority that Malcolm Boyden, now working for BBC Hereford And Worcester, has promised to ensure the Swede is thoroughly worshipped should The Bulls get as far as the Third Round and get The Baggies. $p As for the game itself, which kicked off in perfect sunlight, the opening manoeuvres were conducted in typical Cup-tie style; 100 mph football, with errors on both sides. But, as the game progressed, it was the Bulls who looked the more likely to open their account. And should have done but a couple of minutes before they actually did - the errant Bull, Stansfield, their top scorer, had done the difficult stuff, the goalkeeper was floundering like a freshly-caught plaice, all it needed was a bit of judicious heading into an empty net - and the silly sod managed to head just wide instead! That was but a temporary reprieve for the home side, though. With 29 minutes on the clock, Hereford took the lead, and deservedly so, the goal coming courtesy of Lee Mills - yes, THAT Lee Mills! - who nutted, unmarked, into the net, following an inch-perfect cross from the left. We had to wait until the second half for the Bulls' second, though. A strange one, that; from where we were, the defender appeared to belt it from off the line, and away to safety. Wrong! Furious waving from the alert lino suddenly halted proceedings, the ref then consulted his agitated colleague - and gave the goal instead! I reckon the Fart must have second sight. How come? Simple: just moments before the incident, his very words to me were: "Another goal will settle this!" Blimey, with a gift like that, I wish he'd choose my lottery numbers for me!
And it wasn't long before Hereford struck again, with around 20 minutes of the half gone. All done and dusted, then? Not quite: the visitors changed formation, and brought on a couple of substitutes, the net effect being not dissimilar to that of such tactics on our own defence recently. In other words, everyone went deep, hung back, what passed for a strikeforce wasn't being given the ball any more, and the result was predictable. With about 20 minutes to go, Southport pulled one back, making it 3-1.
This made the last 15 somewhat hairy for The Bulls, not to mention their followers; had the home side managed to get it to two, then I think panic might have set in. Fortunately - more by luck than judgement, I reckon - Southport couldn't capitalise further, so the score stayed like that until the final whistle blew. Great for Hereford, though - they're well and truly in the draw for the second round, and should they get decent opposition this time, it wouldn't surprise me at all to see the game featured live on Sky. And it wouldn't surprise me either to hear the sound of many a League side lamenting loudly should they be the ones unfortunate enough to have to meet the cider-slurpers in mortal combat next time. They have already put two decent League sides out of the Mickey Mouse Cup. And one other thought - on our way back to The Dickmobile, yet another "retro" touch; the sight of police horses and foot coppers belting hell for leather through the gathering winter gloom in the direction of some incident or another. Much to my amusement a couple of minutes later, it seemed to be the local chippie where it all kicked off between those naughty Bulls and their Lancashire counterparts. Could it be that they both got a battering in there? Sorry.
Written by Glynis Wright.
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