When two of your contributors both send in accounts of their trips into deepest Yorkshire to watch Barrow, what do you do? Leave one out? No you edit them both together and hope that the resulting melange is the definitive account of a day at Frickley in 1993...
FRICKLEY ATHLETIC 2 BARROW 1 HFS Loans League Premier Division 6 March 1993 by Graham Murphy and Michael Gibson
• Graham began by reflecting on just what it is that motivates people such as himself to pour themselves into their cars week in, week out, to make long journeys along the motorway to watch Barrow play... After all my other trips last season, you might well think that Frickley represented so much of a challenge that I'd just have to get there. You'd be right. It has the same sort of appeal that Mount Everest has to mountaineers. They say they climb it because it's there. Well, I went to Frickley because it's there. But where exactly? You won't find it in the list of towns at the back of any road atlas of the UK. That's because it isn't a town... it's a colliery. The town is South Elmsall, right in the midst of enemy territory in that strip of no man's land between the M1 and the A1, just south of the M62.
• But no such philosophising for Michael. He didn't have the time. He was having enough trouble just getting to the station... It was five past ten when I finally staggered out of the house. Plenty of time to get to Kings Cross station for eleven o'clock... or so I thought! First, I'm confronted by a fifty yard long queue at the ticket office at Kilburn tube station. And it was just my luck that the person in front of me wanted to renew season tickets for himself, his wife, his kids, his brother, his sister, his wife's brother's sister, his fairy godmother, etc., etc. By the time I get served it's almost 10.30, and when I reach King's Cross, it's 10.50. I then had to go through the same palaver of queueing up for my next ticket, and when I eventually did manage to explain to the ticket clerk it was South Elmsall I was going to, and not Southend Central (dopey ß@$*@®¶!), there were only seconds left to catch the train! Thankfully, the journey up to Doncaster went without any delays, arriving at 12.35. The next train to South Elmsall wasn't until 1.15, so I went on the routine search for a fish and chip shop. I didn't find one of course, and though I did pass a McDonalds, my stomach wasn't in the mood for a Mcmadcowburger. In fact, it wasn't until I got to South Elmsall that I found a chip shop, and even then it was about to close. But not until I'd got my foot in the door for some hot food at long last.
• Graham, of course, was having problems of his own... So at 2.30 I was cruising down the M62 with the signs saying 'ROADWORKS - A1 SOUTH' flashing past, and only briefly registering on my consciousness (if that's what it can be called). But a curiously worded yellow sign did catch my attention. 'LONG DELAYS A1 SOUTH. TRY M1 - M18'. Not 'divert to', but 'try', as if it were some exotic drink, or perhaps an obstacle course. Now as this diversion is the equivalent of finding the A590 closed at Ulverston and being diverted to the M6 South via Keswick and Penrith, I ignored it and pressed on to the A1, as the Non-League Directory faithfully told me that was the best way to Frickley. Then it happened. Down the slip road from the M62 to the roundabout at the bottom and there it was... 'NO ACCESS TO A1 SOUTH. DIVERSION VIA A1 NORTH.' I didn't believe it and went round to the southern access, but this was coned off. I still couldn't believe it - only fifteen minutes away from South Elmsall and the road is closed. Why didn't the signs on the M62 say this, instead of that stupid suggestion for the M18? Missing the kick-off and not getting a programme loomed up as real possibilities as I drove off up the A1 North for a diversion that turned out to be ten miles long. It was a quarter to three as I returned to the M62 /A1 junction and blind panic set in. Five minutes later there was a sign for South Elmsall. Perhaps I could sue the DTI for the extra petrol and compensation for loss of enjoyment. Or maybe even set them off against income tax like certain members of the entertainment industry. As these thoughts ran through my head, it barely registered that I'd joined a dual carriageway until I noticed the service station I'd passed two minutes ago. I was back on the A1, going North! What a nightmare this was turning into. Feeling a right dickhead, I took the next exit which was an unclassified lane. Fortunately a couple of miles further along, the B road it joined was signposted to South Elmsall and I saw its gleaming spires and glittering rooftops ten minutes later. At least for once, the Non-League Directory's directions were spot on.
• But Michael wasn't too happy with what the Directory had to tell him, nevertheless he did get there in time to be able to fill us in on some of the atmosphere before the game... My next task was to find the ground at Westfield Lane, which according to the Non-League Directory is two miles from South Elmsall station. A slight discrepancy here, as the start of Westfield Lane is actually only about 200 yards from the station, and walking time to the ground is less than fifteen minutes. So inside the ground at 2.15, I endured the weekly ritual of watching the Barrow players warm up. A stray shot from Jabber went over the terracing and into a nearby field. There were very few home supporters in the ground, which wasn't surprising as most of the locals seemed to prefer to watch the match from an adjacent slag heap.
• Graham reached the ground, however, a little later on... I reached the ground just in time after a dash through the drab streets and yellowish-grey brick terraces that are characteristic of that part of the world. As befits a location in the shadow of a coal mine and an opposition which included a Scargill, a strike was not long in coming. Unfortunately, it was on the Barrow goal; an easy header from a corner in only the second minute. I wished I'd been delayed another five minutes. By half-time I wished I'd missed the whole bloody thing. Frickley were 2-0 up, the second arriving as Rooney and Hoyland dithered over a back pass allowing Frickley's centre forward to nip in and score. No point for suing for loss of enjoyment now; I'd end up paying them.
• Michael saw the first half pretty much the same way... When the match started for real, it seemed as though the Barrow players were either pissed or asleep or both. Not surprisingly Frickley went ahead after four minutes from their first corner. With Richie Bond seemingly playing for Frickley and Jabber being the only Barrow player putting any serious effort into the game, Barrow could have counted themselves lucky to be only 2-0 down at half-time.
• But, as Graham reports, at least the second half started a bit better... Barrow were so dispirited, it seemed like they'd never get back into the game. But Smith came on for Todhunter at the start of the second half. He joined Bond and Brady in an all out attack on the Frickley goal and ten minutes later it was 2-1. Smith may have been offside when he received Wiggins' pass, but was he when the ball was released? Will we ever know? And do we care? Brady outpaced the Frickley defence to be in the right place for Smith's squared pass and side-footed into an empty net.
• Then Dave Smith's sending off more or less ended the game as a contest. But as Geoffrey Wheeler used to say on 'Winner Takes All', 'A slight difference of opinion there, Jim!' Michael saw it like this... The second half started slightly better with Jabber getting a goal back for Barrow. However, a disgraceful decision by the referee effectively ruined the game as Dave Smith was sent off for breathing on Frickley's no.7. The Frickley player did incidentally commit the original foul on Smith, which the linesman rightly indicated, but the referee decided to ignore. Oh well, I suppose the Frickley player deserved an Oscar for his dive.
• But Graham saw it a little differently... Ten minutes after the goal it all went horribly wrong. Frickley's big no.7 had done something to upset Smith, so our no.12 decided to exact his revenge. To be certain that his audience for the deed was as large as possible, he waited until he was close enough to both the linesman and the referee before whipping no.7's legs from under him, some five minutes after no.7 had released the ball. Okay, so it was premeditated, but it did not result in a serious injury, and no advantage was sought or gained. so why did the referee send Smith off instead of booking him? Then later on, when Edwards mistimed a tackle, why did the ref consider a booking was sufficient? You may as well ask why the FA Premier League has as its chairman the ex-Chairman of a bank which lost £250 million under his stewardship. Questions such as these are not meant to be answered. Smith's departure ruined Barrow's organisation and the game petered out like a burnt out candle. But there were a few late sputters as Brady shot twice to be well saved by the goalie.
• Ah yes, that deflated end of the match feeling after another defeat. Nothing much to do now but go home, but not before Michael had this to report... But an incident at the end of the match didn't exactly help matters when a block of wood was thrown in the direction of Frickley's goalkeeper. I then made a hasty return to South Elmsall station, where I was just in time to see the 17.03 to Doncaster pull out. $#¡*!
• Graham had had enough and was on his way too, but you can be sure that both he and Michael will be back again this year... So back to the A1 and the long journey home. No wonder 40% of the country wants to emigrate. If there are many more days like these I think I'll be joining them. Originally appeared as 'All Roads (and Rails) Lead to Frickley' in issue 017 - August 1993