Yes, Graham got delayed again, only this time he took the kids...
HYDE UNITED 2 BARROW 1 Northern Premier League Premier Division 4 September 1993 by Graham Murphy
"There'll be a traffic jam." No one else spoke for a moment. The only noise was that of the car engine as it motored smoothly along the M56 at more or less 70 mph, and the radio commentary of Sussex scoring ten an over in the NatWest final. "Why do you say that, Tim?" I asked tentatively. "Because there always is a traffic jam on this motorway when you're trying to get somewhere." "You can't argue with a kid's logic," I thought. "And I don't want to go to the rotten old football match anyway. So there!" "And neither do I!" The other voice from the back of the car was Tim's sister, Laura. "Oh for Cowps sake!" I thought, "This is going to be great." We threaded our way round yet another group of caravans which were straggling the inside two lanes, making the motorway look untidy. Why doesn't Kenneth Clarke put a tax on caravans? There are so many on the roads nowadays that a tenner tax on each one would pay the Government's borrowing requirement at a stroke. All power to the anti-Caravan Club, I say. Keep Britain's roads tidy and congestion free. Tax caravans. That would be a catchy slogan for the next election. I might use it myself when I oppose Norman Lamont next time he tries to get re-elected. "When do we get there?" Laura asked from the back. I looked at the milometer. Forty miles gone in 35 minutes, about 25 miles to go. It was two o'clock. "About half an hour," I replied. "And stop bickering, or I won't buy you a treat." Bribery is always the best way to deal with kids. It's the only language they understand and it always works like a dream, today's kids having such a finely developed financial sense from a very early age. Unlike Norman, but that's another story. At least we should make the kick-off. I was determined to put an end to the dismal sequence of missing the start of games. This would be the second away game this season, Marine having been successfully attended on August Bank Holiday Monday. Mind you, they'd sold out of programmes at Marine just as I got there, some fifteen minutes before the kick-off. It seems that in the Northern Premier League, programmes are more popular than Income Support. Anyhow, we should get to Hyde in plenty of time for the kick-off and a programme. Quarter past two and only fifteen miles to go as we motored past the rooftops, viaducts and redundant cotton mills of downtown Stockport. The kids had quietened down, probably trying to think of what treat I might get them. I don't usually take them to Barrow matches because they are not particularly keen (so much for my theories about passing on the support from generation to generation - they were born in Wrexham, so that must explain it) and they tend to distract my attention from the game with their dreaded pleas for the toilet. I remember one eight goal thriller at Buxton three or four seasons ago when I missed half of the goals due to various calls of nature. They tend to regard my obsession with Barrow AFC as ongoing proof of insanity. I must be somewhat unbalanced in bringing them with me, but I didn't have much choice as an unusual combination of circumstances and planets had taken my better half away for the weekend on special business. So I was in charge of the kids for 48 hours. And what better way to spend five or six of them by taking them to Hyde. So despite their screams and worried looks from the neighbours, I forced them into the car at half past one and we set off, equipped with drinks, biscuits, sandwiches, chocolate, colouring books and a multitude of things which I hoped would occupy them while I watched the game. We were still making good time as the M63 through Stockport curved gently to the left to become the M66. Now I don't do these things on purpose, honest, but when I saw the sign 'M67 CLOSED FOR RESURFACING. LONG DELAYS.' I knew that this was the writing on the wall, just as Maggie must've known the game was up that evening when all her Cabinet Ministers came to see her. "Told you!" exclaimed Tim from the back. Yes, okay, I know. But the traffic was moving quickly onto the roundabout at the end of the M66 and then down a slip road to the M67. So despite another warning sign about the motorway closure, I took a chance and followed, and that is how lemmings follow each other over the cliff, for some two hundred yards onto the M67, the traffic ground to a halt, just next to another sign which told us that the motorway would be closed from 8am on Saturday until 8pm on Sunday. What! Closed only for this weekend? Don't they know there's a match on? Have they got it in for me or what? Great. Five miles from the ground and we're stuck in a traffic jam. Still, it was only half past two, so we should still make it. But we didn't. The congestion as we inched our way off the motorway and through the clogged streets of Denton, Ashton and Hyde was appalling. When you're sat there waiting for the car in front to move, it all seems rather pointless; like bribing the ref to make sure you beat Linfield. Who did the Ukrainians think Linfield were? So parking by Tameside Leisure Centre at long last, we dived out of the car, grabbing the bag of food and toys, and sprinted round the Centre down the path to the turnstiles. Just as we get there, an unmistakeable cheer goes up. Someone had scored a goal. It's… Oh no! Barrow 1-0 up and I've missed it! But amazingly, they are still selling programmes. I miss Barrow's goal, but get a programme. It's like making a deal with the Devil, especially given the state of Hyde's programme and the fact that this is Barrow's only goal of the game. The kids amuse themselves on the grass behind the goal and Barrow go in 1-0 up at the interval. However, the equaliser isn't long in coming after Hyde make a substitution which makes them into a much more effective attacking unit. The winning goal comes when I've had to make the inevitable trip to the toilets. All I hear is the roar of the home crowd, but it's not a big surprise. We could not regain the midfield ascendancy we'd held in the first half. Hyde's substitute, Daughtry, is named as man of the match and as the announcement is made he misses an open goal from three yards out. Oh, the embarrassment. But he deserved the award, nevertheless. The return journey is made on an almost empty motorway in deathly silence. Even the kids recognise that something is badly wrong with the team. Deperate times need desperate measures. So we go to the chippie and try to forget. Originally appeared as 'Missed Again' in issue 018 - December 1993