D'oh again!...
RUNCORN v BARROW (postponed) UniBond League Premier Division 18 October 2000 by Graham Murphy
I had to go. That's what I felt. I just had to go to Runcorn. Nothing would stop me. Not even wild horses. And the fact that my better half is the one and only Welsh Dragon, on account of the fact that she's a dragon and she lives in Wales, was just a minor impediment, a mere blip, a pimple on the backside of eternity. I was going to Runcorn and that was that. End of story. Bollocks to staying late at work. Sod dinner. Fish and chips on the way home will do. Just get me in the car, and on that motorway, freewheeling down the M56 to Runcorn. Get your kicks on the M56. Was that the line from the song? Springsteen? Chuck Berry? Or maybe Peters and Lee? Probably not. But there was a lyric that was something like that. Was it about the A66? I racked my brain to place the song as the old, familiar landmarks sped past my window at a speed close to the legal maximum. I don't mean Forton, Lancaster, Preston and Charnock Richard. Because I don't live in Barrow. My starting point for away games is Wrexham. In Wales. Where the people speak a language full of guttural whistles and strange throat swallowing noises. Where men are men and sheep are sheep. And women are glad of it. And that's one reason why I'm going to Runcorn. No, not for the sheep. It's only 35 miles. Not even as far as Lancaster is from Barrow. Just a short hop, skip and jump, figuratively speaking, of course. So the places I watch out for are Chester and Stanlow, the place of the refinery blockade. And its not just my visual senses which are stimulated by the sight of pipes, vessels and tanks all lit up like Christmas trees along one side of the motorway. My nose is assaulted by the acrid petrochemical stench that seems to be burnt into the grass in the fields and the leaves on the trees in this part of the country. But all that is left behind as Runcorn hoves into view. And then I remember the other reason I'm going. It's a Wednesday. So what, you may ask. Well, most midweek games are on Tuesdays. And I can't go to them on Tuesdays. I have teenage children who go to things. And they need a chauffeur. And they go to things on Tuesdays that just cannot be postponed. But I was born to ferry them around, so I don't mind, really. I'll just harbour a grudge until they put me in the retirement home and a good dose of Alzheimer's makes me forget what I was so bothered about. Does that make any sense? Probably not. Anyhow, as this is a Wednesday, it's a game I can get to. In fact, it'll be only the second game I've seen all season, due to work commitments which have meant that most Saturdays I've been hundreds if not thousands of miles away from where Barrow are playing. That's kept the Welsh Dragon happy, me being away so much. But then I can't really blame her. I do tend to just get in the way when I'm at home. I can't cook, can't iron, can't decorate or do DIY and in fact I'm about as much use as a eunuch in a harem. But I'm willing. I'll turn my hand to anything. It's not my fault that it generally goes wrong. I mean I do try. So I stick to washing the car and cutting the grass, because I can't really do them wrong, if you see what I mean. Cowps, you'll be thinking, he does go on. So, back to the point. I was really looking forward to seeing Barrow play. After four successive wins it looked like they were really on a roll, playing bright, attractive football, with a solid defence, attacking midfield and two agile forwards. Housham and Maxfield were particular players to look out for, and Pev's always good for at least one goal. Sadly, Doherty was injured, but that would mean there was a place in midfield for Anthony, who, from the reports in the Holker Street Newsletter, is deserving of a longer run in the first team. If only those who were picked ahead of him weren't playing so well! And with those thoughts in mind I made the left turn into the cul de sac which runs up to the Linnets, Runcorn's social club. There weren't many cars about, but there was another driver just thirty yards in front of me. I followed him on to the private dirt track that runs behind The Linnets then turns left alongside the football ground until it reaches another road by a pair of gates that bear a handwritten notice, 'Private Road. May be closed on two days per year. RAFC.' "Which two days are those?" I wondered. "Xmas and New Year?" It didn't really matter. Plenty of parking spaces on the side of the road, opposite the pub which is adjacent to the ground. And it was then, as I eased the car into its parking position, it was then that it happened. A tiny, tiny bell started ringing. So tiny I hardly noticed it at first. But it got louder and louder as the pieces fitted together. Hardly any cars. Oh look, they haven't switched the floodlights on yet. Must be saving money. Well, I am a bit early, let's see, there's, er, oh, only ten minutes to go before kick off. Well, I heard Runcorn were cash strapped but this was taking it a bit too far, wasn't it? And where were all the fans? Why was there no one in the pub? Why were the doors across the turnstiles still shut? What did it all mean? I let all the details sink in and my cerebral cortex got to work on processing the information. It dug from my memory banks two reference points. Horwich in 1996, Guiseley earlier this year. No cars, no fans, no floodlights, locked gates. The bell in my head was shrieking at top volume now. That could mean only one thing. POSTPONED. The game was OFF. O double effing hell. Not again! Why hadn't I checked Teletext? A man strolled up with two kids in tow. I got out of the car and asked him if he knew what was going on. "Errrrrrrr... yer wha' wack?" I'd forgotten I was in the land of the Scouser. "The match," I said, gesturing up at the football ground behind him, "Do you know if it's still on?" "Errrrrrr, no, it's off, like, errrrrrrrrm yer know, errrrrrrrr, like." This conversation was going to be difficult if I tried to prolong it. I could tell. Nevertheless, I ventured one more question. "Do you know why it's off at all, like?" I thought a touch of the local vernacular might help. "Errr, yeah, like, errr it's off, you know, like, errr." Now some of you might think I'm being unfair to Scousers, that I'm paraphrasing this conversation to make it sound ridiculous. Believe me, I'm not. "Yes, you told me that already," I replied, "But do you know what it's off for." That wasn't exactly English, but it worked. "Er, yeah, wack, errrr, there's a poster on the main entrance, like." Great. At last. "What does it say?" "Errr, like, well wack, it just says, like, errr, the game's off." I just stared at him in mute comprehension, unable to reply, struck mind-numbingly dumb by the sheer banality of the conversation we'd just had. We'd just wasted five minutes of our lives in a discussion that neither of us had understood and that gave neither of us any kind of useful information. "It was on, errr Teletext, like," he ventured, helpfully and turned away with his two children to wherever he'd come from. I decided to walk through the dark, deserted streets to the other side of the ground to see this poster. And there it was. "Runcorn v Barrow. OFF." I didn't find out it was for a waterlogged pitch until I got the Holker Street Newsletter the next day. Which was strange. No, not getting the Newsletter, the waterlogged bit. It hadn't rained in these parts since the previous Sunday, 48 hours earlier. There was nothing for it but to hit that motorway again. I still had that stupid refrain rattling round my head. Get your kicks on the M56. Perhaps it was an Abba song. Or Clodagh Rogers. But despite my encyclopaedic knowledge of modern rock music I just couldn't think where the line came from. No journey of mine is complete unless I lose my way. And I did. Roadworks diverted me off the deserted dual carriageways of Runcorn New Town into an estate of flat-roofed, blocklike structures, through which the road weaved like a drunken man. Twenty minutes later I found the way out. What a perfect end to a perfect night. And I've still only seen Barrow play once this season. So watch out, Holker Street, 28 October 2000, FA Cup Fourth Qualifying Round. I'll be there. Definitely. Wild horses won't stop me. Originally 'Wrong Night at Runcorn' in issue 047 - January 2001