|
September 2004: So that’s it, my sojourn to Leeds is at an end. I now find myself in Liverpool, coping with the accent. I live in a close that feels like a mini-version of Brookside, albeit with less patricide, incest and heroin abuse. Mind you, I have only been here a month. I have also now put behind me 6 modules, 12 pieces of coursework, 3 presentations and a 22,000 word dissertation. After I handed in that last piece of work, I felt a great sense of relief that, finally, I was no longer a student. By way of celebration, I had a wash. Spending a year on MSc Information Studies and working on all things ‘library’, it certainly hit home about the fact that free public access to information is, indeed, a triumphant example of democracy in action, much like a free press. On that note, I’m very pleased to see that ‘Flying High’ will continue despite the fact that both the official and alternative publications regarding H&W are now under the editorship of ‘Chairman’ Lynch*. My last missives from my Yorkshire villa concerned my abortive trip to Lincoln City amongst other things and you’ll no doubt be pleased to know that I managed to make it to Sincil Bank to join my policeman friend for some quality Division 3 (ah memories) action only a month after the original intended meet. A point was salvaged against Kidderminster Harriers by a late goal from Marcus Richardson, an old friend of the Hawks after some of us cornered him on a train back from a Worcester beano a couple of seasons ago. Good on ‘im. A barometer of the interest Lincoln’s fans had in their play-off challenge can probably be best gauged from the fact that most of the talk amongst my party prior to the game was conjecture regarding the likely attendance of a supporter they had named ‘Fat Lad’. For the record, he was in, and all was well with the world for the Red Imps. Towards the end of last season I was fortunate enough to see 4 Hawks games in 3 weeks making up for the barren 4 months prior to April. It doesn’t get much better than coming home for Easter to watch your faltering team go through ‘Steve Claridge’s Weymouth’ apart 4-1 like a knife through butter. A nip across to Dover two days later and, after returning north, a Tuesday trip DOWN to Grantham was also met with success. It would be churlish to suggest that these vital victories were down to me paying my ‘lucky’ entrance fee, but if anyone wishes to rub my head prior to a job interview or an exam, they are welcome to apply in writing. Photo’s only, no time-wasters. Prior to my leaving of Leeds I did manage to squeeze in a few more fixtures towards the end of last season and the beginning of this, with Frickley Athletic, Bradford City, Whitby Town, Harrogate Railway Athletic, Blyth Spartans and Ossett Town visited. Must admit to quite liking Frickley, despite (and possibly because of) the expansive, ominous slagheap that arcs over the far terracing. The barriers behind each goal were stuck in grass rather than concrete and the stand was falling to bits. Whats not to love? Despite only winning 1-0 on that night, Hucknall were a different class and it was clear why they walked away with the Unibond title, just a shame they couldn’t afford the step up. This trend for visiting grounds also seemed to stretch to my summer activities as I re-ignited my passion for the gentleman’s game. Aside from a few Yorkshire games, and 3 days of the victorious Test match at Headingley, I also managed to take in action at the Rose Bowl, Beckenham (Kent), Scarborough, Hove and Old Trafford. The best game of the summer for me, aside from the Test match, was at the latter ground, in the C&G quarter-final Roses battle, featuring that great rarity, a one-day century from Michael Vaughan. In addition to cricket, I spent 8 days of the summer at the Edinburgh festival checking out theatre, music and (mostly) comedy. Due to the packed nature of the schedules, I managed to get to over 50 shows, ranging from 10am starts to 5am finishes, from a 600 seat room for a performance of ‘One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest’ with Christian Slater to a one-woman show (with a one-man audience) in the refurbished back end of a truck. Both very good, I might add! As you might imagine, the jigsaw pattern itinerary of running from venue to venue, show to show still afforded the opportunity for some footy action in the form of the short train trip to Cowdenbeath as they entertained Stenhousmuir at their ramshackle gaff. The pitch is surrounded by a stock car track and giant fences protecting followers of motor sport being hit by flying wheels and such. I guess it serves a dual purpose, protecting those inside on a Saturday afternoon from the anger of the crowd. Today’s Cowdenbeath squad will no doubt be particularly grateful for the protection offered by the metal grill as, through it, they take on the look of a band going down badly at a rough redneck bar, and capitulate to a 6-0 home defeat. Mind you, can a sunny Saturday crowd that falls lower than a wet Monday night New West Leigh turnout be that threatening? Particularly as roughly half were with the ‘Muir? Incidentally, Cowdenbeath are nicknamed ‘The Blue Brazil’. Surely no greater example of heavy irony is to be found anywhere in football. Right I’d better clear off and find a job, although a great deal of library opportunities, particularly in the public and academic sectors, involve Saturday work. I clearly didn’t think this one through. Skif *This article was written, much like the previous 4, as a fierce critique of the matchday programme and the supporters club. If it isn’t censored into yet another dull ground-hopping tale, please get a message to me in my cell, and I’ll end the hunger strike. Many thanks. back to index |