The Travelling Hordes

Bryn Jones is a Racecourse steward. He's based in and around the Eric Roberts Builders Stand, so he gets a fantastic insight into the psyche of visiting fans...

No.34 - Kidderminster 

Name: Kidderminster (Kiddie) Harriers.

Progress report: Have done fairly well since leaving Miss Vauxhall's infant class, but may never make senior school. They may even be wiser deciding not to try as the expense of paying for so many foreign students takes too much pocket money for the little boys.

Behaviour: Very good, apart from one unpleasant little specimen (more later).

Attendance: Pretty average. Not as good as the big boys, but impressive enough for one of the new students.

And how did 'The Specimen' spoil the Kiddies' Christmas Party? How else recently, but by singing the naughty Monkey Song, of course. After four years of never hearing it, it has suddenly been voiced in three games this season alone. But, thank you to the three Irish lads who reported him. This was a good example of as you sow, so shall you reap.

The story begins as the flags are going up. In keeping with a little recent diversification, a variant banner is tied to the fence. This time it is the Irish tricolour, albeit with 'Harriers' sewn across the middle. It's three friendly Irish owners are suddenly harangued as 'traitors' by a little guy in a big black coat who is putting the more usual Union Jack up next but one to theirs. A few insults are hurled back and forth with yours truly standing, a little bemused, in between the gently warring factions.
Both factions then return to the main body of Kiddie fans - I expect to hear no more from them. And then, halfway through the game, off it goes.

Oo, oo, oo, oo, oo

It comes from somewhere in the middle of the Kiddies, presumably because an Edwards has just roasted one of their defenders yet again. I cannot see who is making the racket, although it is obviously just one prat. However, three Irish gentlemen know exactly who is being offensive. They duly report to Mike, our Great Leader. With the help of three Lesser-Spotted Yellowcoats, he soon locates Little Prat in Big Black Coat. Pinning Little Prat firmly to the back of the Stand, he lets him know the consequences of continuing with his childish ranting. Black Coat is obviously well-impressed as he dusts himself down and races so quickly out of the ground at hometime that he leaves his precious flag behind.

There were no bobbies for this game, so well done, lads. And well done, Kiddies, who totally ignored their errant friend and seemed generally supportive of the stewards' actions.

Why the school report theme this week? I think it started because one of the Kiddie fans who came over for a chat, opened with the line: 'What did you think of Craig Faulconbridge?'

A strange opening gambit for a Harrier, I thought, as I could see no connection whatsoever between them and him. 'Not a lot', was my more predictable reply. Faulconbridge ranks alongside Mick Vintner in my books as one of those strikers who scored a fair number of goals without ever creating much excitement. The exact opposite of my current hero, Lee (Sunbed) Trundle, in fact. 

Why do I never recognise a trap even when it is bigger than Mont Blanc? In a prehistoric cave painting, I would be Dead Mammoth Number One. The first creature in the world ever to leap straight over the cliff with the big sign saying:

WARNING: CAVE MEN AT WORK. DO NOT LEAP.

Think about it. Anybody asking you about a player totally unconnected, as far as you know, with either team out on the pitch is going to have his own, more personal connection, like being his dad, perhaps. Therefore, anybody with a spare brain cell would be cautiously positive, shall we say, while sussing out the relationship. However, me being cautiously negative did not seem to faze my new best friend too much (phew). It turned out that I was talking to Faulconbridge's ex-headteacher. Not surprisingly, he rated him a lot more highly than I did.

Perhaps this minor faux pas was God's clever way of saving my brainless skin. Just after the match began, I helped to usher in a family group of 20 or so people. They did not get too excited until Kiddies made a substitution. Yep, it was Danny Williams' family arriving all the way from Summerhill. Luckily, I worked out who they were before passing comment on this particular ex-Red (whom I genuinely thought was a good player, anyway). 

WARNING NUMBER TWO.

Be careful what you say about young Danny W while out enjoying Wrexham's nightlife. Not only does Mr Williams Senior look like a bouncer, he is, in fact…a bouncer.

No.35 - Macclesfield 

At the start of the match one of our stewards was really p****d off with life. At the end of the match we all were.

The Macclesfield fans were a very friendly, family-orientated lot but ridiculously few in number for a Bank Holiday match less than an hour away. One of their coach drivers was very chatty. We reminisced about the glory days of the old Cheshire League. For younger viewers this was a top-class league in my childhood days -the Fifties and Sixties. Yeah, yeah, we did have to clear the stegosauruses off the pitch if you like and, yes, somebody did go round lighting the lamps before an evening match. And, believe it or not, my local team, Rhyl, really did play in black and white. Well, white, mostly. This much is true, folks. 

In those days, my coach driver friend informs me, matches at Bangor were an overnight stay for the Silkmen, the journey took so long. You see, this was in the days when roads were built to go into places, instead of by-passing them. It's kind of weird now, really. If you actually built a new town, because somebody found gold on Llandegla Moors perhaps, you would not be able to find a construction company capable of building a road that got you there.

Sorry mate. Haven't done one of them for a long time. There's nobody I know who has the skills now. I can do you one from Ruthin to Ruabon maybe, and perhaps you can shout to your mates as you go past. Last time we built a road that actually went into somewhere it was to Wallasey and nobody's wanted to bother since.

And talking of construction companies our brilliant groundsman, Johnny Edwards, was showing me the drainage holes at our end of the ground (don't tell everybody, Bry, or they'll all want a tour - ed.). The point he was making was that we were looking at the ends of the drains where the water comes out. And they are supposed to be below the concrete. It's obvious when you think about it (which isn't often, I must admit). However, by a quirk of genius, the builders put them above the concrete (surprise, surprise) so that all the water draining out of the away end does so straight onto the feet of the travelling fans. No wonder they shout and swear so much.

Anyway, back to the Cheshire League. (Sounds like a spell for casting out a Chester fan, doesn't it?) Back, blue demon of Hell. Back to the sulphurous fumes of your stinking Otherworld (aka the Deva Stadium). And take three more matches in the lonely wasteland of Leigh for your impertinence.

Right, the Cheshire League: a wonderful league from my childhood with some great teams like Altrincham, Stafford Rangers, Runcorn, Northwich Vics et al. To be honest, Macclesfield betrayed their non-league origins with their constant barracking of Andy Dibble. You see, their hate team is Altrincham, original club of our much-travelled no.1. I must admit I needed the help of one of their websites for this one as I just assumed they hated him simply because he was in our goal.
I kept looking at my watch. This is often the case when you have a couple of hundred well-behaved non-league fans watching their team take all three points. Time drags. It's a bit like watching cricket. Jesus, imagine stewarding that! It must be like watching an equation struggling for breath. You could be there for headlines like:

BOYCOTT HAS JUST SCORED HIS SECOND CENTURY WHILE THE REST OF THE WORLD HAS FOUGHT TWO WORLD WARS IN THEIRS 

or

GOUGH HAS JUST BOWLED OUT AN AUSTRALIAN IN THE TIME IT TOOK CAPTAIN COOK TO FIND THE BLOODY PLACE 

or

IMRAN KHAN HAS FINALLY LIT UP THIS MATCH AGAINST THE WEST INDIES. BY SETTING FIRE TO KINGSTON

or

HUSSAIN HAS BEEN AT THE CREASE FOR FIVE HOURS NOW. AND THE POPULATION OF BRISBANE HAS JUST LOST THE WILL TO LIVE

Mind you, so have all of us stewards after this result. Still, it's all kidology anyway. We were only two spectacular efforts away from victory viz Hector's brilliant scissor-kick which may even have crossed the line, and Trundle's fantastic lob. Very soon, somebody's going to get destroyed at the Racecourse and then the mood will change dramatically - again. 

And, finally, if there are any Macc fans, cricket fans or residents of Wallasey who are offended by what I have said, or even Chester fans, residents of Llandegla, construction workers…(oo 'er, I think I'll have to hire a minder soon)…then, never mind, I still wish you a Very Happy New Year and may all of your dreams come true (except for you Chester fans, natch). 

No.36 - Torquay

I skipped into the ground as happy as a sandboy. I skipped out pretty happy as well, of course. But, in between, as in all happy stories, there was a darker time. I skipped in happily because Grahame, a steward I had never spoken to before, came over and said how well these little jottings played in his corner of Cefn. 'What Joy, what Rapture', to quote Willie the Wordsworth. A little praise equals a lot of encouragement, so off I went, floating on air, to my appointed step in the Marstons.

And then I saw Paula and Ceri. They stood before me, arms across their chests. They did not look 'appy. That was because they weren't 'appy. They weren't 'appy at me referring to them as 'bints' in the Darlington 'Hordes'. They reckon it made them sound like cheap Essex girls (cue shrieks of indignation from down Colchester way now, I suppose). 

Government warning: You do not cross Paula. It's safer to cross Afghanistan. 

So, let me put it right. Our Lady Stewards are not cheap Essex girls - they are much more like medium-priced Wrexham girls. (Have you ever heard of the expression, 'when you are in a hole, stop digging' - ed.) OK, OK, I'm a good Catholic boy and I know when to retract. So here it is, my retraction (as the bishop said to the actress). 

I, Bryan, hereinafter referred to as the Wimp, do unreservedly retract the term 'bints' wherever and whensoever it has been applied to the aforenamed Paula and Ceri, hereinafter and at all times to be referred to as the Lady Stewards. And may God be my witness.

Now, can I have my lungs back, please? 
Thank you, Paula. 
And that vital organ as well, please? 
Thank you, Ceri. 
Bloody Hell, you've bent it.
What do you mean, it's always bendy? I'm talking about my nose, you vicious little co…Lady Steward.

Who needs Millwall fans, eh? Now, back to the comparative peace of looking after the travelling fans. 

I only had to have words with one guy. They were all a bit disgruntled with what they saw as Dibble's gamesmanship near the end, where he appeared to handle over the line. When the ball sailed into our neck of the woods shortly after, it landed in the lap of an oldish geezer. He took it as a great opportunity to grab a split-second of fame and hung onto it while giving the waiting Andy a few verbals. I shouted at him to 'stop pissing about etc' and was surprised to get support from nearby Torquay fans. Then I realised, of course, that they were a goal down with ten minutes to go and he was wasting their team's valuable time. I'm dead thick in these situations. I can win all of my arguments if I'm given a week to think about them and the opposition is not allowed to reply. Which is why I write these things, of course. 

Mention of Graeme earlier reminds me of some of the crap jobs some of us get. Graeme must have one of the crappiest. He's the guy you see standing in the away goal at half-time trying to stop the opposition practising in the goalmouth. Imagine dealing with some of the over-priced posers you get with some teams. It must be on a par with being the guy William Tell practised on before splitting the apple on his son's head.

Look, I said I'm sorry, Heidi. Two inches higher and I would have got the apple. I thought it was a pretty good shot, actually. Anyway, a pretty girl like you will soon find a new husband, I'm sure.

Torquay are a small club and only a 100 and odd made it this far. Well done, though, guys. Among them was a character from Manchester who had never even lived within a 100 miles of Torquay. What was his connection then? Apparently, he once had a girlfriend from Liverpool (didn't his mother warn him?). When she asked him the vital question (Who do you support, natch), he was stumped. He knew **** all about football and thrashed around wildly for something to say. His eyes alighted on the words, 'Torquay United' (ain't Fate a b*****d?) From then on he has been a loyal Torquay fan, thus confirming his original statement that he knew fuck all about football. 

Another couple I met had come over from Lincoln for the day. They were dead proud that their nephew was in the Torquay squad at the Racecourse. It was great talking to them and we got Tony (Big Fish) Bradley to do his good deed for the day and take them down to the pitchside to photograph the lad. All good stuff, eh?