Read about our German adventure from the heart of Berlin.

I never met Hugh McIlvanney, although I did have a close encounter one Thursday afternoon in Glasgow city centre.  I’d been in Glasgow to see one of the cities big two European powerhouses play in a UEFA Cup tie the previous evening, the opposition, score or other minor details escape my rather discombobulated mind, but the sight of a middle aged gentleman striding up Queen Street and making his way over George Square has stayed with me right up to the present!  I knew who it was the very moment my eyes latched onto the figure on the opposite side of the street, bathed in the last milky shades of light on a winters afternoon, the long Macintosh coat, expensive looking suit, collection of broadsheet newspapers under one arm and swathes of swirling smoke emanating from his cigar betrayed his identity!

I wanted to cross the road, to introduce myself and thank him for the many hours  of entertainment and education that he had unknowingly accorded me for many a year, I wanted to hear that rich velvety voice thank me for my platitudes. My vacillating hesitation was a result of my thinking that these actions would be seen a little juvenile, akin to a star struck girl lusting after one of her pop stars!  I glanced back across George Square and Hugh McIlvanney was nothing more than an anonymous figure in the gloomy distance.  The chance had gone, I’d see him again I told myself, I’d have other encounters, other chances to meet greatness and shake its hand!  Alas, now we know that there’ll be no more chance encounters, no more chances to thank him for being a huge part of my childhood, and with me for my journey through those teenage years and onto adulthood, for helping to mould my opinions on all number of subjects, and for being the very trig point that I always refer to when looking back into the annals of both football and horse racing!

It was my late father that first brought to my attention the writing genius of Hugh McIlvanney!  He was discussing with a friend and fellow horse racing fanatic, a piece written by McIlvanney about Lester Piggott’s record in The Derby.  I listened intently a few yards away, transfixed by argument and counter argument, and by reason and ruminative rationale!   My father was a quiet man of few words, who, when speaking, was listened to and his measured, well thought out opinions respected!  He had earned his living in the same way Hugh McIlvanney’s father earned his, many miles underground, toiling at the coal face to keep the country’s fires burning.  There was a common connection, the coalfields of Lancashire were no different from those in Lanarkshire or Ayrshire, they were, after all, filled with hard men who toiled at hard jobs in harsh conditions, but the men who worked in those harsh conditions were also proud men, men who valued family, social justice and well mannered fairness and friendship above all else!  My late father may have lacked Hugh’s extensive vocabulary, but he, like Hugh, didn’t suffer fools lightly, he was always immaculately turned out, displayed the same warmth, gratitude and fine manners, and when speaking, was listened to with an incredible intensity that I’ve rarely witnessed since!  The said discussion went to and forth before my father remarked, it’s difficult to know who’s the greater, Piggott or McIlvanney himself!

I didn’t waste any time procrastinating, a boy who was yearning to be a sports journalist himself would waste little time wondering if this journalist was indeed as good as my father had remarked!  Sunday after Sunday was now spent studiously reading everything Hugh McIlvanney had to write, I’d often be seen with a concise Collins English Dictionary glued to the palm of my hand, a crude substitute for shamelessly possessing a vocabulary a division or three below that of the great man himself!

There are literally hundreds of stories of chance meetings with the great man, social media has been full of wonderful tales in the aftermath of the announcement of his untimely passing last week, tales of a warm, polite yet passionate, sometimes volatile man with an immense amount of fire in his belly and that sparkling glint in his eye, only too willing to offer his opinion on any number of given sporting matters and woe betide anyone who dared to dismiss his opinions as pure supposition!

Born into a working class and fervently socialist family would provide Hugh with a set of principles that would stand him in good stead throughout his career, add to that an uncanny knack of being in the right place at the right time, and having served an apprenticeship as a news reporter made him the perfect character to gain the trust of giants of men such as Jock Stein, Matt Busby, Bill Shankly, Alex Ferguson, Mohammed Ali, George Best and Lester Piggott!  When you take the time to analyse all those qualities, one can only come to the ultimate conclusion that here was a man with all the raw ingredients of a journalist of sublime ability!

The following years would see the master wordsmith agonise over the most minute of minor details, and that is what set him apart from his contemporaries, few journalists could match the attention to detail with which McIlvanney constructed his pieces, and none whatsoever could possibly match his superlative dandified prose, Hugh McIlvanney was now out on his own, (STANDING ON THE SHOULDERS OF GIANTS)!

In a career that can only be described as illustrious, Hugh McIlvanney would see himself inducted into the International Boxing Hall of Fame, and both the Scottish & English Football Hall’s of Fame, no mean feat for a mere humble journalist!  Hundreds of other awards were bestowed upon him throughout that illustrious career and in 1996 he was awarded the OBE for his services to sports writing.

There have been many wonderful tributes paid to the great man over the past few days but none would ever fully describe his importance and ultimate standing in his chosen profession than the following from ‘The Great Reporters’ by David Randall…

”HUGH MCILVANNEY IS VERY PROBABLY THE GREATEST WRITER EVER TO APPLY WORDS TO NEWSPRINT!”

Fine praise indeed and few, if any can say it isn’t fully deserved!

I’d like to add my own tribute to him, like to quote Shakespeare, Hugh adored the works of William Shakespeare, but alas, my level of intellect wouldn’t do the great man or William Shakespeare justice!  All I’ll say is that on the twenty fourth day of January, twenty nineteen, just nine days short of his eighty fifth birthday, when the towel was finally and reluctantly thrown into the ring, British journalism lost its finest ever scribe and the sports world indeed lost a colossus!  I say this not because platitudes are en vogue at the time of one’s passing but because the statement is true!  Hugh McIlvanney lived in an era when standards were high, far higher than those in which we live today, standards of conduct, of behaviour and of common decency.  The mere fact that Hugh McIlvanney lived above those standards and set his own remarkable high standards of journalism in that age of fairness and integrity are a lasting legacy of a man who had few, if any equals!  To borrow a quote of his own…

‘GREATNESS DOES NOT GAD ABOUT, REACHING FOR PEOPLE IN HANDFULS, IT SETTLES DELIBERATELY ON A BLESSED FEW”  …Hugh McIlvanney was without any doubt, one of them!

THANKS FOR READING, AND THANK YOU HUGH MCILVANNEY, FOR BEING A WORDSMITH WITHOUT EQUAL AND AN EVERLASTING INFLUENCE IN MY LIFE!

It’s Christmas time and the snow is falling (ACTUALLY THAT’S A LIE,  BUT IT SOUNDS NICE) but the beer is plentiful, as is the wine, there’s an abundance of chocolates waiting to be devoured, there’s presents under the tree and the holidays have begun!  I took ‘Der Kleiner Schlingel’ to see Father Christmas and she’s under the strictest of instructions to ask for nine points for Marine and a never ending tin of Quality Street!  She returned minus my ten pound note but clutching a small present.  She excitedly informed me that Santa said ‘he’ll see what he can do regarding the two requests! (HE’LL BE A BLOODY MIRACLE WORKER IF HE CAN MAGIC THAT LOT UP)!

We decided that we’d throw all our combined weight behind Marine AFC and the hunt of nine points over the festive period, we’d go to all three games as one!  ‘Strength United Is Stronger’ proclaims the Latin motto under the badge…

(ONE FOR ALL & ALL FOR ONE)!

Saturday morning and we were nervously telling ourselves that Farsley Celtic aren’t that good a side anyway, they’re from bloody Yorkshire for a start, how can they be that good? (OR AT LEAST I WAS THINKING THAT, ‘DER KLEINER SCHLINGEL’ WAS THINKING ABOUT GYMNASTICS & CHRISTMAS, AND SHELLEY WAS THINKING WHAT TO PREPARE FOR TEA)!

We made our way into the MTA Arena in quietly confident mood, purchased our chosen beverages and awaited the shrill cry of the referee’s whistle.  Two hours later and just minutes after the final shrill cry of his whistle, we’re sat in the bar licking our wounds and nursing our (once again) chosen beverages!

To say we were poor would be an understatement and other than Steve Irwin, everyone in a white shirt was guilty of putting in a below par performance!  To delve into an in-depth account of the manner of the defeat would be pointless, so I’ll swiftly move on!

The two-one home loss had both ‘Der Kleiner Schlingel’ and I questioning Father Christmas’s sincerity in “seeing what he could do” for our Christmas wishes!  Not to worry, I told them, we’re just going to have to take six points from the next two awaydays!  “Dad, they’ve not won away for ages” proclaims ‘Der Kleiner Schlingel’, (NOTHING LIKE A KICK IN THE NUTS WHEN YOU’RE DREAMING OF GLORY)!  Sunday’s ritual of sitting down with a cup of tea and reading the Non-League paper after morning mass was going to be another dismal experience…   (STRONG BEER & QUALITY STREET TO THE RESCUE)!

Tuesday saw us return to more mundane matters like seeing if the ‘big man’ has been, the giving and receiving of presents and the demolishing of Christmas dinners, once all that was completed, it was back to more pressing matters and the quest for that elusive awayday victory and if we could get at least six points out of the festive period, the first three of those would need to be earned in the heart of Lancashire!  It was Wednesday and after another non existent lie in, we began the Boxing Day journey north to Irongate, home of Bamber Bridge FC.

I have to confess, I wasn’t confident of anything other than another defeat, if we were going to win any of the three Christmas fixtures, it wasn’t going to be this one! (OR SO I THOUGHT)!   We arrived at the Irongate in the nick of time, paid our entrance fees, purchased our hot bovrils and took up our vantage point along the far side touch line. (COME ON MARINE, GO FOR GOAL)!  After eleven minutes, a beautiful move down the right wing saw Niall Cummins unmarked in the box, and he rifled home for a one-nil lead!  Fifteen minutes later and Michael Elstone had doubled the lead with a goal of sublime quality!  Now, some will say that it was a miss hit cross, others will say he meant it. Oh, he meant it alright, (IN MY MIND HE DID ANYWAY) and I was right behind him and in a perfect line with the goal, he looked up, saw the keeper out of position and gloriously chipped him, seeing his inch perfect effort go in off the inside of the far post.  Sublime!  It was like watching a George Best video in real life, and oh how we celebrated it!  At halftime we stood in silence, we daren’t jinx the situation with excited chit chat, and we aren’t used to being two-nil up at this point in a game, so we just stood in silence and enjoyed the moment!  The second forty five minutes saw the hosts put Marine under more pressure than they had in the first forty five, but we stood up to the onslaught courageously.  Danny Shaw and James Short should be singled out for special praise for both had big games!

The Marine rearguard was broken in the fifty fourth minute, but, but for a close range header late on, it didn’t really look like being breached again and as the referee called a halt to proceedings with a purposeful blow on the Acme Thunderer, few could argue that the victors didn’t fully deserve their three points!  That elusive awayday victory was elusive no more, three points better off and we were upwardly mobile once again and we all looked forward to Mickleover (away) on Saturday, a real old fashioned six pointer!

Saturday arrived and we started  it with a hearty breakfast in the local deli and with supplies running low, a trip to the wine store to stock up on a certain South African Shiraz before we headed south down the M6 and A50 to Derby, or to be more precise, Mickleover!  We’d visited the village on numerous occasions due to having a close friend who happens to live there & who follows the fortunes of the local team, Mickleover Sports.  En route we called in at Uttoxeter services to wild cries from the back seat of “LOOK DAD, THERES MARINE”!!! Upon closer inspection as we parked up, there they were, our black and white bedecked heroes, this was surely a sign, an omen, it was written in the stars…    (MARINE AFC WERE GOING TO WIN)!

We arrived at our friends house in good time, had a pot of tea and once refreshed, we moved the few hundred yards up the road in search of football and something stronger than tea, to the Don Amott Arena (IT’S ANYTHING BUT AN ARENA)!  All the usual faces were there, the Crosender Way lads and the Forza Marine crew were out in full force accompanied by the many who had hitched a lift down on the team coach.  This was an healthy turnout and expectations were high, we’d turned a corner!

The game started at a torpid pace and didn’t really get any livelier as the afternoon wore on.  A certain Archie Gemmill walked past us, a player who played the game at a walking pace some forty years previously, but would have quite easily kept pace with his modern day counterparts, even at the age of seventy one!  Marine had the lions share of possession but to be honest, never looked like scoring!  The humdrum was broken just the once, on thirteen minutes the big Mickleover centre forward Nathan Jarman scored against the run of play.  Mickleover won a corner, and just as my mate Hyden jokingly said “WE’RE DEADLY FROM CORNERS” a well worked move involving player-manager John McGrath saw the ball nestling in the corner of Paddy Wharton’s net before he’d even decided to dive, Jarman won’t score an easier goal all season!

Marine continued to enjoy the better of the midfield battle but failed to create a single effort of any kind for the entire half!  We retreated to the comfort of the club house just as Mickleover threatened to put the game to bed, but stout defending saw off the threat!  With the second pint of Ruddles part consumed, we chewed over the first half proceedings.  The common consensus was that, the corner we’d turned at Bamber Bridge, was in fact, a dead end!  I had to agree, I’d just witnessed the worst forty five minutes of football I’d seen in many a year and it wouldn’t surprise me if both of these sides were to be relegated come May!

We once again plucked up courage to brave what was being served up in front of us and took our places in the stands.  The second half was almost a mirror image of the first forty five, Marine continued to see the lions share of the ball but a lack of application, common sense and ability to break down the Mickleover defence would see the scoreboard untroubled for the remainder of the afternoon.  On the one occasion that the defence was breached, Marine substitute Danny Mitchley, somehow, blasted high and wide with only the keeper to beat from inside the box, it was harder to miss than it was to score!  (THAT EFFORT ALONE SUMMED UP OUR AFTERNOON)!  The final ten minutes produced two gilt edged chances for the Mariners, but firstly, Craig Carney and then Michael Elstone saw their efforts come to nothing on a bitterly disappointing afternoon in Derbyshire.  I shook hands with Hyden and complimented him on his sides well fought win (I WAS LYING OF COURSE AND HE KNEW IT, FOR HE’D ALSO JUST WITNESSED THE TURGID NINETY MINUTES OF SOMETHING THAT VAGUELY RESEMBLED FOOTBALL)!  As we crossed the car park, we bumped into the Crosender Way boys, they’d seen enough of the proceedings some minutes before and I didn’t envy them on their long journey back to Liverpool by train!  Speaking of long journeys by train, a special mention must go out to Jon Caple, a Marine fan who travels from Merthyr Tydfil in South Wales and had already taken an abundance of trains, buses and a taxi just to get to Mickleover, the same amount in reverse would see him arriving home sometime around midnight. I felt that he deserved a better outcome for his efforts!

We returned home with little to cheer about, ‘Der Kleiner Schlingel’s’ request to Father Christmas for nine points and a never ending tin of Quality Street had well and truly fallen on deaf ears.  I poured myself a strong one and dreamed of New Year’s Day, the visit of Lancaster City, and planned Saturday’s trip to North Ferriby.  Life goes on and the quest for football with soul has never been stronger!

HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE, BE GOOD TO ONE ANOTHER & MAY 2019 BE GOOD TO YOU!

FORZA MARINE

Thursday 15th November and I’m wondering whether or not to make the long trip north to Scarborough to see Marine (hopefully) get their second win of the season in the seaside town on the east coast of Yorkshire this coming Saturday.  Will I? …Won’t I?  I pondered the question for a while whilst gazing into nothingness on a boring Thursday afternoon at work.  I finally decided I’d do it, I’d make the long trip north, my team needed me!  Almost at the same time, my heart skipped a beat and Atrial Fibrillation kicked in!  YOU BASTARD, YOU DIRTY GREAT BASTARD!  I would now not be making the trip north to see another famous awayday victory by the mighty Marine AFC!  The only place I’d be going if I didn’t take it easy and get some rest was A&E and theatre nine to get my ‘dicky ticker’ shocked back into normal rhythm!  I’ve been battling the debilitating condition for almost six years and my heart is now kept going by a dirty cocktail of strong drugs and blood thinners!  (GROWING OLD CAN BE A CRUEL PASTIME TO SOMEONE WHO THINKS HE’S STILL TWENTY ONE!)

The next twenty four hours sees my heart return to normal sinus rhythm and I’m back to thinking about Marine’s fixture at Scarborough.  I’d have a late fitness test on Saturday morning to see if I’d make the trip!  Saturday morning and I’m up with the larks at the crack of dawn and declare myself match fit for the trip.

“How do you fancy a trip to the seaside” I ask Katy, fully expecting wild cries of “yes please, I’ll just grab my bucket and spade”!  “Nar, you’re alright” was all I got from ‘Der Kleiner Schlingel (the little rascal)!  “Mum and I are off to the cinema and Pizza Express”!  Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but when has the cinema and an overpriced pizza ever been a match for a trip to the seaside, even if you aren’t actually going to see the beach or the sea? NEVER, IN MY EXPERIENCE!   “Marine are playing, there’ll be hotdogs and sticks of rock” I proudly boasted.   “Well we’re having sweets, popcorn and pizza, so there” replied ‘Der Kleiner Schlingel’!

That was it, I’d be on my own, too late to ask my mate Rob if he fancied an afternoon on the east coast berating linesmen!

Without further ado I set off on the road with nothing more than a few CD’s by New Order, Everything But The Girl & a trusty bag of Uncle Joes mint balls to keep me company!  I was now embarking on a journey that I took in nineteen seventy four when, as a child, I spent a week on holiday in Scarborough where it rained from the moment we arrived until the moment we left!  I was hoping for better fortunes this time around!

The journey north was uneventful as mile followed mile and Bernard Sumner belted out classic song after classic song!  I arrived in Scarborough at lunchtime, parked up near the north shore and headed straight to Peasholm Park and immediately relived those summer evenings in the early seventies when wrapped up from the rain in a blue cagoule, I’d spend hours here with my parents, riding on the dragon boats, walking through the beautiful gardens or my favourite, a night spent watching the famous naval warfare conflict!

After a good leg stretch and a wander back in time I transport myself back to twenty eighteen and head straight for the pub!  I found myself in a Marston house, The Crown on Scalby Road.  A swift pint of Snecklifter served in a pedigree glass (STANDARDS ARE GRAVELY LACKING & I TAKE THIS FAIX PAS AS A DIRECT INSULT TO THE AGE OLD GENTLEMANLY PASTIME OF QUAFFING GODS NECTAR & AN AFRONT TO NATURE ITSELF)! and a bag of McCoys later and I’m ready for the afore mentioned ‘famous awayday victory’!  After exchanging a few pleasantries and sharing opinions with the Scarborough fans in there I’m on my way to the ground.

The Flamingo Land Stadium (THE EAST COAST IS AWASH WITH PINK, LONG LEGGED BIRDS) is a modern, no frills non-league ground that whilst looking somewhat unconventional, actually ticks all the boxes for what a ground at this level needs!

Programme, pie and Bovril in hand, I take up my spot down the far side touch line.

The game starts and Marine are put under pressure within the first few minutes, three half chances and a couple of gilt edged opportunities fall to the home side, they fail (somehow) to find the target, but the warnings are there for all to see!  A free-kick on the edge of the box is an absolute peach from the boro number ten Michael Coulson and his effort is somehow acrobatically turned around the post courtesy of the save of the season by Marine keeper Germane Mendes!  As the first half wares on, Marine start to win the midfield battle and assert their presence on the game! Honours even after forty five!

Halftime arrives along with the presence of Giles and James Horton, two fine gentlemen and long-standing Marine fans who I stand with at most away games.  They quickly rip me to pieces for my choice of headwear, a classic Harris Tweed deerstalker! It’s clear that style is lost on some folk!  As the players return from their halftime cuppa and a suck on an orange, talk of our fortunes or lack of them takes centre stage and the deerstalker has some much needed respite!  Our hopes of that ‘famous awayday victory’ are raised as midfielder Steve Irwin has two superb chances to open the scoring and but for the fingertips of Boro keeper Tommy Taylor, he would have done so.  Initial onslaught safely defused, Scarborough take control once more and in doing so take the lead!  An old fashioned goalmouth scramble left Mendes clutching thin air and right back Ross Killock stabs the ball home and it’s one – nil!  Ten minutes later it’s eleven verses ten as Marine’s Chris Doyle is shown a red card for something that only the linesman has seen or heard! (ROB WOULD HAVE HAD A FIELD DAY HAPPILY EDUCATING THE LINESMAN IN THE FINER ART OF THE LAWS OF THE GAME)!

Bizarrely, the incident changes the pattern of the second half and Marine take control and put the hosts under pressure as chance after chance goes begging for a much deserved equaliser!  What happens in the last ten minutes is inevitable, a second Scarborough goal and the game is killed off along with our hopes of that all important ‘awayday victory’!  The manner in which the goal comes is symptomatic of our season, the keeper calls for a back pass and a slightly under hit effort sees the hoist’s number ten nip in for his and their second, game over!

Scarborough cement their position at the top of the league and Marine, who have just gone toe to toe with the league leaders for ninety minutes with very little separating them firmly cement their place in the bottom three!  (ITS A CRUEL WORLD AT TIMES)

“C’ est la vie”!  I head back to the warmth of the car and turn the stereo on, New Order blasts out and Bernard Sumner sings about a lost causes and stoic fights for survival, at this moment in time I can truly relate to that!

Warm, relaxed but hungry, I pull over in the small village of Sherburn and within  a bank of freezing fog the warm smell of a hundred coal fires fills the air.  I head straight to the well recommend JR’s chippy and place my order, “‘I’ll be back in ten minutes” I cry above the din of frying fish and the chatter of locals planning their Christmas festivities  (IT’S THE BLOODY 17th OF NOVEMBER)!  I quickly fight my way through the darkness within the blanket of freezing fog and the acrid aroma of coal fires and find the door of what seems to be the village’s only pub.  A warm fire is accompanied by a warm welcome and I’m soon admiring a fine pint of guest ale and chatting to two Scarborough fans who compliment me on Marine’s fine fighting performance and celebrate the fact that other results have gone their way on this day.  I finish my pint and doff the deerstalker as i bid farewell to one and all!  Back to the chip shop for my fish and chips and then back out and into the evening mix of fog and chimney smoke as I hunt for the car and more much needed warmth!  Whilst eating the fish and chips (AND WHAT WONDERFUL FISH AND CHIPS THEY WERE) Robbie Savage and Jason Mohammed along with a steady stream of fans of Premier League football clubs none of whom have ever seen a live game spew their benign drivel upon my ears from the car radio and I sit back and thank my lucky stars that I follow non league football where real fans watch real football played with real passion and real commitment along with the odd pint or two of real ale!  Welcome to the REAL world!

Marine’s last awayday victory was at Brackley Town in the cup on October the sixth! There’ll be other opportunities to witness one of those famous awayday victory’s where you’re amongst likeminded people who you know by first name, this gang of hardy souls, this brotherhood of man, THIS HAPPY FAMILY OF MARINERS!

THANKS FOR READING THIS PIECE OF LITERARY GENIUS WRITTEN BY A MAN IN SEARCH OF ONE OF THOSE AWAYDAY VICTORYS.

FORZA MARINE!                                              FORZA NON-LEAGUE!

…Respectfully dedicated to Ben Williams, AFC Liverpool.  Forever a part of the non league family!  Rest easy mate!

The planing for our annual trip to Toruń began earlier in the year with feverish anticipation and a multitude of excitable phone calls with the trip nearly falling through at the first hurdle! “WE CAN’T GET ANY HOTEL ROOMS, WHAT THE F**K ARE WE GOING TO DO?”

My wife nervously telephoned a few hotels in Torun, only to be told “we’re fully booked that weekend”!  After what seemed like forever, we finally found an hotel stupid enough to take the six of us! £20 per person, per night, “it’ll be just like The Dorchester in London” I told everyone!  I’d be sharing a room with my elder brother who’d do his best to better me at impersonating a very loud motorbike whilst closing his eyes all night, and he’d be successful!  Haydn & Alan would share one of the other rooms and compare stories of bowel movements and impose flatulence in each other’s airspace whilst the last room would be taken by John and Richard with John possibly requiring tucking in each evening and having a story read.  It was that kind of trip!

In the weeks leading up to the trip I consulted with myself as to what to wear on the trip, standards mustn’t be allowed to drop just because you’re going on a speedway trip I told myself, “you’re representing commonwealth and empire” as one former teacher would bark out at us scruffy urchins as we traipsed home from school each day!   Now for those that don’t know, your average speedway fan isn’t the most fashion conscious person, not by a long way, Wolfsport jackets, Gola tracksuit bottoms, black imitation leather shoes and sweat stained Monster Energy caps are the order of the day for your average speedway fan!  After much consideration, I plumped for all Nigel Cabourn on the jacket front, tops would have a strong Margaret Howell and John Smedley influence while the bottom half would be covered by Oni 14oz Japanese selvedge and some fine Tellesen American selvedge with a good stout pair of Grenson boots to walk the undoubted miles of cobbled streets on the Saturday.  Job done!

The plan was to fly from Stansted, not ideal but with the six of us coming from all four corners of nowhere, it didn’t really matter (or so I thought)!  Four of us headed south from Haydn’s home in Derby on the Thursday afternoon straight into the traffic jam from Hell!

“CANCEL THE GRAND PRIX, WE’RE STUCK ON THE M1”

We whiled away the hours discussing who we thought would win the SGP and where our hard earned money should be invested and subsequently squandered!  Jason Doyle would be the rider with which we would pin our hopes of new found wealth upon, he’s the man on form, he’ll do the business we all agreed!  At last we were back on the move and Haydn made light work of the drive south.  We checked into our overnight accommodation, dropped off our bags and headed out for a well earned pint of what would probably be the last decent drop of ale all weekend before being subjected to that rubbish they serve in Poland, fizzy disco piss!!!

We found a cracking little boozer just down the road and heartily refuelled on good home cooked food and one or three fine ales!

Early to bed and early to rise, 04:30 to be precise.  Stansted Airport was already packed to the proverbial rafters and this is where (PROBLEM NUMBER ONE) happened! A vibrating mobile phone was answered and this was the call that alerted us to the fact that we were a man down.  London based John or ‘Miffy’ to his many friends had been up all night driving ‘the big white porcelain bus’! Pre match nerves had hit him at precisely the wrong time and six were now five!  We eased through all the usual checks with the minimum of fuss and sought some breakfast.

As we gathered at the departure gate for our no frills flight to Bydgoszcz courtesy of Ryan Air it was evident that 90% of the people on this flight were bound for Toruń and the seasons final SGP!  How do I know that, you might ask?  Well, the vast majority of speedway fans are a different breed, as I previously mentioned, fashion and style has bypassed most of them and for some, soap, shampoo, washing powder and washing machines have also failed to come into contact with them!  The air was alive with body odour and my eyes survived a sea of Wolfsport jackets, cheap team hoodies, tracksuit bottoms, various ghastly Superdry garments, imitation leather shoes and garish trainers and of course the compulsory sweat stained baseball cap!  We hoped for strong stomachs and boarded the plane,      Next stop Bydgoszcz!!!

Upon arrival in Poland, Haydn insisted that we could trim the costs by all squeezing into one taxi from the airport into the centre of town, (AND THIS IS WHERE PROBLEM NUMBER TWO OCCURRED) you see, this is Poland, everything is relatively inexpensive in Poland, you can’t spend your money at the best of times thus the need to be so thrifty isn’t necessary!  Upon command from our team leader we all shoehorned ourselves into the worlds smallest six seater car and with little in the way of suspension we proceeded to bounce and bump our way into the centre of Bydgoszcz.  Whilst pealing ourselves out of the worlds smallest six seater car the inevitable happened, my old back problem reoccurred and my prolapsed disc was back!  The pain was incredible, how could this be happening, now of all the times you don’t want it to rear it’s ugly head, here it was!!!  Through gritted teeth I soldiered on, this was going to be a very long weekend!  We had planned to have a few beers and a spot of lunch in Bydgoszcz but Alan’s nerves and his desire to check into an hotel 50 km away got the better of him and to crass remarks of  “there’s nothing in this shithole”  we sadly departed for Toruń by train.

“DO WIDZENIA BYDGOSZCZ”!

CZEŚĆ TORUŃ

The fifty kilometre journey by train to Toruń was a nice bit uneventful one costing the five of us just £8 between us! (Northern Rail, please take notice)!  I was in agony on the journey as spasm after spasm shot through my lower back, I wasn’t enjoying this!

As the train pulled into Toruń station we felt that we’d arrived home, home to good speedway, home to good bars, home to good, well cooked Polish fare, HOME TO GOOD WEEKENDS!!!  We checked into our hotel, much to Alan’s relief (he could relax a little now or maybe not) a quick freshen up and we were all walking into the square on the hunt for food and looking like something out of a poor Reservoir Dogs sequel!  (NOW THIS IS WHERE PROBLEM NUMBER THREE OCCOURS)!  Toruń isn’t the biggest of towns and some of my travelling companions aren’t the most adventurous of explorers so inevitably we headed for the tried and tested bars we’d been to on previous visits, this is all a little too familiar I thought!  With batteries recharged and a back held together with with nothing more than hope and an ice cold shower we readied ourselves for a Friday night on the town!  A Friday night in Toruń is a night to behold for any speedway fan as the exciting chatter of all things Grand Prix related reaches fever pitch!  Looking resplendent in my Nigel Cabourn Mallory jacket, crisp shirt and dashing paisley cravat we headed for our usual night time watering hole, The Kuranty.  When we first ventured into Toruń all those years ago, you’d never have known what was behind the ‘big brown door’ but curiosity got the better of us and we nervously slipped inside.

“BEHOLD, FOR WE HAVE FOUND UTOPIA”

Stood before us was the inside of a traditional Polish pub that had been largely untouched since the communist era!

Over the years many a curious speedway fan has discovered what is behind that ‘big brown door’ and now it’s plainly obvious due to it’s inviting windows and large Guinness signage outside!  For many a year we had the run of this fine establishment to ourselves but alas, we now sadly have to share it with the masses!  This year we find a completely new, Americanised menu serving food (if you dare call it that) catering largely for the burger and fries brigade rather than the discerning gentleman on the lookout for some fine Polish fare! (and the portions have shrunk too)!  I’d arranged to meet a mate, Kevin, in The Kuranty and he soon appeared along with his trusty Yorkshire sidekick John Waite (NO NOT THAT JOHN WAITE) although it wouldn’t have surprised anyone if he’d have broken into ‘Missing You’ at any point in the evening, he had the knack of holding an audience, that was without question!  It was a pleasure to meet up with Kevin, a lifelong Crayford Kestrels fan who travels the length and breadth of the continent to get his speedway fix!  The night was now picking up a pace as another of my mates Jamie ‘The Bradford Ace’ was bending the ear of SGP race director Phil Morris.  The main topic of conversation was Belle Vue’s chances of hosting a second British SGP along with Cardiff, the overwhelming response (and it came as little surprise) was never in a month of Sunday’s!  With drinks now in full flow and our conversations with messers Kevin, John and Mr P Morris also in full flow and my back pain easing off with each consumed pint, in stepped the cavalry, former Sheffield Speedway legends Doug Wyer & Craig Pendlebury (the latter flying all the way from his home in Australia).  The night was about to go into overdrive!!!  Bounding straight over to our table, a round of greetings and backslapping was quickly followed by another round of drinks!  Doug, as ever, regaled us with his tales of yesteryear and we hung on his every word like a group of impressionable school boys listening to what some crime fighting superhero had been up to! Craig on the other hand was his usual well mannered, measured self standing back and letting Doug take centre stage whilst chipping in every now and then with well chosen words of wisdom!  Jamie could never forgive Craig for the part he played in Kenny Carter’s broken leg, I on the other hand could never thank him enough, we’re at opposite ends of the seesaw on this one Jamie!  Beer and tales were in full flow but before we knew it, it was 02:00 and we reluctantly had to bid farewell to everyone and head our separate ways.  The five of us headed back to our hotel (That bore little resemblance to The Dorchester) for some much needed shut eye and a round of who can snore the loudest, I can confirm that this was once again won hands down by my elder brother!!!

Saturday morning began at 06:15 with the ringing of the bells summoning one and all to early morning mass.  I decided that they would have to start prayers without me as, much to my annoyance (PROBLEM NUMBER FOUR HAD REARED ITS UGLY HEAD) you see, soft beds and prolapsed discs do not make good bed fellows and the pain was worse than ever!  I’m stuck ridged to the bed and movement is laboured.  A long shower helps but dressing is an arduous task.  After much sweating and swearing the job is done and I’m ready to perform my duties of aimlessly ambling along cobbled street after cobbled street that we’ve trodden countless times before! (AND THIS IS WHERE PROBLEM NUMBER FIVE TAKES HOLD)! The overwhelming feeling of déjà vu had gripped me and the thought of aimlessly ambling along Toruń’s back streets just procrastinating wasn’t what I both wanted or really needed, even as beautiful as they are!

The afternoon wore on slowly only punctuated by the need for lunch and liquid salvation.  We reviewed our investments at the turf accountants over what was becoming a rather leisurely lunch where beer had become the main course but doing little to numb the pain of a shattered glass back.  Spirits were lifted however as we met Reg Wilson and began to ‘chew the fat’ about Sheffield’s forgettable season and discuss the nights drinking arrangements! On bidding farewell we immediately bumped into Garry Stead and his friends.  Now (and I’m not ashamed to admit it) I took a moment to compose myself before entering into conversation with Mr True Grit himself.  I let the pain and self pity of my own back problems go scurrying off into the furthest recesses of my mind as we spoke about the weekend, the destination of the title and the upcoming WSRA dinner dance in Leicester before once again all wishing each other well and going our separate ways!

Late afternoon we first retired and then returned as new men ready for the Grand Prix.  We pushed and jostled our way aboard tram number five and headed up to the stunning Moto Arena.

Upon arrival at the track, too late for beer, we soon realised that the gate number on our tickets didn’t exist!!!  One look at the Brobdingnagian crowd before us, all trying to enter the stadium via four tiny turnstiles had us fearing an impending doom of having to join the swelling mass!  We weren’t wrong as an overweight security guard motioned for us to join the party!  We were certain to miss the start of the meeting as anxious looks at ever speeding wristwatches sent us into a blind panic.  Up ahead, someone opened a gate and people poured into the gladiatorial arena and disappeared down concourses. We wasted no time in following their lead and after showing our tickets to the bemused, riot clad security guards and police at the gate, WE WERE IN and in our seats just in time to see the tapes rise for heat one and what a heat it was, riders passed and re-passed each other on every turn and national hero and champion in waiting, Bartosz Zmarzlik rode a stormer, going from last to first and snatching race victory on the line!!!

“THIS IS GOING TO BE ANOTHER TORUŃ CLASSIC” WE TOLD OURSELVES!

We were to be disappointed, the rest of the meeting, other than Bartosz Zmarzlik’s races were, at times, strung out, processional affairs that did little to raise the heart rate or take my mind off my ever worsening back condition!  During intervals I was having to walk gingerly around the back of the stands aka Peter Collins style in 1977!

As heat eleven approached we eagerly anticipated the clash of the titans, England’s Tai Woffinden and Poland’s wonder boy Bartosz Zmarzlik, one and two in the standings with little more than an hour left in what has been a long SGP season!  This very race could decide the destination of the 2018 World Championship!  The atmosphere reached fever pitched proportions and it was edge of the seat action as firstly Zmarzlik hit the front and then Woffinden hit the deck!!!  Was this the moment that the proverbial pendulum swung in the Polish boys favour?  With a collective sigh of relief, the thousands of English fans packed in the crowd breathed out as one when Tai Woffinden got back on his feet and walked away, seemingly unarmed.  He’d live to fight another day but the points gap was closing!  A solitary point in his next ride saw the gap close up even more and Polish optimism grew stronger! With Woffinden needing two or more points from his final race to secure at semifinal spot and me needing to stretch the muscles in my back, I headed back out onto the concourse and noticed I wasn’t the only one stretching my legs, a plethora of well dressed, beautiful young ladies were congregated in the concourses, (the man who runs around hitting people with the ugly stick wasn’t having much luck here)! The view here was as good if not better than what was on offer on the other side of the stands, I’m a sucker for a well dressed, good looking woman!!!  The roar of both bike and crowd broke my concentration and had me hobbling back to my seat and that all important heat twenty.  With what seemed like consummate ease, Tai Woffinden flew from the gate, into the semifinals and to within one point of becoming a three time World Champion!  I ventured back onto the concourse in search of something a little more pleasant on the eye and in order to stop myself from seizing up.  I was rewarded with both but with the semifinals looming and Tai Woffinden and his new nemesis Bartosz Zmarzlik paired in the second semi I broke away from my surveying duties and headed back once more to my seat! Weighing up the situation, all the young British boy needs is a third place or for Zmarzlik to drop a point and he’s World Champion.  In the end we needn’t have worried, he jets away from the tapes and all Bartosz Zmarzlik can do is throw the bike at him (literally) but the soon to be three time champion is long gone.  In the stands the celebrations have begun as thousands of English fans along with a large number of Poles, Danes and Swedes alike dance with delirium and punch the air with delight, they’re soon to be joined by the champion himself as he does his own Pat Cash moment and climbs into the crowd in search of his most cherished!  I try to join in the euphoric celebrations but pain shoots up my back and down my leg, I decide to just clap in admiration and soak up the atmosphere, nights like this are few and far between!  My thoughts are lost for a moment and I can’t help but think that somewhere high above us someone is looking down on the celebratory scenes with a broad smile saying “THATS MY BOY”!

Amid all the celebrations, we still had a meeting to complete and incredibly there were no Poles in the final but there was a lone Brit, Tai Woffinden! Somehow he had made it all the way to the final, who’d have thought that after heat eleven?  That final race should have been something of an anticlimax to a man that had just become World Champion but Tai Woffinden being Tai Woffinden, he wasn’t done yet, he shot away from the gate and by the third bend it was all over, World Champion for a third time and Grand Prix winner on the night, you can’t argue with that!

The fireworks had barely finished as we rattled along tram line number five and onto the bright lights of Toruń.  We reached The Kuranty Bar, it was full of the young and enthusiastic, eagerly sizing up another Saturday night out, something that the onset of communism had denied their forefathers of, just as Tai Woffinden in all probability will deny their fellow countrymen of that coveted world title in the forthcoming years!  He really is that good!  We drank into the small hours, some in celebration of a new World Champion and some to numb the pain that only a slipped disc can bring!

Sunday started just as Saturday did with the ringing of the bells at 06:15 calling Poland’s catholics to cleanse their souls and confess their sins.  It had been a while since I last attended mass and I promised myself that I’d attend soon if it would go some way to help ease my pain!

We began our journey back to dear old Blighty with the sound of the bells still ringing in the distance. A one hour taxi ride to Bydgoszcz followed by a two hour flight to Stansted had my back in complete agony and I actually cried out in pain as the pilot touched down on terra firma, this was not how it should have been!  Once through customs we said our farewell to Richard, I hoped he’d enjoyed his first visit to Toruń and I looked forward to catching him at Foxhall next season, a nicer man you could never wish to meet!  During the long drive north I came to realise that I’d had my fill of SGP life, I’d strode the same path for too many years.  The overall quality of racing this year had been very poor, next years predicted lineup wasn’t doing much to excite me and as stated previously, the overwhelming feeling of déjà vu was starting to take hold.  When you mix all that with the thought of a reoccurring back problem raising it’s ugly head while you’re a thousand miles from home, it doesn’t give you much to look forward to! So with a heavy heart I decided to call time on my SGP jaunts, they’re not quite as enjoyable as they once were.  Familiarity breeds contempt as they say! They are not wrong!  Maybe I’ll come out of retirement for the odd one, who knows!

I returned home to smiling faces relieved that their intrepid warrior had once more returned in one piece (just) and bearing gifts aplenty!  A welcoming hot shower was followed by a multitude of ice packs and lashings of Deep Freeze, that should help ease the pain!

POLSKA, TO BYŁO EMOCJONALNE!

Thanks for reading,

Mark.

Another speedway season is almost over, it only seems like yesterday that it began!  I was looking forward to the start of this year’s season almost more than previous seasons, Belle Vue were almost certain to add some silverware to last years cup success and we were feverishly discussing which SGP’s we would be attending.  All seemed fine on the horizon but you just never know what is around the corner!  What was round the corner was the devastating news that my wife had the big C!  There would be some dark days ahead for us and speedway would need to take a backseat!

The season started whilst we were charging into battle against ‘the big C’, your mind races away with dark thoughts and raw emotions and those are just a small encounter of the battle that lies ahead, there will be some long days, long days indeed!

The BSPA’s decision to forge ahead with fixed race nights was also a spanner in the works for my weekly speedway fix at The NSS, Monday evenings were to clash with a heady mix of juggling work related priorities, nursing duties to my wife and daddy day care to our young daughter, speedway would come a very poor second to those needs!  My fix was still needed just as much as any addict needs there chosen poison.  Saturday evenings in Cumbria would be my salvation and Workington would provide me with some much needed ‘me time’!  I grew to enjoy my Saturday jaunts up to the lakes, stopping off in Cockermouth for a pint or two in the aptly named Bitter End public house.

A good portion of fish & chips would also be consumed before the last few miles of road were eaten up and I’d arrive at Derwent Park for the main course!  The speedway might not rival that on offer at The NSS but for such a narrow track, the racing was suprisingly entertaining and the team was strong from 1-7, just like the nineteen seventies, Saturday night was once again speedway night!  Workington’s  form in all competitions would stir the soul and have their small but loyal hardcore of supporters dreaming of silverware and champagne come October and even I was getting more excited by the week.  I’m not one for getting over excited at the best of times, I’ve come to learn that in any sport, you should treat both victories and defeats with the same level of composure and let your emotions run away with neither but this was something a little different, ‘unfashionable’, little Workington were rocking the boat, gate crashing the party and the rest of the league were starting to take notice!

Once my wife had had her operation and subsequent chemotherapy to rid her of ‘the big C’  our road to recovery would take us to Glasgow, Edinburgh, Newcastle, Berwick, Ipswich and East London on a few weekend road trips!  We’d stay in some nice boutique hotels and eat in pubs and restaurants that got a mention in the Michelin guide whilst refuelling ourselves on hot chocolate and cake in quaint and quirky cafes.  Our little long road to recovery was beginning to be an enjoyable one and speedway was now taking the front seat!

During the course of this season, I’ve managed (I’m not sure how) to visit a large number of tracks, all of them offering up a varying amount of good racing and a varying amount of characters along the way, Glasgow with its ultra slick promotion and partisan fan base, Edinburgh with its ramshackled stadium and friendliness of its patrons, Berwick with its unique track on a slope and the town’s splendid watering hole, The Barrels, Ipswich with its picturesque location and so on and so on!

Whilst my nights in Cumbria and our monthly road trips have given me my speedway fix, the loss of my weekly visits to Belle Vue to stand with good friends watching speedway on the best track in the world has been a big disappointment.  Fixed race nights have not just been a disaster for my weekly fix but a financial disaster for the sport itself with Rye House bidding farewell mid season and crowds down at most top flight clubs!

Another big dent in my fix would come at Grand Prix level, three SGP’s already booked and paid for, flights – accommodation- stadium tickets would need to be shelved as we rounded the wagons and rode into battle against ‘the big C’!  Some people think speedway is a matter of life and death, I can assure you my wife is more important than that!  In the end the loss of the Grand Prix Trips although significantly less important than my wife’s health and well-being, were of little concern as Grand Prix after Grand Prix turned into a complete bore fest devoid of all the excitement of previous meetings at the same venues.  The final SGP of the year was to be held at the impressive Mariana Roségold Moto Arena in Torun, Poland.  This was to be our tenth or so visit to this impressive venue where the racing has never once disappointed both on Grand Prix night and Polish league meetings.  On this occasion it was to be a far from enjoyable experience (but more of that in my next blog)!!!

The domestic league season was threatening to fizzle out into somewhat of a damp squib with firstly the brilliant young Dan Bewley suffering horrific injuries in a crash at Workington and Craig Cook bowing out of his maiden SGP season with a suspected broken wrist after a crash in the German SGP.  Belle Vue’s season was falling apart at a crucial time with cup a semifinal and the playoffs looming, this proved to be the case as both Somerset and King’s Lynn put The Aces’ season to bed!  Second division Workington on the other hand we’re playoff and cup final bound and the season isn’t yet over for the Comets from Cumbria!

This Friday and Saturday will see the Comets go head to head with Glasgow in their playoff semifinal for the right to meet either Lakeside or Peterborough in the Championship Final and there is still the small matter of both the Cup Final and the Championship Shield to be ridden for!  This has been an enjoyable experience following ‘unfashionable, little’ Workington throughout the season!

The fight for Premiership honours is being fought out between Poole and King’s Lynn.  This should be the sports prestige event in this country but once again The BSPA have turned the occasion into a farce by allowing a rider to ride for both teams over the two legged final!!!  Firstly this makes a complete mockery of the sport to any outsiders looking in and secondly and more importantly could sadly bring questionable doubt into the integrity of a rider who is the innocent party in this mess that could only occur in the pathetic chaos of  British speedway!

I’ll try to get to Workington’s remaining meetings while thankfully my beautiful wife is on the road to recovery but if I don’t, I’ll look back on a season of mixed emotions and wonder what next year will bring to this once wonderful sport!

Thanks for reading,

Mark.

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton