Can you
remember all the brouhaha surrounding the Against Modern Football movement in
its early days? About 4 years ago it really seemed like we were on the cusp of
something vital; a genuine, organic movement formed on social media, ready to
reclaim the game from the incompetent and rapacious fools who had torn the
beating heart from the chest of the people’s game. Sadly, the initial momentum
was lost as #AMF went from being a war cry to a hash tag, latterly the
preserve of self-mythologising Dadsuals keen to tell stories about an edgy 80s
youth they’d never known anything about. Meanwhile, those doing the hard yards
in terms of promoting and maintaining fan ownership, at clubs from all sections
of the football pyramid, including Portsmouth, Swansea, Hereford, Salisbury and
many others, kept on battling in the face of mass indifference and ignorance.
Too much work to be done and too little support from sneering pretend toughies
who couldn’t put a tab out.
Being
secreted for most of the time in my own Northern League bubble, where fan
ownership is a fact of life because there’s nobody else going to pay the bills,
I’d not really taken much notice of non-league events elsewhere in our region. The
problems with West Allotment Celtic, Hebburn Town, Percy Main amateurs and
Billingham Synthonia, who I’m delighted to see promoted to the top division,
had kept my mind focused. However, I was delighted to see Blyth Spartans
achieve promotion to the National League, formerly Conference, North. I knew
this league was the home of 1883 Darlington, the phoenix club that rose from
the ashes of the original Quakers in 2012, starting again from Northern League
Division 1; I can still recall the fearsome 4-0 pounding they gave Benfield as
they raced to the title in spring 2013. Until the week before Easter, all the
stars seemed to have aligned to give Darlo a strong chance of returning to the
Conference. At Christmas, they moved back to the town, groundsharing with the
rugby club at Blackwell Meadows, after 5 years in exile at Bishop Auckland’s
Heritage Park. Since their return, home form has been good enough to propel
them to 4th in the National League North, which is one of the 4
play-off places below the sole automatic promotion spot. Then, disaster struck.
As is so
often the case outside the football league, the ground grading requirements for
clubs seeking promotion seem to be both perverse and incomprehensible. Amid the
labyrinthine series of intractable regulations for promotion to the Conference
was the new instruction that clubs must have 500 covered seats across two
stands by 31st March 2017, in order to be allowed promotion. Darlo
have 500 seats in one stand; they’ve also just installed a hundred or so in
another and have a block of 250 temporary ones that they paid for, still at
Heritage Park, which they were intending to transport as and when necessary.
Human error meant that Darlo believed the rules allowed for temporary seating
to be used for the play-offs, as long as the club could show that it had
obtained planning permission and had detailed plans to construct a permanent
seated stand; which they of course do. Sadly, this isn’t the case and Darlo, as
well as Poole Town in National League South, who have been similarly disbarred,
are appealing the decision. There’s been no final judgement as yet, but the
full statement, which is praiseworthy in its detail, transparency and honesty,
can be accessed here http://darlingtonfootballclub.co.uk/statement-by-the-board-of-directors-of-darlington-fc-relating-to-the-national-league-north-play-offs/
Having
researched into the Darlo situation, I then naturally had a look at their
fixtures, as I quite fancied a trip to their new ground. Easter Monday was the
perfect time; home to FC United of Manchester, a beacon club for fan ownership,
now fighting to reclaim their slightly tarnished, previously ideologically
incorruptible identity after a prolonged bout of internecine warfare that
wouldn’t have been out of place in Kruschev’s days. Suffice to say, former
Chief Executive and prime mover in the foundation of the club, Andy Walsh, left
with his legacy somewhat battered after the risible involvement of the mobile
disaster area Andy Walker in FCUM. Walker, another former Militant full-timer
like Walsh, is a Teesside born, lifelong Liverpool fan (unquestioning
veneration of anything and everything to do with Merseyside goes with the
Militant ideology), who reinvented himself as a kind of PR guru to get on the
payroll at Broadhurst Park. So successful was he that FCUM were brought to the
verge of extinction by their dismal stewardship. Thankfully they’ve gone now,
with FCUM stabilising in mid table and a new set of elected directors.
My other
Easter Monday choices had been Blyth’s home game with Whitby, which went 5-1 by
way of the home side, but the title was already won, taking the urge to attend
off the table. As my almost deserted Metro swung by Percy Main, I remembered
Purvis Park was hosting the Northern Alliance’s Amateur Cup final, which was
won 6-0 by Hazelrigg over Cramlington United. In an almost deserted city
centre, I saw a couple of people I knew limbering up in Rosies with early afternoon pints, ready for the beam back of
Newcastle’s latest aberration as El Payaso de Mierda Benitez continues to
produce laughably bad football while shamelessly trousering £5m a year and
squandering automatic promotion.
Wandering down
Pink Lane past The Forth, I mused how
a collection of the more earnest and youthful bona drag popinjays of NUFC’s
support had once met some of FCUM’s chief theoreticians for beers, before
heading with them to Blyth, to support the away side against Spartans. Baffling
and almost as incomprehensible as the tale of one of them choosing not to go
into the game, for whatever specious reasons. Anyway, the preponderance of
Belstaff and Stone Island attired big lads with Peronis confirmed that the Lincoln Transit Elite were refreshing
ahead of a trip to Gateshead Stadium, where they won 2-1, with a brace of
injury time goals, to almost confirm their return to the football league.
And so to
the train; £13 return to stand with my back to the driver’s cab on a packed 3
carriage rattler, full of hungover Hens and returning squaddies. My ticket
didn’t get checked going down or coming back on a far emptier, dirtier train,
which always feels like money wasted. In fact, despite remaining totally sober,
this was an expensive day out; £13 train, £5 Metro, £12 in to the game, £2.50
for a programme and £1.50 for some warm, brownish liquid masquerading as
coffee. Good job I brought my own bottle of water and a bit bait. Part of my
doomed economy drive included walking to and from the ground by different
routes; both of which were canny hikes. Grimy, poorly maintained, low-rent Park
Road and the confrontational, social housing of Parkside, before emerging to
the bucolic pleasures of the A167 and 3 minute final leg in almost countryside
to the ground. Coming back I took the A167 the whole way; admirably Victorian
stonework akin to the fringes of York, then a rollercoaster up and down on a
hilly road, parallel to the former Feethams and populated entirely by kebab
shops. It seemed much quicker on the way back; perhaps because I knew where I
was going, what time the train was and had started to regret wearing shorts in
this weather.
Perhaps I
ought to have taken a leaf out of one of the Darlo fans’ fashion bible; a Weekend Offender sweatshirt and a Berghaus fleece provided an intriguing
combination. However, despite lurid stories on social media and apologies in
the programme (which must have been written well in advance as there was no
mention of the play-off saga) about bad behaviour at Fylde and Alfreton, there
seemed to be a dearth of Darlo lads out looking for Manc hides. The sheer volume of cops, including camera
wielding spotters, may have dissuaded any potential pugilists. Having decided
to go in to the FCUM end, as I’ve seen Darlo enough times in the past to know
what they are about, I was initially surprised to discover the travelling support
wasn’t an immaculately attired, culturally progressive mass of Trotskyist
trainer tribunes. Instead, it was just a big away following of non-league fans
in the main; an older demographic of working class blokes and quite a few
families. Some of them pissed and some of them angry, especially about the
appalling quality of burgers being knocked out for £4, but it wasn’t a lairy or
unpleasant atmosphere. Well, apart from the bloke next to me who got into a
tedious, circular argument with the chief steward about how the bloke’s 7 year
old son couldn’t get to see the game properly, as he was exactly the same
height as the railings round the pitch. Earwigging this interminable
conversational 0-0 draw kept me occupied for the 20 minutes until kick off as
the crowd, now encompassing more of a traditional Mancunian match going vibe
and many inventive flags, steadily built.
The final
total was an impressive 2,147; with I’d imagine 300 or so from Manchester. It
wasn’t a great day on the pitch for the visitors, even if they did win the
singing contest, with many inventive chants, often in the face of adversity. I
have to say, I was impressed by Darlington’s style of play; fast, ruthless,
skilful and well organised, their quickly established 3-0 lead was totally
deserved. The scoring was opened early on by David Ferguson, who lashed one
into the top corner from 25 yards. On 13 minutes it was 2-0 when Ferguson’s
cross was nodded home by Mark Beck, for a lovely picture book goal. It was 3-0
before the half hour when Terry Galbraith fired home from the spot after Beck
had been fouled. Thereafter FCUM steadied the ship somewhat and got one back
after 34 minutes when Tom Brown finished low past Adam Bartlett.
No further
goals until half time, at which point a small trickle of well-bevvied FCUM fans
were brought into the away end from the bar where they’d watched most of the
game to that point. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but one bladdered radgie,
apparently a Mansfield fan from Alfreton, started throwing his Paul & Shark ensconced weight around
in a silly show of posturing. It was enough to send me to my phone and regular,
gloomy updates of Newcastle’s crucifixion at Portman Road after the
resurrection of hopes that had been Good Friday and Leeds, until the 94th
minute at least.
The second
half was a quieter affair; the home side wary of pushing on, lest it invite a
sucker punch from the visitors, kept the ball and drew the sting from the game.
The skill level was encouraging, but the vision and finesse required to create
opportunities was lacking. Gary Brown made it 4-1 after an exchange of passes
with the marvellously named Cartman after 75 minutes. This was a reason for
many FCUM fans to take down their flags and head for the exits, though the
majority stayed and were rewarded with a fine consolation by Adeloye in the
dying seconds.
So, 4-2 it
finished and not once during the whole game did I hear any targeted negativity
by the FCUM support. They understood the game and weren’t there for some
ideological power trip or anarchists’ Easter egg hunt; in fact, I was the only
bugger there with dreadlocks I think. I came away with the sense of a day well
spent and a profound admiration for both clubs’ supporters. The lack of
whinging wasn’t an absence of passion; it was borne of the realistic awareness
that when you start a club at the very bottom, like these 2, you’re in it for
the long haul as the vagaries and caprices of billionaire owners don’t impinge
on the honest soul of the game as played by 1883 and FCUM. Let’s hope those
charged with running the respective outfits can keep them on an even keel,
progressing upwards season by season.
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