It’s good to do things with my grandson Harry, although he’s at that age where the day tends not to start until the afternoon.
I think the only morning activity that he managed in the time he stayed with us was a visit to Silecroft beach a couple of days earlier. It’s somewhere that we’d gone into the sea with body boards on past visits but with the sewage pollution that seems commonplace these days we limited our activities to wandering along the pebbles and skimming a few into the foam.
Fortunately, the football at Millom was a three o’çlock kick-off and so he was up and about. We’d initially watched the rugby league on the adjacent pitch, which was all very interesting, but it was the proper football that Harry and I had travelled down to Millom to see on the Hanna Field.
The fixture was in the twelfth tier Division One of the West Lancashire Football League with Millom hosting Carnforth Rangers. Millom were in red and black with Carnforth in blue. Each side provided a lino that made little contribution.
As you might expect from a game at that level, there were no seats unless you sat on the wall behind the goal that bordered the rugby pitch. Harry and I leaned on a barrier on the opposite side to the dugouts that gave us a view of the scoreboard and the allotments behind. A handful of kids, who didn’t look to be any older than six or seven years old, watched from behind the goal at the other end to the rugby terracing and did their best to start a few chants.
It was a good-natured game with very little diving. By the time the players took their on-field half-time break Millom were leading two one. Harry and I had been checking on the Boro score and at that stage we were two-one down.
The crowd of around twenty doubled mid-way through the second half as the rugby finished, just in time to see Millom add a third goal.
Carnforth kept chipping away and pulled a goal back in added time, but it was too late. Overall, the score seemed about right, although Carnforth were probably disappointed not to have come away with a point from an even game.
The win for Millom meant that they were the only side to remain unbeaten in their division.
Jen and I didn’t do much of note in the few days leading up to the Krankenhaus festival as it rained heavily most of the time. There was a brief lull that allowed us to pop along to the Hawkshead Show, but a waterlogged field meant that it soon churned up with mud. I was pleased that we got there too late to get into the main car park as most cars subsequently needed towing out of there with a tractor.
Soph arrived with Harry and Isla midway through the week and Harry was happy to come along with me on the drive up to Whitehaven for a Thursday night game in the Premier Division of the West Cumberland Sunday League. It all sounds quite grand until you notice the ‘Sunday’ part of the title.
Initially we headed for the pitch used by Lowca Pirates, but it was soon apparent that nothing was happening there. A short drive to Moresby Rugby Club revealed that the Pirates were instead playing away to Moresby Rangers. We drove past a few elderly ladies walking their dogs and I wondered if any of them were the girl from Moresby that I briefly dated thirty odd years ago when I was working at Sellafield. None of them looked familiar.
The weather was little better in Moresby than it had been in Muncaster and so Harry and I spent most of the game inside of the car. One fella watched from alongside the clubhouse wall but, other than the subs and coaches, everyone else remained within their vehicle lined up behind the goal. Harry remarked that it was like ‘being in an executive box’.
The standard was just as you’d expect for the level, although with it being a mid-week evening, nobody appeared hung over and I didn’t see anyone vomiting in the way you might on a Sunday morning. There was little playing out from the back, which was understandable on a pitch where the ball was likely to unexpectedly stop in the mud.
The visitors were the better side and were three goals to the good by half-time. The players didn’t bother heading for the changing rooms and we were back underway after only four minutes. As the second half went on the crowd diminished as whenever a player was subbed, he just got into his car and drove home.
To the best of my knowledge the Pirates won 8-1, but I couldn’t be certain as I was occasionally distracted by watching subs trying to retrieve lost balls in the long grass or scrutinising the dog walkers to see if I recognised them from the early nineteen-nineties. Whatever. I enjoyed Harry’s company and it’s another ground for the list.
I rarely go to music festivals these days but make an exception for Krankenhaus as it is run by Sea Power and, if nothing else, it means I get to see them play twice in a weekend. It’s held at Muncaster Castle in the Lake District. At least I think it’s the Lakes, although I’m never really sure where the boundaries stop and start.
We’ve camped at Krankenhaus twice before, but the rain last year lessened the enjoyment, especially for Jen, and so this year we returned to a house that we’d stayed in a couple of years ago. We took Soph’s beagle, Henry, and the highlight of the fortnight for him was when four trail hounds detoured from the fells into our garden. He had found his tribe. Unfortunately, it became less of a highlight for him when his tribe found the bone that he’d been enjoying and disappeared up the lane with it. It’s a dog’s life.
On the drive down to Muncaster, we broke the journey in Kendal. And what do you know? There was a football game going on. Who’d have thought that might happen? Jen spent a couple of hours wandering around the town whilst Henry and I took in the FA Cup Preliminary Round fixture between Kendal Town and Newcastle Benfield.
It was seven quid to get in and we settled into the back row of seats behind the goal at the clubhouse end. Henry spent most of the first half sleeping, perking up only if someone carrying a burger or a tray of chips made their way in our direction.
Both sides currently turn out in Division One of the Northern League. Newcastle Benfield have been there for the past twenty years, but it’s a new experience for Kendal Town who were moved laterally at the start of the season from the Premier Division of the Northwest Counties League. I suspect that travelling to the Northeast for most of their fixtures will soon wear a bit thin.
It will be interesting to see how Kendal get on in the Northern League. I’ve a suspicion that the standard is dropping with some many of the former Northern League clubs now making their way higher up the pyramid.
There were four stands dotted around the Parkside Road ground. In addition to the seats behind the goal where Henry and I had taken up residence, there were two stands along the side to our right and a small fourth covered area to our left. Whilst there were a few people in that stand, its main function was for storing lawnmowers.
The Mintcakes should have gone a goal to the good early on from a penalty, but it was struck a little too close to the Benfield keeper and he was able to keep it out.
There weren’t a lot of chances in the remainder of the first half, but just before the break a cross from the left was tapped in by a visiting striker to put Benfield one-up. He celebrated by shushing the home crowd and was rewarded with a volley of abuse, most of which suggested that he might like to promptly return to the Northeast.
At half-time I walked Henry across to the sloped grassy area just beyond the lawnmower storage stand and we watched the remainder of the game from there. The levels of niggle, if that’s a thing, increased and the visiting coach or manager was sent from his dugout to a spot on the rail behind the goal. It didn’t seem to reduce his ability to coach and probably gave him an advantage when Benfield had a corner.
One of the highlights of the second half was when the lino flagged for offside from a throw-in. He got some stick from those still on the Benfield bench for that decision and sheepishly lowered his flag as soon as he realised his mistake.
Kendal drew level with a quarter of an hour to go. I saw the ball crossed into the box but missed the finish as I’d glanced down to see what Henry was rolling in. Fox shit, I suspect.
I was paying better attention when the shushing striker notched his second goal of the afternoon, heading home from close range in added time to put Benfield one step closer to Wembley.
It’s my job these days to sort out the tickets when Paul and I head off for a tournament and, despite hours spent in online ticket queues, it didn’t go well. We only got tickets for one game at the Euros and so when writing about it there’s a lot to cram into a single post. This might just be my longest write-up ever. Or maybe it will just feel like it.
Of course, it’s not helped by my tendency to mention what I got up to the afternoon before, which on this occasion, was watching The Wedding Present at the Georgian. They’d put on a matinee show to avoid clashing with the England game and that suited me fine, especially since they played both Brassneck and Kennedy, the only two of their songs that I whinge about not hearing.
Next day Paul and I flew into Cologne. Paul’s job was to take care of the flights and hotels and without going into detail, he’d absolutely nailed it on both counts. Well done, mate. After a quick cab ride into the city centre, we dumped our bags and headed off to the fan park to watch the Belgium v Slovakia game on a big screen.
Cologne was full of Scots who were in town for their game with Switzerland two days later and a lot of them had pitched up at the fan park. We had a few Bitburger beers, which were nothing special, and watched Belgium curse the advent of VAR when they had two Lukaku goals disallowed for infringements that they would likely have got away with in the past.
We left the fan park to watch the final game of the day in a nearby Italian restaurant. Clearly, they hadn’t anticipated that Cologne would be full of people looking to eat and drink. Or perhaps they had but simply weren’t able to put extra staff on. We solved the staffing issue by ordering a bottle of different coloured wine each in the knowledge that once they had arrived it would no longer matter too much how long the food would take to be served.
The memorable moment from that Austria v France game was Mbappe’s broken nose and I called him out for timewasting until I saw the blood. The evening finished with brandy and cigars on the terrace. All in all, a very good start to the trip.
Day two started with breakfast in a café by the Rhine and then some wandering around to see what Cologne had to offer. There were some buildings that looked older than the nineteen-forties, notably the cathedral. That was quite surprising really considering the extensive WW2 bombing raids that, on one particular night, had involved more than a thousand aircraft.
Once again, it was the Scots fans that stood out. I think it’s great that they’ve qualified for a tournament. I remember back in the seventies when for two World Cups they were the only British representatives and it’s a pity that they had so long without the chance to follow their team abroad.
As we passed the cathedral, there were a few of them playing bagpipes. Be grateful that I don’t add videos with sound to these posts.
There had been some storm warnings which were severe enough for the fan park to be closed for the day. However, the rain held off until five o’clock which meant that we then had to dodge the downpour to get from our hotel to the pub that we’d identified earlier as being the place to watch the six o’clock game featuring Turkey and Georgia.
This was one of the fixtures that I’d tried to get tickets for, but when we saw the torrential rain inside the stadium at Dortmund, I was glad that we were sat inside a bar eating pork knuckle with mash and sauerkraut, washed down with ongoing servings of the local Kolsch beer. When you’ve drained your 200ml glass, the barman just appears with a fresh one and then marks a beer mat to keep a running total. Perfect.
The game was decent too, with a couple of cracking goals from Turkey and then, at two-one and with the Georgian keeper up in the Turkey box in added time, a quick break allowed the Turks to knock the ball into the empty Georgian net and seal the win.
For the nine o’clock game we sought a change of scenery and headed a hundred yards or so up the road to an area with a few bars that had tables outside. It was still raining but we found somewhere with large umbrellas and settled in for Portugal’s game against Czechia. I must have missed their change of name from when they were the Czech Republic. Perhaps they’ve installed a monarchy when I wasn’t looking.
Ronaldo’s presence overshadowed everything else that was going on in the game, or at least in the eyes of the tv director. He doesn’t really contribute much these days though. Czechia took the lead with a goal that was celebrated first in our bar and then again, ten seconds later, in the bar opposite with the delayed feed.
There was more rain, but we were safely under cover and with our now customary order of a bottle of wine each, we didn’t have to worry about any drop off in service. Portugal equalised from an own goal and then had what looked like the winner disallowed for Ronaldo being a fraction offside. They nicked the points anyway in added time.
On the morning of day three we took a train from Cologne to Gelsenkirchen. It should have taken an hour but instead took two and a half. We overheard lots of complaints from those around us about the German rail service. It seemed cheaper than the UK, particularly as we bought our tickets shortly before travel, but just about every train listed on the boards appeared to be running late.
The delay wasn’t a big deal to us and worked in our favour for checking into the hotel. After dumping our bags, we had a wander around Gelsenkirchen. There was a largely empty fan zone without screens and a bar close by with no free seats. We eventually found somewhere to watch Croatia take on Albania. The game had a Boro connection with Carling Cup winner Doriva on the bench as an assistant coach for Albania.
Modric was looking old, although he might say the same about us. Paul mentioned that we’d watched him play back in the 2008 tournament, but whilst I remember being at that game in Vienna where Turkey were kitted out in Boro strips, I’ve no recollection of what Modric got up to. Nevertheless, playing in Euros sixteen years apart is impressive.
Albania went a goal up whilst we were watching, but after we’d moved on Croatia scored twice before Albania nicked a draw. Well done, Dave Doriva.
We’d dipped out early from the Croatia game to give ourselves plenty of time to reach the amphitheatre alongside the main Gelsenkirchen fan park. We got there easily enough via a shuttle from the station and then followed the signs for what seemed like a very indirect route to the amphitheatre. It’s supposedly a six-thousand-seater outdoor area and apparently Scorpions have played there. That last bit of info may not be too unusual in Germany.
We were there to watch the host nation take on Hungary in the six o’clock game and got there early enough for a spot with a decent view. The efficient bar service meant that we kept ourselves topped up with beer and I had a foot long sausage in a tiny bun. That’s the right ratio in my book. Germany weren’t overly impressive but they managed the win that qualified them for the knock-out stage with a game to spare.
The amphitheatre emptied quickly after the Germany win, but we as we had somewhere to sit and there was still a bar open, we hung around to watch the first half of Scotland’s game with Switzerland. There were probably another couple of hundred or so people that did the same.
At half-time we made the short walk to the fans park proper. It’s on the site of an old colliery and it was good to see that in a nod to their heritage, some of the mining equipment remained in place. We had fish and chips from a bus, albeit without the option of vinegar, and watched Scotland achieve the draw that kept their tournament alive. By the time the game was over it was no trouble finding seats on the shuttle ride back to the station.
Day four was matchday and as I had some schoolwork to do, we didn’t head out until lunchtime. We had lunch at an outdoor table of an Italian restaurant and watched the Italian and Spanish fans wandering about town.
As the afternoon wore on, we took a taxi in the direction of the Veltins Arena, stopping off on the way at the social club for fans of Schalke 04. I’m not sure it was the venue that we’d intended but it had beer, food and televisions showing the Slovenia v Serbia game.
The Schalke social club operated the same system that we’d encountered in the Cologne bar two days earlier, where the beers just kept appearing and a mark was made for each one on a beermat. Maybe nobody shreds the beermats in Germany. I had currywurst for my tea for no better reason than I hadn’t eaten it already on the trip and we settled in to watch ex-Boro loanee Andraz Sporar turn out for Slovenia against Serbia.
A last gasp Serbian goal left the group wide open, and we stayed on to watch England take on Denmark. As was the case all over Germany, there were lots of Scots watching and they celebrated the Danish equaliser as if it were their own team.
The England performance was poor, but four points from the opening two games left qualification in our own hands as we left to catch a tram to the stadium.
The tram initially made good progress but then, with the stadium already having been sighted, we were held at a stop for longer than seemed necessary. When the doors opened, we took the decision to get off, despite it being one stop earlier than we could have done. I’d much rather be moving, even if it is under my own steam.
We were delayed a while by Paul’s ticket not being active, but it was soon resolved once we got a phone signal, and we made it through the first stage of security and then into the ground.
Our seats were behind the goal and handy for one of the bars. Whilst regular beer was on sale at the other tournament stadiums, the beer at the Veltins Arena was limited to 2.8%. I can live with that. It’s better than the zero percent Bud that we drank in Qatar and the non-alcoholic beer that used to be the norm at the Euros in the past.
The view wasn’t as good as it could have been with afew of the people in front of us standing and blocking the view. We could see well enough though to recognise that Spain were by far the dominant side and I doubted that Italy would be in Germany for too long.
We’d heard the tales of woe from the previous game at the stadium with England fans having to wait three hours for a tram and with that in mind we legged it ten minutes from time. The tactic worked and we were soon on board and back at the main station almost before game had finished.
And so that was it. Another very enjoyable tournament despite only seeing the one game live. Next up is the World Cup in 2026 where I’ll be looking to add Mexico and Canada to my list of countries where I’ve seen a game.
I hadn’t really expected to get to Alwwal Park again now that I’m based in Al-Ula, but the lure of a fight for the undisputed heavyweight title brought me back into Riyadh for a couple of nights. The fight was scheduled for the Saturday night and so on the Friday I headed for the football.
Ticketing as an arse on. I’d bought a season ticket for Al-Nassr back in August last year. It was decent value at around a tenner a game and whilst I knew I wouldn’t get to all the matches it meant that I’d be able to go to those that I wanted, even if the general sale of tickets happened before I became aware.
As it happened, I left Riyadh without even activating my ticket and so had to go through a convoluted process to do that, with my old Saudi phone number, for what was the penultimate home game of the season.
It got more of a hassle when I reached the stadium and the agile QR code wasn’t showing. A steward very kindly and patiently used his own phone signal as a hot spot and by the magic of wifi somehow made it appear on my screen. If I’d known that the game wouldn’t sell out, I’d have just bought a paper ticket at the stadium.
I was given a flag and a scarf on the way in. The scarf was a short satin-like number, ideal for tying around the wrist in the way that we did at Ayresome Park in the seventies. I’m not overly keen to relieve my youth in that way so wrapped it around my neck in the style that Harold Steptoe would do when trying to impress a girl or some theatrical friends.
My season ticket was for the home singing section behind the goal. I was right at the outer edge though in the final seat of the back row, so didn’t feel compelled to wave the flag that I was given, or join the chanting as directed by the bloke at the front with the megaphone. My only show of solidarity with my section was when I joined in with the communal coughing after the pre-kick-off smoke bombs were let off.
The game was a strange one. In theory, a big match with first placed Al-Hilal taking on second placed Al-Nassr. The battle for the league title was over though with the visitors having already being crowned champions and the hosts unable to finish anywhere other than the runners up spot.
The two sides were due to meet in the Kings Cup Final a couple of weeks later, so I suppose depending on your viewpoint they might either want to set down a marker or else keep their powder dry. Al-Hilal were on a thirty-odd game unbeaten run, so I suppose avoiding defeat was probably on their radar.
Al-Nassr have been boosted this season by the arrival of Sadio Mane, whilst Al-Hila have former Fulham goal machine Mitrovic up front. I can’t recall if the latter previously looked in good shape, but he didn’t seem to be in peak condition to me.
The smoke hadn’t yet cleared when Al-Nassr took the lead with a shot from the edge of the box into the top corner. Al-Hilal didn’t really pose much of a threat and if Ronaldo had taken any of the four clear cut first half chances that were laid on for him the contest would have been over before half-time.
As it was, Al-Nassr resorted to trying to kill the game with a series of time-wasting ‘injuries’ interspersed with more missed chances. Their failure to capitalise on their chances bit them on the arse in the tenth minute of added time when Mitrovic converted a penalty that most would have considered a little harsh.
So, ninety-nine minutes between the only two goals of the game. Probably a record of some sorts there.
With my visa issues resolved and a return to Saudi Arabia imminent, I had a few meetings to attend at the company head office in Athens. As you might have expected, I checked out the possibilities for taking in a game during my three nights in town and got lucky with a Europa Conference League fixture at the Georgios Karaiskakis Stadium.
The match had sold out and so I picked up a thirty-euro ticket on the secondary market for fifty-two euros from Viagogo. I caught a train to the Piraeus area of Athens and arrived at a busy stadium a good hour before kick-off.
What I hadn’t realised was that all Greek football had been played behind closed doors for the past two months due to some violent incidents. This was the first game after the decision to allow the return of spectators. However, a new rule had been implemented that required everyone to show ID that matched the name on their ticket.
As my digital ticket had come from the secondary market it had something like Dave Zeus on it, whereas my passport, as you might have anticipated, was in my real name. I was turned away at my turnstile when I claimed that I didn’t have any ID with me.
I called Viagogo, but there was no answer. Fortunately, someone tipped me off that if I took out a membership in my own name for ten euros, I could use my shiny new membership card to buy a forty euro ticket. That’s what I did and was soon inside the ground. Ironically, the steward on my new turnstile didn’t check to see if my passport matched. Once he saw that I had ID he just waived me through.
Perhaps I should have tried that initially. On the plus side, Viagogo were very apologetic and had refunded my initial ticket price before we reached half-time.
There was a great atmosphere inside, which isn’t surprising when everyone had gone two months without going to a game. I was in the main stand with the home singing section behind the goal to my right. Ferencvaros had a section in the corner diagonally across from me and were celebrating a goal with less than a minute gone.
A VAR intervention brought the Hungarian joy to an abrupt halt and instead caused the sort of reaction around me that an Olympiacos goal would have done.
Ferencvaros had ex-Boro loanee Mo Besic on the bench and he remained there until there were just ten minutes to go. It wasn’t an inspired substitution as within sixty seconds of him coming on the home side went in front.
There were no more goals and the Olympiacos win meant that I was able to successfully leg it for the first available train at full-time whilst everyone around me celebrated the win.
After the Ireland trip, Jen and I took the ferry back to Holyhead and then the train to Manchester. We stayed overnight so that we could go to the Sea Power gig at the Albert Hall. It’s a great venue and, as always, they put on a decent show.
Next morning we travelled on the TransPennine Express to Thornaby. That’s a grand sounding name for what is a fairly mundane train. It was on time though and we had seats so they can call it whatever they like.
We were back early enough for Harry and I to get to the Boro game. Alistair missed out as he was at a party somewhere and as I didn’t have a car, we were happy to accept a lift from Tom. That meant a bonus couple of pre-match pints for me at the fanzone bar.
The game didn’t go well. Bristol City scored early on and then added a second within a minute. We looked as if we’d pulled one back with ten minutes to go, but it was ruled offside. An added time consolation from Sammy Silvera wasn’t actually much consolation at all.
The defeat left us in twelfth place, only four points off the play-offs, but with a lot of other teams better placed. That’s likely to be my last Boro game of the season and it looks pretty nailed on that we’ll be in the Championship again next year.
Ireland does well for public holidays with ten compared to the UK’s eight. They even manage to squeeze a couple in between New Year and Easter. One of them, St Patrick’s Day, I knew about. That’s pretty much a partying day around the world. The other is for St Brigid’s Day.
For what it’s worth, St Brigid would appear to be famous for giving stuff away, ranging from all the family butter, which in our house would be a maximum of two packets, to her dad’s sword. Presumably she couldn’t find the butter knife. I’m not sure that sort of behaviour merits a public holiday, but it gave me the chance to watch a weekday game in the afternoon rather than the evening. That’s always welcome.
I drove down to Bray, which is half an hour or so along the coast in Wicklow. We travelled along the same route and then a bit further the following day for a couple of nights in the countryside which was fine. It included a visit to some jail from the olden days and if the weather had been better might well have involved some hiking.
This afternoon was all about the football though and a game in the group stage of the Leinster Senior Cup between Bray Wanderers of the second-tier First Division and Shelbourne of the top-tier Premier Division.
It was five euros to get into the Carlisle ground, which I later discovered has been hosting sporting events since 1862. It may very well be the oldest ground that I’ve ever been to. I’d check it out but I’m loathe to add to my stats lists. I already keep records of far too many things and, if you’re not careful, that sort of behaviour can easily end up with you weighing and cataloguing your turds.
I initially took a seat in the covered stand down one side. There was uncovered seating opposite and level standing behind each goal. There had been a ‘Fun Day’ earlier and so there were a lot of kids milling around, presumably having had their fun and now having to stay and watch the game.
I spotted one young lad wearing an Al-Hilal shirt with Neymar Jr. on the back. As I doubt that he’s a diehard Hilal supporter, it shows the way in which players are followed these days, rather than, or as well as, clubs. His mate sported a more traditional Mo Salah Liverpool top and I wondered whether he too would be wearing the shirt of a Saudi Arabian club before long.
Bray took the lead midway through the first half when some fella switched the ball from his right foot to his left and having opened up the opportunity, curled his shot into the corner of the net.
Three minutes later the home side doubled their lead with an equally good effort. This time it was a shot from outside of the box that ended up in the top right-hand corner of the net.
I watched the second half initially from the stand opposite and then leaning on the barrier at one end. There were no more goals and Bray, somewhat against the spirit of St Brigid, held on to what they had and took the points.
As Dublin isn’t too far from the Northern Irish border, I took the opportunity to tick off football country number sixty-one with a visit to the Newry Showgrounds. It was an easy drive, and I was there early enough to park up close to the ground and wander past the nearby Gaelic football stadium to a petrol station that sold gloves and hats. It’s chilly in Northern Ireland in February.
The game was listed as a home fixture in the Irish Cup for Newington Youth, despite it being at Newry City’s ground. Maybe they’d switched venues for some reason. Newington are a club in the second tier of Northern Irish football with Newry in the top tier.
Newry City are fairly new, having been formed when Newry Town went bust a few years ago. They still play at the same ground though and it’s the place where Pat Jennings used to play for them back when they were Town. I liked Jennings. He was my favourite footballer until I discovered the Boro and Jim Platt took his mantle.
It was ten quid admission, and I was given an Irish tenner as change from my English twenty. Anxious not to be stuck with it I soon offloaded it for some raffle tickets and a tray of chips with curry sauce. The ground holds seven and a half thousand in theory, but it’s dropping to bits and currently limited to just two thousand. I don’t think that capacity was threatened for this fixture.
Newington showed more intent early on, but it was Newry that took the lead after a quarter of an hour, hitting the lower league team on the break. Newington were level within ten minutes though when the Newry keeper somehow managed to let a back post header slip underneath him. I doubt that Mr Jennings would have conceded that one, even at the age of seventy-eight.
Newington went ahead on the half-hour with a close-range tap in. The Newry fans were furious and blamed the lino for keeping his flag down. He did seem reluctant to get involved in the offsides, which is not really something you want from a bloke running the line.
I watched the second half standing behind the goal as Newington had numerous chances to put the game to bed. They didn’t take them though and after one effort went wide, a girl near me exclaimed “Shiver me timbers” in a similar tone that I might use when uttering “FFS”. It was worth the trip for that alone.
It finished two-one, and it was Newington that went through to the next round.
With Jen back home from the States, we decided to take a trip to Ireland. A choice made primarily because my passport was away at the Saudi Arabian Embassy for a visa update, and I could travel to Ireland using my UK driving licence.
We took the train to Holyhead and then with a combined ticket caught a ferry to Dublin as foot passengers. It was all very easy.
Dublin was busy despite the time of year, and it seemed that most people knocked off work for the weekend at around ten o’clock on a Friday morning. I was happy to do the same and we wandered around the touristy bit around the river, mixing with the stags, hens and those who simply fancied a mid-morning Guiness.
I’d never been to Ireland before which is odd given its proximity and the fact that Ryanair used to fly from Teesside Airport. That meant that my first game would tick off another country in which I’d watched football, bringing my score up to sixty.
Whilst that seems a lot, most people who have followed their country home and away for a few years would probably have seen games in more countries. It’s only really when you’ve watched games in around a hundred or so countries that it becomes anything out of the ordinary.
The match was at the Irishtown Stadium, but on the astro pitch outside rather than in the stadium proper. It was a third-tier game with around eighty people braving the cold and the lack of anywhere to sit down. There was plenty of shouting, both on and off the pitch, but with little of it directed at the ref. I like that.
Wanderers were the better side, but it was competitive until the last ten minutes when two late goals sealed a three-nil win.
Trail of the Lion King 