Krankenhaus was done for another year. It really is a wonderful festival and has grown from around three hundred attendees five years ago to twelve hundred or so this year, which is big enough for me. The very friendly vibe is probably enhanced by the number of dogs that come along. Plus, Sea Power aficionados tend to be some of the nicest people around. I don’t think I saw anyone being a dickhead the entire weekend.
The highlights were the Sea Power sets themselves and for their Sunday night performance we got a mellow rarities set, drawing heavily on Hamilton’s songs. All it would have needed for perfection would have been a rendition of Lovely Day Tomorrow.
I hope that the festival has started to turn a profit and that it helps to keep them going. I’d miss gigs like the two that we got from them this weekend.
As we were staying at Muncaster for the rest of the week, I had the opportunity to take in a match on the Bank Holiday Monday at Borough Park in Workington. It was a fixture in the seventh tier Premier Division of the Northern Premier League.
I can remember when Workington were a Football League club. It’s forty-seven years since they were replaced by Wimbledon in the penultimate season of the bottom four in Division Four having to apply for re-election. I don’t remember Bill Shankly managing them though, that was before my time. Visitors Hebburn Town are ex-Northern League and have done well to advance two steps since those days.
It was thirteen quid admission, which seems high for tier seven, but maybe that’s my age. Why can’t I still buy a car for a farthing? The turnstile was impressive in an old rickety way, as was almost all the ground. The dugouts seemed modern, which is a shame, as I’d hoped to have imagined Shankly sat in one of them. I still did, but had to put in the extra effort to imagine the dugout too.
The capacity of the ground was limited to three thousand, with seating for around five hundred in the old main stand. With time to spare before kick-off I got myself a programme and joined the queue for one of those curly sausages that always remind me of a particular style of dog turd. It came with mash and gravy and tasted better than it looked. It was announced before kick-off that Workington had signed Efe Ambrose who had turned out for Celtic in the past and who had more than fifty Nigerian caps. He wasn’t available for this game.
After watching from the seats for a while I toured the rest of Borough Park and had spells watching from behind each goal.
Hebburn had the best of the opening exchanges, blazing a shot over the bar early on and then taking a first half lead with a shot that the Workington goalie got a hand to and should probably have kept out. It looked as if that would be sufficient for Hebburn to see the game out but a break down the right ten minutes from time led to an equaliser. The move was repeated four minutes later and to the delight of all those around me, including a dog, Workington went ahead.
Hebburn understandably weren’t happy about the changed circumstances and their day deteriorated further when a fella picked up a second yellow soon afterwards. All Workington had to do after that was run down the clock and they managed it easily enough.
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.
As we’d now reached the weekend, Krankenhaus was well under way. It’s the fourth time that the festival has been held and Jen and I have been fortunate enough to attend them all. Harry and Isla were also there two years ago and came in with us and Soph on the Friday afternoon this time.
It’s a chilled, friendly atmosphere and I’ve little inclination these days to attend any festivals that are bigger or rowdier.
Highlight of the Friday was Sea Power’s set. But it always is. Whilst the other bands were decent, I’d be happy if the three-day festival comprised of nothing more than a single Sea Power performance each day. There’s enough going on to fill my time in Muncaster Castle and on a Saturday afternoon there’s always some football on somewhere.
I popped in pre-match on the Saturday and watched a Hector Gannet lunchtime set whilst Harry was still in bed before returning to the house to pick him up and drive south to Millom.
We were there to watch a football game in the West Lancashire league, but on arrival there was already a crowd of around four hundred watching a rugby league game on an adjacent pitch. Millom Amateur Rugby League Club contends to be the oldest rugby league club in the world. I’ve no reason to doubt their claim, particularly as my knowledge of the support is so limited that this was the first ever fixture that I’d seen live.
A little research revealed that the game was in the sixth tier of English rugby which is Division Two of the National Conference. Millom were fighting to avoid the drop to Division Three and badly needed a win against visitors Normanton Knights.
Harry plays Union for Stockton and found the six-tackle League format interesting. It means you have to concentrate more when watching as you need to know how close the attacking side is to the six-tackle limit.
I’m not sure all of the crowd were counting the tackles, as a lot were focusing on their pints and the socialising that comes with a big game on a Bank Holiday weekend. Others were watching from their houses across the road, which gave a great view of the match from their front gardens and upstairs windows.
It was all very good natured on the pitch despite the relegation fears and an even first half ended with the sides level at twelve points each. Normanton went ahead in the second half before Millom took control and ran in three tries for a 30-18 win that kept their hopes of avoiding the drop alive.
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.
There had been a few boxing promotions in Riyadh when I was staying there. Tyson Fury’s little brother comes to mind, as well as a selection of influencers and MMA fighters. The bills weren’t of sufficient interest though to drag me across town and keep me up long beyond my usual bedtime.
The undisputed heavyweight championship of the world is a different story though and there’s no way I was going to miss that, even if it was a two-hour flight from Al-Ula.
I’d picked a hotel in Riyadh that looked as if it was in walking distance of the Kingdom Arena, but the route followed some pretty major roads without pavements, and I concluded that walking was something that I’d only really want to do in an emergency.
I’d bought my ticket online a month or so earlier for two hundred riyals, which is only about forty-odd quid. At that time there were plenty of seats available, and I’d chosen one in the banked seating, square on to the ring and three rows from the front. My thinking was that if everyone on the floor area ended up standing, I’d still be able to see over their heads from my seat.
I arrived early at the Kingdom Arena. It’s a new venue that opened this year. It only took six months to construct and is big enough to stage football games with a thirty-thousand crowd. Al-Hilal are using it for home games and with a retractable roof and air-conditioning it’s suitable for any time of day or year.
The stewards were as brand new as the venue and directed me in a full lap around the stadium before grudgingly accepting that my entrance was the one where my taxi had dropped me off twenty minutes earlier. I received a wristband and headed inside with seven hours to go to the main event.
There was a garden area with food trucks and tables for those who didn’t want to watch the undercard. I was struck by how civilised it all was when there’s no beer, cocaine or blokes who had pre-gamed with a Peaky Blinders box-set binge.
I paused at one of the merchandise stalls and looked at the souvenir gloves signed by both Fury and Usyk. There was a time when I would have been tempted. In a past stage of my life I used to have memorabilia from all the linear heavyweight championship fights, going as far back as Jack Johnson. Most of it is long gone and these days I try to avoid filling my house with stuff like that. I even skipped the programmes, although mainly because the size was too big for my hand luggage backpack. In the end, I decided that keeping the wristband would be sufficient.
My seat was as good as I’d hoped and directly above an entrance tunnel to the floor area. In football terms I was close to the front of the lower tier, bang on the half-way line. The tunnel served as a celeb spotting area and a lot of those in the floor seats spent most of the undercard facing away from the ring and waiting for the likes of Ronaldo, Neymar Jr and Anthony Joshua to make their entrances.
As in the UK not many came in for the undercard and those who stayed outside missed out on some very good fights. Tom was watching on telly at home and his texts suggested that he was very impressed. I suppose that’s one of the benefits of the Saudi money in that it’s big enough to encourage fighters to take competitive contests.
As the clock ticked around to 1.30am we got a couple of songs from an American pop star called JID. I presume that he’s reasonably well known in certain circles. He appeared in a box suspended above the ring although I’ve no idea how he got up there. Perhaps he’d been hidden in the ceiling since lunchtime. After that we got the ring walks. Usyk first, despite having the most belts, then Fury, who I thought expended too much energy with his dancing.
Even if you didn’t see the fight, you probably still know the result. For what it’s worth I gave Usyk the first round and then Fury the next five. I thought it looked easy for Fury at that stage and Usyk didn’t seem able to get near to him. Fury took a breather in seven and eight, conceding those rounds, before the fight turned around in round nine. It could very easily have been stopped at that point in favour of the Ukrainian.
By the time Usyk took the tenth, I had him a point to the good. I gave the eleventh to Fury, although I remarked to the bloke from Stoke sat next to me that the solid punch landed by Usyk right on the bell might well have nicked it. I scored the twelfth in Fury’s favour too, giving him a one-point victory on my scorecard, but all that was needed was for the judges to disagree with me on any one of the close rounds and the belts would go the other way.
That’s what happened and overall, it felt like the right outcome. As the announcement was made, I legged it for the exit so that I could get one of the taxis waiting outside. That enabled me to have three hours sleep before needing to get up for my flight back to Al Ula. If the two of them do it all again, then so will I.
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.
I’ve been back in Saudi Arabia for a while, working in a place called Al Ula. It’s notable for the spectacular rock formations that circle the town and for a few touristy places such as Hegra, where tombs and accommodation were carved into the rocks of a trading route, back in the olden days.
It’s similar to the sort of thing that you’d see in Petra, Jordan, although on a smaller scale.
Whilst the surroundings are picturesque, there’s not a lot going on. The local football team is homeless as they await the construction of a new stadium and are currently playing their fourth-tier fixtures three hours away. I’ve yet to get to one of their games.
The lack of events meant that the announcement of the Camel Cup was very welcome, and I booked tickets for myself and a couple of fellas I work with for day three of a four day meeting.
We went for the VIP option, which turned out to be a wise choice. Apart from a large airconditioned lounge, there was a really good quality buffet. They were giving away bottles of aftershave, which I declined on the basis that I never wear the stuff, although in hindsight I suspect that my teenage grandson would have appreciated it.
As much as I welcomed the air-conditioning, I like watching my racing in the open air and so we headed outside once the action started. There were four races, all between six and eight kilometres in distance and on a single lap course. That meant that we only saw the camels as they approached the finishing line. The rest of the time we followed their progress on a big screen as they made their way through the distant countryside.
There were at least twenty camels in each race, and each had a small robot on its back that wielded a whip. I was disappointed that the camels weren’t ridden by monkeys. I’ve seen videos where that happens, and it was much more entertaining.
The robots were controlled by owners or trainers who followed their camel along a road beside the track. Each vehicle in the convoy contained someone frantically jabbing away at the ‘Giddy Up’ button on a remote to activate the whip and encourage his camel to get a move on.
Highlight of the day was when I got to ride a camel myself, not in a race, but just around the car park. It didn’t strike me as much different to riding a horse. So, overall, a good day out by Al Ula standards but one that would have been greatly enhanced by replacing the robots with monkeys.
I’m not sure when I first went to the National. It might have been in ’86 when West Tip won, or more likely I think for Maori Venture’s win the following year. It’s strange how I can easily recall the winners from the seventies and eighties but have no idea of the victors in recent years. A bit like the FA Cup, I suppose.
I can remember that I went on a bus from Stockton with Strach. It’s more likely to be ’87 as that was the year we did the Leger and the Arc too.
I know I went a couple of times in the early nineties. I was there for Party Politics and then the year when the false start didn’t get recalled. I’d taken my kids and, as you could in those days, parked in the centre of the course. I’ve a photo of my son somewhere, shorter than one of the fences.
It’s about fifteen years since my last visit. Paul and I went for a couple of years running and I recall him picking a big winner in the last race on one of those occasions.
This time I was there with Jen and had opted for some posh tickets. We were in the Earl of Derby Stand at one hundred and eight-five quid a pop. At least we got seats for our money. As with the previous day we were on the champagne, although the bar in our section was much less crowded than the day before, so it wouldn’t have been much of a hardship to keep making repeat visits for individual drinks.
I moved onto the whisky later on and then when they ran out switched to rum. That might have played a part in me tripping over some steps. Or perhaps it was just old-age.
Highlight of the day was bumping into an Irish wolfhound. The soldier who looked after him must have the best job in the Army. As the dog doesn’t go to war, neither does the handler. I could do a job like that.
Once again, we had little success with the betting and despite backing four horses in the big race came away empty handed. It was a shame really as it makes for a more memorable occasion if you’ve backed the National winner. As it is, I’ve already forgotten which horse came in first.
The weather turned ropey, so we hung on until well after the final race. By that time the storm had blown over and just about everyone else had cleared off. It made for an easy journey back to the Chester hotel.
Trail of the Lion King 