In the lead up to this game, it was easy to think that the season was done. The defeat at Swansea had halted our two-match winning streak and that poor first half performance had suggested that without the pace of Latte Lath or the creativity of Doak we’d struggle to make the play-offs.
But the gap was only five points or effectively two wins. Mind you, with just ten games remaining, winning two more games than your rivals is a tall order. There’s always hope though, until there isn’t and Harry and I set off for the Riverside thinking that a win would keep the promotion campaign alive.
When I saw the line-up I initially thought that our problem of the lack of centre-backs was going to be exacerbated by the novel approach of playing with three of them rather than two and filling the slots with a right back, a left back and a central midfielder. However, Carrick had stuck to his usual back four with Borges and Howson at centre half. It worked ok. Dijksteel remained at right back and capped his performance with a wide run where he cut inside and passed the ball into the far corner of the net.
Jonny Howson showed how badly he had been missed. He played deep, usually five or more yards beyond the QPR attacking line. He organised everything and despite not being anywhere near match-fit was our most influential player. Even if our missing centre-halves make recoveries I’d keep him in the side, either as a third centre-back or perhaps as part of a midfield three, sitting in behind Hackney and Morris.
After being two-up and cruising a late QPR goal meant a tense final few minutes. Their keeper even went up for a corner and had a header on target. We held on though to keep the play-off hopes alive for another week.
Jen and I had walked the central sections of Hadrian’s Wall fourteen years ago. That’s the best part and at the time we thought we’d leave it at that. A couple of years ago we decided to finish the trail off and got as far as Rickerby Park in Carlisle. As I’d identified Penrith’s fixture with Blyth Town as my game for the day, we took the opportunity to head further north before the game and pick up the path where we had left off.
We’d been out the night before, watching Pete Wylie at the Georgian in Stockton. I’d enjoyed his stuff back in the eighties but hadn’t heard anything he’d done since his heyday. It was a decent show with plenty of chat between songs.
The late finish to the gig meant that we didn’t reach Rickerby Park until ten o’clock. That left sufficient time for a nine-mile round trip to Grinsdale, following whatever river flows through Carlisle. We passed by a castle and a couple of churches, but didn’t take the opportunity to have a closer look.
There wasn’t much in the way of wildlife. A black duck and a grey squirrel were about our lot. I’m not certain that it actually was a duck. Lets just call it a swimming bird. Despite carrying my camera in my hand for the entire time I wasn’t quick enough to get a photo of the squirrel. Still, you know what they look like.
Four hours and twenty-odd thousand steps later, we were back at Rickerby Park and with sufficient time to get to Frenchfield Park for the Penrith game. I checked the driving directions on the futbology app and discovered that it would actually be quicker to get to an Annan Athletic fixture in Scotland. It was tempting, but as it would have meant a longer post-match drive back to Teesside, I stuck with the original plan.
We arrived at Frenchfield Park with ten minutes to spare and found the last remaining parking spot. It was seven quid admission, and I bought a programme for a further pound. Despite it being close to kick-off there were plenty of seats in the main stand.
As we’d not yet had any lunch Jen nipped down to the food hut and brought me back a burger and some chips. The burger was fine, but the chips weren’t worth finishing.
Blyth Town are up at the top end of the Northern League Division One table. It’s unlikely that they will catch leaders Redcar Athletic and secure automatic promotion, but they have a more than reasonable chance of finishing in the playoffs. There’s not much for Penrith to play for as they are in the lower reaches of the table and are unlikely to slip into the relegation spots.
Blyth were the better side and by the time half an hour had gone were two goals up. They maintained their lead going into the break. I took the opportunity to prevent my legs from stiffening up and spent much of the second half watching from different viewpoints around the perimeter fence.
There were a handful of young kids supporting Penrith from behind one of the goals. They’d even brought a drum. At the other end it was just some sheep up on the fell. If it was a fell. It might just have been field with a slope. I’ve no idea of the difference.
Penrith got back into the game just after the restart, but within a minute Blyth had restored their two-goal advantage. A thirty yarder from Penrith reduced the deficit to a single goal again and made for an interesting final twenty minutes. Blyth hung on though to take the points.
This was a bonus game that we spotted whilst walking along the Hadrian’s Wall trail between Rickerby Park and Grinsdale. The path pretty much follows the river and goes past the Sheepmount Athletics stadium. The stadium itself was busy with people jogging around the track and someone shotting the putt. Near the entrance some kids were unloading javelins from the back of a car. We never got to mess around with javelins at that age. I’m not sure I’d be trusted to do it even now.
The centre field of the athletics stadium didn’t look big enough for a football pitch and didn’t have any goalposts. However, there were a few games going on in the surrounding fields and so Jen and I paused our walk to wander over to the match that was taking place on the pitch which had a fence around and dugouts for the coaching teams.
I asked about the teams and a lady very kindly called up the information on her phone and let me take a photo of it. Isn’t technology great? It was an under-fifteen game in the West Cumbria Youth League between Unisun Athletic and Windscale. The match was well into the second half and our arrival coincided with Unisun extending their lead to four-nil. We stayed long enough to see a Windscale consolation with a strongly struck shot from well outside the box, before leaving them to it and resuming our walk.
I got lucky with my full day back in the UK with both a Boro home game and a stable visit to see Hickton, the Riverside Racing Syndicate horse. I didn’t see him run at all as a two-year-old and so I’m hoping to be more involved in his campaign this season.
We’ve switched trainers for this season to the smaller yard of Declan Carroll and I went along with a couple of other syndicate members to watch him on the gallops.
Declan seems a decent bloke and was happy to spend an hour and a half with us, talking us through Hickton’s progress since arriving. He’s a horse that seems to have some ability, but is reluctant to show it. Hopefully Declan and his team can bring him on a bit.
We watched him run over six furlongs alongside one of the stable sprinters. It’s an uphill track so hopefully he’ll appreciate the much easier gradient next time he’s on the course.
After taking my Mam for quick jaunt around Aldi, I picked up Harry and we set off for the Riverside. Neither of us could work out how to get Radio Tees on the hire car radio, so we missed the team news. The Boro are short of centre halves at the moment, having sold Matt Clarke and then had Van Den Berg and Edmundson pick up injuries.
Jonny Howson still isn’t fit either and so Luke Ayling switched inside. Early in the second half he picked up an injury too which meant that left back Neto Borges took his turn to fill in. It feels as if they’ll all get a go at some point.
Derby are struggling at the moment and came for a point. We had the best of the chances, but it wasn’t until ten minutes from time that Finn Azaz broke the deadlock to give us a second win in four days. Hopefully we can build on that and get back into a play-off spot
Foundation Day is a public holiday in the KSA and meant a three-day weekend. I took the opportunity to fly down to Jeddah for the top of the table clash between leaders Al Ittihad and second-placed visitors Al Hilal. The fixture is apparently known as the ‘Saudi Clasico’. Al Hilal is undeniably the most successful Saudi club, whilst Al Ittihad’s claim to ‘top-two’ status probably relies more on their crowds than trophies.
On matchday morning I took a stroll along the seafront. It was a popular way to spend Foundation Day and families were out in force, bathing, sitting on the sand or, like me, simply going for a walk. One couple had brought a parrot in a cage out with them. Hopefully for its conversational skills.
Others had hired boats from the Marina and were cruising back and forward, invariably with a large green Saudi flag flying. Those people who didn’t want to leave their air-conditioned cars went up and down the coast road to the Corniche area. A lot of those cars sported large flags too with many of them being waved by a small kid stood on the back seat and with his or her torso sticking out of the sunroof.
My hotel, which was the closest one that I could find to the King Abdullah Sports City Stadium, was about an hour’s walk from the ground. I’d picked it so that if I struggled to get a taxi after the game, I’d be able to get back regardless. The match didn’t kick off until 9.15pm, but with little else to occupy my time I set off for the ground early in the evening.
However, with the stadium in sight, I realised that there wasn’t a walking route other than along a three-lane flyover without a pavement. I retraced my steps to a place where an Uber would be able to find me and booked a ride.
I’d bought my ticket around a month ahead of the game from Viagogo. It had cost me fifty quid, but I hadn’t wanted to risk general sale, particularly if it also involved registering Al Ittihad’s ticket app.
The area outside the stadium was busy, despite me being two hours early. I was searched on the way in and the steward was keen to confiscate my notebook. He called his boss over, no doubt hoping for some Brownie points, only for his boss to tell him not to be a dick. When he grudgingly returned the book, I should have asked him his name and wrote it down. Next time.
I had a wander around the concourse area and a young lad came over for a chat. He looked to be around eleven years old and told me that he had lived in Lancaster for seven years. It was great to hear a Saudi kid speak with a Northern English accent.
Once in my seat, I was able to watch a horse race on the big screen. The Boro should do that. Or maybe show one of the early kick-off games. It’s something that I’d like to see at tournaments such as the Euros and the World Cup. It gets people to the stadiums early which would minimise the queues and would likely increase food and drink sales.
Immediately prior to kick-off the home fans held up plastic sheeting in club colours. Both sides had large displays behind the goals that covered almost all of the fans in those sections. It was a passionate atmosphere, worthy of the ‘clasico’ label and if anyone doubted the sincerity of the support in this part of the world, it showed that Saudi fans, or at least those Saudi fans, are as committed to their team as any other supporters elsewhere.
Initial pressure came from Al Hilal and they took the lead midway through the first half. Al Ittihad hit back though and went in at the break two-one up.
A third goal early in second half put the home side well in control and when it looked like they’d added a fourth the fella to my left cleared off in the belief the points were in the bag. A VAR intervention saw the effort chalked off and it took a cool finish from Benzema five minutes from time to finally kill off any thoughts of an away comeback.
I was lucky enough to flag down a taxi after the game, but the traffic management roadblocks meant that we still had the ground in sight half an hour after setting off. I eventually got back to my hotel close to midnight, for what will likely be my final Saudi game for a while. It was a decent occasion to bow out on.
I was back in England for the weekend for some university stuff and so, as we’ve been doing of late, Jen and I stayed in London. This time we went for an Airbnb in Soho on the basis that we might as well be in the centre of whatever is going on.
It was certainly busy, although with it being an international rugby weekend, that might have been expected. The Rupert Street revelry went on until around 5.30am every morning, with a brief intermission before the workmen who were digging up the paving below our fourth floor flat fired up their pneumatic drills.
At the end of our street was the Paul Raymond Revue Bar with its neon sign outside. Elsewhere on the street were massage parlours, sex shops and places selling adult DVDs. This last one confused me a little, in the same way that newsagents still selling porn magazines do. Is there really anyone left that consumes porn from a top shelf? Surely with every conceivable interest (as well as some inconceivable ones) available on your phone, who would buy a DVD or a magazine in 2025?
Staying in one of the less gentrified parts of Soho took me back to my days as a student forty years ago. My friend Craig came down to the capital for a visit and we made a beeline for that very area. Our first stop was a peepshow where we descended the stairs to the basement to find a row of cubicles. We picked one each and went inside. There was a box on the wall where insertion of a fifty pence piece caused a flap to spring open and which enabled us to peer into a room that had similar viewing points around all four walls.
Sat in the corner of the room and reading a newspaper was a women aged about thirty. She wasn’t wearing any clothes. When she heard the flaps flick upwards, she glanced in our direction, put down her reading matter and pressed ‘Play’ on the portable cassette player by her feet. She danced awkwardly, similar to the way that you might have seen Donald Trump do recently. Thirty seconds later, the timer closed the flap, and she went back to checking her share prices whilst Craig and I made our way up to the street to find better ways to spend a ten-bob bit.
This time, there weren’t any peepshows and so instead Jen and I went to a War of the Worlds Immersive experience. It was a little too immersive for me with us having to scurry between rooms, climb through a window and even drop down a floor via a slide that I’d probably have enjoyed more as a small child. It was ok, but I’d have been just as happy sitting quietly and listening to the album.
Football-wise, the best option of the weekend was a third-tier women’s game at the Cherry Red Stadium in Wimbledon. I always think of Wimbledon as being quite posh but that’s probably just because of the tennis. As I walked from Tooting Broadway station, I was struck by how much of a shithole the place was. I had a glance in an estate agents window and the first house I saw was up for sale at a million quid. The next one was three million. It’s seemed that they just priced them in seven figure increments. If I had owned either property, I’d be selling up and buying a castle in Scotland.
Once again, my mind wandered back forty years. This time to an away game at Plough Lane, just two hundred yards from the new home of the current Wimbledon incarnation. I’d hitch-hiked down from Teesside the day before and was due to get a lift back from some mates who had driven down on the day of the game.
Apparently, they reached north London around lunchtime but in those pre-sat-nav days didn’t arrive at the ground until everyone was leaving at full-time. They didn’t wait for me, and I had to get a lift back in a coach that Ingle had put on. There weren’t any spare seats and so he put someone he didn’t know as well as me in the luggage compartment.
The fact that the Cherry Red Stadium also hosts the Wimbledon men’s team meant that I was ticking off one of the ‘92’ grounds. Bonus. I’ve not really made much of an effort to get around them all yet, but I suspect that it is something that I’ll embrace before long.
It was seven quid in. I also bought a programme that appeared to have been recycled from an earlier date and a Bombay potato pie. There was beer on sale that you could take to your seat. Only one stand was officially open, although a few people had strayed into the area behind the goal to my left. Most of the crowd were families and the majority of the kids present were girls, many of them in groups that might well have been junior teams.
With Wimbledon mid-table and Plymouth in the relegation zone, those around me seemed confident of a home win. Wimbledon took the lead midway through the first half when they beat the offside trap, allowing their runner to outpace the defender and steer it home. Plymouth hit back before the break with a shot that the keeper did well to parry, but was unable to prevent the ball looping skywards before dropping just under the bar.
As the game drew to a close it looked as if it would finish all-square. Wimbledon then had a defender sent off in added time for, I think, something that she said to the ref. With ninety-eight minutes gone a shot through a crowded box clinched the points for Plymouth. Some of their bench ran across the pitch from the opposite touchline to join the pile-on, incurring a couple more yellow cards for those with bibs on.
I headed back to Soho where, with it drizzling all evening, Jen and I didn’t get any further than the two doors down White Horse. It was the sort of evening that someone might very well have written a song about.
The second Boro game of my UK visit was at home to Burnley, at eight o’clock on a Sunday night. WTF? Who decided that was an appropriate time for scheduling a football match? It was another cold night and so I kept faith with my Russian coat. If it could cope with the sub-zero temperatures at the final Moscow Torpedo game before a winter break, then I was hopeful that it would do for Teesside.
Chances were at a premium and the nearest either side came to a goal was when Dael Fry managed to chest a goal-bound shot off the line. Burnley were timewasting towards the end and so were clearly happy with a point. I was too, I suppose, although a point a game over the season might well get you relegated.
It was the last match of 2024 for both Harry and I. A year in which I only got along to thirty-five games, albeit in twelve different countries and with thirty new grounds. I saw the Boro on just four occasions, witnessing two draws and two defeats in my visits to the Riverside. I’m hoping 2025 will be better on all counts.
I’m gradually working my way through the Northern League, although with promotions, relegations, resignations and lateral transfers for geographical reasons, it seems a never-ending task. Today’s game was in the Second Division at the Eastbourne Community Stadium in Darlington.
Home side Darlington Town are new to tier nine, having won the Wearside League last season. Chester-le-Street United have been at this level for three seasons now and from what I read online, appear to exist for the purpose of showcasing young footballers hoping for a career in the game. I might be wrong, but I think they are full-time with the players investing in their future by paying to play. They regularly take on the academy teams from clubs higher in the pyramid.
It was six quid to get in. Having turned sixty, I was tempted to ask what the age for concessions was, but I let it go. Anyway, it doesn’t feel right to be paying a reduced rate whilst I’m still gainfully employed.
There was a raffle for a basketful of booze, much of which looked like repurposed unwanted Christmas gifts. I bought a ticket anyway, despite suspecting that if I won, many of the bottles would go into a cupboard and remain there until I could re-gift them myself.
I took a seat in the small covered stand along one side and behind a sausage dog. There were also a couple of even smaller covered stands on the opposite side that might each have accommodated fifteen or so standing spectators.
It was a cold day, and I was glad that I’d nipped up to the loft before the game and looked for the big coat that I’d bought when living in Moscow. In the inner pocket I discovered a ticket from a 2021 Moscow Dynamo game, which might have been the last time I’d worn it.
The visitors took the lead ten minutes in when a corner wasn’t cleared, and someone bravely stuck his head amongst some flying boots. Chester-le-Street’s good start was undermined fifteen minutes later when one of their players was sent off for what looked like an off-the-ball elbow.
At half-time I nipped out to the burger van where I saw a kid try to salt his chips only for the cellar top to come off and deposit the entire contents of the container into the tray. He reacted as if nothing untoward had happened and nonchalantly walked away with his food as if he always went for an equal ratio of condiments to chips.
Darlington Town struggled to make an impression on the game after the break. The visitors should have gone two-up mid-way through the half when they were awarded a penalty, but it was blazed over the bar. There was some home pressure towards the end, but Chester-le-Street held on for the three points.
This month marked the fiftieth anniversary of my first Boro match, a home win against Birmingham at Ayresome Park. My second Boro game was actually fifty years to the day, a Boxing Day victory over Sheff Utd. Fifty years feels right for both those games as I was only a kid. What does seem strange though is that I only watched games at Ayresome for twenty years and we are now approaching the thirtieth anniversary of the move to the Riverside. Time moves much more quickly these days.
It’s moving quickly for Harry too as this was his last day as a thirteen-year-old. It barely seems any time at all since I rocked up at North Tees after he was born with some mince and mash for his Mam.
We got to the ground early enough to catch up with Tom and his mate Murgy in the fan zone. There were long queues for the bar, but Murgy very generously gave me a can of Stella from a carrier bag-full that he had brought with him.
It all started very well with Doak putting us one up early on and then Azaz adding a couple more. With half an hour gone we were three up and quite a lot of the away fans were streaming out for an early start back down the A19. Wednesday had a couple of chances towards the end of the first half, but when they went off at the break my main interest was whether we would emulate the 8-0 result against them from the Charlton’s Champions season.
It all went tits up after the restart. Latte Lath had an easy opportunity to square it to Doak for a fourth but took the shot himself. Wednesday went straight down the other end and pulled one back. Even then, I wasn’t worried and was disappointed that the announcer didn’t troll them by referring to their goal as a consolation.
They quickly scored another, Rav got a red, new keeper Sol Brynn knacked his shoulder and suddenly it was three-each. The momentum was all with Wednesday for the last half-hour and from what had seemed a certain victory I finished up relieved to see us hold on for a point. I suppose that after fifty years I shouldn’t really be surprised by such a turn of events.
I was due back in the UK for Christmas and New Year, but with the Usyk-Fury re-match scheduled for the 21st December I delayed my return for a couple of days and rerouted my flight via Riyadh. I’d learned my lesson from their first fight about the difficulty in getting a taxi after the fight and this time I booked an apartment, or rather a ‘studio’, a ten-minute walk from the Kingdom Arena.
I’ve a feeling that I might have been the only person to ever stay for two consecutive nights in that building as most of the other rooms appeared to be occupied by couples renting them by the hour.
I’d bought my ticket well in advance on the secondary market, but by fight night there were still plenty on sale and it clearly hadn’t sold as well as the first bout. As last time, there were plenty of Brits around, with groups of blokes all dressed identically in tight polos, tailored shorts, running shoes and those little trainer socks. I wondered whether that’s how people dress now back home or whether that’s their ‘Dubai’ clobber.
My ticket was for the floor area this time and posh enough to give me access to a lounge where there was a constantly replenished supply of little cakes. There were free drinks too, although the queue for a coffee was sufficiently long that when I needed an early-hours caffeine boost it was much quicker to nip outside and buy one instead.
My seat was close enough to the ring for me to be able to watch the action, but as the seating wasn’t banked, I was glad of the screen above the ring that enabled me to miss nothing when people in front of me decided to stand up or go for a wander.
I’d delayed my arrival to watch the Boro draw with Plymouth, but even so, I only missed the opening undercard fight. Most of the supporting fights went the distance, with a shocking ‘home’ decision in the Fisher v Allen fight. The timings were running late until rising heavyweight star Moses Itauma managed to get things back on schedule with a first-round knockout in the penultimate bout. I was especially pleased about that as I had an early morning flight, and I didn’t want a delay to the main event to eat into the time available for sleep.
I found the main event a lot harder to score that their first fight as so many of the rounds seemed very close. I had it as even after twelve rounds, so was surprised at the announcement of a unanimous 116-112 decision, whichever way it went. I suppose that’s how it works though when the rounds are close. You could have a 120-108 shutout where one boxer just nicks every round as opposed to a 114-114 draw where one fella absolutely dominates for six rounds but narrowly loses the other six.
Anyway, as you know, Usyk took the decision and retained his belts. I doubt that I’d bother going to a third fight as it’s hard to see a different outcome.
Trail of the Lion King 