People's Republic of Yorkshire

Yorkshire IFA v Ellan Vannin

A Sunday in January and not a day I’d typically head out to a game.  However, a couple of reasons to do so.  Firstly, for reasons I cannot fathom I’ve gone vegan until my 18 month wait to return to drinking in mid-February, and I would currently quite happily kill another human just for the taste of some sort of meat or dairy product, or the merest drop of sweet, sweet alcohol.  Sitting at home does not help this.  Secondly, the game was the inaugural match for the Yorkshire Independent Football Association, so rather more interest than the ‘lesser club in a groundshare’ situation  that usually means a game is on a Sunday.

A relatively social 1258 Manchester Victoria – Leeds service, saw Northern deem a single Pacer adequate, and a refurbished Mereseyrail one at that, with horrendous square seats.

The game was being played at Hemsworth Miners Welfare ground which is situated in Fitzwilliam, halfway between Wakefield and Doncaster, and fairly central and accessible to most of the county.  

The main reason for my interest in the fledgling Yorkshire 'National' team is that they have joined CONIFA, which whilst sounding like a reality show contestant trying to name a deciduous tree, is actually a wonderfully bat-shit mad international football federation.  For those that don't know, there is a whole word of utter madness outside of FIFA recognised countries.  You may well roll your eyes that the governing body deems to have as members such footballing giants as Gibraltar, São Tomé e Príncipe, or Brunei Darussalam, but they are Goliaths compared to the non-affiliates.


These consists of refugees, tax havens, people on holiday, fantasy countries that school kids have put together as GCSE projects, and towns that are a bit arsey about their neighbours and what to annex themselves.  

However, due to the somewhat shady nature of the countries involved, there has previously been an absolute myriad of competions involving non-affiliated nations, nearly all of which have been organised by Northern Cyprus in an attempt to piss off the Greeks.  

• Viva World Cup - Long time forerunner to ConIFA, being set up by a pre-FIFA recognised Jordan (the country not the page 3 girl), with the final competition climaxing in a play off between Arameans Suryoye v Two Sicilies (which is apparently Sicilly and somewhere near Sicilly)
• FIFI Wild Cup - One off replacement for Viva, which saw Zanzibar triumph over the Republic of St. Pauli (yes, the communist suburb of Hamburg)
• ELF Cup - Equality, Liberty, Fraternity - Northern Cyprus host their own cup this time, but are usurped by a Crimea v Găgăuzia Moldova final.
• CSANF 10th Anniversary Cup - The cup for South American non-affiliates, and who could forget the drama of the final with the Juan Fernandez Islands just edging out Armenian Argentine.

In order to try and bring some structure to all this madness, in 2014 the Confederation of Independent Football Associations was formed, although with a logo and acronym that makes them look like a chain of Spanish petrol stations.

As an example of the diversity of the 'nations' represented, here is a largely truthful overview of the participants at the next ConIFA World Football Cup:-

• Barawa - Somalian refugees in London
• Abkhazia - The north west part of Georgia which wants to be Russian
• Panjab - Basically, the Smethwick local Punjab Association somehow competing in international competition
• Padania - Someone wanting the Northern third of Italy to become a separate country
• Northern Cyprus - where ex-pats from Romford who want cheap holiday homes live
• Székely - Hungarians on holiday in Romania who fancy having their own side
• United Koreans of Japan - North Koreans living in Japan who suddenly combined themselves with their Southern counterparts when it was found that Kim Jong-il was abducting Japanese nationals to teach in spy schools.
• Ellan Vannin - the Isle of Man team that only allows Manx players in, set up because the official one is more a league representative side.
• Felvidék - Hungarians on holiday in Slovakia
• Tamil Eelam - who knew Canada had the highest number of Sri Lankans outside of their home country?  Well, they have their own football team.
• Western Armenia - Armenians living in Eastern Turkey
• Kiribati - some lamp post in the Pacific that was owned by Blighty until we didn't need it for whaling anymore.
• Tibet - exiled Tibetans who's team managed to cause a threat from China to impose trade sanctions on Denmark.
• Matabeleland - part of Zimbabwe and a protest movement by some ex-pats in South Africa.  Anagram of 'a Bell End mat', which I'm sure David Sullivan sells.
• Kabylie - seemingly a team representing the Algerian olive growing trade.
• Cascadia - some American lunatic trying to annex the western coasts of Canada and the USA into a single country on account of them having the same weather.
• Flamingo Land - caravan park near Scarborough.

Alright, perhaps the last one is made up, but to the rest of that list we quite fantastically add Yorkshire.

Off at Fitzwilliam and leaving the station was like a budget re-make of Green Street (which is quite a feat bearing in mind how cheap the original looks), with a decent number of supporters taking advantage of there being no away following, nor police, by bravely chanting Yorkshire and in a very retro scene, running along carrying a Yorkshire flag. 

The football club are located in the miners welfare sports complex.

The football ground is located at the back of the cricket pitch.

The cricket club having the proud boast of having the ugliest pavilion in British cricket, it being a 1970's build after the original burnt down.  It used to be shared with the football club but a separate facilities block and club house has now been built.

A large housing estate has been built adjacent to the ground since I last visited, and access is through this modern day suburbia.

But eventually, the new entrance was encountered.

Hemsworth Colliery was titled Fitzwilliam main after the owner.  However, the early 1900's saw him evict a lot of miner's out of housing he owned and as persona non grata, the pit was renamed Hemsworth, even though that is a seperate town and the village remained as Fitzwilliam.  To further confuse matters, the football ground was named the Fitzwilliam stadium, though currently goes under the name of the Yorkshire NuBuilds stadium.

Ten pound later, four pound more than for the home club's NCEL fixtures, but all for a good cause so happy to pay.

Yorkshire IFA 1 v Ellan Vannin 1, ConIFA Friendly

I was intrigued when I first saw the announcement about the emergence of a Yorkshire international football side, but due diligence was required.  Were these a bunch of Wetherspoon inhabiting shellsuit and brogue wearers, encouraged by Brexit, and thinking that you can get any vote passed as long as you make up a load of lies to influence a bunch of racially intolerant pensioners, and were hence looking to overthrow the judicial system and annex Yorkshire?  Further investigation persuaded that it was more a bit of fun and promotion of the county.  Think of them more as the para-military wing of the Yorkshire tourist board during a negotiated ceasefire, rather than a group that are going to take down Lancashire by driving a hired Transit through the middle of the crowds at the Ramsbottom black pudding throwing championships.

Ellan Vannin football team represent the Manx International Football Alliance.  They were set up in 2013 as the existing Isle of Man national side are governed by the IoM FA, but are actually a representative side of the national league, so there is no Manx eligibility criteria, meaning it was full of Liverpudlian bar workers.  So, a separate national team was assembled, using the normal FIFA eligibility rules.  The new set-up joined ConIFA and proved to be a strong force, finishing third in the 2014 world cup and runners up in the 2015 Euros.  The chance to go one better in the 2016 competition was thwarted by British Home Office advice not to travel to the hosts of Abkhazia.  Well, I was there at the back end of last year and it was all fine?

There's not too much to say about the ground.  It's been in place for donkey's years, by various teams representing the colliery.  It was taken over by the new side when they formed in 1981, and has slowly been built up from a railed pitch to a NCEL standard ground.

There is a seating stand on the far touchline.  What looks like an identical neighbour is actually the duggouts.

The only other structure is a large facilities block with changing rooms and a club house, and also a bit of protection to spectators at the front.  It was built in 2007 for promotion into the NCEL, with the cricket pavilion previously being used.

The ever increasing trend of pre-match warm up keepers towels.  The players were all of a decent non-league standard and participating for free, with Bradford Park Avenue represented between the sticks.

The large St George's crosses are seemingly ever present at the ground, but had today been joined by interlopers from other clubs across the county.

A proliferation of white roses, alongside York City quoting local band Shed 7's lyrics.  Guiseley and Frickley were also present, though no 1990's middle of the road indie lyrics to quote. 

As is well known, every city in Yorkshire hates each other.  So as soon as a football team was set up to unite them all, I wondered how long it would be before separate factions set up.  The answer was, before the first game had even started.

The Manx players were warming up infront of the cricket pavilion, which looked even more brutal from the inside.

They had also brought along some sort of mascot which disappointingly, wasn't a three legged anthropomorphic representation of the national flag.

Instead it was a footballing cat, which was understandable, seeing as those ones without a tail are probably the most well known thing about the island after tax evasion.

Except this one had a tail.  Still, it seems to do all right with the ladies.

Kick off approached with a walk-on prepared to rival the forthcoming royal wedding in terms of participants, length and flags

And so the big moment arrived, to the accompaniment of a piss poor smoke bomb from the home ultras at the far end.  If it was a nautical flare, I'd be dubious about it raising help in a boating pond.

The teams stood for the national anthems.

Which was apparently this for Yorkshire.  I'm not sure as the PA could only be heard if you were stood directly infront of the club house.

Despite there being a myriad of press present, I still failed in my lifetime quest to one day find a matchday photographer who isn't dressed like a tramp who has been gifted one free item from Mountain Warehouse.  Anyway, there were joint photos.

Then individual photos.

Then we got started.  It was actually a very good standard of football from both sides, much better than I'm used to watching.  Yorkshire had the chance for a story book start with an early penalty, but it was well saved by the Manx keeper.

The Yorkshire shirt had been available to buy for the last few weeks, hence there were quite a few grown men very proud of their purchases, and wandering around the ground with coats undone, when no-one else in there right mind was 

As for the rest of the home crowd.  Well, those who follow non-league clubs spent most of the time randomly moaning to each other about Barrow.  I'm not sure why, but Barrow have a unifying effect that Kofi Annan could only aspire to, although for the former, it's because everyone seems to despise them.  As for league club's representation, this seemed to be nearly all Leeds, easily identifiable because all their supporters are either head to toe in club merchandise or are dressed like throwbacks to the 1970s.

An astute observation was made by someone stood next to me that this crowd was not representative of Yorkshire 'as there is no fucking swearing'.  Normality was quickly resumed as at a corner, the ref requested the players to 'stop fucking about in there', a home spectator called a visiting player a 'three legged cunt', and then the smoke bomb brigade from earlier started singing something about the Isle of Man being 'just a something fucking island'.

Here you have the originator of most of the noise, with lone sweary songs about supermarkets for some reason.  the one second from the right with school trousers and shoes and a Status Quo tribute leather look PVC jacket.  I'll let you decide whether he fits into the full Club Merchandise or 1970's throwback category. 

The opposition counterparts being rather more subdued in their attire, wrapping themselves in flags.



Half time and a chance to admire a fantastic offering of non-league ground clutter, including the Northern Hemisphere's most superfluous sun shade parasol.

It was a fairly decent game, but I wasn't massively concerned about watching it all, and the trains back were either leaving after an hour, and a risky 70 minute journey, or stay to the end and have a 58 minute connection in Leeds and a journey back of over two hours.

The former won out so it was back to the station, with the landmark for the entrance being the least welcoming looking betting shop in the whole world of bookmaking.

The Leeds - Doncaster and Sheffield stoppers operate two-hourly on a Sunday, the routes joining at Fitzwilliam to give an hourly service here on in, with this hour being a Sheffield originator so a two car 158.

A prompt run into Leeds meant I made a -2 connection over the footbridge and onto a Calder Valley service.  This time Northern had spoilt us with a two car refurbished class 150/1.  To keep up the day's theme of niche sporting teams, at Bradford we were joined by a contingent from the Great British under 10s female Ju Jitsu team.  I know this because it said so on the back of their track suits, rather than me recognising them.  In time we were back at Sowerby.

Where there was the traditional Yorkshire sight of a passing Routemaster bus.

And so ended a very enjoyable afternoon in the intriguing world of non-FIFA affiliated world football.  I have to say, I was thinking of attending the ConIFA Euros or World Cup anyway, now with a dog in the fight, it is a certain.  Just a shame this summers World Cup, being hosted by Barawa, will actually be played in London rather than their native Somalia.  I can't imagine Mogadishu is any more dangerous than the fringes of Wakefield.

Long Distington Runner

Distington v Queens

The last weekend of January is the opening weekend of rugby league season with the challenge cup first round, involving clubs from the amateur leagues.

It is always a tradition to go to a tie, and this year was no different.  In addition, my 18 month sojourn of being off the beer, comes to an end in mid-February, so joining me to today was erstwhile drinking partner Mike, so I could re-familiarise myself with incorporating visits to guide pubs into the day, without actually drinking.

The start was the 0741 York off of Sowerby, with the guide listed Jubilee Refreshment Rooms in the background.

Into Leeds, and with it being a through service, it was a east end stopping point, showing off the bizarre artwork that has appeared on the tower block in the background, which looks like a GCSE version of the Twilight saga.

It was back to the other end of the station and the Aire Valley bays where a terminating Ribblehead starter was forming my Carlisle service back.

During the winter the train is only formed of two cars vice four during the summer, and was busy with pensioner walking groups, moaning about almost everything that they had done, seen or heard during the week.  Mike joined at Shipley and we headed up the Settle and Carlisle, with most of the aged complainants having alighted by the time we encountered the punning station benches at Settle.

Crossing Ribblehead, which was perhaps not at its most scenic.

Three hours later it was into Carlisle.

These being the south facing, east bays, with the Pacer having headed off for a bounce across the Tyne Valley to Newcastle, and our unit soon spinning for a run back to Leeds.

First stop was the new bar on the London bound platform.  It's erroneously named 301 miles bar after the supposed miles from London, even though it's only 299 miles and the mile posts restart at Preston anyway.  But the pub itself is decent, being in a slightly odd building which was the refreshment rooms in the 1950s.  Anyone in the north will take one look at it and think the same thing; I bet that's a fucker to heat.

Mike took in an OC - Rail Ale, whilst I was on the diet Irn Bru.

Our next move was down the Cumbrian Coast, which co-incided with a loco hauled working.  To re-cap, these were brought in to increase the number of services to Sellafied, but due to there being no surplus units, instead loco and coaches were used.  However, these are fucked old 1960s locos that keep breaking down and due to the amount of single line on the route, create havoc for all the other trains.  This means they are being replaced with new class 68 locos, with one of the two circuits due to transfer over in the next week or so. 

However, the class 37s have a big following, so the train was pretty solid with cranks.  Here is the leading coach, with the Growler Group doing a passable re-creation of one of the away day scenes in ID, but with more man-made fibres despite there being no shell suits present today.

The Syphon Youth Firm had 'taken' the prime front coach, first table, closest to the loco thrash.  They then proceeded to have a group game of TrainSim on a particularly crusty looking laptop.  But what were they driving?  Only a class 159 DMU!!!!  Liberty takers.

We were given odd looks for alighting after a couple of stops at Maryport.  The great unwashed all carrying on to Lancaster.  300 men, with a combined sexual partner total of 3.

Maryport has a proud history based on it being built by a slave trader to bring in his plundered West Indian bounty.  Still, at least he named it after his wife, neighbouring Whitehaven being very dubious considering its similar roots.  Anyway, unsurprisingly it was biting cold and drizzling, but we were only there to tick off the guide pub.

For some reason, the Golden Lion hotel wasn't full with tourists and day trippers.

Which was just as well as they only had one stick on, with Mike having a rather underwhelming Loweswater - Gold, and me having a diet coke from local micro brewer Coca-Cola. 

We were tempted by some of the very thrift wise options available.

But instead it was the Stagecoach Cumbria, 31 bus heading for Whitehaven West Cumberland Hospital via the scenic sights of post industrial Allerdale.

We headed down the coastal road through Flimby, where quite magically, we manged to get sea spray attacking both sides of the bus, despite being fifty feet inland.

Having had the opportunity to pose the question, why is New Balance's UK headquarters in Siddick, we passed Borough Park, home of former football league side Workington, with any alterations to the ground since they lost association status being undertaken by inshore gales. 

Mike glimpses across at neighbouring ground Derwent Park, home of Workington Town Rugby League.  The reason, for his wistfull look is due to...

...it being home to the Gus Rismond Suite where we watched Germany beat England in the 2010 World Cup having travelled up to see South Wales Scorpions get narrowly defeated in their debut season in the rugby league championship.

Into Workington itself and we were interested to see that the local FA was a cosy neighbour with a thinly disguised knocking shop.

After a winding tour through the sun kissed fringes of Schoose, Salterbeck, and High Harrington, were were deposited at our destination for the first part of the afternoon; Distington.  

Cup fever was rife in the town as the local shop proudly advertised today's game.  I got the chance to read the poster about thirty times as seemingly everyone in Copeland queued to buy forty quids worth of entries for the evenings lottery.  It's as though they live in hope of escaping the balmy surroundings of Cumbria in January?

Distington was a farming area until the 17th century, when sand and limestone quarrying started. Attention then turned to coal mining with numerous small pits being replaced by the deep mine Oatlands Pit, in 1880.  However, this had closed by the 1930s leaving only the other major industry an iron works, which had opened in 1879.  This developed into an alloy aviation parts supplier, but closed in 2007 with production transferred to France.  Never mind, I'm sure Brexit will see the 200 jobs brought back ten fold.

God knows what the people who live here do for a living now, but we got to wander down a muddy track to the fringes of a council estate.  

Then got to wander through a council estate.

Until we spied our hosts for the afternoon.

The first step on the road to Wembley.

The social club sits outside the ground, and is owned by the Community Amateur Sports Club, so it was further inside, to the rugby club itself.

Distington 32 v Queens 24, Ladbrokes Rugby League Challenge Cup - 1st Round 

There have been rugby league sides in Distington since the 1950s, with the current club formed in the 1980s.  They regrouped in 2005 and have gone on to become a major force in Cumbrian rugby, winning both the county league and cup twice.  This is their second season in the challenge cup, and state that over 60% of their team are from the village.  They are one of the few clubs who's badge includes a naked elderly man in chains, looking very pleased with himself.

Queens are from Leeds, and play in the Pennine League, which is still a winter competition.  They are based in the Headingley area.  It's fair to say they have had a bit of unwelcome notoriety in the past, with hardly glowing reviews about hospitality, and receiving a three year ban from the challenge cup in 2009 after their game against Doncaster at the Keepmoat was abandoned due to a huge rucus in the crowd.  Having said that, I've seen them a few times in local games and they have always seemed a pretty normal outfit.

Distington moved to their ground in the 1980s, it previously being a mixture of wasteland and scrub on the edge of the village.

The visitors had seemingly arrived late and were still warming up way after kick off time.

However, eventually we got underway.

The ground is in a very exposed setting, with the wind rolling in off the Irish sea.  Most spectators were huddled around the changing rooms but a hardy few had made it across to the far touchline.

The Distington Youth Firm were positioned for action behind the near goal.  Queens had obviously decided that whilst they fancied their chances against Doncaster's finest, this was an 'off' to far, and had stayed at home. 

The visitor's took an early lead, and I got to find out what 'lucky fucking wanker' sounds like when it is sqwarked by a nine year old West Cumbrian.

The Queen's players celebrated wildly.

The kick was from about fifteen feet out but the ferocious wind meant the little dink of the kick was last seen heading over Cockermouth.

The game carried on in a similar vein, ie it was freezing cold and Queens had all the play.

They scored a couple more try's.

The youth firm had now also got some action, an errant youngster from Kells being picked off one on one.

Another try and conversion for Queens.

However, the game had been a bit niggly, whether or not this had been a deliberate tactic by the home side I don't know, but mid way through the half it all kicked off when a Distington player flopped on the Queen's scrum half, with tackle complete already called.

The Queen's player reacted with a couple of decent punches and all hell let loose.

The aftermath was the Queens player getting a straight red and the Distington player sin binned.

The wind was still playing a part, with the exposed posts being a nice shade of rusty orange/brown.

Whilst this touch marker first of all lost its flag early on, but then remained bent at 30 degree angle for the rest of the game.

With their player back on, the home side made their advantage count and finally got on the score sheet.

The pitch was absolutely sodden, with accompanying water features around the ground.

In some sort of Wizard of Oz recreation, this children's see-saw blew past midway through the half.

The locals were hardy to the elements, sporting an excellent mix of Regatta outdoor wear, a 1980s Nike wind cheater, and the current haute couture A/S collection in Copeland; the Aspatria Farmers hooded top.

A large and lively and generally good natured home contingent took refuge around the facilities block.

A fairly one sided first half ended 8-18.

However, there was a remarkable change of fortunes in the second half, as the home side took advantage of having the extra man and the hurricane force winds behind them, to run in a series of scores.

They started the half with three unopposed tries to take the lead.

Queens got one back to retain the lead.

But the latter stages saw the home side get a couple more scores in the fading light.

And so a rather surprising 34 - 22 turn around was complete, and the home side progressed to the next round.

There was temptation to stay on for this, until we worked out we'd be waiting for another seven weeks.

So it was instead back to the bus stop, where we were somewhat taken by surprise by it arriving, and departing about eight minutes early.

We were dropped off outside the splenour of the Whitehaven Wetherspoon's.

Despite having a fresh batch of CAMRA 50p a pint discount vouchers, the temptation was resisted as it was over the road to the station.

Where the eventual appearance of a DBSO between the bay platform semaphores signalled the impending arrival of our next move.

This was the other loco hauled set, which dropped south through the tunnel to Corckickle.  This is home to Whitehaven rugby league ground, adjacent to which is the Atcost heaven of Whitehaven Amateurs, which was to be our second game of the day but we had foresaken for the entirety of the rugby.  However, we seemed to have made the right choice as there was a distinct lack of activity at the football ground.

This stretch of line hugs the coast line, and the sea looked absolutely fucking freezing. 

However, we were not heading for home quite yet, dispensing with English Electric traction at Ravenglass.

As the train headed off, we searched for an exit, whilst the locals just jumped off the platform and trudged across the track.

Our official route took us through the adjacent home of the Ravenglass and Eskdale miniature steam railway.  



This was a former quarry railway and therefore takes tourists about ten miles up to, well a former quarry.  In the middle of no where.  With no facilities except an ice cream van.  If you are a fan of seeing underwhelmed Lancastrians, inappropriately dressed and reluctantly consuming choc ices, you could do worse than taking a trip on the line.

However, today, all was closed, even the ice cream shop in a grounded coach body.

Instead we headed into the village itself.  It sits aside the wide estuary where the rivers Esk and Irt meet, which was sheltered from the battering the coast was taken and therefore quite tranquil in the early sun set.

Ravenglas had about five houses, but three pubs.  The one at the station is normally in the guide, but the status has transferred to the Village Inn where Mike had a Hawkshead - Bitter, whilst I had three packets of pickled onion crisps, somewhat shattering the illuion that sobriety brings with it a balanced diet.

Leaving the pub and the cloud had finally made an attempt to lift so Mike took some dull pictures to try and convince his other half that he had been having a very culturally expansive day and not just cranking locos, watching rugby and scratching off guide pubs in Cumbrian backwaters. 

We headed back to the station where Mike got into his DfT day job mode as he noticed the sign was still sporting the old Northern logo.

I did my bit for inter TOC solidarity by not bringing to his attention the sticker on the adjacent sign.

We both chose to ignore that the next sign had rusted through and that the extensive remedial repairs had amounted to tieing some string to it and hanging it from a bridge, but the string had now perished.

With the sun now having almost set, but the rain clouds having also largely dispersed, our train arrived, this being a rather more mundane class 156.

Which was a through service to Preston, so took us down through Barrow and then across to to the West Coast main line at Carnforth, where we alighted, under the famous 'Brief Encounters' clock.

We had intended to visit the excellent snug micro-pub on the station.  However it was shut in February as the station buildings were being renovated.  So instead it was into the town for Mike to have a Farm Yard - Sheaf Pale, and to watch plucky provincial underdogs Tottenham Hotspur take on the financial clout of the mighty Newport County, and come out of it with a creditable draw.  It was then back to the station for a different route home than normal, being a jaunt along the "Little" North Western Railway which heads across to Leeds via Skipton.  Our train had originated in Morecambe, and hosted a contingent of Mansfield fans returning from an injury time win there, using a route which I have to say, wouldn't be obvious to me.

Traction was one of the ten strong fleet of three car Pacers, the somewhat more comfortable class 153 lashed on the back being DIT.  Byu the time we alighted at Shipley, the front coach had joined the 153 in having its engines cut out.  This necessitated an additional emergency headlight as the train borne one was relying on cross feed from the remaining two vehicles with engines working.

I parted company with Mike, as he headed northwards upto Ilkley.  His place was taken by a random stranger clutching a slab of Budweiser, which he had made serious inroads into.  He then proceeded to give me some quite striking detail of how he delivered crack between Morecambe and Keighley, until he got arrested and sent to prison.  Of more surprise was that that the operation seemed to be organised by a local solicitors.   

My new friend was also changing onto the Bradford train and he continued his autobiography with how, on release from prison, he had (somehow) got a job in Taunton, delivering fridges.  This saw him paired up with 'either fucking illerate Poles or a grumpy cunt called Alan'.  The journey between Frizinghall was consumed by a well thought out comparison of the virtues of being accompanied by an east European man mountain who can single handedly lift any appliance, but can't read a map; or someone who can give accurate directions, forge petrol receipts and split the proceeds, but won't ever get out of the van to move anything.  Anyway, the answer was a third option of using the delivery round to pick up crack from Cornwall, and to then decide that if you are back to drug running, you might as well do it where you know people, so here he was.  As we parted ways across town at Interchange, I'm still not sure whether he was trying to impress me, recruit me, sell to me or just had pride in his job and liked to tell strangers about it.  Who'd have thought the UK provincial rail network would be inhabited by such people at ten o'clock on a Saturday night?

Waiting for me in the platforms at interchange was a York-Preston service.

Which rushed me through to Sowerby, for an ever interesting dry, dry run.  Role on three weeks time and the real thing.