Annan Athletic v Berwick Rangers
Disappointingly, very little to choose from today. No early youth team games, no league games, and in non-league, a full Somerset Senior league programme, but little or nothing I could get to, bar a couple of cabbage patch kick around in the Cheshire league which would no doubt be a haven for the social elite of north-west hoppers.
So Scotland was my saviour, with a relatively fullish fixture list, and mostly 1300 kick offs to enable the spectators to get a good night on the Irn-Bru and skag. This also meant I could get back before the early shut down of the rail network.
To play it slightly safe, I chose the closest game, which was at Annan, just over the border from Carlisle. It was the relative luxury of the 0733 off Sowerby.
Off at Hebden. It wasn't noticeably lighter than three days ago. Bloody time wasting druids.
Yesterday we had the fringes of storm Barbara. Whilst there were a few short bursts of biblical rain, it wasn't to the extent that happened last Christmas, though there were still some signs of flooding.
Coming this route, the biggest challenge is to find a new adjective for the fog that permanently shrouds Burnley. With swirling, menacing, and scene-enhancing already used, today I will go for 'brooding'.
I am used to getting narky comments from people upset about perceived slurs on their locality, however, it is a first to receive official correspondence off a firm from the locality. Therefore, EJ Rileys, who have been making snooker tables in Accrington for over a hundred years, yes you are just as famous as Janice Battersby, but no, the fact that I'd omitted that Mystic Meg is also from the town, does not somehow make the report invalid. I would also contest that I 'implied that the town is populated by backward racists'. I never used the word backwards. And it was inferred.
So, glad to set the record straight and here is a scenic Accrington vista of dawn over their rain sodden Farm Foods.
At Preston, it was a -2 connection off my early arrival on to a Virgin service that was a couple of minutes down. There are currently major works going on in Manchester, which means the electric route via Wigan isn't available, so Trans Pennine are having to run diesel services via Bolton. As they only have a limited number of spare diesel units, their service is thinned out, so it would have been a 2.5 hour wait.
I'd had concerned about what Babs might have done to this stretch of the railway as it is exposed to the seas at Bay Horse, and then the wind channels down the Lune Grounds rage, but all was uneventful over the hills, and we rolled into Carlisle with the appropriate City of Lancaster providing traction.
Further to the revelation of 3G terracing at Beith, the footbridge at Carlisle station has been similarly treated.
I like that this sign, proclaiming the tourist merits of the location, requires a side chain in order to stop it during high winds, swinging with the gusto of a childless middle aged couple.
The flip side of making the the earlier connection cat Preston was that was that I had an extra hour in a deserted Carlisle. From reports previous, readers will know this isn't something of pleasure, so instead of waiting for the train, I headed to the bus station.
There was a conveniently timed bus heading to Dumfries via Annan, haulage being a MAN 18.240 with Alexander-Dennis E300 bodywork. Notice the driver in Christmas jumper, immediately identifying him as a complete cock, or a miserable bastard with a grudging nod towards irony. He proved to be firmly in the latter category.
Heading north through Longtown, the Cumbrian fruit and veg offering being more about firewood than any source of nutrience.
We carried on past the huge MOD depot. This was an armaments store which, like a lot of others, had now closed. Where do we keep bombs these days? The base had a massive internal railway, that was so secretive...
...there are a load of books about it.
We carried on, along the north shore of the Solway Firth, with the sun making an attempt to break through.
Next stop was Gretna, where people from Essex with too many convictions to get a Visa to visit Las Vegas, go to get married. They'll probably be an Alsatian with a bow tie at the ceremony. Well, far from being a quaint little village with a chapel, instead it was a sprawling council estate with a shopping precinct.
Then a massive outlet village. Well, a Thornton's and a Jeff Banks.
For every bit Carlisle was deserted, this place was rammed.
Shortly, we arrived into Annan bus station. Annan does have signs of being a Roman settlement, but its current existence stems from the building of a castle by the De Brus family, who's most famous descendant was Robert The, until the latter emergence of detective novelist Midlands club botherer, Steve. The town takes its name from the river it sits on, not even bothering to add a port or mouth suffix. I thought heroin stimulated creativity? It became a shipbuilding town, though the river is now too silted for vessels of any size to access. It's more modern day existence was centred around the processing of the many local agricultural products, such as bacon curing and leather tanning. Famous people from the town are the woman off that thing that Rick Gervais did that had Barry from Eastenders in it, and also the leader of the New South Wales rum rebellion, of what that is I don't know, but it sounds great.
So what to do? Well, trip advisor is more honest about Annan, as it only promotes five things to do. Noting that the best review they could get of the number one attraction said it was 'disappointing', and that number two was a cinema...
...I headed for the museum, which was listed as being open until 1700.
Only to find it shut for four months. Do people not wish to be educated in winter? And where do the staff go?
Forgoing option seven, as I didn't need a 'kilt for a wedding', I had a look at option six. Except it was permanently closed.
So instead it was to the Annan's outlet centre. However, this proved to be somewhat different to that at Gretna, being one shop, a cafe...
...and someone knocking out stuff from a lorry in the far end of the car park.
I had a look at the shop, and the inducements around the doorway was yet more chopped wood, 10 litre sacks of bird seed...
...and pallets of industrial tubs of suet balls. Welcome to Scotland.
So I went for a look down the main strip.
Carrying on its agricultural tradition, it was full of farm shops. Carrying on from the revelation earlier this year at Mousehole of how cauliflowers are grown, today was what a Brussels Sprout plant looks like.
Much more exotic than I had imagined.
With Annan pretty much cleared, I headed to attraction 5...
...which is the last place in Britain to still have a Sahara nuts dispenser.
I can't believe this place didn't make it on the list.
Much earlier than normal, I headed to the game. Although it is only a five minute walk from the centre, because the place is so small, it was out into the countryside.
Down in the floodplains was a very picturesque running track, surrounded by a bowl of grass banking. Just like the New River Stadium.
Eventually the ground was reached.
Confirmation we were at the right place.
Posher than Accrington. (Hopefully the bloke from Riley's isn't still reading).
Entering the ground, and at almost the last breath, the undisputed winner of football ironwork of the year 2016.
Annan Athletic 3 v Berwick Rangers 1, Ladbrokes Scottish League Two
Annan Athletic were formed in 1942, and originally were part of the Junior structure. However, the demise of the local league, saw them play in the English set up in the Carlisle league as members of the Cumberland FA. The establishment of the South of Scotland league saw Annan switch to that in the 1970s. Success in the league saw them move up to the East of Scotland league, where four title wins saw a number of applications to join the Scottish league, which they achieved in 2008 in the not at all easy to make, like for like switch with the demise of near neighbours Gretna. Since joining the league, their most notable achievement was winning at plucky new startup outfit, The Rangers, who I have tipped to go on to big things. Perhaps not as much as Joey Barton has though.
Berwick Rangers are famously the only Scottish club to play in the English leagues. The town is just east of Inverness and the team play in the Essex Olympian league. Probably. They were formed in 1881 after the success of a demonstration game between Newcastle railwaymen and Dunbar mill workers. They have always played in the Scottish set up, originally in the borders league, then the East of Scotland, before joining the League in 1951. They beat Rangers once, and have had a few promotions, and that is Berwick in under a hundred words.
Annan moved to the Galabark Stadium in 1953, having previous played at Mafeking Park. I bet the move was a 'relief'!!! Other Boar war jokes available on request.
The ground has been considerably re-built since entering the league. Firstly, this new stand, though screens have been understandably added to the ends since it was built.
Behind the goal, one of the open terraces has had a cover added.
The other end is still open.
The fourth side abuts the main road so doesn't have any access, though I'm sure Luton would have fitted in some executive boxes.
I'm starting to think that any piece of flat space in South West Scotland, larger than two foot square, has to be Astro turfed.
I started off on the open terrace, which was strangely made of breeze blocks.
The Berwick players were warming up at this end with some shooting practice.
I spent most of the time retrieving stray shots from the five a side courts behind the goal.
You can hardly notice where they dug the trench for the cabling for the new floodlights.
A less than enthusiastic emergence from the warm dressing rooms.
The wind was immense and causing real issues. Firstly, not one dead ball kick was taken with the ball still.
The corner flags were blowing into play, to the extent that the ones on the half way line were taken down.
The @keepers_towel had to be wedged under the goal as it kept blowing away from the side netting.
Berwick had brought a few with them. This lot down the side.
This lot behind the goal produced a carrier bag which they started filling with gravel, which intrigued me.
But they are obviously hardy to the weather, as it was used to secure the bottom of their flag to when the wind got up. This sort of ingenuity saw the Scots invent tarmac. But also golf.
Fortunately, the Christmas Cunt identifier was in place. (edit - I mean the hat, not the kid with his leg in plaster).
There were ten people on the pitch who's primary role was to stop goals being scored. I can't say I noticed any of them. Annan scored from their very first attack.
Berwick then only sent one lanky defender up for a corner, but Annan were good enough to give him at least a quarter of an hour to get the ball under control before toe punting it in the bottom corner.
Annan then retook the lead when I was having a piss, but here they are celebrating it.
Half time food of kings.
Although these were equally tempting.
Three bits of useful advice for any aspiring footballers.
Until today, I'd never seen any picture of heavy plant machinery on a pitchside advertising hoarding.
Now I've seen three.
They say that every private carries a field-marshal's baton in his knapsack. This is the equivalent, with the Lino carrying his own vanishing spray, willing the refs hamstring to tweak.
Annan scored another in the second half.
The game ended 3-1.
I headed across town to the station, which rivals Wakefield Kirkgate in having had a lot of money spent on on smartening up the approach, but it is haunted by the presence of a derelict building.
In rolled a Newcastle bound 156.
This was taken to Carlisle.
On to a London bound Pendolino.
A rather poor cheese and drink selection.
A had a read of the programme. The Annan Chairman had really let his compatriots down by having his notes show considered thinking on an interesting subject.
For the first time today, the weather turned to shit, and it absolutely lashed it down as we skirted the Lake District.
Into an uncharacteristically deserted Preston, for a York bound unit.
Off at an evocatively misty Hebden Bridge.
The signal cabin lit up with the Bobby sat at his register. Knowing the LNW, probably unnecessarily implementing 3-5 working.
Back into Sowerby.
Just in time for the last hour of shop opening. This was my Christmas Eve food and drink last year.
Being On-call and four months of temperance (after clearing a thousand pints in eight months) meant this year is a tad more refined.
A happy Christmas* to yourselves, and I hope that at least you are doing the right thing, and getting absolutely fucked.
*other religions are available, they're all a nonsense.
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