Anatomy of a footballing Saturday Jan. 13, 2007

SCENES : Meeting up, travelling, the camaraderie, the fish-supper, the match itself, the banquet, the autopsy, the return home.

I walked in the howling wind to the train station at Armathwaite.
A lone guy was stood there saying he had been waiting 2 and a half hours.
The bus replacement service then drove back right past my house (I could have stood at the end of the driveway), (exercise won’t kill you).
From Carlisle I took a train to Gretna.
Brooks Mileson was to pick me up – I arrived early to have a look around the town; he arrived early so he could have a coffee with Lanky who had broken his hip tumbling in the bath and would have to miss this adventure of ‘The Away Mob’ to Partick Thistle in Glasgow.
His mate and Away Mob regular Jack the JCB driver did however make it and sat in the front trying to fathom his mobile phone controls.
Then admitted to forgetting to tell former Gretna chairman Brian to meet in the usual place, the hotel car park at Lockerbie where there was no Brian.
So there was but the three of us in the Jeep.
The anticipated pre-match Away Mob traditional fish supper was thrown into jeopardy by the news from the Chief Exec (in a car ahead) that the M8 was standing traffic.
Without a road map and none of us sure how to work satellite navigation system, we headed off the motorway, through the suburbs – Celtic territory – unrecognisable from olde in parts given urban redevelopment.
With 10 minutes to spare, and still having to find somewhere to park, Brooks found the chip shop, talked to Partick fans likewise awaiting the wrapping of the heraldic “fish-suppers”.
Next door “the 25th best cafe in the UK” with its unique window-display, and warm colours, housed a few fans more delaying their short walk through the storm to the game.
Thoughts that the Gretna team, likewise held up in the traffic, would not be properly prepared for the match were dispelled with 2 almost identical goals in the first 71 seconds.
The home mob of journalists and blazered Thistle officials looking down from the mainstand gasped and sighed and cursed and swore and made furious notes amounting to : looks like another drubbing for Partick at the hands of Gretna.
Then the storm’s heavy rain turned to torrential.
People near the front of the stand moved back several rows.
Then several rows more.
Reporters notes flew away in the wind.
Amidst it all one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.
Partick got a goal back when Gretna’s left-back froze in front of goal amidst a sheet of rain.
Captain Chris Innes provided the rock on which to anchor the Anvil lead.
For the second half Gretna would have their turn, with the wind behind them.
To no avail.

At 90 mins the radio would report that Partick managed a draw, despite their bad start.
The radio was mostly concerned with Rangers 5–0 romp under new management.

Wadsworth rang in to say his talent-spotting mission into England (Liverpool and Accrington) was so successful it might herald new faces.
Gretna were heading towards the Premiership with seasoned pros, mostly, in their final flourish.
Brooks devoured the Hamilton on the way home steak buffet with an unbelievable appetite for a man with his trousers hanging off his arse. For him it can’t come quick enough. He wants a result.

On the radio, fans argued the morality of Walter Smith leaving the Scottish job for Rangers ; an English angle surrounded Martin O’Neill, the toast of a few weeks ago, not getting the best out of Aston Villa.
Arriving back in Gretna by 7pm, Brooks dropped JCB-Jack at Gretna, outside Lanky’s house (who was doubtless inside with his long legs up, deep in pain).
Then on to Armathwaite, ignoring my wishes to continue by bus and train and foot through the eye of the storm.
On tv, Sky’s Clare Tomlinson (who has agreed to become my Ava’s godmother) introduced West Ham v Fulham, which was to finish 3–3 in a breathless encounter – the perfect showcase for the English Premier League (indeed neither team are even in the frame to win anything but the players performed like it was a Cup Final and their lives depended on it, falling to their knees at the end of the 95 minutes).
I couldn’t help thinking how impoverished or modest the Scottish football fayre is by comparison.
Seen by all on Match of The Day Scotland.
Except viewers in England.