The home of football in the hills Dec. 24, 2007

The snow is settling on the cars. Those that came into town from the mountains with it all over their bumper and stacked on their roof like the wearing of some silly hat, are now excused. They are understood. They were merely ahead of their time. The town has now caught on. Caught the snow.
Small town. In The Lake District. Beautiful beautiful place and home to no professional football team. Perfect then for a gallery totally devoted to the beautiful game!

Not concerned with money. Build it and they’ll come.
70,000 in the first year. 70,000 in the 10th year. Must be doing something right – or wrong – we are no better off now than when we started! Oh well, progress is just a way of standing-still.
And that’s all we ever wanted to do : to grasp the game for all it is worth. Not to make a killing.
Someone asks how much is that John Motson in the window – that one in the snow? ‘Too much for you’ I feel like saying. The idea that some things just can’t be bought. Not even the ‘original’ of Mottie on the pitch in his sheepskin at Wycombe stood before the tv cameras, before the days of Sky and satellite tv. This was a terestial vision, live on the Beeb for everyone to see. And I was the only one who captured it ‘still’. Tell them there’s a postcard of it.

The hairdressers across the way are scantily-clad. It helps custom. Beauty knows no pain. They also file nails and make mostly women feel good about themselves. Is it not akin to a Bordello?
One could also say that about the wine bar also recently opened. People go there to jig their drinks. Most of these places are about making people ‘happy’ and comfortable.

Football is about suffering. One goes to pop festivals to have fun and one attends politely other sports and other events and then goes home and maybe goes to another event the next night or so. But football is all about suffering : the endurance, the loyalty, the battling with the seasons, sheepskin or more likely replica shirt on top of a favourite pully. Shivering-in-style. Most of our teams – indeed most of us supporters – hardly win anything ever. Football is a thorough commitment. Religion?Bah!
Our gallery used to be open every day of the year but we’ve decided to close Mondays ‘to get a life’.

But we’ve opened today (Monday) – because we decided to. Life will have to wait until next Monday or after we’ve closed. Maybe on the way home. The journey takes me right through the Lake District. Anything could happen. Especially in the snow.

I think we like a bit of misadventure and disruption in this country. Snow is the perfect mistress.
Down in the local park, in the cup of the valley, there is s great game being played. In the snow. Both sexes on closer inspection. The ball twice its normal size until it is kicked again and the snow flies into someone’s face everybody else gufawwing. Sliding tackles are again the rage. And – given that you are already wet – diving headers. The vicar is in his garden. He likes this sort of thing. He is always posting football things on that blackboard outside the church to encourage attendance. Or just to have some fun. The pitch is next to his church. That will do nicely. The snow is a leveller, the University Ladies team are holding their own.

Someone has apparently bought that Motson picture – or a replica , as a Christmas present . I had better go and get my skates on home before the Kirkstone is completely unpassable and refuge in the Inn is the only option. The radio stations are full of it.