Perspective: Oldham Away.

A few days and a few beers later …

Some perspective has returned: the loss at Sheffield was not the end of the world, actually just another game in what is turning out to be a very enjoyable season. And we were there to see it, like so many other games this season. But time draws on – and there are, inevitably fewer games left and a kind of madness/clarity descends.

Our next game at Oldham is reachable. Saturday. While the next Tuesday evening game at Gillingham no longer feels quite so tempting.

So I am texting: my brother unable to make the journey proper pressures of work and time). But Andy is up for it: my message somewhat timely and succeeds in tempting him.

So we set off with him taking turn at being chauffeur and navigator.

Saddlers Widow’s words ringing in my ear (“Take a water proof coat, the weather will get wet!”) I dump my ages-old green and black very-basic ski-ing anorak into the back seat of the BMW.

Rain? Sees unlikely as we head north, to the M6 and up the motorway. Queues, speed limits but we have set out with what we –always – hope is plenty of time.

Off and around Manchester; industry and it’s remnants crowd around: Lancashire, perhaps stereotypically famous for cotton mills. But looming over the road and pressing up the skies is the enormous Stockport viaduct. Apparently this mighty visionary structure is made up of eleven million (count ‘em!) bricks and was completed in 1840. Crossing the River Mersey valley it has twenty on arches and still carries the West Coast railway. Things were built big and meant to last back in Victorian times. The factories, warehouses and mills have gone now, fallen into rack and ruin or converted into shopping malls or similar. But their ghosts are here for anyone who knew about them.

Are schoolchildren still actually reminded of this heritage these days we wonder idly. This is a time in which locality seems to mean less and less. The world shrinking and identity being less linked to places. It is not surprising given the wonders of technology and the amount of spare/available time (blogs are a fine example I guess) but is also a shame. The best of both worlds would be better; but how to achieve balance?

We stop for lunch at a canal-side hostelry, The Boat and Horses. Manchester pale Ale for me, with steak and ale pie. Big, friendly place. Spacious and walls decorated with old photos and pictures of locally born celebrities. One of my favourite post-war funny men Eric Sykes is up there. As is Christopher Biggins, who apparently sat with my mother at an airport and had to tell her who he was (oh the cruel indignity of it all …)

 

We drift out of the car park, find one of the final places on the official car park (a steward carries the Car Park Full and sets it up in the road behind our very car.

Good timing! We smile – a little too smugly. But one of the stewards tells us of a car that got trapped in mud there a couple of weeks ago and another is telling anybody who will listen that he has won money on the Grand National. Strange – it doesn’t begin until after the final whistle.

Since the last time I was here a new stand has been built where, previously here was a feeble security fence atop a bank of hard-core. I think I know here I am going so we head up the hill. But … also since last time the home supporter’s end has been switched and, effectively we end up walking round three sides of the ground to find the correct gate to pay at. Old fashioned ground this one: built with players and officials entrance straight onto the road, solid brick walls and manned turnstiles.

From inside the new stand looks good and the corrugated roof we sit under, behind the goals is held up by a spider web of Meccano-like joints, braces and nuts and bolts: Universal fittings. Rusted into place.

And the pitch looks rough. A lot of sand, a lot of bumps.

The two teams come out. Henry left on the bench, Taylor playing, Pennington who had a good debut last week in, O’Connor still missing. Hiwula and Bradshaw look a good pair up front with Sawyers behind them is our guess. Kick off and we look smart, good passing. But just to much passing and not enough having a shot?

 

Love the short, passing game with the occasional longer ball to open teams up: and that’s what we are doing to Oldham, but not just having a bash often enough for my liking. Forde is playing – and very quickly snaffles some great interceptions, then head down and flying to get a cross in. Excellent.

Hiwula moving about: either doing what he’s been tasked with or making it up as he goes along. He’s certainly covering ground and putting some maximum effort in.

But, curses we are blessed by a group of “experts” (three of ‘em) who know everything there is to know about football and just have to give everybody else the benefit of their wealth of knowledge. Apparently they even knew how we were going to play – and that we’d be rubbish … and that we’d lose.

Nothing like that kind of punditry to set my back up and destroy what is otherwise a very positive fandom. Malignant and erosive. Tell you what lads next time stay at home eh?

But then again, as my grandfather might have said fools who never stop talking must get one or two things right, just because they say so damned much.

And while we aren’t scoring Oldham manage to get a goal ahead. Their fans, quiet as mice up to that point go berserk. This really is the score they are needing, freeing them of relegation worries.

And, once ahead they fight hard not to let us in.

Bradshaw gets taken off: some thigh injury perhaps?

Lalkovic, Kieron Morris and Jordan Cook come on, but it doesn’t get any better.

And it is suddenly raining. Hard. And, feeling confident I have left my waterproof coat in the car (sorry darling). The last few minutes are played out – there’s a tinge of the familiar about it all. And, although Burton lose to Scunthorpe other results have us dumped down to sixth place. Still with games in hand, but the next one is away at Gillingham.

We scuttle , just about maintaining our dignity back to the car. Making the distance in a break in the downpour. Back on the road we are both grimly quiet and listen to the commentary of the Grand National race as hail piles up on the bonnet of the car. The race is taking place as we drive through this dreadful weather but there is no mention of storms, winds or hail there ( less than forty miles away).