IT was the comedian W C Fields, they reckon, who coined the phrase about never giving a sucker an even break, Goodness only knows what he was on about.

Last Saturday, at any rate, was the international break. St James’ Park being out of bounds, we went to St James’ Park instead.

This one’s at Alnwick, midway between Newcastle and the border, a home of football since 1901. One sign says it’s St James’ Park, another drops the apostrophe. Either way, a second ‘s’ seems to have been scattered somewhere along the Great North Road, which to us O-level grammarians seems a pity.

Alnwick Town are playing Heaton Stannington, Ebac Northern League second division. It’s also Non League Day, an initiative which appears to have attracted a couple of lads from Surrey.

If the north Northumberland twang’s tricky, all r’s over titivation, then the deep south’s its esoteric equal. I swear that one of them asks a club official for details of the ham salad. Turns out it’s the home side he’s after.

Among the differences between this and the (perhaps) better known St James’ Park is that the £50 needed at Newcastle to purchase a seat within spitting distance of the directors’ box will buy a season ticket at Alnwick.

Nor are they likely to have an unannounced visit from Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. “We give the players their petrol money and that’s it,” says Alnwick chairman Tom McKie, a café owner in the town.

Another difference, of course, is the grub. At Alnwick a very good burger is £2 50, a poke of chips £1 less. Though there appear not to be any prawn sandwiches, the burger van does offer for £1 something called syrup porridge.

Taste testing tempts, courage departs. Whatever happened to investigative journalism?

THE town’s greatly if not quite grandly pleasant, home (of course) to the Duke of Northumberland and latterly to Harry Potter and to the reborn Aln Valley Railway, though Alnwick Lionheart station is closed, sadly, last Saturday.

Just off the main street, 2ft-high graffiti on the upper storey of a terraced house urges “No equal rights” and “No free parking.” It’s oddly redolent of that classic Father Ted placard: “Down with this sort of thing.”

A plaque outside the White Swan hotel announces that it’s home to the first class lounge from the former White Star liner RMS Olympic, sister ship to the Titanic – bought at auction, it transpires, after the Olympic died peacefully in 1935.

Yet more improbably, other bits of the 45,000-ton ship – doors, panels, windows – went at the same time to a paint factory in Haltwhistle. Perhaps no longer able to put a gloss on things. The factory re-sold them in 2004.

The Olympic lounge isn’t open when we call. Undaunted, we sink a couple in the John Bull instead.

THE column’s no stranger to Alnwick. Back in 1990, we told how Gary Anderson, the club’s star forward, was let out every Saturday from nearby Acklington prison where he was serving five years for burglary.

“A perfect gentleman on and off the field. He doesn’t even have a drink afterwards,” said Cyril Cox, then as now the club secretary.

“Alnwick’s No 10 has what you might call a free role,” the recidivist column recorded.

That, in turn, recalls the story of the Holme House prison team from Stockton, champions in 1993 of the Teesborough League fourth division but denied permission to play in the league cup final because rules dictated that it had to be on a neutral ground.

The column took up cudgels, if only metaphorically. A correspondent to a local newspaper – “OAP, Port Clarence” – sought to differ, suggesting that not only should the inmates lose all their rights, human and otherwise, but their table tennis bats, too.

Finally the league relented, leading to perhaps the first occasion in penal history when folk not only queued to get into a prison but paid £1 apiece for the privilege.

The Lags X1, as inevitably they became known, played Roseworth Social Club from Stockton – interesting how many visiting players seemed already to know their opponents.

Fellow felons watched from barred windows 15 yards from the touchline. “The executive boxes,” said prison officer Dave Watson.

At half-time it was 1-1. “We’re lulling them into a sense of false security,” said team manager Bruce Tait – the pun unintentional and, in any case, much too optimistic.

Rosie won 4-1, had a cup of Home Office tea and left for something a little stronger. They had taken no prisoners.

THEN there was the Northern League’s annual dinner in 2001, at which the guest speaker was George Reynolds, himself frequently a guest of Her Majesty. Then chairman of Darlington FC, he was besieged with requests for pre-season friendlies but gave Alnwick first dibs. “I’ve fond memories of the place. I was in jail up there,” he said.

Alnwick player/chairman John Common, known for leaving sheep carcasses in the visitors’ dressing room, had himself been fined by the club after the 1997 league dinner for the more serious offence of falling asleep while the guest speaker was on. “It seemed the sensible thing to do,” John pleaded. The speaker was former Leeds and Ireland man Johnny Giles; the jury entered a plea for extreme leniency.

ALNWICK Town’s finest hour may have come that same year when Manchester United’s best – Sir Alex, Roy Keane, M. Cantona – pitched up at St James’ Park for a training session.

They’d planned to be at Morpeth Town, 15 miles south, but fled to the lee of Alnwick Castle after being pursued by the paparazzi.

Given the red carpet, United promised Alnwick something in return. Still empty handed in 2013, Town discovered some photographs of the occasion and on the familiar principle that shy bairns get nee sweets, wrote to Old Trafford to ask if Sir Alex had forgotten.

The kitman rang. “Of course he hasn’t,” he said – and a few days later Alnwick took delivery of 17 match balls, one for every year they’d been kept waiting.

BASED near the Freeman Hospital in Newcastle, Heaton Stannington have been going quite well, perhaps inspired by the club’s canine mascot Heaton Stan Harry, who has 394 followers on Twitter.

Though Harry’s absent – “he likes a lie-in,” says Heaton Stan secretary Ken Rodger – the side leads 3-0 at half-time and run out comfortable 6-2 winners.

The afternoon’s lovely, the crowd maybe 60, the main stand perhaps a little less grand than that which dominates Gallowgate.

Much loved former Tyne Tees Television weather man Bob Johnson, an occasional visitor, hasn’t made it this time. His heart’s with Hearts, anyway.

Back in the clubhouse, the television’s uncommonly blank. “Nee football today,” someone says, but he knows not what pleasures he’s missed.