Joining the Quakers faithful at Barrow (From The Northern Echo)

Joining the Quakers faithful at Barrow

11:25am Thursday 12th January 2012 in Backtrack By Mike Amos

REMEMBER the story a few weeks back about the bloke – Staithes, was it not – who organised his own funeral, paid for the band and for the bait, enjoyed the procession to the pub and then arose from the open coffin in order to toast his own good health?

It was a bit like that last Saturday at Barrow-in-Furness, Britain’s biggest cul-de-sac.

It may have been Darlington FC’s last game, a crying shame on any argument, maybe just one of those exaggerated deaths first attributed to Mr Mark Twain.

More than 1,000 made the trans-Pennine pilgrimage nonetheless – close, near-to-tears friends of the potentially deceased and others who latterly had been barely acquainted, but who supposed (as folk do) that they’d better be seen to do the right thing.

Quakers were in administration for the third time, in the mire for the umpteenth. Still many clung cheerfully to the belief, Micawber merrier, that something would turn up.

OUR train leaves Darlington at a minute past seven, change at York, Leeds and Carnforth.

No one ever got to Barrow in a hurry.

It’s nearly Northallerton before anyone raises the possibility of resurrection and of an out-of-town ground share, past Thirsk before there’s talk of former chairman and erstwhile benefactor George Reynolds.

George had told the BBC that 97 per cent of fans were still behind him.

“The only way that 97 per cent of us would still be behind him is if we were pushing him off the edge of a cliff,” says 49-year-old civil servant Richard Jones, The other three per cent, adds Richard, would be filming it.

Richard first watched Darlington in 1969 – “we lost then, as well” – is joined by lifelong fan John Gray, also 49, by Andy Hurworth – a 45-year-old finance director – and by railways project manager Chris Nicholson, 33, who gets on at York.

Richard sports the crab apple green away shirt; Andy has a jacket with “The last resort” on the back, though that may simply be a reference to Seaton Carew. Though apparently travelling light, they hide an awful lot of conspiracy theories about their persons.

It’s nearly Keighley, and thus a world record, before anyone complains about the price of a pie at the Northern Echo Arena.

The boys had also been to Barrow last season, booked early trains weeks in advance and thus were seriously discomfited to find that the bank holiday kick-off had been put back to 7.45.

“We got there at half past ten, walked around all Barrow’s attractions until about half past eleven,” recalls John, a cook. “We struggled a bit after that.”

THE conversation’s wide-ranging, the ubiquitous Liddle universally admired, skipper Chandler a heart-onhis- sleeve hero. None seems quite sure about recently departed chairman and putative owner Raj Singh.

They cannot have forgotten the joy of Wembley just eight months previously, but that was Singh when you’re winning.

There’s also a faintly seminal debate about all the planks the team has had down the years. Darlington, as the cliché-mongers would have it, have had a whole raft of planks.

What they never for a moment entertain is the possibility of not following their team, whether in the Evostik, the Northern League or the Darlington Church and Friendly League Division 3 (South.) These are supporters evermore.

Chris has been studying the form, and not the Blue Square Premier, has a four horse accumulator – costing £3 – on Skint, Deep Trouble, Final Whistle and Sammy the Spider, the last a reference to Sam Russell, the goalkeeper.

He’s also an enthusiastic member of the Twitterati, records that the Northern Echo man is entrained with them and is mildly surprised to receive a response from the editor (who clearly has limited horizons at 8.45am.) “Tell the old bugger to go canny on the expenses,” it says.

The waiting room at Carnforth station is where, famously, they filmed Brief Encounter. We have nine minutes there.

Chris has also looked up Barrow on the internet, found something that purports to be a view of Blackpool Tower from the old shipbuilding town. Richard supposes the tower must have been superimposed.

“Why the hell would anyone want to superimpose a picture of Blackpool Tower?” asks Chris.

“If they lived in Barrow,” says Richard.

SHORTLY after 11am we’re in the local Wetherspoon’s, big breakfast and a pint of Wildcat.

What Wildcat needs is an apostrophe ‘s’ and a four-letter word to follow.

A residual pantomime poster on the building next door talks of making Barrow magical. “It might take a bit more than that,” says John.

The party moves to the Duke of Edunburgh, opposite a statue of Emlyn Hughes (or, possibly, the other way round.) Others are arriving. “I’m a bit of an emotional lad to start with, it only takes a raw onion,” says Chris.

“I don’t know what I’m going to be like at quarter to five.”

Richard had decided at Tamworth last season to see how many different beers he could taste in a year. He’s on 806, but only drinks halves and only on match days. “You don’t expect us to watch them sober, do you?,” he says.

Incredibly, the editor tweets again.

Chris remembers the earlier exchange.

“He’s spending a penny,” he replies.

Sam the Spider’s come second in the 2.20. Chris hadn’t taken each-way. “It’s an inauspicious start,” says Chris.

We have another in the Tally Ho, near the ground. A poster advertises “Superleague” pies but the beer’s from the Dubrovnik and District.

“Just to make my day,” says Richard.

“John Smith’s Smooth.”

Kick-off’s delayed ten minutes, the queue halfway to oblivion. The mood’s subdued, almost dignified. “Raw onions and Watership Down,” says Chris.

WE’RE all, almost all, on the uncovered visitors’ end, a proper old football ground with a friendly welcome. Though there’s a lone drummer – the tumbrel neared the guillotine to a more enthusiastic beat – the fans remain quiet.

It’s like a funeral service where they’re familiar with the words of the hymn but can’t for the life of them remember the tune.

The team looks lethargic, almost lugubrious, too. How wouldn’t they be? It’s like performing the last rites and expecting the poor chap to essay a valedictory hokey-cokey.

Poor Arnison plays a particularly inept ball and is gently rebuked by a middle-aged supporter.

“Not today,” says his mate.

“Aye,” says the what-the-heckler apologetically. “Not today.”

Barrow score, players and fans celebrate rather half-heartedly, as if not wanting to kick a man when he’s down. A home supporter carries a much-appreciated banner with the message “Football is for life, not for business”, the public address announces the result of a bucket collection.

“It must have been Liddle who did that,” says Andy. “He does everything else around here.”

The crowd’s given as 2,144 of which exactly half, 1,072, are said to be from Darlington. Richard hatches another conspiracy theory. “I bet it was 1,073,” he says. “They won’t even let us win that.”

Regulars spot former players Roger Wicks and Neil Wainwright in the crowd. “It’s a do what you have to do day,” someone says.

It ends 3-0, Quakers proudly and properly applauded, one or two shirts hurled into the damp-eyed crowd.

“They wouldn’t do that if they expected to be playing next week,” says a co-conspirator.

Richard’s off to the supermarket out the back, carrier bag clinking on his return like a pocketful of old sixpences.

Uncertain days ahead, these guys are determined not just to drown their sorrows, but to tie lead weights round their ankles.

WHATEVER they say about the condemned man eating a hearty breakfast, the returning faithful have a big bag of Asda crisps between the four of them.

The obit writers resume, though there are those who swear they can still hear knocking on the coffin lid and others who never nailed it down in the first place. Skint, impecunious, has been pulled up.

We have another beer in Carnforth – the vagaries of the railway timetable, understand – another in Leeds.

It’s 11.25pm when the train pulls back into Darlington. We shall know very shortly if it’s to be journey’s end.