Blush telegraph

For the Northern League it has become almost an annual outing, a sort of Sunday School trip – a trip with pitfalls – and no less eagerly anticipated for that.

For the FA Carlsberg Vase final we go first class, though there’s nothing particularly classy about it.

Monday to Friday there’s a complimentary full English; at the weekend there’s a croissant (and no matter that real men don’t eat them.) The wrapper declares the croissant to be “gastro culinary innovation”, a preposterous misuse of language, and also envelopes some jam, some butter and a bit of plastic with which to attempt to spread them.

The bit of plastic may on no account be supposed a knife or, if it must, is the sort of knife given to cons on suicide watch. “Let’s see you slash your wrists with that, then, Fingers.”

The “rest of the day” menu begins more promisingly. “Succulent sliced char-grilled chicken with sage and thyme stuffing and a sweet sun blush tomato mayonnaise...”

Breathlessly, it’s 17 words before the qualifying term “sandwich” is reached, the biggest tease since Ms Mae West offered to come up and see me some time.

“Prawn sandwich brigade” may have become somewhat slighting, but at least it has the benefit of succinctness.

The menu promises that “a member of our on-board team will be along shortly” is a bit of a false dawn, too. The train’s south of Doncaster before we get so much as a cup of coffee.

WE’RE on the 8.57 from Darlington. Though West Auckland’s fans appear fairly subdued, the ineluctable hen parties are not.

A group from Darlington is holding a fancy dress competition, apparently – only a guess, understand – for a Nurse Edith Cavell lookalike. I’m disappointed not to be asked to judge it.

Also on board are the admirable Lord Foster of Bishop Auckland – West Auckland tie, Guardian, gastro culinary innovatory sandwich – and nine-year-old Joseph Johnson, one of West’s mascots.

The Wembley programme calls them player escorts, suggesting (among other things) that the Northern lads may not be allowed out in the big city without someone to keep an eye on them.

It’s a reminder that, until the 1998 Vase final, in which Tow Law Town indelibly appeared, Wembley Stadium didn’t allow mascots at all – a particular disappointment for nine-yearold Sam Gordon, who had led them out all season.

Lucky for some, the course of mascot history was changed by the intervention of the Northern League chairman and, much more crucially, of FA chief executive Graham Kelly – the poor chap who would later talk of having been fired with enthusiasm.

Has ever a football man been more traduced than R H G Kelly?

IT is raining at Kings Cross. Ebac Northern League president and former FIFA referee George Courtney offers to rent out his umbrella. George’s reputation for carefulness is undeserved, though he polishes it parsimoniously, nonetheless.

The FA lunch is at 1.30pm, time beforehand for a beer in a pub called the Blue Check. It appears to have been colonised by fans of Sholing, the Southampton area side who will be West Auckland’s opponents. The lunch invitation insists upon collar and tie, warns that those inappropriately dressed will be turned away and thus presents a dilemma for Spennymoor Town general manager and Northern League management committee member Steven Lawson whose cleaner (get him!) has taken his Northern League tie to be dry cleaned. Tortured if not quite tie-racked, poor Steven is left with a choice between his Spennymoor tie and his funeral tie, opts for the latter – mourning dress, as it were – and all afternoon elicits expressions of deep condolence.

FA Vase committee chairman Mark Frost talks in his welcome speech of the Northern League’s remarkable record – victories in the last five finals. Big John Witherspoon sneaks to the dais to reveal that it would have been Sir Thomas Lipton’s 163rd birthday.

Sir Thomas was the tea man who put up West Auckland’s celebrated World Cup. “The Americans thought him one of the greatest sportsmen in history,” says John, though he doesn’t mention that that was for yachting.

The menu talks of “West Aukland”, disinterring memories of the great auk, the main course is “thyme-roasted jambonette of chicken – no, me neither – which doesn’t sound too different from the train south. At least this one isn’t between two pappy bits of bread.

LIKE the Northern League Cup final at St James’ Park four days earlier, the stadium isn’t quite full. The morning papers say that 6,500 tickets have been sold, the gate’s officially announced at a greatly disappointing 5,431.

The other 1,000 are probably still in the Blue Check.

It may not be said that the first half crackles with excitement, proceedings at one point so torpid that a senior North- East football figure (who’d best remain nameless) can be observed fast asleep in the row in front.

A Northern League committee man admits to nodding, too.

Clearly the Wembley seats are too comfortable.

Quickly it becomes clear that the game’s pivotal figure will be Sholing goalkeeper Matt Brown.

Matt Brown? The guy’s glossy, lustrous, colour by Technicolor.

At half-time it’s goalless, the tea cup talk that West are misfiring up front. After 71 minutes Sholing score through Marvin McLean – doubtless hereinafter to be prefixed Marvellous – Sholing players flopping one on top of another like a playing card tower felled by a three-year-old’s whimsy.

It’s the only goal, doubly disappointing for Northern League secretary Tony Golightly who’s given BetFred £20 on West to win 3-1. Joe Burlison, his colleague has had £20 on Sholing to win. “I was still shouting for West though,” he insists.

West – players, officials, supporters – appear genuinely and uniformly bereft, their second Wembley defeat in three seasons. It’s not quite the way we’d hoped that the Northern League’s 125th anniversary season would end, either.

AS has become the way of it, we gather before the homeward journey in Mabel’s Taven, not far from Kings Cross.

On the television they’re vainly trying to bale out York City, in the bar a ground-hopper says he’s been put off watching Gateshead in this Sunday’s Conference play-off at Wembley because it’s £41 to get in.

“I’m going to watch Harlesden Park Ladies instead,” he adds.

The eight o’clock is yet more greatly becalmed, chastened even, not even an Edith Cavell lookalike competition with which to pierce the encircling gloom.

Another two youthful mascots still wear West’s black and yellow kit, members of the club’s under- 8s team which won their league by scoring 99 goals against four and a tournament in Skegness by hitting 28 to none.

“Another 15 years and some of these will be at Wembley, too,” says one of the dads, though some of us will hope to be back long before then.

In the meantime there are still 230 darkening miles to home, and just succulently sliced char-grilled chicken with sage and thyme stuffing and a sweet sun blush tomato mayonnaise (sandwich) to which to look forward all night.