Shake Down

Jenny, Clarkey and I head out of Euston hoping for another fruitful day in the North-west. It’s my first trip to Gigg Lane, even though I’ve seen Bury a few times, including one memorable occasion at Darlo’s old ground, Feethams, when Chris Billy was in the Bury line-up and some bloke standing in the Tin Shed behind us just kept randomly shouting, “Chris Billy,” every seven or eight minutes. Then, as we were leaving the ground, we spotted a couple of their players, packets of chips under their arms, legging it back down Victoria Road to where the team bus was waiting for them. Ah, the glamour of lower league football...
At Piccadilly station, we meet Chris K, along with his friends Tom, who came with us to Rochdale last season, and Lawrie, who’s getting his first taste of Millers action. The tram line through Manchester is currently being repaired, so it’s a short walk through the city centre to Victoria, where we pick up the tram to Bury. The journey takes us through Besses O’The Barn, which sounds like one of the most romantic places in England – shame that as you look out of the tram window, you don’t see rolling fields and Lorna Doone tripping through the mist, just a massive car dealership...
Jenny’s friend, Jean, is waiting for us at Bury station. Over the years, the two of them have developed the art of the several-hour lunch, as well as going on a variety of exotic holidays – which is a dirty job, but someone has to do it.
Our pub of choice is the Rose and Crown, on the Old Manchester Road. When we arrive at about ten to one, we’re told it won’t be opening for another five minutes. We pop our head round the door of the nearby Trafalgar, but Clarkey fails to spot anything resembling a hand pump, and walks out on principle. There isn’t a Lidl nearby, so we can’t borrow Ted’s favourite method of time killing, but the Rose and Crown does open after a couple of minutes, and it turns out to be a great choice. There are half-a-dozen real ales on, with the opportunity to sample before you buy. We’re joined by Chris B and his friend, Matt, and a couple of friends of Clarkey’s who have only come for the drinking and whose names now escape me (I should really make notes, you know!) Jenny enquires about the possibility of sandwiches, as the website has stated there are no meals on Saturdays, to be told by the landlady, Val, that they put on a corned beef hash after the game. This is no good to us, as we’re straight back to Manchester afterwards, but when she finds out how far some of us have come, she says she’ll dig round and see what she can put on for us. This turns out to be cheese pie, chips and garlic bread and is very much appreciated. We shall definitely be back there if we’re in the same division as Bury next season.
We take a leisurely walk to the ground, put the flag up (which for once gets some lovely coverage on the Football League highlights) and get seats behind the goal. Clarkey is in fine voice and airing a new chant or two, including, ‘Allez, allez, allez, allez, Alfie, Alfie,’ in honour of Adam Le Fondre, who sounds so French and yet is so from Stockport. I must admit I’m slightly distracted by the antics of Neil Cutler on the Bury bench. Well, I say on the bench. He’s actually standing on the steps at the side of the home dug-out, which would see any member of the paying public being told to sit down or even getting slung out, but if you’re staff, you can get away with it, I suppose. He looks like the dominant cat in a household, manoeuvring itself to the highest point so it can look down on everyone else. Vying for attention, though, is our own Drewe Broughton, going through his ostentatious and positively X-rated stretching routine on the touchline in an attempt to be crowned the most supple man in Europe. Women of a certain age all over Bury will be in need of cold showers, and I’m surprised the people sitting in that stand aren’t choking on all the testosterone...
Dragging my attention back to the football (and probably back above waist level, too!), we’re definitely on top in the first half. Alf, Dale Tonge and Nicky Law are linking up well on the right, but when Alf finds himself completely unmarked, he can only shoot straight at Bury keeper Wayne Brown. We should have a penalty when one of the Bury defenders gets a huge fistful of Law’s shirt, but it goes unnoticed. Brown makes one other very good save, but hurts himself in the process and has to go off, to generous applause from the Rotherham fans. He’s replaced by Cameron Belford, who sounds more like a firm of shipbuilders than a footballer. Just on the stroke of half-time, for the second time in two away games, Kevin Ellison scores directly from a corner. I don’t celebrate at first, as I’m sure the ref is going to disallow it for a foul on Belford, but it stands – much to the fury of Mr Cutler, who goes up and remonstrates with the officials as they’re coming off the pitch.
At half-time, there’s a schools five-a-side match and some tiny cheerleaders, who Chris K reckons are the schoolboy footballers’ WAGS. Cheerleaders are still wrong, whatever their age...
Bury come out with more purpose in the second half, and are level within five minutes. Jenny reckons Ryan Lowe is offside when he picks up the ball and slots it past Don, but it’s difficult to tell. Then they get a penalty – after Ian Sharps has made a beautiful clean tackle. The assistant ref doesn’t flag for it, but Mr Webb (sadly, not Howard) goes and consults with him anyway before awarding it. Justice is done, though, as Don saves what’s actually a pretty poor kick before the rebound is lashed over the bar. Man-hugging ensues, with Clarkey getting so excited he’s actually jumping up on the back of the seat in front of him – though he could just be attempting to prove that he’s the dominant cat!
We hope that will be the turning point of the game, but with only a few minutes left, a clearance bounces straight into the path of Bury’s Richie Baker, who accepts the slice of fortune and scores. We press for the equaliser, and right at the very end Sharps has a header which is somehow kept out by the sub keeper.
On the tram back to Bury, the Rotherham fans are restless. Some bloke behind me is chuntering on his mobile, ‘That’s it, Ronnie Moore’s got to go, he’s a knobhead.’ Now that's what I call giving your manager time...
There isn’t time for a pint in Manchester – well, not for those of us who are going back to London, anyway. With neither Manchester side playing till tomorrow, the train is refreshingly free of plastic fans with their equally plastic Man U Superstore carrier bags. As we go through Stoke, the ring road is lit up in shades of purple and green. It’s what being on acid must be like – but then Stoke in general is what being on acid must be like!
Clarkey bids us farewell at Euston, and Jenny and I go up to the King Charles to meet Ted. He’s with the Wilsons, Bev being the only happy one among us as Chelsea have just won five-nil. The place is packed with people celebrating an engagement, but there’s still room for Ted to get chatting to a man who turns out to be a brewer from Rye. He has his dog, Spud, with him, who is apparently something of an Internet legend – in the same way as we have Clarkey, probably. Nice day, shame about the result, but then isn’t that so often the case?