Princess Tiaamii's Shoe

Despite signal failures and defective trains, I reach Euston in good time – unlike Joy, who’s texted Chris Turner to let him know she’s overslept and won’t be joining us today. Fortunately, we’re not relying on her to bring sausages!
On the journey up to Preston, Chris is complaining about being at his sister’s and having to watch one of her favourite programmes, the ITV2 series about the everyday life of Peter Andre and his lovely, shiny abs. Apparently, the episode went into the commercial break on a cliffhanger about whether they would find the missing shoes of his daughter, Princess Tiaamii, before they board a plane. Cue mass ranting about how much better TV was in the old days, when everything was black and white and 47 per cent of the day’s viewing consisted of the test card...
In Preston, we’re meeting Clarkey’s friend, Jackie, who somehow hasn’t been put off by spending the entire afternoon with us when our game at Accrington was called off back in January. We’ve only got time to fit the two pubs in this time. Cutting through the Preston Mobility Centre car park, as you do, we spot a lone shoe lying forlorn in the gutter, black suede with a diamanté buckle. Surely it must be one of Princess Tiaamii’s. Call Peter Andre! Crisis averted! Is there a reward?
Our destination is the Black Horse, with its lovingly preserved interior, all stained glass and little snug rooms. From there, it’s a detour via William’s the butchers’ for pies and Bamber’s cheese shop, where I can’t resist a chunk of the local blue cheese (for local people), Smelly ’Aperth. Then it’s on to the Market Tavern, which is really busy, but we find a spot in the front corner where Chris gets talking to an old Irish lady about her corns. There’s no Elvis playing today, but somehow we get on to the subject of great (or not so great) Elvis impersonators we’ve seen, and why they’re always ‘fat white jumpsuit Las Vegas’ Elvis rather than ‘young hot never tried a fried squirrel sandwich’ Elvis.
Jenny and I bid our farewells to Jackie and head for the station, leaving the boys to catch us up (unless they decide to stay in the pub all afternoon, grab a granny and pretend they’ve won...). We take a shortcut through the St George’s shopping centre, managing to weave our way through the crowds without picking up a subscription to Sky HD and a massive wedding cake on the way.
The first hint of problems comes when our train pulls in. Some lovely people have decided to vandalise a signal box, meaning the service that should go through to York is terminating at Blackburn, with a coach the rest of the way. Except when we get off at Blackburn, there’s no coach. Fortunately, Accrington is a reasonably priced taxi ride away, so we’re at the ground for half-past two. Clarkey suggests we investigate the Crown, next to the ground, but it’s packed and there’s no sign of anything resembling real ale, so we go inside.
It’s another ground like Aldershot, where everyone from bag searchers to turnstile operatives are chatty and friendly – but Jenny and I are dismayed to learn the ground now has a no-flag policy (apparently Morecambe is the same and it’s all something to do with Lancashire Council). Even the home fans have fallen foul of this, with no sign of the massive ‘Accrington Ultras’ banner. We spot Barry, over from Bury, and Phil, Nigel and Diamond. Chris is able to fill Diamond in on the hen party who were in our carriage on the Preston train, this being Diamond’s area of special scientific interest. While Jenny and I are making enquiries about the flag, Clarkey and Chris, baffled by the novelty of being in the ground so early, watch the Rotherham finishing practice taking in place in front of the away end. Despite his excellent goal last week, Nicky Law consistently misses the target. We join the boys and find a spot on the low terrace just to the left of the goal, while the team do the obligatory running between cones, then disappear to the changing room.
The Burtons join us shortly after kick-off, delayed by the transport chaos (well, that’s their excuse). Accrington are bright and nippy, and start the game sharper than us. They take the lead after about ten minutes, when Don is hesitant about coming to take the ball off Andy Parkinson, possibly concerned he’ll give away a penalty if he gets it wrong. It enables Parkinson to round him and score, to general grumbling. The dissatisfaction is eased when Alf is hauled down by Kevin Long and the ref awards us a penalty and sends Long off. Alf’s spot kick is hard and high, and Ian Dunbavin gets nowhere near it. However, the grumbling starts again when we don’t appear to be capitalising on the man advantage, even though we’ve played enough games where we’ve had a man sent off and gone on to outplay the opposition.
From that point on, the Accrington fans behind the goal start shouting for every decision that might affect us unfavourably, and once Kevin Ellison (who does like to put himself about at times) is booked, the players start trying to get him a second yellow and even the numbers up. We create a number of chances, but Dunbavin stops everything. One of these saves, from Alf’s long-range shot, is pretty impressive, but the rest end with Dunbavin on the floor, claiming to have been injured.
At half-time, Stanley boss John Coleman marches straight over to the ref to tell him what he thinks of his performance, then sends his players out a good minute or so after we’ve come back on the pitch, something managers obviously learn in Gamesmanship 101.
It seems to have worked, because almost immediately Accrington score from a corner which is played out to Jimmy Ryan, whose shot goes through a crowd of players. The moaning starts again, most of it reserved for Law and Tom Pope, who has two chances with headers, one of which goes well over but the other is a lot closer. We do have the ball in the net, but Alf is flagged offside after heading in Exodus Geohaghan’s long throw. When Accrington bring on a sub, there are comments directed at Ronnie about that being the way to manage etc etc. A couple of minutes later, Ronnie replaces Ellison with Marcus Marshall, possibly before he can get sent off. Marshall’s extra pace starts causing problems for Stanley, but while most of the play is in their half, Dunbavin is still keeping us at bay. With ten minutes to go, Ronnie replaces Mark Bradley with Ryan Taylor. Almost immediately we’re level, when Geohaghan heads in a corner. He celebrates by making spectacles round his eyes (sadly without going into a full-on Biggles...). We’re really going to miss him when he goes, but Peterborough want silly money for him. Some idiot runs on the pitch and tries to tangle with Dunbavin in the goalmouth, but is swiftly hauled away.
With three up front, we look better than we have all afternoon. Ryan Taylor heads the ball against the post. Three minutes of stoppage time are indicated and the Tannoy announcer gives the Stanley man of the match award to Dunbavin, which is the cue for him to pick the ball out of the net seconds later. Ryan Cresswell bullets in a header from yet another Geohaghan long throw. More idiots run on the pitch. To borrow a line from Ted, there are a few tea parties missing chimps this afternoon. The away terrace goes mental. Chris’ pies are in danger of getting squished by his own feet, or Clarkey’s. I’m in danger of being squished by Burtons. The final whistle goes and we’ve got out of jail.
We make a swift getaway, aiming to catch the train that leaves Accrington at 5.19 – if services are back to normal, that is. Clarkey had originally been intending to leave early to catch the 5.06, as he’s supposed to be seeing Killing Joke at Hammersmith Apollo with Andy Leng tonight. (And is it just me, or does anyone else think that ex-Brentford and Leicester manager Martin Allen is the spit of Killing Joke frontman Jazz Coleman? Okay, just me then.) However, he knocked that plan on the head as he had no idea if that train would be running, and given the result he’s really glad he did. There’s very little information when we arrive at the station, but the guard on a train going to Colne tells us the train to Preston and Blackpool is definitely running. It arrives about five minutes late, which isn’t too bad given everything that’s happened. We trundle through some beautiful, hilly countryside, stopping at places like Church and Oswaldtwistle and Pleasington, which sounds like the kind of town you’d move to in a horror film, only to discover that the idyllic surroundings and friendly faces are hiding something unspeakably nasty...
Back in Preston, we have time for a quick visit to the Fox and Grapes, where Chris is hoping to buy another Ploughman’s Lunch in a packet for a spot of onion juggling, only to discover they don’t have any. He’d seen them in the Market Tavern earlier in the day and decided against getting one – bet he regrets that now! The music on the jukebox is is a mixture of G’n’R and Northern Soul, the Caledonian Mellow Yellow is going down nicely with the boys and we could easily settle in here, except we’ve got a train at seven.
Our journey home is enlivened at Warrington when the carriage is invaded by a group of huge men in training gear carrying heroic quantities of alcohol. It’s Blackheath rugby club. One of their supporters wanders over and offers us some of his port, which we decline. We get chatting and he tells us they’ve beaten Sedgeley Park, who are geographically somewhere close to Bury. He might call football ‘wendyball’, but he’s watched a fair bit in his time and has a soft spot for Southampton. He even knows enough about Rotherham to ask whether Ronnie Moore is still our manager. The team may plough through the Carlsberg like it’s going out of fashion and be playing some drinking game that involves wearing a Hallowe’en mask, but there’s one who just sits opposite us, quietly reading his broadsheet, and as far as I can tell, they all keep their clothes on. (Spoilsports!)
We arrive at Euston about twenty minutes early, so Clarkey, having found out from Andy that the Joke weren’t starting till 9.15, makes a dash for the Apollo to catch as much of the set as they can. The rest of us make our respective ways home, where I make the discovery that the cats like Smelly ’Aperth nearly as much as I do...