LCM hit the road on Saturday for the televised game against Northwich Victoria – and here Editor Gary Hutchinson tells you about his experience on the road:
12.30 kick off for a two hundred and fifty mile round trip can only mean one thing: an early start. Of course it also means a late finish, but that’s was the last thing on my mind as I loaded up the car to start the process of picking up the lads and getting on our way.
I'd got a few cans of Becks left over in the fridge from a house party, so I thought I'd treat the lads to a few beers on me for the trip - after all it's what football is all about surely? I omitted to mention they'd been rolling about in my mates boot for a week beforehand and were covered in oil - still it's the thought that counts right?
Following the success over Telford I kept the same faces in the car. James was to be picked up in Cherry Willingham, meaning he cracked open complimentary becks at around 7.00am. Quick trip to Tesco to purchase four cabbages and then it was on to Jack (who started on the Becks), Sam (who started on the Becks), and Ollie (who was slightly more sensible and chose not to).
We hit the A15 sometime after half seven. Sam and Ollie were quite keen to get on TV so they came in Bermuda shorts which I was fairly certain would return to haunt them later in the afternoon. This idea was enhanced by the time we hit the M62 cutting through Saddleworth Moor – it was white over with snow. However this couldn’t dampen the cars spirits as the lads seemed keen to bring a bit of Sutton samba to Northwich Victoria. I think my choice of Ramones and Stiff Little Fingers on the stereo was maybe killing the mood.
We hit Northwich just after ten, and thanks to James increasingly weak bladder we needed to find convenience post haste. The Esso garage didn’t have one, but a quaint looking country pub across the road did, so that’s where we went.
Walking in it actually seemed a bit more like a hotel. We were soon joined by an uncomfortable Jack and Sam who said the ‘receptionist was looking at us funny’, so it was left to the captain of the ship (me) to face up and find out if the bar was open.
The ‘receptionist’ turned out to be a really pretty young dark haired girl who wasn’t too impressed by our order of alcoholic beverages at such an early time. However it was open and we were thirsty so we went for it. Mind you we did feel a touch out of place, and a lack of bacon butty option meant that we were soon on the move. At £3 a pint it seemed the sensible move.
The ground was easy to find, and just prior to the left hand turn to Wincham was a right hand turn into another pub. Job sorted. This was more of your traditional pub, Sky Sports News on the TV, reasonably priced ale and of course the bacon butty option. Jack, who we later discovered eats more than my family, ordered himself a bacon butty. The rest of us went with the barley based option of ‘Carling Extra Cold’. Lovely. Jack did make the error of making a quick toilet trip, so I sampled his bacon butty. In fact it was so good, Sam sampled some to.
Finally the time came, and I had the pleasure of escorting Poacher the Imp into the ground, so for the next few paragraph’s I’ll hand over to the furry phenomenon, the legend that is Poacher the Imp.
Stepping out at the ground was a pleasure, although I didn’t get to meet Tricky Cat. He apparently got changed elsewhere and didn’t seem to have a real interest in meeting me. I’d have though having an 11 year plus mascot in attendance it might have been nice to try and say hello, but then again it was his big day in front of the camera’s so I let him off.
In the main the home fans were quite. The usual barrage of abuse questioning my sexuality, or enquiring as to exactly what I was was directed at me, but nothing too offensive. However the travelling Imps faithful were simply amazing.
The Passionista have been gaining momentum over the last few months, and as an honorary Passionista I was delighted with how vocal they were. I handed out the lucky cabbages and got what can only be described as a rousing reception. The fans were there in fancy dress, summer dress or just in suitable dress. Everyone wanted to be noticed; everyone wanted to get in on the party.
Sadly someone who didn’t fancy getting in on the party was Northwich boss Andy Preece. Prior to going out I asked where I could walk and where I wouldn’t be allowed, and they said ‘walk around the pitch but not on it’. I fully understood this and walked around the pitch. I like to do two laps, so off I went. It appeared the Northwich players occasionally started a training session at the side, and as I almost encountered them I waited for them to continue. When it became clear they weren’t going to move I asked if I could squeeze past, and began to walk through. This angered the Vics players who began shoving and pushing me, peppering their mild assault with language not fit for children, ITV or my mother.
I tried to remove myself from the provocative situation when Vic’s boss Andy Preece came steaming across and tried to grab my throat, spouting more of the same vile abuse. I tried to explain that I was moving on and I intended no harm, but he continued what can only be described as an angry, unprovoked assault. I moved swiftly on.
Picking up the tale I got myself positioned at the back of the stand and swathe Imps kick off. The first twenty minutes were nervous, with the Imps having to defend and battle for everything:
“His name is Janos. He’s Janos Kovacs. He is mental. And he is mad.”
The Passionista roar however failed to die down or be dampened, and on 18 minutes Chris Fagan sent the travelling support into delirium with a well taken strike. I’d managed to get perched at the back of the stand on a metal bar no doubt intended to be leant against rather than stood on, but this was a record crowd for Northwich and therefore perfect circumstances to pack ourselves in. The goal went in and I nearly fell off!
“Que Sara Sara, whatever will be will be, were going to Wembley, Que sara sara”
The rest of the half was played out at a pace that didn’t really fit the occasion, but the Passionista remained in good voice. Perhaps the most entertaining thing was discovering James a few rows in front of me, and bombarding him with cabbage leaves.
“Der Der Der Der…. Lucky Cabbage”
Friend of LCM and editor of Lincoln Vitals site Neil Hobbs was at the heart of the choir, leading chant after chant for the Imps with his son Tristan closely following his old mans lead.
“I don’t care about Northwich, they don’t care about me. All I care about, is watching City”
As half time slowly merged with the second half I decided my position at the back of the stands might appeal to the TV camera’s, and I was beginning to feel the heat from a stand packed full of passionate Passionistas…. So off came my coat, followed by my shirt. The body beautiful was out.
Two minutes after the restart it looked like the bubble had burst as Northwich hammered in an equaliser. Even that didn’t silence the amazing travelling faithful.
“We are Imps, We are Imps, We are Imps”
A rousing cry from City fans that almost outdid the celebrations of the home support. Maybe it was the fans reaction, maybe not but within two minutes of the minnows hitting the levelling goal City surged ahead again. Captain Kerr put Jamie Clarke through and the forward slotted home for 2-1.
“Hoist up the Lincoln flag, hear the red imps sing, if you won’t join in I’ll sing on my own, don’t wanna go home, don’t wanna go home… this is the best trip, I’ve ever been on”
The flag came out, the fans went delirious and from the point on there was to be no Northwich comeback, no fairytale for The Vics. Jamie Clarke made perfectly sure of that with twenty odd minutes to go with a carbon copy goal from a carbon copy pass from man of the match Scott Kerr.
“3-1 in your cup final, 3-1 in your cup final”
At the final whistle a pitch invasion prevented the Imps players getting over to acknowledge the fans, but we stayed anyway and applauded our lads off the pitch. Live and terrestrial television for the first time in my lifetime, we’d managed to do ourselves justice. I was later informed our fans couldn’t be heard as ITV had put the microphones in the home end, anticipating a giant killing. They didn’t get what they wanted, but in fairness they did give The Imps the praise they deserve.
We made our way to the car and made vain attempts to get out of the ground. Sadly we hit gridlock for around an hour, so James impressed us with his eclectic musical tastes, ranging from Eiffell 65 through to Gina G and back to Journey….. However he apparently likes these as loud as possible with the windows down. However the music attracted legend commentator Andy Townsend who was happy to wave to us, then anchorman Matt Smith who did the same.
However the highlight of the wait was when ‘our man pitchside’ Gabriel Clarke past the car. We began a chant of ‘Gabriel, Gabriel’ and he came over to the car and shook all our hands despite some of my passengers being a shade rowdy (all day drinking boys, you got a lot to learn). He proved himself a true gent and just iced off the rather excellent FA Cup cake.
The only real highlight of an arduous and seemingly ‘twice as long as it took us to get here’ journey home was our stop at services near Huddersfield. Jack purchased himself two Burger Kings’s just to soak up the cans of Becks, whilst James insisted on buying just chips but then spent the rest of the meal salivating over everyone elses food. However he wouldn’t accept any, only saying ‘only if you’ve done with it’…. Before finally Jack took pity and pretended to be done with a chicken ball so James didn’t completely waste away!
Overall another good trip away, with me slightly less whining about my love life (although I did feel the need to inform my car full of Imps fans all about my future intentions which on reflection probably made uncomfortable listening). We learnt several lessons:
- Jack eats a lot.
- James appears to have dodgy music taste
- Ollie doesn’t say a lot
- Sam, despite trying really hard, left most his things in my car.
Bring on Bolton in round three.