“Get On Wi’ It…”
Radcliffe Olympic v Dunkirk, May Day, 2010. Attendance: 127. And two horses.
Mr Senior, the match referee, trumpeted his responses to players’ appeals, complaints and demands from his low centre of gravity with a voice like a stoic but reliable member of a local amateur dramatic society. His arms flailed, his timekeeping seemed erratic and he reminded me of Roger Hargreaves’ Mr Fussy character.
One of his assistants was exasperating, failing to spot two or three blatant fouls right in front of him and when he did signal for anything, it was with a drooping flag and the look on his face was of someone in Kazakhstan listening to a lecture on Nottinghamshire mining.
Radcliffe had moved up a league since I had visited during the previous season, almost a year to the day, oddly and they had responded by erecting a lean-to with a varnished bench inside, designed and marked for wide buttocks but actually utilised by feet and standing men.
The temporary blue fencing, which prevented playground visitors from watching the matches from the swings and roundabouts on the grassy slope beyond was gone, replaced by mesh fencing to allow those very same people to, er, watch the matches from the slope...
Swings and roundabouts, I guess. Interestingly though, few people were bothered enough to do that.
Even the dugouts were on wheels and reminded me of drugs trolleys being pushed around in care homes and after the game had finished, they were used to give rides to young children. Children once enjoyed donkey rides on Blackpool’s beach and they brayed a lot, rather like Mr Senior, in truth, whose catchphrase appeared to be, “Get on wi’ it…”
Trains added splashes of colour behind one goal, Dunkirk’s Robinson’s profane language added colour to the on-field activities and when the sun did shine, more colour was added to this scene of old England in early summer…
Home winger Haughton intimidated young Dunkirk right-back Hopkinson, who won out in the end and the head-banded Radcliffe striker Massingham, a massive influence for an hour, threw his weight around but the hosts’ lead lasted but two minutes in the first period, so that the break arrived with parity and it was time for the Dunkirk substitutes to warm up. One warmed up a finger and thumb with a cigarette…
After the interval, it remained only for home ‘keeper Mountain to climb Ben Nevis to claw away efforts by Dunkirk’s Gregory and Day, then spring down to base-camp to block another really good effort by the latter.
Replacement White’s late winning strike for Dunkirk, following a poor kick by the home ‘keeper and then smart offensive play by the sprinting Smith, saw Mountain slope away, far from his peak by then.
Having infuriated the majority of players up to that point, Mr Senior began to boil the mental temperatures of members of the Dunkirk contingent, massed around the technical area (a silly name for a whitewashed rectangle) by seeming to be totally unwilling to blow his whistle for a final time.
The official was smug in control, however and extended Dunkirk’s frustration but when he finally did blow, a rumpus exploded for Dunkirk had won both the game and the league…
Players hugged and chased each other, “Championes…” was chanted, then champagne dampened hair-gel and sweaty red shirts.
A warm-down was followed by team-photos, more renderings of “Championes…” could be heard, the team-crouch collapsed, people laughed and Secretary Phil Allen shook with relief, finally able to cast off his superstitions…
Gresley were no doubt grizzled after beating Borrowash 2-0 on the same day but they had to settle for a runner-up position.
The Dunkirk Boatmen had cruised to the next level in the non-league pyramid and I drove home to eat a pasty.
It was what I did back then…
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