A Saturday at Stockport Georgians

With County away in south Wales, Jonathan Baker enjoys an afternoon of North West Counties action at Cromley Road

Nov 22, 2022

Tuesday 22 November 2022

Hatters, Stopfordians, football fans, lend me your ears. I do feel I’ve got to at least mention England scoring six in their 2022 opener, and an enjoyable afternoon watching the game in the Cheadle End, but that’s about it from me today. Your Tuesday edition of The Scarf My Father Wore is all about this fantastic article from Jonathan Baker aka Geordie Hatter following his recent trip to Stockport Georgians while County were at Newport. You’ll thoroughly enjoy this piece from start to finish, I promise. Make a brew, grab a couple of custard creams (other biscuits are available), put your feet up, and enjoy these 2,519 beautifully-constructed words.

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Enjoy your football fix today, with four World Cup games on the box, but don’t forget County are in FA Youth Cup action at Edgeley Park tonight as well!

Des Junior

Our County are away at their namesakes from Newport, so finding myself with the Sainsbury’s shopping done by 2.15pm, and the rest of an unseasonably bright late-Autumn Saturday afternoon at my disposal, I take a scroll through the footballing Twittersphere to look out for some still-reachable local action.

After flirting briefly with the competing charms of Cheadle Heath Nomads v Abbey Hulton United (a short hop away on the number 11 bus, but would it come on time?) and New Mills v Stockport Town (just about achievable if I run out of the house absolutely straight away and sprint across to platform one of Davenport station in time to catch the 14:22 for all points to Buxton), I determine that discretion should be the better part of valour, heading into my Cale Green backyard with cycle shed key in hand and a spring in my step. My destination for the afternoon, I have decided, is to be nearby Cromley Road - home of SK2’s very own Stockport Georgians.

If the prospect of a leafy and leisurely ten-minute pedal to the ground is one motivation for my choice, another is a slight sensation of guilt, on account of having somewhat neglected my home postcode district’s non-league football team during the 10 years I’ve been resident in the neighbourhood. For the first couple of those years I didn’t even know the club existed, hidden away as it is at the end of an unremarkable-looking cul-de-sac lined with bay-windowed semi-detached 1930s residences. The blissfulness of this homespun ignorance lasted until one summertime Sunday afternoon, when having taken a wrong turning on the pushbike, I came across an alluring-looking expanse of lovingly-tended greenspace secreted behind a head-high wall at the quiet street’s farthest extremity. On closer inspection, a break in the wall revealed a full-sized football pitch reposing in close-season slumber, bordered by a low metal railing, and faced by two tiny but covered terraces situated at right angles to each other: the largest of which, maybe five terrace-steps high, ran Cheadle End-style across the goalline furthest from my vantage point. ‘Stockport Georgians Football and Cricket Grounds’, read a long-weathered painted wooden sign at the entrance to the facility. “I’ll have to come back here one time; take in a game,” I had thought to myself. Somehow, I had never gotten round to it.

And then, one afternoon this blisteringly-hot July just past, I had remembered about the little suburban sports ground again, and spent a pleasant afternoon taking in a pre-season friendly pitting our red-and-black clad locals against (possibly) Wythenshawe Town, the scoreless and somewhat ambling 90 minutes of nominally non-competitive action memorable chiefly for a late and singularly unfriendly knee-high challenge executed right in front of me by the home right-back with just five minutes left on the clock, which had ignited first of all a seven-man brawl contained with difficulty by the youthful officials, and then as the players exited the scene for the portakabin changing rooms at the final whistle, a particularly lively outbreak of what is commonly referred to as ‘afters’.

“Not a bad little afternoon for the price of a pint of half-time clubhouse lager,” I had reflected on the short cycle home, via a further swift half, this one taken within the lounge of my local, the nearby Jolly Sailor hostelry. “I really will have to get down here a bit more often.”

And so to this second Saturday afternoon in November, and my North West Counties League (First Division South) spectating debut behind the freshly-painted metal barriers of Cromley Road, for a fixture pitting the sixth-placed Georgians against a Barnton outfit handily situated just two positions below. I’m through the turnstile with five minutes to spare for the 3pm kick-off, and am just tucking into the first bite of a jumbo sausage barm purchased from the artisan butchers marquee thoughtfully erected by the near corner flag, when a shrill whistle from the referee ushers the 22 players to line up for the annual Remembrance Day minute’s silence. Sheepishly, I remove the just-purchased hunk of bread and meat from my mouth mid-chomp and replace it within its plastic tray, attempting belatedly to assume a still attitude of quiet and respectful contemplation. Not an easy stance to maintain with a trail of catering-grade brown sauce running slowly down your chin, it turns out. But nobody in the vicinity seems to notice, or at least lets on that they have. Still, a sharp exit from the well-populated marquee area, quarter-consumed barm lunch in one hand and steaming Styrofoam cup of coffee in the other, seems the move most consistent with non-league dignity. Weaving my way through an assortment of wooden-slatted picnic tables set up behind the goal, I head for a sideline vantage point from which to take in the impending action.

My trip around the pitch’s perimeter affords the opportunity to appraise the size and nature of the home support. There’s maybe a couple of hundred aficionados now gathered around the railings, with both genders healthily represented and the age range taking in every vintage of humanity, from a couple of babes-in-arms up to an approximate octogenarian in a bobble hat, now engaged in a pre-kick-off perusal of the matchday programme. The mood is jovial, and the unmistakeable commentary voice of Jon Keighren emanating from a mobile phone doubling as a radio propped up amidst a family group at one of the picnic tables is my first sign that I’m not the only of today’s spectators to have half an eye on the crucial League Two action in south Wales. As I take up a viewing position just short of the halfway line, further indication follows that I am among like-minded souls, in the form of the two blokes next to me, who can be heard discussing the likely return to the Hatters’ starting XI of a certain Genius From Wales. They don’t actually proceed to break into the song celebrating our first-choice right-wing-back; but still, the sense of inner glow at finding myself among The Faithful is as palpable as, well, as the after-taste of a non-league artisan sausage liberally slathered with brown sauce, and that’s saying something. “I think I might feel quite at home around here,” I find myself thinking.

With the 22 starting players now lined up in formation either side of the halfway line, another shrill sounding of the referee’s whistle gets the afternoon’s SK2 action underway. A helter-skelter first half ensues, with the hard and bobbly conditions prevailing underfoot following a couple of weeks unseasonably short on rainfall clearly playing havoc with the efforts of the game’s amateur competitors to bring a modicum of order to the proceedings. Within the general melee, the footballing qualities of the home right-back catch the eye, the close-to-the-bone combativity that had characterised his near X-rated pre-season display now complemented by a deft touch when in possession and a penchant for lofted balls forward into the space down the visitors’ left-side channel. For Barnton meanwhile, it is the stocky, bearded, veteran central midfielder wearing the number seven shirt who looks most likely to make a telling impression on the contest: his range and technical aptitude in the art of short-to-mid-range passing threatening on several first-half occasions to usher in the opening goal of the afternoon, only for a miscued finish by a teammate or a desperate saving tackle by an opponent to intervene.

With this visiting midfield virtuoso in full flow, it is the hosts who look to be hanging on for a point, the Georgians’ defence increasingly ragged and porous as the opening 45 minutes draw to a close. As another Barnton corner whistles across goal only just beyond the outstretched reach of a trio of outrageously unmarked visiting forwards, the home captain and centre-back, the hint of a beer belly under the generously-proportioned red-and-black shirt advertising his status as Established Club Veteran within the lower reaches of the English Pyramid System, can take just about no more. “Get some fucking organisation in here!” comes the plaintive cry, addressed at full voice to his bedraggled teammates singularly and collectively.

On the far touchline, the tracksuit-clad figure of the hosts’ coach can still just about be picked out against the fast-descending gloom, taking a last first-half look at his stopwatch. The referee’s third shrill whistle of the day duly puts a temporary halt to his suffering, and the teams head for the portakabins with the honours - for now at least - even.

As the players troop off for their traditional interval refreshment of orange segments and Deep Heat, I waste no time in clicking on to Twitter for an update from Rodney Fields. The tidings awaiting me - that Dave Challinor’s latterly so-secure defence has been breached by a sucker-punch Newport opener notched with just seconds to spare before the break - is enough to send me into an impromptu and involuntary hop-up-and-down upon the bobbly sidelines, accompanied by an oath, which has emerged from my lips before I’ve had a chance to ascertain whether the sensitive ears of any of the babes-in-arms may be in earshot: “Fuck’s sake, County!”

I’m just considering a trip to the clubhouse for a plastic-potted pint in which to drown this mini-sorrow, when the electric generator situated by the nearest corner flag growls into action, triggering the ignition of the Cromley Road floodlights. Instantaneously, the players emerge from the faraway portakabin, and a favourite Half Man Half Biscuit lyric flashes, unbidden, across my consciousness: ‘Clouds part; Showtime!’

The shrill whistle sounds for a fourth time of the afternoon, and as the Georgians, now kicking towards the Generator End, launch into the first of what will prove a series of penetrating sallies on opposition territory, it’s immediately clear that the breaktime helping of citrus fruit and trademarked pharmaceutical rub has served them well. Suddenly it’s the men in the AC Milan lookalike kits who are looking most likely to break the afternoon’s deadlock. Turning to the bloke now standing next to me, I make a remark to that effect, and am rewarded with the rejoinder “Ah, I just love the North West Counties League, me!”. I indicate my concurrence with the sentiment, and as the Georgians continue to lay siege to the Barnton goalmouth we fall into comradely conversation.

The bloke is from Offerton, it turns out, and whenever County are away is in the habit of making the decent-sized hike from SK1 to SK2 to take in the Cromley Road action. Sporting in demeanour and with the air of a decent amateur player himself, the bloke clearly knows his stuff, and proves as good as a match programme in providing biographical insight into the red-and-black-clad protagonists before us. The combative right-back, I learn, has recently featured on the books of Northwich Victoria, while the bellicose and beer-bellied centre-half has spent time plying his amateur trade in Australia. His partner in the heart of the Georgians’ defence - a lanky lad of 17 or so, now ambling forward in preparation for another home corner - is signed up with County’s academy, and loaned out to the Cromley Road outfit in order to toughen him up in this senior competitive environment.

Just as I am learning of the young man’s pedigree, he puts his commanding height to prime use in connecting with the inswinging dead-ball, and a trademark 14-man Pyramid Level Nine goalmouth scramble ensues, culminating in the ball being thumped through the melee high and central into the desperately-defended Barnton net. As the Georgians wheel away in collective congratulation, it looks like it may be the beer-bellied centre-half who has applied the deadlock-breaking hammer blow - but in all reality, it’s anyone’s guess. On the sidelines, our little gathering of Cheadle Enders On Tour exchange appreciative glances in recognition of the spectacle, and warm our hands up with a quickfire clap-clap-clap of goal-welcoming applause. Perhaps at least one of our sets of lads are going to pick up a win this afternoon, after all.

No sooner has the game restarted in front of us, than the afternoon takes a further turn for the better, as the Flashscore app installed on the bloke-next-to-me’s mobile phone is the first to bring news of the equaliser down at Rodney Parade. “Hussey!” exclaims the bloke, and it is perhaps a good job that at this instant none of the more decorous young female spectators are in earshot, lest an accusation of their disreputable employment status is inferred. Minutes later, it’s the turn of one of the two blokes I’d heard discussing MSH’s return to learn from his device of a County goal - this one putting the Hatters ahead in south Wales. “Paddy!” he exclaims, and this time no-one is in doubt as to the gladness of the tidings thus communicated. “This will do me. This will bloody do me!” I think to myself.

Presently, a fifth and final long, shrill whistle from the main match official brings the proceedings in front of us to a close, with the Georgians having held to their side of the ‘Stockport double’ bargain, hanging on despite some late Barnton probings to register a single-goal victory. Now moving towards the exit, I send a wave of goodbye towards my fellow members of the Cromley Road Hatters Fan Club, along with a closing remark:

“Just need us to hold on now, eh?”

“Aye. See you next time, lad,” comes the reply from the Flashscore-toting bloke.

We part in the gloom of the car park; himself on foot towards his SK1 suburb, and me on the trusty pedal-cycle to a more nearby interim destination before home: a high-topped single-berth table within the comfortably appointed lounge room of the Jolly Sailor, where as I sip at a half-pint bottle of 0% Heineken (I’m riding on the wagon this weekend, for reasons that I can’t momentarily recall, although they seemed very sound ones at the time, I am sure), I click on to the mobile phone for a last score-discovering check of the day. And behold - no chemical stimulation will be needed for the enhancement of my Saturday night mood, as the BBC results service informs the tidings from Gwent, where our SK3 favourites, emulating the achievement of their SK2 neighbours, have held on for the win, 2-1, the three points thus garnered furthermore proving sufficient to propel Challinor’s in-form men into the dizzying heights of League Two’s upper half.

Downing the last of the ersatz beer-based beverage, I exit the licensed premises and unlock the pushbike for the short cycle home, considering as I do so what marks out of ten should rightly be awarded to this afternoon spent among these who are surely my people: the footballing cognoscenti of SK2. Nine-point-five, I decide, with just the half point taken off for that first of the referee’s shrill whistles, the one that had interrupted my pre-match artisan sausage with brown sauce. “I’ll take that, though,” I think to myself. “I might come back down here next time we’re away.”

And you know what? This time, I probably will, and all.

Be sure to check out The County Away Day Show from Jonathan on a Saturday morning whenever County are on the road. There’s no show this weekend, as our Geordie Hatter is back in the north-east visiting family, but he’ll be back on 3 December ahead of our trip to ~~Galatasaray~~ Hartlepool.

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🎄 Neil Sands and his wonderful cast are back at Stockport Plaza this afternoon in a spectacular spirit-lifting, heartwarming afternoon of festive nostalgia with the new 2022 production of their hit show. Join them for a dazzling sleigh ride of yuletide memories, filled with over 60 of your all-time favourite Christmas songs and carols that will have you singing along from start to finish and bringing back so many wonderful memories of Christmases past. 2pm. Tickets from £15.50.

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