The Northolme Calls
“What’s the score mate?” I enquire gruffly. “One up kid,” is the response. “Oh. Good...” is all I can mutter back. Instantly the back of my mind rages. “GOOD?! Don’t you mean “bloody hell, I’ve just raced to north Lincolnshire from Doncaster in twenty minutes flat to see sixth tier football, missed the opener and got soaked when running to the turnstile from a nearby sidestreet after hastily abandoning my trusty Skoda?!” I’m the last one to enter the ground and thankfully keep my thoughts to myself as I round the sorry looking programme seller who’s looking for one last customer. Having passed one of the finest footballing eateries known to man – where mushy peas are served by the cupful – I position myself halfway down the terrace. I step back under the corrugated iron roof to avoid the persistent rain, but can’t avoid the stares and the glares, the looks of the regulars. These looks range from the mild and placid, such as, “Who’s this new kid...