As the last decoration was taken down, the fairy lights packed away and Matron no longer had to run the gauntlet of a quick wrestle under the mistletoe and the barking, hacking, coughing chorus that had accompanied the Alies throughout most of the festive period gradually subsided to be replaced by some delicate throat clearing but nothing like the cacophony that been an unwelcome signature tune in a number of households.
The Alies had been spread far and wide, some had travelled the iron road while others had never left the comfort of the counterpane but after a rather prolonged break they were fully primed for the away day to Manchester, well Cheadle Hulme to be exact. Champing at the bit would perhaps be something of an understatement, nostrils, which had been clogged up, were beginning to flare once again but the question on everyone’s lips surrounded the Accountant’s box of Merlot which had remained in its semi virginal state for well nigh three months!
Once on board Andy’s coach the Accountant, under pressure from the Major, was invited to open the tap and partake of the first tumbler. All appeared to go down well, there was no sharp intake of breath, no screwing up of facial muscles, eye rolling, frothing at the mouth or adopting a dying ant posture on the seat.
After witnessing such selfless, courageous devotion to the grape the Alies confidently downed their tumblers and then requested a refill. Not a drop was wasted and as the last spluttering of red liquid gurgled its way through the tap the Major grabbed the box and frenziedly began tearing the cardboard to shreds to reveal the innards, to wit a plastic bag.
The Major assured everyone that what was to follow was well known to those of a military background, before proceeding to inflate the bag like a balloon. This created images of the Major turning the plastic into a prancing poodle or a kangaroo, a ploy that might have captured Ivan’s attention out on the icy wastes, but these were quickly dispelled.
This process, confided the Major with a knowing wink, was to ensure the last drop of wine could be extracted and sure enough after the contortions had been concluded the bottom of his beaker had just about been covered. Well you learn something new every day, or as Aristotle observed, “All men by nature desire knowledge.”
A fresh bottle was opened and once it had begun to percolate punning rosebuds were gathered in. Gilly was unable to make the trip so the fear of retribution was diminished, or so the Press Secretary thought, but Gilly had planted two “sneaks” and soon Mint Cake and Muggy were administering a series of “in loco parentis” slaps on the scribe’s pate.
A dozen Alies travelled on the coach and their numbers were augmented in Manchester’s clubhouse by others who travelled independently, and for a while they were in the majority. Prior to kick off, and after the game, the hospitality was superb but with the players requesting an early return a comfortable lounge was vacated.
However, a stop at a nearby Sainsbury’s was made to top up liquid levels which allowed the Alies to relax and keep their heads down during the obligatory “Scum Run.”
A rumour began to circulate that at some future date the Alies would be invited to take part but whether the seats would be able to take the strain of all that pounding muscle or the sight of so much wobbling flesh would frighten the horses are factors that would require investigating, plus should there be an “incident,” would the paramedics take a sympathetic view, assuming they had stopped laughing.
In the forefront of the subconscious is the sight of Candy Man launching himself over the seats, arms and legs thrashing in every direction like a salmon caught in a net, and an inane grin on his face; even grown men wake up sweating and clutching at the duvet when this nightmarish image appears, jack booting its way into their slumbers.
Although Gilly had been unable to make the trip to Manchester he had taken on the role of recruiting sergeant for the Alies and at the pre-match lunch he presented the latest conscript, Doctor Foster. They had met up ahead of the second team game and despite the dire warnings from Squeaky Clean Armstrong; Doctor Foster joined Gilly for a few post match drinks.
Over the years the Alies have attracted many likeminded disciples into their company and Doctor Foster met the demanding criteria, slightly bonkers, a sense of humour, witty and last but not least, a rugger-bugger. Of course home games are one thing; the acid test comes on the away adventures, however, Doctor Foster looks capable of burning the litmus paper at both ends. Naturally the Accountant has already identified him as a future kitty master.
It was fitting that the first team served up another fast moving feast in front of the critical gaze of a host of some of their former “galacticos,” the sight of Malcolm Brown, Sam Hodgson, Mike Kirby, Andy Higgin, Richard Taylor et al, all brought back memories of a Golden Era of Vale rugby. Hopefully many more will be in attendance at the former player’s lunch on April 14.
Out on the East Terrace Morse was sporting a new red and white bobble hat, Howard the Engine was making a return visit and proudly informed anyone within earshot he had watched two recent Vale games and seen them rattle in a 139 points! Chris Parry crunched a few fingers with his firm, gnarled rural handshake and Doctor Foster did not appear unduly worried by the sophisticated East Terrace banter, obviously a man who has been round the block a few times.
Settling down at an oblong table after the game, the Atoms had commandeered Lancelot’s circular piece of furniture, the Alies drifted along fortified by Cumberland Ale until the arrival of Emma, a new fresh faced member of the bar staff, who made an immediate impact.
Emma’s entrance certainly made an impression. “Quelle décolletage!” as Marcel Proust might have spluttered. Suddenly positions were jostled for at the counter, bottles regardless of what they contained were ordered from the bottom shelf. For those familiar with the characters to be found in Terry Wogan’s, “Janet and John” books and radio broadcasts, think Melanie Frontage.
Gradually the blood pressure levels dropped, the heavy breathing started to subside and hands stopped shaking, although there was a dangerous increase in pulse levels when it was suggested that Emma might be coming around to collect the empty glasses.
However, everything went surging back into the red zone when Emma dropped a glass behind the bar. Shards of glass went everywhere, there was an unseemly rush to inspect the damage and hopefully to be asked to remove any glass that had become embedded. Alas for those waving hastily written first aid certificates the crisis was dealt with in-house.
In between all the excitement BB reported in to say that Sutty’s operation had gone according to plan, he was in fine form and looking well and would be back home in the near future.
A most welcome traveller for the game at Altrincham Kersal was Big Norman, fully restored to the rudest of health after a New Year break in the sun. He came back bearing gifts, cigars, which somehow the Press Secretary managed to lose, and yes, before you ask drink was involved, and despite the valiant efforts of the staff at Travellers Choice and the Loafer, who delved into the bins, none turned up.
For his first away game of the season Big Norman had a medical bag crammed with tablets and syringes and in between the popping of pills and administering injections Big Norman threw himself into the role of kitty master!
Missing were Gilly, who was sensibly staying indoors to avoid the inclement weather, and the Major, who was entertaining family. However, Doctor Foster was early on parade and clutching the obligatory bottle, he was also given pride of place in Gilly’s seat.
It was to be a busy day for the Accountant who was bombarded with bottles from every direction, but he was soon hard at work filling the tumblers and sending the Press Secretary tottering up and down the aisle who could be heard bellowing out the quip of the week; “Doctor, Doctor, I keep on delivering babies. Don’t worry you are going through a mid-wife crisis!” No Gilly equals no slap.
On arrival at Stelfox Avenue, a well lubricated, jolly group of Alies were greeted by President Jean at the door of the clubhouse and were directed to the upstairs bar where the red wine that had been downed earlier was replaced by beer or for those that wished a flute of champagne. How very Timperley!
Jean’s husband, Alex, was as always immaculately turned out, and fully abreast of how the season had unfolded for both clubs in particular, and North One West in general.
“Mr and Mrs Altrincham Kersal” are a wonderful couple and should our paths diverge at the end of the season they are going to be missed by the Alies.
Jean and Alex have carried the banner for their beloved A/K for many seasons but they are not alone because the world of rugby is inhabited by legions of likeminded devotees who are not only totally dedicated to their own club but to the code itself, warts and all. Glasses should be raised and hats doffed to all those who work so hard behind the scenes for their clubs, both large and small.
A chilly afternoon of low cloud could not take the edge of another exciting performance, although a sad note was introduced when the Loafer confirmed that Paul Wilson, a former first team player, had suddenly passed away.
The Alies eventually eased themselves around a table that was occupied by some of the player’s wives and their babes in arms. It was a joyful atmosphere; the very young and not so young all blended together, bringing to the fore some of The Bard’s observations in “As You Like It.”
“All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.
At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms…………..
Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.”
Spot on Will! You must have been levitating over the table.
Big Norman and his little helpers ensured a conveyor belt of ale, Muggy collected the all important shield for Fred and after Fergus had downed his Man of the Match pint the coach was boarded. A stop was made at Sainsbury’s for more liquid refreshment, yet more Merlot.
Back at HQ, sans cigars, there was enough left in the kitty for one last round and a glimpse of Emma’s tattoos before tottering off into the night.
Missing for the Firwood Waterloo fixture was Doctor Foster and as no sick note had been received everyone assumed that the Altrincham Kersal venture had somehow been too much for him; after all Squeaky Clean had tried to warn him of some of the perils.
It was Volunteers Day, three splendid raffles, a barrow load of booze being one of the prizes, but due to a misunderstanding with the player’s number who scored the first try Minimus’s saw the winnings snatched away.
A bountiful buffet had been arranged, Firwood Waterloo’s President, Mark Flett arrived in an eye catching traditional striped club blazer and made a superb post lunch speech that reminded those present the part his club, the Vale and many others were playing at developing the game, for both sexes at all levels, because after all the future of the game and the survival of clubs is inexorably linked to promoting more and more home nurtured players.
It was all pretty serious on Swazzer’s patch which after all the rain, cut up rather badly, as both sides went at it hammer and tongs which produced plenty of touchline banter. The stand was a veritable pressure cooker of advice and exhortations so much so that BB had to vacate his seat and was heard muttering, as he made his way along the East Terrace, that his ears were ringing following the battering they had received from the Solicitor’s nonstop commentary.
While Phil the Voice belted out “Wonderwall,” the Alies were drawing up their plans for the trip to Douglas but in the meantime the up-coming trip Wilmslow occupied their minds; a dress code was not finalised something that the Historian would not have let happen. The Accountant informed everyone that the wine cellar was bereft, as was the humidor thanks to the careless Press Secretary, before beetling off to give the Isle of Man Steam Packet Company’s website a good seeing to.

Thanks to Tony North for the photograph.