A TRIP TO FORTRESS FLEETWOOD
Fleetwood versus Morecambe is a local League One derby – the towns, on the edge of the Irish Sea, are close enough for many stalwarts, such as the good people pictured here to have walked the 20.4 miles between our ground and theirs earlier in the day when they met on Saturday, 25th February 2023.
God bless them. (You can donate at https://www.crowdfunder.co.uk/p/veterans-walk-for-wellbeing )
I’ve personally visited Highbury – the destination these selfless people were headed for – a number of times before. Back in the day, my home town team played the Cod Army here in all its incarnations (Fleetwood have continued to play at Highbury even after going bust financially on at least one occasion in the past) probably more times than we can all collectively remember.
The ground in itself reflects the fortunes of the town over the years. On the positive side, the magnificent Main Parkside Stand has few equals in the entire EFL.
But across from it is the sort of typical 1960s Bungalow you might expect to see in suburbia all over the country at the time it was built.
What’s that all about?
Hidden a long way behind it is one of the wooden Grandstands which was built eons ago when Greyhound and – latterly – Speedway racing was pursued at this venue.
Greyhound and Speedway racing – from Walthamstow to Belle Vue in Manchester and Ashfield Park in Glasgow – are marks of a truly Working Class community.
But Fleetwood was never supposed to be a place inhabited by common fishermen; labourers or other practitioners of the blue collar trades when it was first founded.
The town was first conceived of by – according to the fount of all knowledge Thickypedia – Peter Hesketh.
Who?
This gentleman – who I suspect was not Working Class (but I could be mistaken) `was born in 1801 at Wennington Hall in Wennington, near Lancaster.’ He had a Knighthood under his belt to add to the Baronet’s title he was born with. Oh – and he was also a Member of Parliament at a time when only property-owning men could actually vote. Tough gig for the lad, eh?…
But – tired of yelling abuse at the Dolly Blues at Giant Axe as a Lancaster City Town supporter, he finally decided to have a completely new coastal resort built in order to spawn a football club he could actually have faith in.
And let’s face it folks – who amongst us hasn’t? Be honest now…
So Baronet/High Sherriff (take your pick) Sir Peter Hesketh employed another absolutely ordinary chap with the even more unremarkable name – the architect Decimus Burton FRS FRSA FSA FRIBA – to build this.
(I don’t know what the long list of letters after his name actually mean but I must quash recent social media rumours that the first one means `Fleetwood Really Sucks’.)
It most definitely doesn’t.
Fleetwood is a place I have cycled to; driven to; crossed the River Wyre on the ferry from Knott End to more times than I would like to recall. Freeport there has supplied almost all of the shoes I have worn for the last decade or so. My daughter and I once sailed across a very stormy Irish Sea on an Isle of Man Packet ship from there to Dublin – and back again. Partner Annie and I once marvelled at the treasure swept ashore when the regular Fleetwood to Northern Ireland ferry Riverdance ran aground just offshore in 2008.
SEA-SALTED BISCUIT, ANYONE?
Last year, on a scorchingly hot summer day, we had lunch at a pub by the river. And were served by celebrities – Sid Little and his very charming Missis. Does this happen all the time in Fleetwood?
I love the place. It is a poor town these days. Fisherman’s Friends (which are manufactured here) have not entirely usurped the real fishermen who once populated the place. These men risked life, limb and livelihood by going out into the unforgiving North Atlantic Ocean to catch fish against all odds; all weathers and with the constant fear of their trawlers being so top-heavy with the ice that constantly formed on all superstructure that only the weight of fish in the hold stopped them capsizing.
Fleetwood is a place – in my experience at least – full of exactly the same sort of genuine, decent Northern people who also support Morecambe FC as well. When I once drove a big yellow truck for what was known as The Fourth Emergency Services at the time, I was given a significant discount without asking for it in a chip shop in Fleetwood just because I was an AA man. This says a lot about Fleetwood – it never happened anywhere else throughout my career.
Last season, my partner Annie and I made our way to Highbury to watch Stephen Robinson’s Morecambe side take the lead. Even when they conceded an equaliser, the fantastic Captain Pugwash theme they loudly broadcast as a man with a Cod’s head did a little dance on a giant screen was worth the entrance fee on its own. On the day, something even more amazing usurped it. Our own Goal Machine of the time – Cole Stockton – scored perhaps the most spectacular goal I have ever witnessed in real life. He won a long clearance in his own half from a Fleetwood defender and then lobbed the ball over half the length of the field to beat a despairing home goalkeeper in the shape of Alex Cairns all ends up to win the Shrimps the match.
For me at least, it was the highlight of the entire season.
But Anne wasn’t sure if she wanted to repeat this never-to-be-forgotten moment. She prefers rugby to soccer and told me ages ago that she would not come with me to Fleetwood because her beloved Wales faced England in the Six Nations on the same day. Fair enough. But then, there was a possibility that the game would not go ahead because Welsh players were threatening to go on strike. (Given what happened, she tells me that she wished they had…) So I waited until the Union in Cardiff finally settled with its own men – and the game got the Green Light to go ahead. By this time, however, all the approximately 1100 tickets provided by Fleetwood for away supporters had been sold. I rang the club shop to be told by a delightful lady that she would put my name down on a list if any ticket returns were made. “Don’t hold your breath” she told me. “We haven’t got any so far – and we don’t expect to receive any.”
So what should I do?
I breathed deeply and decided to turn-up on the day; buy a ticket at the ground – and go in with the home supporters. All I needed to do was remove any form of identification from my clothing; take my Morecambe Season Ticket and Shrimps Trust card – prominent in my wallet – out of it in case anybody saw them as I looked for my debit card or cash – and remember to basically keep quiet as I sat or stood among the opposition ranks.
So I checked the Cod Army website to make sure that tickets were still available. Which is when I saw this – capital letters and red writing included:
*PLEASE NOTE THESE TICKETS ARE FOR HOME SUPPORTERS ONLY. ALL ORDERS WILL BE MATCHED WITH MORECAMBES FCs DATABASE AND ANY AWAY FANS WILL HAVE THEIR TICKETS CANCELLED AND NO REFUND WILL BE ISSUED***
To purchase tickets in person or over the phone you will require to have previous purchase history and also proof of a local postcode.
If you have any issues or queries please contact the club shop on 01253 775080.”
My name is on the Morecambe FC Database. I don’t have proof of a local Fylde Coast postcode or any previous purchase history of buying tickets from Fleetwood FC either.
So what could I do?
I know – I could send them an email portraying myself as a neutral supporter just wanting to watch a game of League One football. Yes – that should do it!
What could possibly go wrong?
This is what I intended to send them; sufficiently nerdy not to ring any alarm bells although I’m still not sure I should have mentioned `Eric’:
Good morning.
I’m visiting my son Eric (who I can assure you was not named after anyone associated with Morecambe or its football club )- who lives and teaches in Blackpool – this weekend from Penrith in Cumbria. Eric is a Carlisle United supporter but I don’t really support anybody – where I grew-up (in North Yorkshire), I played Rugby when I was younger and there were no local soccer teams to get attached to. I’ve always liked football though and – over the years – I have tried to see as many teams as is possible at their home grounds. League or non-league: I’m not fussy. Eric and I went to Bloomfield Road last year after he first took up the teaching job at Blackpool but we have never been to Highbury. I’d like to visit on Saturday although he wouldn’t – he tells me that the kids he teaches would never let him forget it if he did. Would it be possible for me to buy a Senior Citizen ticket on the day? I’ve been on your website and it seems that without some sort of proof of local residency or having been to watch Fleetwood previously, I won’t be welcome at your ground as a neutral.
I’ve never come across this before. I can bring one of Eric’s Utility bills with me if this would help.
Thanks in advance.
F. Wood.
I knew – even as I wrote this pack of lies – that my carefully-laid plans would all come unstuck if they replied – as I would have – to say that I would need to pay by Debit Card only on the day.
That way, they would immediately rumble, first of all, that I was not the F Wood I purported to be but was very much someone listed on the Morecambe FC website. End of cunning plan. Plus what is effectively a Big Fine in the shape of the cancelled ticket plus all the diesel I had bought to get myself there in the first place.
So I scrapped the idea and tore the email up. Instead, I rang one of my pals – shall we call him Mr John Smith? I asked him – as someone who has no interest in football whatever and thus no association with Morecambe FC at all – if he would buy me a ticket over the phone. I’d repay him the money next time I saw him. So he did. Well – he tried to. But they told him he must turn-up on the day and produce a Utility Bill with his name on it and proof of residency in the FY postcode area before they would sell him a ticket.
Here’s a little suggestion to whoever has designed this dastardly system:
Have you ever thought of working for our wonderful Home Secretary, Suella Braverman?
With you at the helm, all the problems we have had with small boats in recent times and the human misery they bring with them would be at an end immediately. If getting a ticket for a plane flying to Rwanda was even half as hard as it is to get a ticket for a Fleetwood Town home match, the Asylum/immigration problem that Ms Braverman clearly does not have the intellectual capacity to deal with would be solved overnight!
I begged Mr Smith to lend me his Debit Card for the afternoon. And he did – the fool. And no – I didn’t threaten to tell his Missis the thing I knew about what happened at the Golf Club Xmas Party with the lovely Social Secretary, `Hole in One’ Helen… (Well – I did, actually, but I didn’t really mean it – even when he initially baulked at telling me his four-digit key thing for the card in case a contactless payment didn’t work at the Fleetwood Ticket Office…)
So I spent Friday night doctoring my own genuine United Utilities bill and by Saturday, having printed this masterpiece of forgery off, I was John Smith of Cartmel Avenue, Cleveleys.
Why did I choose that address? I wanted to choose something vaguely clever – such as Adams Avenue – Stockton Street would have done. But neither place exists in the FY postcode. So I chose this address literally at random. And at about ten to three last Saturday afternoon, began to regret it…
I should have remembered Sod’s Law before embarking on this entirely dodgy enterprise. We all know what it is, don’t we?:
If something can go wrong… it inevitably will do.
And it started to once I plucked-up the courage to approach the Home Ticket Office just off Park Avenue to collect the magic piece of paper which would gain me access to the ground behind it. I explained to the older man in the booth who I was (Mr Smith) and handed over the Utility Bill I told him I had been instructed to bring with me as proof of local residency. I hoped he would just give it a cursory glance. But he didn’t. He looked at it carefully; turned it over; looked at the other side – and then held it up to the light.
“Welcome, neighbour!” he said, handing me the card reader and allowing me to pay my nineteen quid to purchase a seated Senior ticket in Parkside Stand E – a position I hoped would be as close to the Morecambe fans as I could get. But he didn’t hand the ticket over even after it had printed on a machine next to him.
“Neighbour?” I wondered as the ticket printed. Does everyone in Fleetwood call each other `neighbour’; just as men in Sheffield call other blokes `Love’?
No they don’t:
“Well – would you believe it?” he asked. “I live on Cartmel Avenue. Right next door to the Co-Op.”
My heart literally skipped a beat and I had this strange sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when he said this. But I tried to smile as some sort of acknowledgement that I knew where the Co-Op on Cartmel Avenue is.
“Funny I’ve not seen you here before! Funny I’ve not seen you on the street either – don’t you think?” he continued.
Was this a loaded question – or was I becoming paranoid? “Keep calm!” I told myself. “Don’t just say the first thing that comes into your head.”
“I – I’ve only just moved in!” I lied, saying the second thing that came into my head instead.
“Really?” he said. “How long ago?”
“Er – well; em… I suppose it must be about three months ago.”
“That’s odd, Mr Smith. This Utility Bill is dated last July. That’s – let me see – that must be over six months ago, mustn’t it?”
“Oh bugger!” I thought to myself. “This impersonating somebody else lark is not as simple as I thought!”
There was a queue starting to form behind me by now. Before I could burble some sort of further half-baked response, he indicated to me to stand aside.
“Wait there a moment, please Mr Smith. I’ll just deal with these folks first.”
And he did. But he also mumbled something into the headset he had been wearing throughout our exchange so far. And next thing I knew, a big bloke with tattoos and a huge ginger beard appeared from nowhere. He was wearing a reflective yellow jacket with `SECURITY’ written on the back of it. It wasn’t my heart which was suddenly troubling me now. I suddenly realised that I could really do with a trip to the toilet – quite urgently, in fact.
“Are you Mr Smith?” he asked and when I dumbly nodded that I was, he added: “Would you like to come along with me, Sir?”
It wasn’t a request – it was an order. I meekly obeyed it. He unlocked a door into the back of the stand and motioned me to go through it. Then, without a word, he guided me into a small office and motioned me into a chair. Then he eased his enormous bulk into another chair facing me across a desk and fixed me with what I can only describe as a pretty intimidating expression.
“So you’re Mr John Smith of Cartmel Avenue in Cleveleys are you sir? The one with the Co-Op store on it?”
Fearing a trap, I didn’t answer. I just stared dumbly back at him.
“Funny thing is, Mr Smith – there isn’t a Co-Op on Cartmel Avenue. The nearest one is round the corner on Larkholme Parade. In fact, there aren’t any shops at all on Cartmel Avenue.”
He sat back and allowed this unwelcome information to sink in.
“Can I have a look at your Driving License?” he asked. Well – more of demanded, in all truth…
“I – I don’t have it on me” I said. This was true – I’d removed any incriminating hints towards my real identity before I left home.
“So can I have a look at your wallet, then?” He was still looking at me in a fairly menacing way. But, clearly sensing that I was beginning to feel a little less – shall we say compliant as time moved on, he added, reaching towards a Walkie Talkie whose antenna was sticking out of his yellow jacket, “Or would you like me to get a Policeman to ask you the same question?”
“No!” I said – probably a bit too quickly – and tamely handed my wallet over. He examined its contents carefully, making what appeared to be small-talk as he did so.
“So what do you think the score will be today?” “Who’s your favourite player?” (I had a ready answer for this – Carlos Mendes-Gomes.) “Do you think Cairns has any chance of reclaiming his spot?” (This was a trick question. Even I knew that the Cod Army’s former regular goalkeeper has been loaned to a League Two club.) “It’s a long way to come from Salford, don’t you think?” I replied.
He looked up at me when I said this and continued to stare right into my eyes in a very unnerving sort of way for a while before turning back to my wallet.
“Read a lot, do you?” he asked.
Was this another trap? Without waiting for my answer, he took my Lancashire Library Services membership card out of my wallet. I had left this in because it only had my Membership Number on it – not my name. But there was something else I hadn’t noticed – but he had:
“Long way to travel to Carnforth to borrow a book, isn’t it? Even further than Salford, possibly. But not too far from – to choose a town at random – Morecambe, for instance – don’t you think?…”
If there was any mockery in the way he repeated the words I had used myself only a moment earlier, it didn’t show. He let this remark hang in the air for a moment. Then he shoved the card back into my wallet and tossed this onto the desk in front of me.
“You and me need to have a little talk” he said eventually.
And we did. That is – he did most of the talking. I did almost all of the listening.
Quite some time later, we were outside again and he had escorted me back onto Park Avenue. He pointed away from the football ground.
“Town Centre’s that way!” he said. Then he came much closer to me than he had at any time previously – blimey, he was big! As he towered over me, he hissed:
“If I catch you trying to pull a stunt like this again, I will hand you over to the police. What you have tried to do is technically illegal. Using fraudulent documents and a false identity to do so is actually a criminal offence, Mr so-called bloody Smith. Oh – and if you want to start a new career in forgery – remember to use paper that doesn’t have a Tesco watermark on it next time, you moron! I hope Morecambe get relegated if only because it means that I won’t have to worry about Numpties like you next season! Someone your age should know better! Your ticket’s cancelled. There are no refunds! Now…”
He added a common Anglo-Saxon expletive suggesting both that our interaction was at an end and – giving me a slight shove in the back to emphasise this – that I should make myself scarce. Pronto….
The game had actually started by this time: I could hear both sets of fans chanting and yelling from the stands at Highbury. So, as I hung my head and slunk away towards where I had parked my van, I felt well and truly not just rumbled, but actually humiliated
What hurt most of all as it kept going round and around my head were his words “Someone your age should know better!”
Too true.
And just to rub things in, there was a sudden loud cheer followed by a loud rendition of Captain Pugwash from within the impenetrable walls of Highbury as I walked sadly away from the ground with my tail between my legs.
Carlos – how could you?
And in case any policemen or general busybodies are reading this: I want to make a plea in mitigation. Please don’t prosecute me – I blame it all on one Mr F Wood whose son Eric lives in Blackpool at an address I am well and truly prepared to provide to the Police in order to save my own skin. It’s all his fault, honestly it is…
—————————————————————————————————————————
In truth, I didn’t go to Fleetwood this time. I genuinely couldn’t get a ticket and I also genuinely thought about buying a Home one and trying to keep my mouth shut, surrounded by Cod Army stalwarts. And thought better of it. I’m sure that a scenario such as the one I have just described would have unfolded if I had done. I’ve no doubt that it would have been illegal into the bargain. But the one Law I absolutely respect in all circumstances is the one invented by Professor Sod…
Instead, I listened to Dave Salmon’s excellent commentary on the game via the Morecambe club website; read the Twitter feeds of both clubs and then relied on Radio Lanky-Shite updates on the match – including our very own Derek Quinn’s inputs. Then I wrote my match report. Later, I watched the highlights on the telly to see if what I had come up with even vaguely matched what had actually happened.
You can read it here:
shrimplythebestfootball 