Thankfully, and rather unlike Danny Webber, Warnock’s conviction
in his beliefs paid off gloriously as a week of pouring over TOMA rumours and
scratching around for news on signings gave way to hugely memorable – at least,
as far as drunkenness permitted – 7 days of fun in the sun, football and way
too much Cornish Rattler…
So in a break from the relentless stream of cynicism, I
present: ‘110 Days of Torture – The Cornwall Tour Diary’…
Sunday 22nd July
My best laid plans for an early start are rather
shot to pieces by failing to set the alarm and waking at 8.30am with the
packing to start. A frantic operation of collating clothes, gathering key bits
of information for the trip, like where I was driving to, and trying to piece
together the whereabouts of certain bits of camping equipment then took place
to the soundtrack of the ‘Leeds United’s Greatest Hits’ album… even in the
midst of blind panic, I couldn’t escape the notion of just how awful a song ‘Football
in a Yorkshire Rose’ is.
By 10.15 it was finally time to leave: Tent – CHECK!
Clothes – CHECK! Tickets – OH FUCK!... back to the house – CHECK! Ready to go?
Ah, wait… ‘Bates Out’ banner – CHECK! Parcel shelf Smurf – CHECK! Time to hit
the road…
The journey down to Bristol was a pleasant affair, even
the evil menace of the A42/M42 failed to slow progress. Refueled on junk food
and E-number loaded carbonated drinks, I returned to the car at 2pm ready for
the final stretch… Hmmm, final stretch; from an initial fleeting glance at an atlas, you’d swear that Bodmin was just down the road from Bristol, so on goes
the satnav – estimated time of arrival – 16.45! There it was in all its LCD
clarity, 2 hours and 45 minutes - Jesus Christ! Just add me to the list of hopelessly deluded
Northerners with huge misconceptions about the proximity of Bristol to the
heart of the West Country.
I finally arrived at 16.30 (to hell with the satnav and
its draconian compliance with speed limits) and having set up camp, set about
exploring the locality. The evening rather embedded my philosophy for
sightseeing; rather than diligently research online, rely on blindly choosing
destinations from a map or through twitter recommendations – very well
it worked too!
Charlestown was the closest place to St Austell I could
find and not a bad little introduction to tiny coastal villages; it also
boasted the Rashleigh Arms – the first of many recommended watering holes. It
was also the place where I first consummated my love for Cornish Rattler pear
cider. I’m not typically a man who goes for the pear variety of cider, but
wanting to literally drink in the local culture, I only had the option of that
or the ‘cloudy’ variety – as I tend to go by the mantra of “If it’s not
transparent, avoid it”, it was the only choice to make.
The second port of call was the twitter nominated fishing
town of Mevagissey; another stunning late evening destination and inspiration
for my idea to torment the housebound hordes who’d chosen to work rather than
visit the South West for the week. The jealously laced reaction to the tweeted
snaps ensured that I wasn’t going to relent for the remainder of the week.
Monday 23rd July
With the game not kicking off until 7pm and the need to
drive necessitating that I stayed away from the pub for most of the day, a trip
to Newquay beckoned. After being conditioned to resorts on the East Coast
throughout childhood, it’s hard not to be a little overwhelmed by the Cornish
coastline, especially the sea itself. The waters in this part of the world were
something only really spied in Bounty commercials back in the 80s.
Newquay appears to have a dual identity, by day it serves
the families and surfers, by evening, going on the appearance of the main town,
it transforms into something akin to Magaluf. No wonder coffin dodgers appeared
to be a little thin on the ground.
Come mid-afternoon it was time for the trek to Tavistock
and one of the few undesirable aspects of the week – cyclists. Cyclists!
F**king cyclists?! I’m not usually adverse to the pursuit, but what sort of
sub-breed decrees it to be a great idea to spend an entire holiday cycling the
narrow roads of Cornwall? Coastal paths, yes; I can understand coastal paths or
any designated Sustran’s routes. But what sort of sadist gets pleasure from
nearly killing themselves, embarking on a steep hill climb in the blistering
heat, while a half-mile tailback of traffic, led by an increasingly irate 4x4
driver crawl behind them, awaiting for a passing opportunities? I’d personally
like to ban caravanners from all minor roads during daytime hours…now there’s
another for the list!
Tavistock itself was a welcome breath of footballing
fresh air. First of all, on arrival I was guided by a chatty steward to the
parking spots at the local primary school…oh and that’s free parking by the
way! I was then directed to the ground where the clubhouse was serving beer and
a barbecue had been laid on – I could get used to this!
The ground (it feels wrong to use the word ‘stadium’ in
respect to homes of Tavistock or Bodmin) was as welcoming as expected. The beer
was cold and the barbecue…well, that turned out to be a burger van, but let’s
not split hairs, okay? Within minutes, Warnock had arrived, family in tow,
revealing in part his motivations for choosing Cornwall as the tour destination.
As he stopped to chat with supporters, sign autographs and pose for photos, the
team bus pulled in and drew the crowds away. Was he on it?
As it was, Snoddy did disembark. Photographic proof of
his presence was tweeted, the timelines went mental as the news spread and all
was good with the world. As I returned towards the bar I encountered Leah and
Liam for the first time; long term twitter associates and part of the match day
crew who’d pay host to the drunken antics for the three upcoming fixtures.
While
the most lasting first impressions of people are usually through constructed
through their words, actions, personalities or maybe looks, Liam’s was in the
form of his stomach – an object lesson in why sun tan lotion should be employed.
His appearance of his stomach online caused quite a stir, even prompting one
twitterbot to warn him of the very real dangers of him having contracted skin
cancer...much to his concern. It was certainly a talking point and there was
plenty of time to discuss it as the icredibly misguided decision to employ
three bar staff was hopelessly exposed. “It wasn't like this for QPR!” claimed the
barmaid…it wouldn’t the last time we’d hear that during the week.
For the opening half hour, the game was a dire encounter, the
kind where either something special or a mistake would be needed to break the
deadlock. As it was, something almost inconceivable sparked the game into life;
Aidy White ran on to a throughball, kept his composure and calmly slotted the
ball past the goalkeeper – a real “I was there” moment!
That moment was the spark for the Whites to dominate the
remainder of the match. Paul Green’s tap-in effectively killed the game as a
contest on the stroke of half-time and as Tavistock tired, Leeds started to the
rack up the goals; a very sharp looking Dominic Poelon scoring a superb fifth,
moments ahead of slipping Zac Thompson through for a sixth in the remaining
moments.
Tuesday 24th July
Open training session at Duchy College this morning. However,
before that there was a small request to fulfil in Bodmin involving the ever present ‘Bates
Out’ banner and the away dug-out… very worthwhile opportunity, I’d say!
Onwards to Duchy College; now I’m sure nobody was
expecting something akin to Thorp Arch, but then again, discovering that a
field within a field constituted the facility, was still something of a
eye-opener. The arrival of the team coach is always a fascinating exercise,
acting somewhat as a gauge to the popularity of individuals amongst the playing
squad. It was noticeable that Danny Pugh, one of the first off the coach was
able to make a totally clean getaway, straight down to the training pitch. You
had to feel for poor Billy too; he looked up, more in hope than expectation on the off-chance that some kindly soul would call him over with a request for a photo
or signature…but no luck. Off he trudged away, shoulders hunched.
One man who didn’t struggle was therobbierogers.com, he couldn’t
possibly, for in Liam, he had his own superfan/stalker lying in wait, just
hoping for that one cherished moment with his hero. He had come prepared: he
was donning his own custom designed Robbie Rogers t-shirt and was now ready to
reveal himself as the man who can’t let a tweet from the American master of metrosexuality pass without comment…
Remember the saying, “Be careful what you wish for”?
Well, Liam got his wish, he finally spoke (he may have even slyly touched) his
hero, revealing his devotion and his t-shirt, ready for the prized autograph –
Robbie’s reaction? “Oh no!”
Seeing a man crushed is a discomforting spectacle.
The training session had been underway for 10 minutes before
the call went out for Snoddy. He was still signing autographs on what must’ve
been the most awkward of walks, knowing what was imminent.
Still, he wasn’t the
last to show; Warnock again arriving with the family, cooly sauntering down
during the warming up exercises, donning shades, resembling an aging Terminator
on a Saga holiday.
Following some stretching, light jogging and passing
exercises came the main event, the goals moved inwards for a game of 7-a-side
as three teams alternated for the entertainment of the 400 or so spectators,
who were sat around on the grass. Warnock officiated, passing on a mixture of praise and constructive feedback. “Don’t watch his eyes, Paddy!” he screamed as Snoddy came out on top in a 1-on-1 – his final goal in club colours.
After the exertions of watching others run about, the afternoon was all about exploration; while Carlyon Bay seemed to be a case of way too many steps for a beach blighted by way too much building work; the newly adopted strategy of relying on blind punts and twitter recommendations continued to pay dividends.
Fowey, was another fantastically picturesque
harbour town offering a huge bay, a beautiful secluded beach and a castle…
suddenly Whitby wasn’t seeming all that unique!
That said, so does Looe, another stunning harbour town – yes, there are a lot of them! – a place also noticeable for its beach, a statue of a beloved seal by the name of Nelson (a regular visitor to the harbour for many years) and one rock that I was particularly fond of to the west of the bay...
I was so content sitting upon it, surrounded by the sea, drinking in the
view, the disappearance of the rocks ahead rather passed me by as a sign that
the tide was coming in; the journey back to dry land was rather hazardous.
Wednesday 25th July
Bodmin beckons; a long day of drinking! Time for another
quick trip out first though; this morning Port Isaac: a tiny fishing village on the west coast and location for TV show, Doc
Martin (apparently). It didn’t
disappoint, albeit the regular stream of middle-aged couples in sensible
walking shoes, each politely inquiring if I knew where Martin Clunes’ house was
got a little tiring.
Having time to spare, I did intend to spend half an hour
exploring the adjacent Port Gaverne, but a message informing me of Snoddy’s
departure to Norfolk for talks changed all that. When a bar offering free wi-fi
is yards away, suddenly the folly of holidaymaking is cast into perspective. It’s
not how I ever pictured receiving such gutting news; I fully expected to find
out one day while at work, or more probably see it suddenly appear on that ‘Sky
Sports Breaking News’ banner on SSN – I grown to hate that banner; like a
yellow conveyer belt, intent on delivering endless misery to Leeds fans, ‘breaking’
endless misery at that. Ah well, back to Bodmin – at least the ‘Bates Out’
banner will be in vogue!
The banner was to prove very much a welcome decoration, that is except with Wetherspoon’s big wigs; having arrived early afternoon to secure a prominent
fence position, one of the junior members of staff was instructed to come out and
request its removal – apparently at the behest of Head Office, who'd noticed it through the medium of the
all-seeing security cameras. It was like being a part of the dystopian world
foretold in George Orwell’s ‘1984’ – seems that he didn’t reckon on Bodmin
being 28 years behind the curve.
Needless to say, as the alcohol consumption rose, the
venue became ever livelier; a new request not to drink on the grass as it
contravened the licence was met with a chant of “We’ll drink on the grass, we’ll
drink on the grass, f**k you Wetherspoon’s, we’ll drink on the grass”, more
football specific collection of takeover chants followed, including “Sheikhs
in! Bates Out!” and “Oh, Sheiky, Sheiky, Sheiky”… to the tune of the ‘Hokey Cokey’…
Eventually, cider fuelled bravado led to increasingly provocative posing with
the ‘Bates Out’ banner in front of the security cameras before it eventually
returned to the fence – nobody complained.
Asking for recollections of the match would be a fairly
pointless request of a man who told those asking back at the campsite the
following morning that the game had finished 2-0 (as opposed to 4-0); though
hazy memories do remain of getting a prime position behind goal for the ‘Bates
Out’ banner and Robbie Rogers’ refusal to pose with it.
A spot in front of
the fence but behind the goal also became the perfect place from which to
launch the “Andy’s going grey” chant, and for one of the party, a certain Matty
Powell, to score a goal during the game, relieving the Bodmin keeper of the ball
as he lined up a goal kick.
The post-pub journey home was certainly interesting. A
seemingly short walk into town left a degree of misplaced confidence, fuelled
rather by excessive alcohol consumption, about making the return also on foot. I would say walking 4 miles on
predominantly unlit 60 mph ‘A’ roads at 11.30 is quite an experience, but
compared to the final mile on tiny country lanes in thick mist, that was
nothing.
Thursday 26th July
The one football free day, so time to hit the road and
six destinations to do in 12 hours! First up Penzance, a bit like every seaside
town used to be like in the 1980s (minus the raw sewage on the beaches back
then), but with lots of pirate stuff.
To immerse myself in the history of the
place I thought it only fair to call at one of the genuine pirate pubs; very
authentic it was too, very convincing decor…shame about the Dirty Dancing
soundtrack on the jukebox.
Next to Porthcurno, a tiny place that’s essentially a
handful of buildings, a couple of beaches…oh, and an open air theatre, carved
into the cliffs!
The beaches are quite possibly the best in the country
and the theatre so stunning I even found myself wanting to stay longer through
a production of ‘Romeo & Juliet’, even if a ginger bloke in a polo shirt
who resembled Ron Weasley was playing the male lead.
Land’s End was what it said on the tin…the land kinda
ended. It was noticeable, the scenery aside for seemingly concentrating every
bit of tackiness I’d witnessed in Cornwall, compressed into the area of the
courtyard. Sennen sat just a mile’s walk along the coastal path, offering a
huge beach and ice cream to die for.
North then to St Ives…you know the score by now – stunning harbour,
fabulous beaches... oh and lots of seals in the harbour too!
The evening finished with a dash further north to catch
the sunset at Perranporth (another twitter tip) and a drink at a bar
offering the best sea view of all (and there’s been some competition); the
Waterhole on the beach.
I’m not sure there’s a better drinking experience to be
found anywhere on these shores.
Friday 27th July
Farewell Cornwall, hello Devon, good afternoon Torquay.
It’s hard to develop an accurate impression of a seaside town
when 90% of conscious time there is spent either in the pub or at the football,
though it did strike me as a place where a variety of folk visit to holiday and
where the elderly move to die.
There were certainly plenty of elderly around the harbour
area where the latest Wetherspoon’s to play host to LUFC was positioned. As the
fans chanted down from the balcony, ridiculing a Liverpool fan, an old dear in
front of me was heard to say to her husband, “Look at them lot! Football
hooligans; wankers the lot of them”… bless the older generation! It does appear that the
coffin dodgers in Torquay are quite anarchic though as one shopmobility scooter
riding Scum supporter proved, riding back and forth, air horn in hand, below the Leeds fans in an
attempt to goad them. Eventually the beer showered down on him, but he still
came back for more. Only when the police stepped in to caution him for driving
the wrong way up the dual-carriageway did he relent. Apparently, according to
one officer, he’s a local eccentric and “a pain in the arse!”
Sheikhs were again in attendance as the songs rang out
across the seafront, “Paddy Kenny’s having a party, bring your vodka and your charlie”
seemingly another newly established favourite.
As with everywhere else, the
police were very friendly, one copper even helping to take down the ‘Bates Out’ banner on
the bridge, while another helped Jo to put it up by the corner flag at Plainmoor.
The fans were in particularly good voice in the stadium –
they had to be as they accounted for roughly three-quarters of the crowd – and after
two fine strikes by Ross put Leeds in the driving seat, found the best way of
keeping themselves entertained was chanting at each other in the adjacent
stands. “Your support is f**king shit”, “Who the f**king hell are you?”, “2-0
and you still don’t sing” and the like finally giving way to a succession of
Mexican waves that eventually took in the whole stadium.
During a more even second half, focus shifted to the
famously touted barbecue at the manager’s house. “We’re having a party at Warnock’s
house” was followed by a succession of chants that embraced an entire menu
including, sausages and burgers, jelly and ice cream, Yorkshire puddings and
so on; the chant then progressed to a sleepover, prostitutes… this could be the new “We
all love Leeds”!
The remainder of the evening was spent at the other
harbour side Wetherspoon’s (the one that doesn’t suddenly employ a dress code
at dusk) watching the Olympics opening ceremony; it was a truly remarkable
production, although you always felt that the sight of Ben Fry in a Macron
jacket could’ve somehow taken it up another level.
Saturday 28th July
A time for a full English and a walk around Torquay to
reflect/sober up ahead of the drive home.
In honesty it was a fantastic trip, one I’d happily take
every summer. Off the pitch, the police, the stewards and the pubs (bar the
Nazis at Wetherspoon’s Head Office) have all been superb while the support have
taken every opportunity to make them seen and heard, all WITHOUT pissing off
anyone in the process – result!
As for what I’ve learned about the players? Well probably
not as much as I may have done sober, but Ashdown looks a very solid back-up
keeper (though be aware, so did Rachubka at this stage), Paul Green has fared
better than expected, Michael Brown is actually playing well, Aidy White can
actually do something with the ball other than run with it, while Dominic
Poleon put in some very decent cameos.
Off the pitch, only one piece of advice – remember the
sun cream kids!!
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