A Bleak Winters Journey

As the two friends boarded the train at Heaton Chapel they prepared themselves for a journey that neither of them would believe. It was bitter cold that was biting their ears, and heavy rain that fell all around. The puddles were becoming lakes so quickly that Cunard were setting up business alongside them. There were no idle passers by, only people leaving for a purpose.

The first steps of any journey are usually the easiest, and the train rolled into Piccadilly on time, as expected. The sight that met our travellers though as the doors opened was a huge crowd of people all trying to leave the platform in one direction as fast as they could, but something was appearing to prevent them from doing this. It was a sight like the end of a football match where the hordes of supporters try to clamber out of the stadium by any means possible. There were elbows being pointed, and minor affray at every point. This was possibly the first sign that evil spirits were in the air, and that they should turn back before worse magic would unravel.

Once through the throngs of people at Piccadilly, (it turned out to be some ticket inspectors choosing Saturday afternoon to check 500 peoples tickets as they left the platform) a swift transfer to the other side of Manchester was necessary before catching the next train. This was swifter than first planned, and needed a mild jog for the last 5 minutes to ensure that no disappointment would follow. Whilst the rain and wind blew around them like a scene from Twister. It had metamorphosed into the day that people walked around with inside out umbrellas and dogs flying in the air like kites.

Manchester Victoria was reached in a record time by foot, and through the corner of my eye I could see Roger Bannister weeping. The two journeymen purchased tickets from the Victorian ticket office at Manchester Victoria from a girl called Victoria that looked like Victoria Beckham crossed with Queen Victoria. They reached the train and the conductor was called Sue.

A forty minute ride to Hebden Bridge was the next step, and so the passengers relaxed into the carriage, took the weight off of their feet, and remembered that it was 1pm and that lunch had been missed. A couple of chewing gums did not fill the void in their stomachs, so they began to eat fellow passengers, starting with the fattest and cleanest. By the time Hebden Bridge appeared in the steamy windows there was no other soul on board, just a pile of shoes and a News of the World.

The two travelling companions departed the carriage to find themselves on the platform of a station that looked like the kind used in American Werewolf in London. It was deserted and the station itself had not been changed since circa 1920. It was a classic station with one track in and one track out, and it needed Poirot to shuffle along to fully complete the scene.

It was so bleak that it inspired one of the travellers to quote, “There is more colour in Russia.” A phrase that should be emblazoned on every tourist information poster in the area. Finally the third train arrived to take our trusty guides to their final destination. A small backwater, in the bowels of the North West of England where time forgot to move on. It was still 1958, and peoples haircuts proved it. It was named after the witch hunt ritual of burning anyone called Lee. However, if I was called Lee and I lived here then I would be passing a box of Swan Vestas to the angry mob of farmworkers.

In search of some light refreshment, our heroes ventured to enter a local hostelry that had some friendly types outside the main entrance, only to discover a big blackboard outside stating in a “No Blacks” kind of way, “No Away Supporters”. As this was the only place to go before the stadium then the decision was made to journey on to the stadium. Often a good travelling technique when one finds that all other avenues are closed.

One compliment that has to be given to the population of Burnley is that they do not do things by half. If the decision is to keep the town looking like it did 50 years ago then this is what they do. A consistent portrayal of the era is echoed into every last detail, and so once inside the stadium the theme continued. The tannoy system was connected by bean cans and tight string, and only worked if the wind stopped, which it didn't for long. When finally the weary men sat down in their seats, there was a feeling that they had sat where many men have sat before. Literally, as they had not cleared away their dead.

The onslaught that then ensued was of biblical proportions. The brothers in arms stood together in the trenches, settling themselves and taking stock of their surroundings. The first long range missile came over the barricades, and a direct hit... kazamm... half the army were wiped out. Secondly, a fumbled hand grenade dropped right at the feet... boom... the rest of the army were decimated. Finally, a volley and a strike and… poww... the rest of the stragglers were floored.

That was it. Eleven minutes in total. Not a soul survived.

Gradually though, a miracle developed. As if from a zombie film, the dead army began to awaken. They came back stronger and more determined. Two attacks hit the opposition right where it hurts, and a third would make it level. The masses were shouting, “We're going to beat you 4-3, we're going to beat you 4-3”, and a renewed optimism was present.

It was short lived, however, and the travelling armies had another bleak prospect on the horizon. They would soon have to leave this shelter, and venture back into the land that time forgot. Not knowing what surprises would face them on the way.

The crowds left the pile of rubble and bricks, that local people call Turfmoor, and headed back to the homeland. Our two protagonists resembled Napoleonic soldiers returning from Russia, defeated, hungry, wet, and cheesed off.

When eventually the anachronistic skyline, of modern juxtaposed with old, silhouetted against a murky grey backdrop, the two travellers revelled in the warmth of the homecoming. As they departed from the train they had deserved a heroes welcome, a fanfare and parade. Instead, they were ignored and brushed aside, average people mistaking their battle scars for tramp-like dirtiness.

The pair trudged out of the Victorian station, passing the Victorian ticket office, long after Victoria had gone, looking forward to a cup of tea and a Victoria sandwich.