I took the cue from James and started to take my turn at the pool table when a stranger handed me the chalk, saying I’d need it and calling me a Cockney. I waved it away, assuring him I did not, not bothering to say I was actually Australian. I leaned over the cue and prepared for my shot. Then I took a good look at the chalk offering stranger.
He had the look of a serial killer. As I glanced along the cue, it struck me that if I missed my shot, he would probably kill all of us. And his psycho friend, standing next to him, would most probably eat us. It wasn’t for me, I was concerned, but I did think James and Joe were too young to die.
I lined up a rather tricky shot and sunk it with complete and utter confidence and skill, both of which I faked beautifully. The serial killer was impressed. I then moved around for a trickier shot, unhappy that he hadn’t chosen the previous shot to leave. As the second ball expertly dribbled into the pocket, I stood up and surveyed the table.
Then, fortunately, the two strangers left, because my next shot was awful.
Playing pool was an excellent cure for the awful display of football we had travelled so far to watch. We were in Altrincham and weren’t expecting that much. We were not disappointed.
On the journey, Nicktor revealed a book on Altrincham and asked me to find something interesting in it. It was tricky. Though, Altrincham was the destination for the worlds first electric train.
The town also features a little cul-de-sac, which Nicktor had discovered and wanted to surprise me with.
On the way to the ground, he made a small diversion. We took a right off the high street and found a Thai restaurant which, by all appearances, was probably once a pub. It marked the beginning of Chapel Street which is no longer there. The Thai restaurant has a blue plaque.
It was thought, by some of our little group, that it was a shame that the street no longer existed – there are flats going up across it and a big hoarding prevented egress for more than a few metres – but I disagreed. I think the future shouldn’t be held back by the past. Besides, I said, there’s the plaque and a wonderful history.
Humans are, essentially, story tellers, and this is a story which bears the telling.
At the outbreak of the First World War, 161 men volunteered from the 60 houses of Chapel Street. They fought throughout the war. 29 were killed in action, while another 20 died of their wounds. King George V called it “The bravest little street in England.“
It’s a sobering thought.
Another interesting thing about Altrincham is the fact that it does not feature in Domesday. The earliest records are well after 1066 though it is known that the land all about was gifted by Bill the Bastard to a mate, Hamo de Masci, which I think is a remarkable name. Though it does have various spellings. While Hamon de Massey seems to be the accepted version, I think I prefer Hamo de Masci.
Crammed into Nicktor’s increasingly diminishing car were James, Joe and Fat Andy, and there was a lot of chat about Hamo as we headed north.
For reasons long forgotten, we eventually decided that Hamo de Masci was cursed to forever roam the bounds of the town, but could never leave. I then asked what happened when the ‘bounds’ were increased, as all bounds invariably are. Did he have to roam the same bounds, or could he move with the expansion?
I should include the disclaimer that there is no evidence, whatsoever, that Hamo committed any crime to warrant such a curse and no reports of any sightings. Still, one never really knows for sure…
Actually, the big thing about Altrincham is the market, or so the book would have us believe. It does devote an awful lot of pages to the market, then the subsequent shops. And the fairs, of which Samjam is a favoured one. But anyone interested can either read the same book or follow this link to the Wikipedia entry.
Actually, there was a lot of silly chat in the car, which turned to football talk by the time we settled down for lunch at the lovely Old Roebuck. In the pub, we were joined by Bill from the Midlands and Roy. Then, the legendary, John from Altrincham turned up.
There’s a great story about John. During Lockdown, when football games were played behind closed doors, he decided to take things into his own hands. Aldershot were playing Altrincham and he was determined to watch. He grabbed his ladder and put it up against the wall of the football ground. He climbed up and watched.
A security guard came along and told him he couldn’t do it. John said he’d supported Aldershot and was damned if he was going to miss the game. The security guard, shrugged and said that if he was that committed, having come all the way from Hampshire, he’d let him watch. John actually lives just outside Altrincham, a fact he felt the security guard didn’t need to know.
Back at the Roebuck, it was fortunate we were outside because the table was rather boisterous. Heather, who was expected, did not turn up. Apparently she was held up in traffic on some motorway or other.
Then, later, following the dismal game, we lost Heather. She was walking behind me when we passed a man standing by his car, which had a black bin liner taped to where the window normally is. Andy remarked “You won’t see through that,” as he walked by, and the man then went into great explanations about why he was using a black bin liner as a window. I managed to extricate myself and followed the others but Heather just vanished. We were concerned that she’d been kidnapped by the man but then decided it was more likely the other way around. We kept heading for the Station hotel.
We were all very depressed about the game. Though not just the game. The reaction of a lot of the, so-called fans, was abhorrent, ignorant and just not very fannish. I could not imagine, standing on a terrace while my team came over and clapped me for travelling to an away game and yelling out obscenities and such things as “You’re an insult to the shirt!” And boo-ing. They are very fond of boo-ing, these so-called fans.
According to another fan, it was the young element but, if that is the case, then why doesn’t the older element tell them to shut up and be proper fans. It really gets up my goat, and makes the whole experience so much less attractive. I have really loved our away days this season but, seriously, this ugly face of football is enough to make me stop going.
A little later, I spotted a Tweet from a fan who was scathing about the style of football being played. He blamed the manager (correctly). That is a far better way to show your displeasure. Hurling bile and abuse at players is just crass.
But, enough of the football, which Altrincham won 1-0…Having spent hours at the pub and many rounds of pool, we decided we had to find some food. Unfortunately, Altrincham closes at 10pm. Which surprised us given it was a Saturday night. Still, we managed to find an Indian place. While not letting us eat in, they were happy to give us a big box of take away. Which we ate on a low brick wall, across the road from the restaurant.
And I had possibly the best lamb biryani I’ve ever had. It even had a surprise hard-boiled egg in the middle of it. While it’s traditional, there’s not always egg, which is a shame because, like ramen, it makes a delicious meal, perfect.
James proved to be a bit of a hit with the ladies when one took a bit of his chicken.
Eventually, we all staggered back to the hotel. Actually, Nicktor did most of the staggering, taking the responsibility of drunk walking for all of us. Very generous, I thought, while finding it ironic as I tried to keep him on the footpath, when he normally helps keep me steady.
Checking in was a breeze. I went up to my room. I collapsed on the bed. The last thought that went through my head was whether the serial killer in the pub was actually a visitation from Hamo de Masci. Then I was asleep.
