Carlisle Staring Relegation In The Face

Carlisle United enter the final round of fixtures this Saturday knowing that failure to pick up 3 points will see them relegated to the 4th tier of English League football. Their opponents are Millwall, a side who will be equally eager for the win that may provide them with an easier two games in the Play-Offs (against either Scunthorpe or Tranmere - who face each other- rather than Leeds United).

It is a sorry tale for the Cumbrians following last seasons narrow failure to win automatic promotion to the Championship on the last day. Worryingly, their fate is not in their own hands. Even a win may not be enough, should Brighton win at home to Stockport and Northampton pick up a point at Leeds. The scenario mirrors the final day of the 1999 season when on-loan goalkeeper Jimmy Glass converted a dramatic injury time winner against Plymouth, sparking wild scenes of celebration and euphoria on the Brunton Park pitch. For Carlisle's loyal band of followers that will be nothing more than a distant memory if they fail to beat the Lions on Saturday afternoon. I for one will be keeping a very keen eye on proceedings.

Exiting the Abyss

It is now 4 full days and nights since my return from the city of Carlisle. Unfortunately the mental scars and psychological effects are very much evident. I have lost my appetite. I have become distant, confused, unfocused, de-motivated. I am slowly losing the will to live.

The day began in relaxed fashion. Bellies full after a fry up and cup of tea, we merrily set out for our first pre match ale. It was delightful. A few more jars in various establishments and we soon set off to Brunton Park, via an unsuccessful sleeping bag collection trip. Pre match atmosphere. Colourful, friendly, families, horns, flags, balloons, stuffed mascot foxes. Kick off. Rumours of favourable scorelines from other matches permeate the stadium. YES, DONCASTER HAVE BEEN PULLED LEVEL! IT DOESN'T MATTER, FOREST HAVE PULLED FURTHER AHEAD. Final whistle. Sadly Carlisle failed to gain the 3 points required, with a rotund Darren Anderton pulling the strings for Bournemouth in the midfield. In the end it would not have been enough anyway, with Forest winning elsewhere. Then the pitch invasion. Angry men, eager to salute their heroes one final time this season, voice their displeasure. Atmosphere begins to turn sour. Oh dear.

Pub. 6pm. Need to work quickly. Heavy elects for full bottles of wine (no messing about). The educated locals enter the fray, clad in Ben Sherman short sleeves. Ted Baker sweaters. The bars begin to fill up and the atmosphere adopts a sinister tone. Never mind - lets go for a Chinese and recharge our batteries/line our stomachs. THIS WAS A VERY GOOD MOVE IN HINDSIGHT. Our party is reduced to one Heavy and one Toad, so inevitably the quiz machine gets a feed. Thankfully we avoided any unsavoury incidents. And so to the end game. Heavy and Toad enter the Globe bar, popular with goths, students, Scousers and bikers. Did I mention the barman is a wife beater and apparently a high ranking member of the BNP? Perhaps not, but it would not surprise me. Drunken games of pool ensue, accompanied by unfortunate juke box choices. We Built this City on Rock and Roll.

3AM - chucking out time, Heavy and Toad wander ahead, get lost, respect the Queens Highway before slashing heavily in our friends back porch. Sleeping bag and wine collected from a mad Scousers living room. Heavy and Toad return to base, and set up camp in the sparsely decorated/furnished flat. Toad waits until Heavy is asleep then does the gentlemanly thing. He enters Heavies sleeping bag, removes his trousers.....retrieves the door keys from his pocket and heads out to Rouge :-) Sunday, although lethargic I am buoyed by a Liverpool victory and crawl to the train station an broken man. I love Carlisle.

Cumbria's Dark Secret

This Saturday I will be taking a huge leap of faith into the unknown as I venture south of the border to visit a friend of mine in deepest, darkest Cumbria.

I travel with intense trepidation following my previous sojourn, which threw up a number of unpleasant sitations. Myself and a companion by the name of Roger B Smith travelled to Carlisle late last year, intent on enjoying a relaxing and leisurely weekend with a few friends, away from the humdrum of our daily grind. What transpired was a night of undiluted and unimagineable horror. Even the bravest of men would recoil in terror on hearing of this tale. I don't intend to go into detail (it's far too terrifying), but having been suddenly abandoned by our inebriated host, we were left without food, shelter or clean water. We were forced to fend for ourselves in the heart of a strange city and seek temporary refuge in some of the north of England's seediest and decrepit establishments.

On eventually finding our designated shelter, and having had to wade through endless piles of fresh human excrement whilst fighting off local savages, we forced entry through an upstairs window and attempted to set up camp. But our problems had only just begun. It quickly became apparent that we would have to endure a night of discomfort perhaps only understood by Bear Grylls or Ray Mears. Did Scott or Amundsen have to use telephone directories as bedding on the way to the Antarctic? No - they had sleeping bags and tents. It is simply impossible to put into words the feeling of sheer helpnessness on waking at 5am and discovering an empty pizza box draped over ones torso in the manner of a blanket. Sadly my friend Mr Smith is now suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder as a result of the ordeal.

All that is history though. The official reason for my visit this time is to attend a football match. The real reason however is the consumption of copious amounts of alcohol. I can only learn from past mistakes and come fully prepared this time, which is why I have wisely invested in a Berghaus v2000 Explorer Pro Sleeping Bag (£699) complete with a Dreamland Deluxe Pillow set.


Smith and Streat (below) - Happier Times

Douglas P Streat is a man without fear. A man without limits. A man who refuses to bow to social norms. An enigma. Here is a man who will toss full vodka bottles into remote agricultural holdings in a bout of sheer drunken aggression, only to return the following morning to retrieve it once sobriety sets in. Here is a man who drinks full bottles of Sambuca as a pre-breakfast tipple. Here is a man who regards three bottles of wine as a 'light refreshment'. Here is a man who thinks nothing of defecating on a public thoroughfare. Douglas P Streat is a man amongst men.