Cowed of the County

Carlisle (A) - League 2 - 17th August 2024

Aversion therapy is a type of psychological treatment that helps clients change or eliminate undesirable behaviours by associating them with unpleasant experiences. The idea is that if an activity is repeatedly paired with an unpleasant experience, it will eventually be extinguished.

There is a terrible beauty to every away day, especially the first of the season. Whether packing snacks for the bus with your grandkids in the morning or being the first to crack open a can at 6:50am, the anticipation is palpable.

For some, scarves are pressed, new tops donned, and taxis booked. For others, clothes are carefully picked out for that terrace catwalk, group chats created, and talk of where 'lads' may materialise is the order of the day. Seasoned boozers will remind each other of 'that place that opens there at 5 am' while others book the family carvery. Students of the game will pore over stats, bon vivants will find somewhere for artisan pies and Greenland Permafrost IPA. Some just go to the game.

Now, apparently, we were to be offered a ‘Preeemyeer Leege experience’ at a newly refurbished Brunton Park on our visit northwards – this according to whoever is the chief mouthpiece of the Piatak hive mind on Radio Cumbria’s Friday show.

Thank goodness then for the organisational ineptitude of Cumbria Police to delight us and bring us back to Earth as we emerged, hopeful from our area of the 'county' that makes stuff rather than packs it. Taking the Trust buses option, we were wearily amused to be initially ordered to drive slowly and pointlessly into central Carlisle to let three buses (some kids, some elderly) off at the top of Botchergate for an hour’s queueing for a beer in a packed pub, surrounded by Robocop-like officers jabbering about 'risk supporters' back to control.

On refusal? Not allowed to mix with any ordinary Carlisle families in the Fanzone in case of confrontation. So no chance to sign up to the joint Barrow and Carlisle stall supporting 'men’s mental health' there, trumpeted as a sign of inclusivity by allegedly the second most welcoming club in the EFL. OK then.

Try a pub (shut) or 'just go to the ground' – off to the ground we went. Carlisle Police had then cleverly positioned their 'back-up vehicles' where the away buses usually parked to add extra fun. Turnstile… waiting for 11 am…not open. Finally, allowed to reach the inner sanctum of overpriced Cruzcampo and long queues before they worked the till out. 'Preeemyeer Leege experience' indeed.

The team sheet brought some quizzical looks. No Rory Feeley, with Neo Eccleston in. No Kouyate. Spence in the '10' role as a 4-2-3-1. Carlisle had shoved back out their opening day team to do better.

A well-deserved minute’s applause and huge respect for ex-Carlisle chairman, Andrew Jenkins, followed. Rather like with our own Brian Keen, someone who stepped in at points when nobody else dared.

We started with a little flurry and Gotts headed over. Optimism flickered and died. Last time we won at Brunton Park, Elvis was not only alive but in his early years of fame. But hey, we’d been playing quite well…

Firstly, every credit to the insufferable, fork-tongued goblin who had set them up in a much better shape to negotiate an attritional League Two derby. They were resolute and first to nearly everything. Wyke prowled when they barreled their way forward. In short, a side that wins matches in this division.

Why were we finding any of this a surprise? Who knows? We weren’t being allowed to settle into any sort of rhythm. Campbell had the air of an inexperienced farmhand desperately trying to usher rampaging livestock away from the barn. Gottsy flickered, Spence was forced back to help, leaving Emilie Aquah in less than glorious isolation. So we tried to stay in it. Given Carlisle were woefully lacking in creativity still, we mostly did. Until, an imaginary arrow from the Paddock pierced the thigh of Theo Vassell and down he crashed, frantically imploring for an undeserved foul. Adu-Adjei was free and he bored towards the penalty area. Farman, overstretched, tried to gamble on filling two positions, leaving gaps which he ruthlessly converted. Goal.

Ugh. Brunton Park erupted into relief-tinged crowing and twelve-year-olds reprised the 2016 Euros Icelandic drumming. Fingers on the pulse, as per.

Half time. Surely a better second half, we mused as we tried to catch the eye of better-placed friends in the bar queue.

And we were to an extent. Ged Garner on (for me, should be a ten) laid it off for a smart drive from Kian Spence. Andy Dallas then on with Katia Kouyate as we tried to lift ourselves from the dirge to get something, anything.

But wait… even Paul Farman’s up… a Kouyate flick… DALLAS!

No goal.

To the consternation of the Barrow players and the delight of the majority of the ground. Andy Dallas not offside but Theo Vassell was. I do not know how any other decision could have been arrived at, given how close he was to the action when the ball was played back in.

Thinking about it on the mercifully short journey home, such games are decided on both moments and overall mental strength and organisation. We were unlucky but culpable for the first and slightly lacking in the latter. Carlisle deserved to win. We’ll be all right – let’s learn the lessons and if there really is a more potent, affordable striker out there, get him.

Was it enjoyable, I ask myself as I settle back onto the psychiatrist’s couch? No. Will the ‘aversion therapy’ work and I never return? Hell no! I want to be there, if spared, when we actually win a game at Brunton Park. When the organisation is less inept and draconian. When it kicks off at 3 pm. Paul Simpson and Lummy, forced to perform a public mea culpa, pelted with rancid Scotch pies by the away support as entertainment in their unwelcoming virtue-signalling citadel of Piatak piety. The drum will fall mercifully silent. Salt tears will cascade from the balconies of the East Stand… Ok…I’m OK.

Anyway, we're off to de-gnash the teeth. Such is football. Love an away day, even Harrogate. Quiver, ye Yorkshire net curtains!