Make no mistake about it, the post-war years were a challenge when it came to away games. The Flying Squadron couldn’t source silk for their parachutes; the Honorable and Worthy Pedallers were free-wheeling sans brake cables; and even those taking the relative luxury of the railway were, with ever-greater frequency, getting off a couple of stations early and walking the rest of the way.
The travelling following depended during those lean years on a disparate group of people who, out of a combination of excentric expertise and a love of the Old Gold, provided access to routes which were quicker, cheaper, less bureaucratic, and/or safer than the intuitive. The name we gave to such facilitators was the Ingenians, and though Hector MacFlynn of Portpatrick, Wigtonshire could hardly be viewed as typical in any sense of the word, he was probably not an untypical example of the Ingenian type.
Undoubtedly aged somewhere between 25 and 51, he’d avoided conscription, for one or more of a myriad of justifications: he talked like a conchie, couldn’t see night from day, had a Quaker-ish temperament about him, boasted the roman-god physique of a coal-miner, talked incessantly of life in New Hebrides and Ceylon, ran a couple of acres of arable land and was unquestionably mad. His blindness had supposedly come about after seeing the love of his life, an Oxfordshire wench and Stafford Road supporter, kiss the local postie. Rendered inconsolable, he immediately cut both of his eyes out with a pen-knife and swore to avenge his broken heart by facilitating unto death the efforts of Wolverhampton Wanderers supporters. All this I gleaned from Wally Bankhurst on the train across from Edinburgh as we, plus Jack Dudley, Diddy Dodds and Sid Shakespeare headed to Belfast for a friendly against Dundela.
“Hector, you tamer of horses!” cried Wally warmly when the Ingenian met us off the train, “How have you been?”
“Not felt as strong since Colombo,” replied MacFlynn, whose dead eyes seemed to stare wildly at us, “Nor as content since Kandy.” He made a dramatic movement as if splashing invisible water at his face; Bankhurst said nothing. Once outside the station, we climbed onto his battered buggy and a piebald gelding and chestnut mare led the way to his coastal farmhouse. In the kitchen a younger, sighted version of Hector – same trimmed beard and scraggy mane – awaited us with bread and jam at a large oak table.
“Junior’s coming with us tomorrow; sorry if it gets a bit cramped.” I almost laughed at this (Hector Junior wasn’t an inch over four foot) but again followed Wally’s lead and remained deadpan. Of course, I was still under the impression at this point that MacFlynn skippered an old Steam Packet.
“Any particular reason?”
“There’s something down there,” he said, “I can’t be sure what. Could use a pair of eyes…”
“Down there?” I asked, to no response.
“Any idea what we’re dealing with?” asked Wally.
“What we’re dealing with?” interrupted Hector Jr., “Yous are merely negotiating rising ferry prices!”
Hector senior slammed his hand on the desk, “Hush!” he shouted, “these are my guests!”
“Sorry, father.”
“I am a blind man with the intuition I was born with, plus a little extra, borne out of necessity. I am no Tiresias. Yet still, I have hunch.”
There was silence in the room.
“Cirein-cròin is the hunch!” he roared, and again made the splashing-face motion I had seen at the station.
“Calm down, mate!” said Jack Dudley, to a furious cross-handed “stop” signal from Wally.
“Dinnae tell me to calm doon, son, or y’all be swummin’ to Belfast!”
“Who tha heal do you thank y’are?” asked Hector Jr.
“Shut up, Junior! These are my guests!” to more arid face-splashing.
“They’re disrespecting you, father! They’re using you like a cheap Charon!”
“It matters not,” said MacFlynn, more quietly. “I have pledged to help the Wolves, and that is what I shall do.”
“Jack meant no harm, Hector” said Wally Bankhurst. MacFlynn rose calmly from the table.
“Choose your team more carefully next time,” he advised quietly, “Now let’s be on our way. Any light we can get at our depths will be gone before long.”
I was ready for some fresh air after a conversation that had left me both dizzy and suffocated. We walked along a cliff edge until a harbour and small town could be seen below. It was windy but clear, with the Ulster coast clearly visible to the west. Though I felt calmer, any feeling of perspective was soon shaken by the lack of any recognisable craft in the harbour. I felt someone should alert MacFlynn to the disappearance, but his son said nothing, nor displayed any alarm in his face. We continued walking down to the bay, and at last I glimpsed the craft that would be taking us across the Irish Sea. A spheroid of steel and glass, with a large tube pointing some forty feet upwards, bobbed on the water. A dozen or so snorkels milled around the front of the craft, and after MacFlynn Sr. had given out a piercing whistle, the face beneath one of the snorkels emerged from the water.
“Afternoon, Hector.”
“Are we all set, Brian?”
“Another three dozen or so to go. They’ve been a little lively today.”
MacFlynn shrugged. “So be it,” he said, “we’ll be back in about an hour.”
“Right ye are,” said Brian, as Hector led us off to the Crown.
Keen to make up for his earlier faux-pas, Jack splashed out the Craven ‘A’ no sooner had we got to the pub. Hector Sr., however, declined in favour of his own churchwarden, which he filled at the bar while Gladys, a buxom wench with a gimpy leg, retrieved the accordion from the cellar, on which instrument, once the crowd had been fully furnished with strong ale, MacFlynn entertained us with what would immediately be accepted as the “Song of the Wulfrunians Sub-Aquatic” (Wally Bankhurst, prone to attempts at poetic diction when strong ale was about, came up with the name).
Who travel by submarine under the sea?
Wolverhampton!
Drawn by thousands of hippocampi?
Wolverhampton!
Who visit grounds that Stafford Road never will?
Wolverhampton!
Battle sea monsters and luncheon on krill?
Wolverhampton!
Wolverhampton! Wolverhampton! Wolverhampton!
Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!
MacFlynn warned us off a fourth round as the craft was “considerably slower than those modern, soulless Liverpool ferries”, and did not have toilet facilities, so we headed back toward the bay, with another couple of renditions of the Song of the Wulfrunians Sub-Aquatic.
MacFlynn warned us off a fourth round as the craft was “considerably slower than those modern, soulless Liverpool ferries”, and did not have toilet facilities…
Halfway along our journey, Jack voiced a question all of us – except, probably, Wally Bankhurst – had surely been thinking: “What are ‘hippocampi’, anyway, Hector?”
“Just about the most intelligent creatures under the sea,” replied the Scot, before rethinking his answer, “If not the world itself. Through patience and devotion over many years, I have taught them how to pull a craft. But they have taught me so, so much more.”
At the bay the snorkelled help was now lined up on the beach.
“All present and correct, skipper!”
“About time, Brian. Thank you. Now, all aboard, ye Wanderers.” We struggled through a hatch into the steel-and-glass spheroid, which bobbed and moved awkwardly as each man boarded. It was, as Hector had warned, something of a squeeze and only the pilot, Hector Sr., had a seat; the rest of us huddled around the edge of the craft, except for Hector Jr., who stood holding his father’s shoulders. “Welcome aboard the Impossible Woman. Diving.”
Tanks around us began to fill with water and the craft submerged. Hector MacFlynn lifted a pair of reins from the deck and geed up perhaps ten thousand seahorses, who vibrated into life, turned interesting colours and began to pull the Impossible Woman through the sea. Few sights, in all my time following the Wolves away, filled me with such impressions, such feelings of beauty, privelige, of being alive. It was as though all the world was made, somehow, so that I, and Wally Bankhurst, and Jack Dudley, Sid Shakespeare and Diddy Dodds could see it on our way to a football match. The Song of the Wulfrunians Sub-Aquatic couldn’t really capture that excitement, but we gave it another few renditions anyway, the colour rising in our cheeks and in our hearts.
A forceful shunt sent us against the prow. The torch lay on the floor but through the glass bottom illuminated the creature. I counted four heads; Jack Dudley would later claim five.
Trouble hit around ten hours into the journey. First I noticed Hector Sr. rising up a little in his seat. “They’re spooked,” he said quietly, “Keep your eyes out Junior.” MacFlynn the younger switched on a torch and pushed it against the glass; the seahorses were now a gloomy grey and the murky sea had a foreboding quality to it. I looked at my wristwatch and turned to Wally Bankhurst.
“We’ll need to get a shift on,” I muttered, and he nodded grimly.
Then it hit.
A forceful shunt sent us against the prow. The torch lay on the floor but through the glass bottom illuminated the creature. I counted four heads; Jack Dudley would later claim five. The others saw nothing, stunned unconscious or gathering their senses face-upwards. Out of Hector Sr.’s hands, the reins were pulled to their seals, and the hippocampi continued to tug. I grabbed the torch and looked into the gloom: bravely, the seahorses fought against the creature a million times their size, ramming it with their little armoured heads as it took mouthfuls of hundreds. I pulled at the reins but the creatures could not respond, consumed as they were in their fight, and far too weak –especially in their reduced numbers – to offer much propulsion. “Hector! Wake up!” I cried. “Hector!”
It was the younger Hector who eventually responded. He looked at the scene in horror, swearing, screaming, blaming the Wulfrunians Sub-Aquatic. Another violent crash sent us flying portside, and the torch smashed against a steel transom. This impact somehow woke up Wally Bankhurst, but the rest remained unresponsive. “How is your father?” I asked Hector.
Hector tried to revive his dad, with shakes, slaps, shouts. Nothing worked.
“We’ll have to surface,” he said, and worked the lever to expel water from the ballast tanks. We rose in stages to avoid the bends, but fortunately there was no more shunting. As we got to the surface it became clear that none of the seahorses had joined us. “The reins were made of seaweed,” explained Hector Jr., kneeling at his father’s side. “They had to be so light and gentle on the wee beasties. Cirein-cròin will have bitten them right off.”
I looked at my watch. “Do you have a rescue flare or anything?” I asked.
“Where they hell do you imagine we’d get the gunpowder?”
“Then what are we to do? The game kicks off at three o’clock!”
“And my dad doesn’t seem to be breathing!” responded Hector sharply.
“Ar, that an’all,” I said. There followed a tense silence, broken by Jack Dudley, who had regained full consciousness.
“Is that Harry Sweep?” he asked.
a little fleet of primitive sailing vessels approached, the lead raft flying a sail that looked rather like an enormous fried egg. As it got closer, I could make out the words “KON-TIKI WOLVES” at the top and “BLAKENHALL” at the bottom.
I first assumed he was concussed. But as I looked over to the starboard side, a little fleet of primitive sailing vessels approached, the lead raft flying a sail that looked rather like an enormous fried egg. As it got closer, I could make out the words “KON-TIKI WOLVES” at the top and “BLAKENHALL” at the bottom. There was a small wolf sejant contourné in the yolk of the egg. Holding onto the mast that supported it was not only Harold ‘Chimdy’ Sweep but also Archie Black, the landlord of the Fighting Cocks. Through the breathing funnel we could hear him offering us help, and before long, the Kon-Tiki Wolves were pulling us aboard their rafts, with the exception of the Hectors, who were pulled along astern in the Impossible Woman. Archie handed us a bottle of Holy Phoenix and asked us how our journey had been.
“Amazing up till now,” I said, passing the bottle of ale on to Jack and facing away from a brisk spring wind to light my Craven ‘A’, “That bloke MacFlynn had us pulled along by seahorses until we were attacked by a many-headed sea creature.”
“I told you to come with us!” said Archie, “I haven’t travelled with MacFlynn since he tried to pull us to a game against Stranraer using rats from his granary.”
“It’s always a gamble with the Ingenians,” I mused, looking at my watch.
“We should be there in time for a pint before the game,” said Chimdy confidently. Behind us, we could hear those aboard singing, and soon joined in with “The Kon-Tiki Wolves Shanty”
Well, Heyerdahl sailed from Lima to the Easter Isles
To prove that the Incas had been there all there this while
We’re sailing from Blackpool via the Isle of Man
To Belfast where we’ll take an omnibus to Sydenham
We’re the Kon-Tiki Wolves
County Antrim has never seen the likes of us before
We’re the Kon-Tiki Wolves
The greatest trip since Odysseus limped home from the Trojan War
A few hours later we were mooring at Belfast Harbour, looking eagerly at our watches and licking our lips for the pints that awaited us near the ground. Hector Jr., though, had other ideas.
“We need to get my dad to hawspital!” he insisted.
“Is he still breathing?” asked Diddy Dodds.
“I think so.”
“Here’s two bob for the taxi,” said Jack Dudley, who, it has to be said, had stumped up quite a sum over the course of our trip.
“We’ll check up on you after the game,” I said, and we headed to the bus stop.
We didn’t, as it turned out, check up on them. A disappointing 2-0 defeat took the wind out of our sails, rather, and we didn’t know which hospital they’d be in. Furthermore, we needed to be at the Baseball Ground, Derby, by three o’clock the next day. So we left the Impossible Woman moored at the Harbour and sailed home on the Kon-Tiki rafts, having stocked up on on porter and a roasted leg of mutton for the journey.
It’s never a nice feeling, losing away.