Make no mistake about it, the post-war years were a challenge when it came to away games. The Flying Squadron couldn\u2019t 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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Undoubtedly aged somewhere between 25 and 51, he\u2019d avoided conscription, for one or more of a myriad of justifications: he talked like a conchie, couldn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHector, you tamer of horses!\u201d cried Wally warmly when the Ingenian met us off the train, \u201cHow have you been?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNot felt as strong since Colombo,\u201d replied MacFlynn, whose dead eyes seemed to stare wildly at us, \u201cNor as content since Kandy.\u201d 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 \u2013 same trimmed beard and scraggy mane \u2013 awaited us with bread and jam at a large oak table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cJunior\u2019s coming with us tomorrow; sorry if it gets a bit cramped.\u201d I almost laughed at this (Hector Junior wasn\u2019t an inch over four foot) but again followed Wally\u2019s lead and remained deadpan. Of course, I was still under the impression at this point that MacFlynn skippered an old Steam Packet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAny particular reason?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThere\u2019s something down there,\u201d he said, \u201cI can\u2019t be sure what. Could use a pair of eyes\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDown there?\u201d I asked, to no response.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAny idea what we\u2019re dealing with?\u201d asked Wally.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat we\u2019re dealing with?\u201d interrupted Hector Jr., \u201cYous are merely negotiating rising ferry prices!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Hector senior slammed his hand on the desk, \u201cHush!\u201d he shouted, \u201cthese are my guests!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSorry, father.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI 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.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was silence in the room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCirein-cr\u00f2in is the hunch!\u201d he roared, and again made the splashing-face motion I had seen at the station.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCalm down, mate!\u201d said Jack Dudley, to a furious cross-handed \u201cstop\u201d signal from Wally.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDinnae tell me to calm doon, son, or y\u2019all be swummin\u2019 to Belfast!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWho tha heal do you thank y\u2019are?\u201d asked Hector Jr.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShut up, Junior! These are my guests!\u201d to more arid face-splashing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThey\u2019re disrespecting you, father! They\u2019re using you like a cheap Charon!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt matters not,\u201d said MacFlynn, more quietly. \u201cI have pledged to help the Wolves, and that is what I shall do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cJack meant no harm, Hector\u201d said Wally Bankhurst. MacFlynn rose calmly from the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cChoose your team more carefully next time,\u201d he advised quietly, \u201cNow let\u2019s be on our way. Any light we can get at our depths will be gone before long.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAfternoon, Hector.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAre we all set, Brian?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnother three dozen or so to go. They\u2019ve been a little lively today.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
MacFlynn shrugged. \u201cSo be it,\u201d he said, \u201cwe\u2019ll be back in about an hour.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cRight ye are,\u201d said Brian, as Hector led us off to the Crown.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Keen to make up for his earlier faux-pas, Jack splashed out the Craven \u2018A\u2019 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).<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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!<\/pre>\n\n\n\nWolverhampton! Wolverhampton! Wolverhampton!
Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!<\/pre>\n\n\n\nMacFlynn warned us off a fourth round as the craft was \u201cconsiderably slower than those modern, soulless Liverpool ferries\u201d, 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
MacFlynn warned us off a fourth round as the craft was \u201cconsiderably slower than those modern, soulless Liverpool ferries\u201d, and did not have toilet facilities…<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Halfway along our journey, Jack voiced a question all of us \u2013 except, probably, Wally Bankhurst \u2013 had surely been thinking: \u201cWhat are \u2018hippocampi\u2019, anyway, Hector?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cJust about the most intelligent creatures under the sea,\u201d replied the Scot, before rethinking his answer, \u201cIf 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.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
At the bay the snorkelled help was now lined up on the beach. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAll present and correct, skipper!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAbout time, Brian. Thank you. Now, all aboard, ye Wanderers.\u201d 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\u2019s shoulders. \u201cWelcome aboard the Impossible Woman. Diving.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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\u2019t really capture that excitement, but we gave it another few renditions anyway, the colour rising in our cheeks and in our hearts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n
Trouble hit around ten hours into the journey. First I noticed Hector Sr. rising up a little in his seat. \u201cThey\u2019re spooked,\u201d he said quietly, \u201cKeep your eyes out Junior.\u201d 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe\u2019ll need to get a shift on,\u201d I muttered, and he nodded grimly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then it hit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.\u2019s 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 \u2013especially in their reduced numbers \u2013 to offer much propulsion. \u201cHector! Wake up!\u201d I cried. \u201cHector!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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. \u201cHow is your father?\u201d I asked Hector.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Hector tried to revive his dad, with shakes, slaps, shouts. Nothing worked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe\u2019ll have to surface,\u201d 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. \u201cThe reins were made of seaweed,\u201d explained Hector Jr., kneeling at his father\u2019s side. \u201cThey had to be so light and gentle on the wee beasties. Cirein-cr\u00f2in will have bitten them right off.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at my watch. \u201cDo you have a rescue flare or anything?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhere they hell do you imagine we\u2019d get the gunpowder?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThen what are we to do? The game kicks off at three o\u2019clock!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd my dad doesn\u2019t seem to be breathing!\u201d responded Hector sharply.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAr, that an\u2019all,\u201d I said. There followed a tense silence, broken by Jack Dudley, who had regained full consciousness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIs that Harry Sweep?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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 \u201cKON-TIKI WOLVES\u201d at the top and \u201cBLAKENHALL\u201d at the bottom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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 \u201cKON-TIKI WOLVES\u201d at the top and \u201cBLAKENHALL\u201d at the bottom. There was a small wolf sejant contourn\u00e9 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<\/em>. Archie handed us a bottle of Holy Phoenix and asked us how our journey had been.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAmazing up till now,\u201d I said, passing the bottle of ale on to Jack and facing away from a brisk spring wind to light my Craven \u2018A\u2019, \u201cThat bloke MacFlynn had us pulled along by seahorses until we were attacked by a many-headed sea creature.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI told you to come with us!\u201d said Archie, \u201cI haven\u2019t travelled with MacFlynn since he tried to pull us to a game against Stranraer using rats from his granary.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s always a gamble with the Ingenians,\u201d I mused, looking at my watch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe should be there in time for a pint before the game,\u201d said Chimdy confidently. Behind us, we could hear those aboard singing, and soon joined in with “The Kon-Tiki Wolves Shanty”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Well, Heyerdahl sailed from Lima to the Easter Isles
\nTo prove that the Incas had been there all there this while
\nWe\u2019re sailing from Blackpool via the Isle of Man
\nTo Belfast where we\u2019ll take an omnibus to Sydenham<\/pre>\n\n\n\nWe\u2019re the Kon-Tiki Wolves
\nCounty Antrim has never seen the likes of us before
\nWe\u2019re the Kon-Tiki Wolves
\nThe greatest trip since Odysseus limped home from the Trojan War<\/pre>\n\n\n\nA 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe need to get my dad to hawspital!\u201d he insisted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIs he still breathing?\u201d asked Diddy Dodds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI think so.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHere\u2019s two bob for the taxi,\u201d said Jack Dudley, who, it has to be said, had stumped up quite a sum over the course of our trip.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe\u2019ll check up on you after the game,\u201d I said, and we headed to the bus stop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We didn\u2019t, as it turned out, check up on them. A disappointing 2-0 defeat took the wind out of our sails, rather, and we didn\u2019t know which hospital they\u2019d be in. Furthermore, we needed to be at the Baseball Ground, Derby, by three o\u2019clock the next day. So we left the Impossible Woman<\/em> 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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
It\u2019s never a nice feeling, losing away.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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