Most football fans, when asked about the Suppression of the Monasteries, can recite a few key facts: Henry VIII’s need for a war chest, the Act of Appeals, salient points of the First Dissolution Act of 1534; some might even be able to reel off a few figures from the Valor Ecclesiastus. Few, though, are aware of the longer campaigns waged by the religious houses to preserve their way of life despite the persecution, and the effect such campaigns sometimes had on travelling supporters.

The island of Lindisfarne had its Benedictine Priory dissolved officially in 1534, but a group of disgruntled monks, with help from local benefactors and supporters, had organized as partisans and taken to the hills of Northumberland to preserve their identity, styling themselves Allus Fe Continuum Lindisfarne Priory. Generations of new exile monks preserved their legacy, and by the twentieth century, AFC Lindisfarne Priory had returned to their spiritual home, constructed some timber lean-tos among the walls of the ruined church and, stripped of their former lands and the income they once received from pilgrimage, were surviving on home-grown carrots and the meagre profits on an unlicensed mail-order strong ale called Holy Phoenix. Unbeknownst to his masters at Bass, Reg Deakin used to keep a couple of crates of this “monky wash” in at the Crown and Cushion, both for personal use and for his more select lock-ins. It was there that I tried it for the first (or third! or fourth!) time, and though it was a little sweet for my taste, the hangover it produced contained exactly the sense of solitude and guilt that I had always associated with the monastic life.

To some Northumbrians AFC Lindisfarne Priory were a source of pride, and a secret whose keeping united a people. Others felt differently. The principal enemy of underground monasticism was the Broade Amalgam, a rag-taggle confederation of mercers, fishmongers and casual gardeners fanatically loyal to the principles and politics of Henry VIII who had, of late, become somewhat partial to his methods, as well.

By October of 1953, the tension between the Priory and the Broade Amalgam was particularly high. Over the previous fifteen years, a turncoat monk had diligently prepared an illuminated copy of the AFC Lindisfarne Priory accounts ledger, passing the finished manuscript on to the Broade Amalgam in August. The Amalgam was incensed at the reach of the Holy Phoenix ale business, and in particular just how many customers the monks had in Newcastle and North Shields, which Amalgam leaders had previously believed to be strongholds of Tudorism. Almost overnight, name-calling and isolated skirmishes gave way to arson and lynchings, and there was little reason to think things would end there. The region was divided, with every man and woman taking a side.

Enter Wolverhampton Wanderers. The Wolves’ fixture at St. James’ Park coincided with the anniversary of the Wideopen Mutterings, where, according to tradition, AFC Lindisfarne Priory had placed a curse upon Horace and Tradition Kelpfynder of Benton, which had resulted in their first-born son being born without any musical talent. The Kelpfynders went on to establish the Broade Amalgam with their neighbours the Pikes, who ran a vegetable stall in Grainger Market.

The Amalgam had no especial interest in association football, but there was nevertheless reason to be cautious; the Illuminated Ledger would have revealed the dealings that AFC Lindisfarne Priory had not only with Reg Deakin, but also with Matthew Peeves and Archibald Black, of the Noah’s Ark in Snow Hill and the Fighting Cocks respectively – such trade would be frowned upon, and in the current climate could be interpreted as political support. It was thus decided that entry to Newcastle by road or rail entailed too much of a risk, and, making contact via a pair of Benedictines delivering Holy Phoenix to the Crown and Cushion one Wednesday evening, we organized a trip via Berwick-upon-Tweed, staying overnight on Holy Island in order to sail down the coast and up the Tyne into Newcastle before dawn on the Saturday in Viking longships which the returning monks of AFC Lindisfarne Priory had found in fair condition on the north-eastern side of the island and lovingly restored over many years.

We got there around eight o’clock on Friday night, to a warm reception. A modest banqueting hall, with a fairly low thatched roof, had been constructed along one wall of the priory’s ruins, and it was here that the prior, Father Clem Strongarm, welcomed us. Expecting nothing but carrots, we had brought along some pork scratchings for additional flavour, but it turned out there was haddock, too, courtesy of one Jonny Jarrow, a delivery boy for Newcastle fishmonger R.J. Hepworth who also moved a bit of Holy Phoenix on the side.

The monks were genial hosts, not least because Father Clem was something of a Wolves supporter himself, albeit of the kind we called “Breakfast table fans” as they only actually followed us via their morning papers. In fact, Father Clem didn’t even get a morning paper very often and was delighted to hear how well the season was going. Despite our sincere petitions, he declined to come to the match the following morning, saying he’d “got some prayers to do.” We partook of Holy Phoenix, told tales of our travels, listened patiently to the monks’ talk of gardening, brewing and bible-reading, and hit the hay early, in preparation for setting sail at around three o’clock the following morning.

We were woken by monks with torches on Saturday morning, and felt frozen to the bone once our heavy blankets had been removed. In the face of such conditions, the monks lent us some spare habits for the journey.

There are few experiences more stirring for a football supporter than sailing to a game by torchlight in a Viking longboat

“They call us the Black Monks,” said Father Clem as he bade us farewell at Lindisfarne Harbour, while monks loaded more Holy Phoenix onto the boats for the journey, “But these humble garments now cover monks of gold and black. May God be with you, and come on wor babbies.”

There are few experiences more stirring for a football supporter than sailing to a game by torchlight in a Viking longboat, with the blood running emotional from strong ale. The occasion merited appropriate musical accompaniment and it came from the imagination of Natty Peeves (the son of Matthew Peeves of the Fighting Cocks): a plaintive chant that would come to be known as the Matins of the Wulfrunian Order:

The wind favoured us. At the quayside we were met by delivery boy Jonny Jarrow, who looked a little perplexed as we climbed onto dry land. “I was net expecting three boo-ats,” was his greeting.

“Is it going to be a problem?” asked Bert Tatsfield, hugging himself against a mordant North Sea wind.

Jarrow looked troubled. “No,” he replied, “Now, let’s get yez out of sight.”

He led us to a dockside warehouse, and therein to a modest partitioned room, stacked high with unmarked crates. He recognized curiosity in some eyes. “Aye,” he said, “it’s monky wash. Leave us ninepence if you fancy a drop, and there’s thruppence on the bottle if you drop one. Now, I’ll need five of yers.”

Bert was the first to ask what was in all of our minds.

“Five?”

“Half a dozen, then. Don’t think Bess could pull any more, like…”

“Bess?”

“Ma horse. She’s a canny lass but she’s no three-year-old…”

Concerned looks were shared among the Wulfrunian Order.

“Jonny, mate: are you sure this is the only way? Couldn’t we just get a bus or…”

“A bus? Have yer teeken leave of your senses, man? You wouldn’t make it upstairs! The Amalgam were oot on the toon last night, and it wasn’t pretty, like. Anyway, I promised Father Clem, and a promise is a promise.”

While five of the lads followed Jonny to the cart, the rest of us made the best of things, rearranging some crates into card schools and opening others and the bottles therein. I was almost two bob up and two bottles in when Jonny Jarrow came back for the next half-dozen, so I was happy to let Natty Peeves and his mates from the Fighting Cocks go before us.

“Come on, come on,” urged Jonny, ushering them out of the warehouse door.

An hour and a half later he was back again, and this time appeared a good deal more agitated. “Can yers not be ready and weeting at the door, like?” he said, waiting for Reg Sykes to finish his bottle of monky wash, “We’ve a lot of yers to get though, ya knor…”

“Jonny,” I said, looking up from a pair of kings, “Just give us the word and we’ll make our own way, seriously. I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

“The Amalgam are tearing up Grainger Market at the moment, searching every stall for monky wash. If they even think they smell it on yers breath there’ll be a lynching…. Any way, I promised Father Clem….”

It was a quarter past two before the final group, including myself, Jack Dudley, Harry Sweep and “Budgie” Perton left the warehouse. “Teek ‘em with yers,” said Jonny, almost squealing with haste, “Ah’m tellin’ yers we’ve got to get ganning, man…”

“We’ll give you a shilling for them,” said “Chimley” Sweep.

“Forget the deposits. Just get in, will yers….”

We climbed under the tarp and settled down for the journey, which was a good deal slower than I’d been expecting.

“Uphill,” reasoned Chimley, before adding, somewhat bitterly, “Then there’s all that change in your pocket weighing us down.”

On struggled Bess up the Gallowgate…

I had had an extremely fortunate afternoon, it’s true, but would have happily swapped all of my winnings to be in the ground. Though we could see nothing of Grainger Town, you could sense aggravation every time the horse stopped, be it shouting, a window smashing, the smell of smoke or just a nervous silence to the air. At one point the cart was stopped by what sounded like a makeshift Amalgam checkpoint. Jonny sounded nervous but his fishmonger’s tarp won some benefit of the doubt. On struggled Bess up the Gallowgate until we could hear the a calmer sound, the multiplied muttering of a pre-match crowd. The horse stopped and we climbed out, but when I turned around I saw three men with pitchforks questioning Jonny. Budgie dropped his bottle onto the ground in surprise, and one of the interrogators spotted the label.

“Yous! Come here!” he called, and started walking towards us.

“Run for it, lads!” shouted Jonny, and we took to our heels immediately. “Enjoy the game!” he cried, in obvious discomfort, before adding, “I promised Father Cle-e-e-…” his words distorting into mangled howls and blood-curdling screams.

We made it to the ground just in time for kick-off, and after a couple of verses of “For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow,” in honour of Jonny Jarrow, and a None of The Wulfrunian Order (using the same words as had been devised for our Matins) we watched the Wolves win 2-1. Come on me babbies!