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INTRODUCTION

‘WHAT HAVE THEY SAID, THEN?’ COMES THE QUESTION FROM THE desk each Saturday evening around five-thirty just after the managers have filtered out of the football ground press room having either probably, a) delivered anodyne observation if a result was a positive one, appreciating their words are scrutinised so inexorably it is sensible to avoid dishing out superlatives for fear of engendering overstatement, or b) bitterly pointed out a referee’s shortcoming for getting a decision wrong, appreciating it will generate the headlines that might masquerade personal failing completely or, at least, bury defining and damning details further down the report.

Outstanding reportage still exists, but it sometimes feels that the coverage of football, sport and world affairs generally has been reduced to 140 characters on Twitter or he said/she said type analysis because the profile of the person saying it somehow makes it more newsworthy, resulting in context, the real stories, the wider shifts – the ones that require digging and, most importantly, time and investigation – being lost amidst the noise.

It is not necessarily the managers’ fault that football in particular has gone this way. Sean Dyche told me during the writing of this book that managers are now really spokesmen for the clubs they represent because they are obliged by rules to talk before and after matches, while players – or the faceless accountants answerable to the interests of American groups, Russian oligarchs or Middle Eastern emirs that actually run many clubs – are not.

This in turn brings enormous pressure and in some way explains why nearly half of the managers across England’s 92 clubs had been sacked by late April during the 2016/17 season. If it seemed like they were on the brink of insanity, answering questions relating to their own future, it was assumed they were.

I had wanted to write this book fundamentally because I figured it would take serious study to understand the depth of the feelings involved in the game, how it has changed – and where it is heading. Some interviewees, like Dyche, told me they were happier to speak truthfully about the challenges they face because a book allowed room for the necessary context.

The reason many of us become journalists or writers is to understand nuances, to build relationships and break them if necessary, to seek truths, and to disclose what would otherwise remain hidden. It is not to sit at a work station for seven hours a day while being watched, trawling through social media platforms, writing clickbait headlines to catch ridiculous online audience targets. Behind the din, I think of this project as a pause button. Hopefully it reflects what football is like in 2017; what it really does to people at the very top, at the very bottom and everywhere in between.

I started my journalistic career covering non-league football and felt it was under-represented in the media then. By the time I left the Crosby Herald the local football team, Marine, had at least three pages of coverage in the paper each week. Regularly, there was eight pages of sport, with cricket, rugby and bowls all given the space they needed to breathe.

The narrative around what happened next usually starts with the readers, who apparently stopped buying newspapers, prompting advertisers to withdraw. This underplays the significance of basic circulation figures, which though reasonably healthy were ultimately determined not to be healthy enough to satisfy the demands of avaricious shareholders at the organisation that printed the papers.

By the time the Herald closed in 2015, sport had frequently been reduced to just two pages in total. When the cuts began newsrooms shrank, cover prices increased, wages were frozen, offices shut, editorial teams merged. Seasoned journalists with years of experience and bulging contacts books were replaced by keen but inexperienced university graduates – or not at all. Meanwhile, council meetings, court hearings and matters of genuine public interest were not scrutinised as they used to be. It now feels as though social media has replaced the unappreciated art of chatting to the shopper as the primary form of news gathering; the shopper who pops into the office willing to tell you what you need to hear to do your job because the said office is located conveniently and they trust the reporter due to face to face access.

This is not a story exclusive to Crosby and it is one repeated across the country and elsewhere in the world. It has not only meant non-league and lower-league clubs from sizeable towns are not receiving the coverage they need for supporters to be informed nor floating fans to feel urged to get involved and enrich the sport themselves, it explains why people in these areas felt as though they had no one fighting their corner in the media. It felt like to become a story, your team had to be either at the top or the bottom, ignoring the idea there might be much to be told about the clubs, the people, whose struggle is the same season after season – to stay afloat. They manage this through a lot of hard work – but for how long? These clubs and people represent a majority rather than a minority.

Of the twelve teams that contested the first season of the Football League, which ran from autumn 1888 to spring 1889, six of them were from the northwest. Jack Gordon of Preston North End is regarded as scoring the first goal of the new competition – although this is disputed in some quarters due to claims that Preston’s game kicked off 45 minutes later than others that day. What is not disputed is the fact that Preston went on to lift the first Football League Championship without losing a game, and won the FA Cup without conceding a goal.

Though southern sides gradually began to find a foothold in the previously northern-dominated league, from its formation until the end of the 2016/17 season, accounting for war years, 119 football seasons had been played in England and in 58 of those seasons a team from the north-west had finished as top-flight champions.

The north-west is a region that has pushed boundaries in football. The first English club to embarked on an overseas tour came from the north-west. When the first purpose-built football stadium was constructed, it was located in the north-west. A north-west club issued the first programme to supporters at a football match. The first shirt numbers were worn by a north-west club; the same club first installed dugouts and, later, undersoil heating. When a footballer was transferred between English clubs for the first time for more than £100,000, that footballer was from the north-west and he transferred between two north-west clubs – reflecting the economic strength of a region where many owners were local industrialists who had grown rich from the land. The footballer on this occasion was Alan Ball and the club responsible for all of these ‘firsts’ was a single one, Everton.

In this book Everton feature in a section called Independent Land, a title which reflects how Merseyside is almost a separate place from the rest of the north-west, with geography and industry shaping political beliefs. Liverpool as a city has more in common with Naples and Marseille than, say, Blackpool and Burnley and yet is not quite so different from Manchester as it would like to claim. Manchester, though, is considered here as the core of the region, with an orbit of clubs circling around it almost like satellites. The parts of the book looking at the margins of the very north and, to some extent, the valley, the hills and the marshes of Southport analyse how location can impact upon existence, while the coast looks at how an area once so synonymous with Englishness (because it was the place where many used to holiday if they could afford it) survives and in some parts actually appears to be flourishing even though so much around it has failed.

I hope that On the Brink reflects the modern football landscape of the north-west which remains England’s most successful football region, though in the last five years it has lost four Premier League clubs, three of whom were well-established with the other, Blackpool, falling briefly to the bottom tier of English professional football. This had happened at a time where the threat from the south of the country has gathered because of the wealth it now accumulates and the willingness of foreign owners to invest there because of transport links.

There are other books that detail precisely how football became a financial machine but I hope this one helps explain how geography, industry and, indeed, politics detail why certain things are the way they are in certain places; why, wherever you go, this football era is viewed as being either the very best or the very worst of times. I wanted to find out how money has affected the game – or at least how it is perceived by those operating at the coal face: the managers, the owners, the players, the directors, the politicians and the fans. In a season where Real Madrid earned £80million for winning the Champions League, Sunderland received £93.5million for finishing bottom of the Premier League. What happens when rank failure at the top is rewarded so handsomely while success further down is worth so very little economically by comparison?

By June 2017, Kyle Walker was on the brink of signing for Manchester City for £50million, a world record deal for a right-back. While there was no sign of austerity in the Premier League’s transfer spending spree, League Two’s Morecambe were on the brink of being bought by new owners who claimed the darkest days would not happen again, the days when staff looked at their bank balances at the end of each month only to find they had not been paid. It had happened on three occasions during the 2016/17 season alone. Right at the bottom, one of the proudest names in non-league football, Northwich Victoria, appeared to be heading towards the lowest tier of semi-professional football after yet another demotion. Each club felt like they were on the brink of something.

CURSED

WHEN THE RIVER EDEN SWEPT THROUGH THE VILLAGE OF LAZONBY, Danny Grainger, the captain of Carlisle United, was playing an FA Cup second-round game against Welling United in south-east London. A friend back in Lazonby, who lived in a low-lying home, filmed the scene beyond his kitchen window, relaying the terror as Grainger – a father, husband and dog owner – sat nervously in a cold changing room hundreds of miles away. As the waters continued to rise the pressure on the glass was audible, scraping at first then creaking like below deck on an old wooden boat. The lights behind flickered. The electrics were out. Then, darkness.

Record volumes of rain had fallen on land already saturated from a soggy autumn. Not far away the picturesque tourist spot at Pooley Bridge had collapsed. The bridge, which had stood since 1764, was one of more than 500 hundred bridges in Cumbria damaged and declared unusable. Meanwhile, on Warwick Road, the thoroughfare that leads past Carlisle United’s Brunton Park ground, some houses were so consumed by Storm Desmond that residents decided to attempt an escape through upper floors by jumping from windows and swimming for safety, even though they did not know where safety was exactly.

‘The scariest thing was the noise of the water,’ Grainger remembers, pulling a mobile phone from his pocket and playing the video sent by his friend. ‘If you listen, it sounds so powerful. You always think about water being peaceful but this was the opposite: aggressive, destructive.’

Grainger says he will never forget Saturday, 5 December 2015.

‘Leaving the village didn’t feel like a departure, it was more of an escape,’ he recalls. ‘We left for Welling in the morning just as the storm was coming in. There was a huge flood right across the road. I was thinking, how am I going to get out of here? My sister’s partner came past in his four-by-four. The solution was for him to drive in front, clear the water, and for me to follow. A few hours later this wouldn’t have been possible because the whole place was flooded.

‘Driving south through the Lakes, the bus was swaying from side to side in the wind. Wagons were turned over. When we arrived at the hotel in London, the news was everywhere. Neil Dalton’s the Carlisle physio and a Cumbrian. I asked him what he thought. “Worse than last time,” he told me. “The river didn’t get breached this early.” He was talking about 2005.

‘I woke up and the TV footage made Carlisle look like a disaster area. In the meantime, we had a game to play, which was very difficult. Even though I knew by then my family were safe, other lads had suffered. Mark Gillespie, our goalkeeper, hadn’t travelled because of illness and he was left stranded on the top floor of the club digs where he lives. Somehow we beat Welling 5–0 but the bus on the way home was very quiet. Michael Raynes was the vice-captain and we decided that we – as players – had to do something about it.

‘On the Tuesday after training the waters had receded and we were able to walk down Warwick Road. It took seventeen of us fifteen minutes to strip a house. After a few hours pulling furniture out we’d helped all the people who’d contacted the club on social media asking for help so we started knocking on doors: “Do you need help with anything – want the house emptied?” It’s a horrible way of putting it but we were literally ripping family homes out and chucking their lives on the street. There was no other option. Not one of us did it for positive publicity or anything like that. It’s the sort of mentality we have at the club. The supporters have followed us through hard times so we had to give something back. It was as simple as that.’

Fifteen months later, it would appear normality has returned to Warwick Road until you analyse the small details. Before meeting Grainger, the owner of a convenience store had told me his takings were down by two-thirds. All of his stock was lost when the floodwaters rushed through the doors, reaching the top shelf of his magazine rack. Outside his shop, skips remained filled with carpets, mud and grass, while trees were tied with silky blue ribbons to indicate the high-water mark of the storm, which caused the River Petteril to topple the nearby Botcherby Bridge. The cost to Cumbria of Storm Desmond was estimated at £500m or more. But, as a report from the Carlisle Flood Action Group pointed out, the damage was not only financial. ‘The human cost of the storm and its aftermath is similarly incalculable,’ the report read. ‘The effect of evacuation and displacement on physical and mental health, with lives put on hold, was significant and remains so for many.’

Some residents had since decided to live upstairs in case another flood hit while others simply could not face returning to their once handsome Victorian three-beds with their high ceilings and bay windows. There is a story in the local paper about a couple who sold their house for £80,000 rather than £170,000 because they did not want to be around when the next flood hits.

Grainger, who was born and raised in Cumbria, was playing in Scotland the last time it happened back in 2005 and he admits to being as guilty as anyone for not appreciating the impact of the devastation. ‘I saw a football pitch where I used to play and the water was up to the crossbar. It’s only when you stand on the pitch again you realise, hang on, this is quite high . . .’

He thinks the government could be doing more to help Carlisle.

‘Because we’re so far out of the way people forget about us,’ he says. ‘There are news channels which beam footage from anywhere in the world twenty-four/seven. In many ways it has normalised tragedy because it is there all of the time, only a click away on remote control. It’s easy to sit behind a TV and go, “Wow, that looks terrible.” It’s only when you visit somewhere that has suffered badly and see with your own eyes that it begins to really affect you – and you realise how bad a situation is. I do think something has to change drastically for this not to happen to our region again.’

To reach Carlisle from the south you have to cross stark mountain ranges and deep forests. There are isolated farms and close-knit villages. Shap, the highest motorway service station in England, feels like a staging post to a wild interior. It was here, hundreds of years ago, the border reivers operated; raiders of the Anglo-Scottish borderlands, who stole ruthlessly and without consideration of nationality.

In 1525, when the reivers were pillaging deep into Scotland, the Archbishop of Glasgow, Gavin Dunbar, wrought a whopping 1,069-word curse on the invaders. ‘I curse their head and all the hairs of their head, I curse their face, their brain, their mouth, their nose, their tongue, their teeth,’ he began. ‘I curse them going and I curse them riding; I curse them standing and I curse them sitting; I curse them eating and I curse them drinking; I curse them rising, and I curse them lying; I curse them at home, I curse them away from home; I curse them within the house, I curse them outside of the house; I curse their wives, their children, and their servants who participate in their deeds; their crops, their cattle, their wool, their sheep, their horses, their swine, their geese, their hens, and all their livestock; their halls, their chambers, their kitchens, their stanchions, their barns, their cowsheds, their barnyards, their cabbage patches, their ploughs, their harrows, and the goods and houses that are necessary for their sustenance and welfare.’

He was merely halfway through his diatribe when he added, ‘May the thunder and lightning which rained down upon Sodom and Gomorrah and all the lands surrounding them, and burned them for their vile sins, rain down upon them and burn them for their open sins.’

The reivers withered and the curse of Dunbar slept, until 2001, when as part of the Millennium celebrations Carlisle City Council asked Gordon Young, a local artist and descendent of the reivers, to carve 383 of the archbishop’s words into a stone that was placed on a dank underpass between Carlisle Castle and the Tullie House museum.

There is a whispered belief that the curse has tortured Carlisle ever since, that the city is doomed. One such believer was Jim Tootle, the Liberal Democrat councillor who campaigned for the stone to be removed from his ward and preferably destroyed. The Daily Mail made a big deal of it when Tootle died suddenly in 2011. He did not see the floods of 2015 but he did see those of a decade earlier, around the time there was not only a fire at Rathbone’s Bakery, but also devastating redundancies at Cavaghan & Gray, the food manufacturing plant in Carlisle that made coleslaw for Marks & Spencer. Carlisle United had not been immune from hardship either. In 2004 – three years after the stone’s installation – the club was relegated out of the Football League for the first time in its 99-year history.

The twenty-first century had not started well for the city of Carlisle at all. It began with the foot-and-mouth outbreak in 2001, back when Danny Grainger was a fourteen-year-old junior footballer living on his parents’ farm, having recently been released by the club he now captains. Grainger had retreated to the Kent Valley League when the competition was shut down for eight months to stop the spread of the disease. At the height of the crisis, Danny, his parents Les and Hilary, plus sisters Lisa and Kerry could not leave their land in Eamont Bridge near Penrith. As smoke from the fires burning livestock carcasses filled the air, food was left at the end of the drive, school was cancelled and socialising forbidden while the government attempted to prevent a nationwide epidemic.

‘Life froze for what felt like a long time,’ Grainger remembers. ‘I could see the concern on my parents’ faces, though they tried their best to hide it. It felt like everything we ever knew had been wiped out in one day because the animals had to be culled as quickly as possible. Everyone in the area knew everyone and the phone would ring each night. “Have you heard about such and such a farm?” It was heartbreaking to see everyone’s dreams shatter like that.’

I had chosen to meet Grainger for a number of reasons. His path as a professional footballer is connected to the land he was brought up on and the tragedy it has suffered. Because of foot-and-mouth, because of the lockdown, the nearest active football competition was just over the border in Scotland, and so he started to play junior games for Queen of the South. From there he went to Gretna, remaining in the Scottish system for more than a decade until he signed for Carlisle in the summer of 2014, his first and only English club at the age of 28. Within fourteen months he was appointed Carlisle’s captain – their leader – at a time when Keith Curle was casting his net further to recruit players than any other manager the club has appointed in its recent history. Grainger, indeed, had never played for a club based south of Carlisle and so, whenever Carlisle travel away, team-mates tease him for his provincialism. ‘As soon as I get off the bus, the boys start: “Look, it’s the farmer in the city,” they say. I’ll be honest with you, I hate city life. Even when I played for Hearts I lived right on the edge of the city boundaries, as close as possible to the countryside. Edinburgh’s a beautiful place but I like being able to jump over the back fence and take my dog for a walk. She’s a Patterdale Terrier cross.’

Grainger grew up a long way from the north-west’s main football centres, Manchester and Liverpool; Carlisle is, in fact, much closer to Newcastle than either. In his football travelogue, The Far Corner, Harry Pearson writes about Carlisle’s special relationship with the north-east. ‘“Have you been to Carlisle yet?” they’d say when I told people about my book. When I pointed out that the Great Border City as it likes to bill itself was actually in the north-west they’d nod thoughtfully and say, “Aye, I suppose it is, really,” as if they’d never noticed before.’

Pearson reasoned that the confusion was easy to understand because of media coverage, with reviews of Carlisle United’s matches featuring on local north-east magazine television shows. Not only that, Carlisle United and Workington had both played in the old North Eastern League before gaining Football League status, while Penrith – twenty miles south of Carlisle – had spent half a century competing in the Northern League, travelling over the Pennines every other weekend. ‘I felt a million miles away from anywhere when I was younger, to be honest,’ Grainger admits, ‘. . . the end of the bloody world.’

Cumbria is England’s third largest county, but its 41st most populated, with Carlisle its only city. Rather than connections between people, Grainger believes Cumbrian identity is based around the earth; what it yields, how it suffers. ‘Everyone I know has some link to manual labour, whether it’s a farm or a building site, mates – their brothers or cousins. Carlisle is classed a city but it’s more of a relatively small market town and not a centre of big business. We know what hard work is up here and we’re not afraid to get our hands dirty. It can get unbearably cold in the winter.’

For some, Carlisle’s isolation is too much. Brunton Park is a throwback, with more terracing than any other football ground in the country. The main stand still has wooden seats and a large paddock ensures that fans can direct their opinions clearly to visiting coaching staff. When the young player-manager Ivor Broadis signed from Tottenham Hotspur in 1946, he described the move from one of London’s fashionable clubs as like ‘stepping down from the Savoy Hotel into the Jungle Café’. Three years later Broadis became the first manager in English football to arrange his own move elsewhere by going to Sunderland. Though Bill Shankly replaced Broadis, he only stayed for two years because Carlisle’s board reneged on promises to pay players a bonus if the team finished in the top three of Third Division North.

In the 1970s, Cumbria had three Football League clubs: Carlisle, Workington and Barrow. When promotion to the old First Division was earned in 1974, Shankly, who had since become the most influential manager in Liverpool’s history, described Carlisle’s achievement as ‘the greatest feat in the history of the game’. Following victory at Middlesbrough, Carlisle played their first top-flight home match against Tottenham, when a Chris Balderstone penalty sent them top of the English Football League.

The high did not last for long. Although home and away victories over Everton had a decisive say in the title race – effectively handing the League Championship to Derby County – relegation was confirmed at the end of that campaign and by the 1990s Carlisle consistently looked like following Workington and Barrow out of the Football League. The club’s vulnerable position explains why Michael Knighton, a businessman who had been close to purchasing Manchester United, bought Carlisle in 1992 when the team was only able to retain its Football League status because Aldershot went bust.

His failure to seize Manchester United had been very public and so Knighton wanted to show sceptics and media that he wasn’t just talk – though he could not resist promising to take Carlisle to the Premier League within a decade. Knighton’s masterplan had started promisingly but in 1996 doubts about his credibility surfaced when a recently launched local paper ran a story about him, claiming that he had seen a UFO while driving on the motorway. While the story made headlines all over the country, Carlisle’s supporters squirmed.

The club’s spiral accelerated in 1997 when Knighton sacked manager Mervyn Day, who had just won promotion and the Auto Windscreens Shield at Wembley. With that, Michael Knighton decided that the best person to replace Day was, in fact, himself. After BBC’s Football Focus featured Knighton the chairman in conversation with Knighton the manager, the Knightons fled to the Isle of Man to live, faxing instructions to the group of players left behind; a group which did not include Rory Delap, Matt Jansen and Paul Murray, because Carlisle’s best local players had already been sold for combined fees of £2million. By the time Knighton decided to step down a year later, none of the profits had been reinvested in the team and Carlisle were the fourth-worst team in the Football League.

With Grainger watching from the Warwick Road terrace, safety was secured that season only in injury time of the final game, thanks to a goal scored against Plymouth Argyle by Jimmy Glass, the on-loan goalkeeper. His manager Nigel Pearson reacted to the famous moment by saying, ‘If I could write scripts like that, I wouldn’t be in this game. I’d have a very good publishing contract.’

The antipathy towards Knighton in Carlisle remains raw, however. Many believe he considered the club a soft target, a place he could try and live out his fantasies because of its location far away from the main media glare. His legacy lives on because there is an inherent distrust of owners – even if they are local, but especially if they are outsiders making big promises. When I visited Carlisle there had been speculation about a takeover simmering for nearly two years. A Syrian national living in Canada, Yahya Kirdi, was thought to be behind a move. Like Knighton, Kirdi had a past, having been allied to the purchase of Liverpool in 2010 when the club was close to administration under the ownership of Tom Hicks and George Gillett. Nobody was quite sure how Kirdi had accumulated his wealth. His only business links were a pizza parlour in Montreal and a one-man-band agency business for low-level ice hockey players. There were two theories about Kirdi, one of them being that he was connected to Gillett – the owner of the Montreal Canadiens NHL franchise – through the sale of hockey players and that Kirdi’s interest was planted in the media to fend off the banks, who were close to recalling their loans with Liverpool inching towards administration. Also supposedly involved in the deal was Celtic left-back-cum-financial-advisor Andy Lynch, who met Kirdi during a spell playing indoor football for Montreal Manic in the early 1980s. Lynch claimed to have strong relationships in the Middle East. The second theory involved Kirdi and Lynch being chancers, who just wanted to see their names associated with one of football’s great sporting institutions.

For the time being, Carlisle supporters were having to make do with 82-year-old Andrew Jenkins being in charge, a wealthy benefactor – but not that wealthy. Much of the frustration lay with John Nixon, a co-owner who had stood down from his position as managing director in 2015 because of fan pressure and been replaced by Nigel Clibbens, whose new role as chief executive was considered to be more of a fireguard against criticism. Clibbens gave an interview to the Carlisle News & Star in March 2017 saying the club had an agreement with a ‘billionaire’ investor after a 650-day saga, insisting, ‘Yes, I do know when it ends.’

There was hope that the mystery buyer would be the owner of Edinburgh Woollen Mill, Philip Day, a 51-year-old who grew up on a council estate in Stockport but now lives in a castle near Carlisle. Day sits on Carlisle United’s board and, according to the Sunday Times 2016 Rich List, his net worth was £1.05billion. Day, though, was said to be reluctant to buy the club because he did not want his involvement to extend beyond casual sporting pleasure.

It was not as if Carlisle required assistance to get themselves out of financial problems. Their attendances were among the biggest in League Two and their wage bill reflected not only what was coming through the gates but also the remuneration paid to players to convince them that moving to the very north of the country wasn’t such a bad thing. Among their squad were players who commuted every couple of days from Manchester and Liverpool, staying in digs provided by the club close to Brunton Park. Like men that work on oil rigs, these players would tell their families they were ‘working away’.

Before signing for Carlisle, Grainger spoke to his friend Lewis Guy, a Penrith-born centre-forward who was deemed not tall enough for Newcastle United’s first team and spent his career switching between clubs in England and Scotland. ‘Lewis said to me, “The travelling – you’ll find it difficult”.’ In the 2015/16 season, Carlisle did more miles than any other season in the club’s history having been drawn away in most of their FA Cup and League Cup fixtures to opponents based in the south of the country. ‘By the end of the season I was really flagging,’ Grainger concedes. ‘Anybody who signs for Carlisle has to accept that it’s a club that will take up more of your time.’

Grainger says Carlisle’s squad cannot complain because the club spends more money than any other in League Two on ensuring the comfort of their players over the long distances involved with away games.

‘The coaches are class and the club pays for us to stay in nice hotels,’ Grainger adds. ‘The location means we’re allowed more days off as well. The manager understands that the players who travel in need to spend as much time as they can with their families. There are a dozen or so teams in and around our standard from the central belt around Liverpool and Manchester. For us to go toe-to-toe with a Bury or a Morecambe, we have to pay them £200 or £300 a week extra. For us to attract players, we have to push the boat out a bit more.’

Carlisle’s location places an extra pressure on recruitment. It is not just a case of targeting the most talented players, there are also issues around finding those who won’t be affected by the travel – finding players who don’t suffer from homesickness. Carlisle has a strong tradition in scouting, considering two of the greatest talent-spotters of the 21st century came from the city: Liverpool’s Geoff Twentyman and Ipswich Town’s John Carruthers. While Twentyman’s playing career took him from Carlisle to Liverpool and back again before being appointed by Bill Shankly as Anfield’s chief scout, then serving under Bob Paisley and Joe Fagan, it was Carruthers who recommended a sixteen-year-old Kevin Beattie to Twentyman only for the future England defender to find nobody waiting to meet him at Lime Street Station in Liverpool after he travelled south for a trial. Beattie promptly went straight back to Carlisle and upon his return Carruthers mentioned Beattie’s extraordinary talent to a local man, Donald Lightfoot, who knew Bobby Robson. After one trial game at Ipswich Town, Beattie was signed. Carruthers, whose remit under Robson included the north-east as well as Cumbria, later suggested he sign a ‘podgy lad’ playing for Dunston Working Men’s Club in Gateshead, but Paul Gascoigne did not impress at Portman Road.

The tales of Beattie and, indeed, Carruthers reveals that historically footballers have been found in Cumbria. Today, Grainger has concerns about the number of children playing football in the region. Northern Cumbria is serviced by just three 3G pitches: one in Penrith and two others in Carlisle. Grainger thinks it would be helpful to have more facilities for organised leagues because the weather is so bad and so many games get called off on grass pitches. ‘To get more kids playing there needs to be a cultural shift,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing better than playing with your mates on a field and coming home head to toe in mud but parents are more concerned about their kids’ welfare than ever.’

Grainger would like to sit beside more Cumbrians in Carlisle’s dressing room. Steve Rigg was the last one, a striker who signed from Penrith having scored 64 goals in 85 games. In the summer of 2016 he moved across the border to sign for Queen of the South, having found the step up of five leagues too big to take at once. ‘There is a gap between the levels in terms of individual talent. But I also think that if you look at a club like Workington (who compete in the Northern Premier League, three divisions below Carlisle), the team is almost always competitive despite the huge distances they have to travel. Many of the lads there are Cumbrian so you realise that locality counts for something because there is a natural bond between players and a spirit exists.’

As the only Cumbrian – and as the captain – there is more expectation on Grainger as a Carlisle United player. He says his toughest time was at the beginning – when he first signed – because relegation from League One had been confirmed not long before and they quickly found themselves rooted to the foot of League Two.

‘You take it personally when the criticism comes,’ he acknowledges. ‘You go to the local shop and you hear it all the time, “Didn’t play well on Saturday, did you, son.” I’m only trying to buy a chocolate bar for my kid! The reminders are everywhere. It’s even worse now because of social media. Whereas ten years ago, the players from elsewhere could disappear after matches and the local lads would get it in the neck every week, everyone is a target because each person is reachable through the Internet. It makes me angry when people think it doesn’t hurt when we get beat because it really does. We played Cambridge and lost 3–0 recently. My whole family was there including my kids. It felt like I’d let everyone down. A lot of my friends are Carlisle fans. They’ll text you, “What was that?” Just leave me alone!’

Grainger loves being a footballer and he is proud of being captain of Carlisle United, where there is a sense of community with the football club central to it – thanks in no small part to his work in the aftermath of the floods. It remains a place, however, where globalisation has left a tangible sense of frustration; 60 per cent of voters in Carlisle opted for Brexit in the EU referendum of 2016. Grainger is not alone in wondering whether the perception of the Premier League impacted in some way when football supporters went to the ballot box in the smaller cities and towns where clubs have less money. On a personal level, he thinks the wider view of footballers as workers – the money they supposedly all earn – is widely inaccurate, especially at the lower end, because of the Premier League.

‘When you look at the Premier League and you see all the money, all the marketing, all the coverage it is given, people compare it to their own experiences and begin to feel bad about football,’ he says. ‘On a personal level, the impression of what footballers earn and are as human beings affects basic everyday life. Mortgage companies have the retirement ages of footballers down at thirty-five. They look at my earnings and expect to see a lot more when the reality is, League Two players aren’t paid a great deal more than the average person. Because our careers are short and because the reality doesn’t reflect the impression, it means many of us are judged unfairly even by banks.’

In total more than 2,000 properties were directly affected by Storm Desmond. Brunton Park was submerged under filthy water and Carlisle United were unable to play home games for two months. Danny Grainger and the rest of Carlisle’s players were forced to train in the nearest city Newcastle, 58 miles to the east. Home games were played in Blackburn, Preston and Blackpool. That attendances at Ewood Park, Deepdale and Bloomfield Road remained similar to Brunton Park is a testimony to the endurance of Carlisle supporters, considering the domestic pressures many of them were under and the distances they had to travel just to give their team some backing. Carlisle had been at the top of the league before the floods, having suffered only one defeat in eleven games. After, there was just one win in twelve. Perhaps Carlisle United’s story – perhaps the club’s unique geographical position – reveals that the league table sometimes does lie at the end of the season after all.