How Soon Is Now!

Salford City (A) - EFL League 2 - 17th March 2026

I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour. Really happy, in fact. Sat in the Friendship, which is stretching the term 'local' somewhat for me, given that although Prestwich was once my stomping ground, I now reside on the other, less yuppiefied side of Heaton Park. There was though something quite poetic about it as I romanticised over a pint of Holt's Bitter, reflecting on how I am one third Barrovian, one third North Manchester and one third Portuguese, and here I am sat in a local boozer cheering on Sporting in a Barrow scarf.

All the ingredients for a great evening you'd like to hope, especially as we'd just witnessed a spectacular comeback from Sporting, overturning a 3-0 first leg deficit. "I'm going to have a baby," my 74 year-old Dad messaged me as Sporting levelled the tie. Not to be taken literally of course - he's not Portugal's answer to Des O'Connor. He always sends me that for some reason when Sporting have a big moment; I can only assume he means something like 'having kittens'.

In the taxi to the ground, news came through that Sporting had scored a fourth, then a fifth, just as I headed into the Peninsula Stadium. Could Tuesday 17th March 2026 be a night of footballing miracles for this Beans reporter, I thought to myself as I took my place on the terrace?

Now, I might have to redefine the term 'match report' for this rambling collection of words, because there is no "on the 62nd minute, whatsamface played a ball past whodyacallit to release thingymagig." In all honesty, I couldn't tell ya.

I have the utmost respect for those who can attend a game and, the day after, remember its details well enough to produce coherent words that accurately describe how it played out. At Beans, we're incredibly lucky to have people who can actually do that. But this reporter too often uses a game of association football as a therapeutic 'let's get twatted' session. You're more likely to see me banging some corrugated steel singing Discoland than taking mental notes on the ground covered by Lewis Shipley. Less xG, more XTC, that's what I say.*

*That's a joke, by the way, I'm nearly 40 now. Please don't write in.

So let me tell you what I do know, what I actually remember of the football. There was huff, and there was puff, but the house certainly didn't blow down. Not in the slightest. As per usual, it stood firm against anything we could muster. We have our moments, little bits here and there, and then... Nothing. Nada. Nichts.! Then of course the opposition scores three goals with the kind of ease that leaves you wondering what sorcery allows a team to do that... just like that! But of course there's no mysterious force at work. It's just us and our total defensive inertia, rinse and fecking repeat. How many times this season have we gifted goals like the three we conceded last night? We are an absolute present to the opposition, gift-wrapped and left on the doorstep, we're the football equivalent of the Postcode Lottery turning up at your door and that's why we're odds-on for relegation - we've just been far too easy to beat this season.

Speaking of gifts - it would be impossible to get through any account of last night without mentioning Wyll Stanway. I hate having to single out these kinds of mistakes from Wyll, because I am one of those who feels genuinely proud that we have two Barrovians in our side, and I will them on that little bit more than I do the rest. For that reason, when Newby misses an open goal (Harrogate, at home) and when Wyll makes what is probably his biggest error of the season at Salford, it hurts more. I understand the disappointment and I understand that when things fall apart, we look for something or someone to blame. But I really didn't like some of what was being shouted from the away end. The lad knows he's made a fuck-up, at a moment when there was a slight glimmer of hope we might get back into it. Start Winterbottom against Grimsby if we must - that's football, and nobody's place is guaranteed.

Anyways… As this latest episode unfolded, we had, for the second game running, news from a fixture afar that a relegation rival was on the verge of picking up three points. First Newport on Saturday, and now Harrogate, with every Barrow fan's favourite ex-bird Pete Wild doing us absolutely no favours whatsoever. We end the night at the bottom of the 72.

Frankly, Mr Hornby, I'm a sickening wreck. I've got the non-league and half of Carlisle's Twitter breathing down my neck!

So then there were nine. Nine games left, and what increasingly looks like the final nine of our time in the Football League. As one member of the Beans! WhatsApp group said after the game, It's now like watching a ship take on water. People are grabbing buckets, trying their best, but you know deep down she's going under.

A Barrovian condition, I've always thought, is to have mastered the art of pessimistic optimism. And yet even that optimism feels like it has submerged to depths greater than any of our fine vessels could reach. Still, hope springs eternal (I think). I'm not particularly fazed by the fact that the sides we have left to face are, on paper, stronger than those we've played recently. That's never really mattered to us. We don't win the games we're potentially supposed to, so I actually feel less dread travelling to Grimsby than I do hosting the likes of Crawley. Last night did give us MJ Williams and Foley getting some minutes, and that is a genuine positive. If there's any chance of staying up, their contribution will be crucial.

Some things though you just can't outrun. The trapdoor has been creaking for a while now, and nine games in this type of form surely isn't enough time to seal it shut. Please prove us wrong.

So to Grimsby we go and Heaven knows we're miserable now!

February / March 2026

£3.20

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