This is the End

Newport (H) - EFL League 2 - 2nd May 2026

"For everything to be consummated, for me to feel less alone, I had only to wish that there be a large crowd of spectators the day of my execution and that they greet me with cries of hate"

Albert Camus - The Stranger

I know…I KNOW.

It's just a small town's football team going from one place to another. Hardly more than a footnote in the local news. Ten seconds of faux concern on North West Tonight. A blip on an agent's CV to be explained away. A fixed point on a graph as the line heads downward. I know, alright?

Pre-relegation week has been a trial. Well-meaning commiserations or know it all comments at work. Taking of medicine on social media and penned online obituaries / analysis. Swirling rumours of exits, fallouts and returns ping from chat to chat to chat.

Anyway, deep breath. Up early for it. 7am and a dank peninsula sky looks full of nearly shed tears. Time for a quick, unpleasant rummage through the season's belongings. And what a study in failure that has been. Off the field, reactionary, poor plans and even poorer decisions with grimly laughable justifications. These then endlessly picked upon in a harvest of negativity.

On the field? Jesus, where do you start? Having a working grass field on which to practise would have been nice, despite sterling efforts. A shambles of a training ground where we'd spent considerable money on a pitch we couldn't use, hence mostly using an artificial pitch over a hundred miles away; pounding legs that were going anyway.

The repetition of the same errors, despite whatever incarnation of management spilled out of the tombola? The paralysing fear and excuses, as experienced, complacent journeymen realised it was all going south.

Weak minded lack of urgency explained away with excuses and talk of 'good lads' who seemed to actively dislike playing at Holker Street, never understanding that the waiting gallows was for the away team, one of the few advantages our tough, isolated, proud town could bring to bear.

Moments and games. Limited at Chesterfield and home to an expensive MK. Awful at Harrogate again. Grindingly poor at home to Fleetwood and Swindon. Perfecting the inconsistent inability to play ninety minutes at Bristol Rovers. A Rob Kelly infused flurry of hope. Game but outpowered at Bromley. Toothless at home to Cambridge and abject at home to Tranmere. Crap versus Cheltenham, awful at Accrington, shite against Salford, clueless at Crewe.

A hugely underwhelming caretaker cameo; morphing into a desperate glance out the FC Portokabin window and appointment of an academy coach. Who then got a window. On to a more pragmatic board level tilt, too strong medicine without the opportunity to recruit the right stuff, clashes between an ill-fitting, hectoring style and a squad that couldn't cope.

Then it got worse. Crawley at home? The 'ghost tackle' at Swindon. Fury at County. A comedy of errors followed by a collective meltdown at Shrewsbury. Embarrassingly unarsed at home to Harrogate. Fleetwood's fearful collapse after defiant hopes were cruelly raised. In came Sam Foley's thankless task. Vibes based soothing and a tactical tombola at the mercy of poorly managed injuries. Battered at Grimsby.

By now, baked in failure at home to Chesterfield and a late classic throwaway at Barnet.

Brief hopes dashed at home to Walsall and a sunshine stroll to usher Cambridge towards promotion.

'Are you here for the last rites?' said a gnarled regular cheerily. I had succumbed to an inexplicable pull towards Holker Street. A cheery, stoic welcome from the staff in the ticket office and shop while a steady stream picked the sale clean, even the monstrous pea-green romper suits that masquerade as training gear. Quick chat with one of the bar workers whose now adult kids I taught and a wave and shout from a Trust stalwart 'getting stuff ready' in the shop. Newport media people shared a joke with a local volunteer carrying a hammer, no doubt repairing one of many, many flaws. It's 11.30 a.m.

I've always loved pre match when the ground is quiet and the game being prepared. That do it yourself feel has been impervious to EFL modernity which is both a strength and a weakness. Walking past a bird shit flecked old 'INTENSITY IS OUR IDENTITY' and the faded blue of Take me Up, Up, Up and Away. Stewards practised with the pitch invasion rope as we gossiped.

'They are just lounging around in there, the bastards,' opined one of the volunteers as the fanzone filled up mostly with cheery yet apprehensive Welsh, who were also purchasing a crop of raffle tickets. To be fair, our finely honed professionals have often lounged around on the pitch all season. That horse hasn't bolted, it's boarded an Easyjet and fucked off to Ibiza to sleep under a sun lounger.

The tactical tombola had been rattled and there was no Wyll Stanway. Rumours abounded and Killian Barrett was a surprise choice. We lined up with three up top but given the season, no prospect of a miracle.

Newport brought a loud, smoky support but we started with a bit more of that fire, that has been lacking for much of this season. With us playing bright, aggressive percentage football, a cut back found a busy and creative Charlie McCann who arriving late crashed home. Delight swelled in the sunshine, especially in the Holker End- some way must be found not to stupidly chase away the latest crop of youth who tried to get behind the team.

Newport, despite a few headers over, were very much on the back foot. McCann had a shot deflected over, a lively Rekeem Harper sliced one into outer space. Hemmings worked hard to be a nuisance and be a fulcrum. Some of the early balls were rubbish, but only some and we were forcing them into panic. Then an almighty goalmouth stramash came to naught, Gordon nearly reprised the Oldham goal pressing their keeper. MJ was powering forward cleverly and from good work Gordon blazed over.

We were leaving gaps at the back though and their striker cut in and blasted a curled shot off the bar. Quite stirring stuff to watch but tinged with deep, deep sadness. If we'd been able to sustain this at any point, we wouldn't be circling the bottom of the toilet bowl with the other three sides. We were ahead in the battle but had long since lost the war.

Half time brought chat and speculation. Online threats? Sackings? Resignations? Signings? Retreads on the board? Bristol Rovers signings? All life was there, much of it likely untrue, who knows? The one thing I did know is we were unlikely to replicate the endeavour of the first half.

On we went. And first it seemed Barrow had set out to prove a point. Shots rained down more than the previous months' worth of games… but they were mostly quarter chances, and we still can't produce a killer (or even slightly threatening) ball most of the time. Still, we ploughed on and got a deserved penalty when an arm was struck.

Could we put the wind if not up our rivals, at least a slight spring chill? Course not, as Josh Gordon's tepid effort was saved. Shoulders slumped on and off the pitch though I was heartened by the industrious Smith getting round the back to side foot a half volley over.

At least the thunder-sticks were being enthusiastically bashed by ten-year-olds in the Steelworks, yelling YOU SHIT BASTARD, AH! with great enjoyment. Again, more of this minor daftness please, rather than announcements on social media for us to curb behaviour. Bring back The Cage.

Then, inevitably, a centre half did something idiotic and wrongly passed the ball back to our new young keeper, who'd been quite confident and steady. He got in a muddle, lost the ball and Davis struck. Huge delight in the away end as Newport edged back ahead of Harrogate.

Barrett made a decent save as Welsh tails bristled, then we once again left too big a gap into which Kamwa waltzed happily and curled the ball into the top corner. Fans trudged through broken hopes and dreams, slowly kicking away the mental detritus of this awful, craven season while in the corner, the Welsh partied. Grim.

Mercifully, after a cruel extra seven minutes, it was over. The machines were turned off and the patient slipped quietly away. There was little in the way of fury- most had said their piece dozens of times to no effect. Some even clapped, if only perhaps as some sort of death spasm. A few went to the tunnel to vent deserved spleen.

As we sat a little while later, numb, in the fan zone old friends came and went to pay their final respects. There was a small crowd waiting for the players on their way out- not an angry mob, but kids waiting for autographs with parents. For them, hopefully Barrow players will still be an exciting prospect next year. I'd have preferred pitchforks; but no-one could be arsed.

We love our club and we'll be back for our 125th season. It's our town, our team and come Monday, we'll likely dust ourselves down and carry on fighting. But not tonight.

In the end it's not the poor decisions upon poor decisions of this season that define Barrow AFC. It's not the obvious infighting and the stupid statements. Nor is it the pathetic excuses, mistakes, misfits and tactical misshapes that have plagued this season. No more than it was speedway, hucksters, gangsters, chancers and our crumbling, patched up and much-loved ground.

It's the people we share it with. Maybe down, but never, never out.

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