Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards
- 11 hours ago
- 4 min read
Kidderminster (A) - National League - 31st August 2026
‘In a perfect world we’d all sing in tune
But this is reality so give me some room’
— Billy Bragg
My reality. Derby Station platform.
‘Ladies and gentlemen... We are sorry that the 09:31 from Derby to Birmingham New Street is late, due to an attempted theft of signalling equipment.’
‘...we are also sorry for the delay to Barrow AFC’s first win of the 2026–27 season. This is late due to a shortage of strikers and attempted crosses failing to clear the first man.’
The journey itself, however, was pleasant enough. A stupidly cheap first-class upgrade later, I arrived in the eternal confusional vortex of Birmingham New Street, then onward.
Kiddy. A very similar size of town, carpets rather than the nation’s nuclear deterrent providing the bedrock. Perennial non-leaguers, but with a foray into the Football League. Very, very odd and unintelligible accent.
Still, we weren’t short of inexplicably odd behaviour, especially when one of our number appeared to enjoy covering his own face in Barrow stickers. Please don’t. Please.
For many of the faithful who gathered, Kidderminster Harriers away isn’t new. The 1999 Westley revival culmination. A memorable 2008 visit with breakdowns and dancing stewards. An epically precious meltdown from a relegated Kiddy chairman in the 2010s. Ups and downs, this one fuelled with the added spice of Adam Murray’s return to the scene of last year’s promotion.
It’s the busiest I’ve seen the ground, with a holiday crowd hoping for revenge and to build on their Friday win against Southend. Us trying to find cohesion after the late Yeovil cataclysm on the same day.
Off we went as the survivors of M6 bank holiday traffic trailed in. Adam Murray predictably came in for some stick, though the ‘we don’t care about Murray’ ditty was a bit like a fifteen-year-old lad losing his first girlfriend, but then I guess that was who was singing.
The plan was to get down the sides and we did, winning most of our duels with Crankshaw much to the fore. A bit of an arm wrestle, but one we were winning. Walker responded to the loud cheers when he lost the ball by sprinting thirty yards back to retrieve it.
A nasty tackle saw us gain a free kick. Keaton Ward, so far a massive upgrade, swung the ball in for Cameron, who always better instinctively, bulleted a header home.
We were winning our battles and, with a more proactive midfield buzzing around, had clearly rattled Kiddy. However, it seemed to rattle the ref too, who ramped up bizarre calls.
And it was annoying their crowd, who whined, bitched, booed, and moaned while settling on a slow handclap. This was, if not fun, at least bleakly satisfying.
Adam Murray would later complain we were down to ten, and he was right. But there was still no need for Oakley to get in such a fankle; a cross was hung up and... well, you know the rest by now.
The crowd crowed and Kiddy pushed on, striking a post as we adjusted to the setback. Half-time: it would have been utter larceny had we been losing, but the combination of a lack of clinical finishing and shipping stupid goals is strangling any recovery at birth.
Hopes are raised only to be crushed, and the discovery that the Kiddy Cottage Pie was back on only for it to have run out served as a metaphor for the season so far. Time, though, to marvel at the synchro-lift of a mother-to-be and enjoy The Jam until their commentator attempted to ‘ramp up’ the cauldron of Aggborough with Fatboy Slim.
The second half began as disjointed as Bez at The Royal Ballet. As well as guessing every decision, anything went after the initial decision according to the ref.
How far could this go, I mused. ‘Sorry ref, I eviscerated a passing ballboy with a claymore... No problem, I’d blown for offside.’ The refs get worse every week. At this rate, the last game will be reffed by a bloke drinking a can of Foster’s from the centre circle.
Still the better side, especially with Marriott and Ward combining effectively, we kept going. A flurry of subs and a goalmouth melee that of course we couldn’t convert.
Players came and went, including the understandable but most frustrating Ward for Harper. A word for Danny Rose: acceptable. There you go.
As we scrapped to a halt, fear seeped in. A few Kidderminster drives, a couple of errors, and a brave, risky save from Winterbottom, who had been better.
The final whistle brought applause rather than adulation. It’s all honest enough, and at least we can see what is being tried.
This team will be fine with a couple of additions and familiarity, but Murray isn’t hiding from the amount of ironing left in the Barra Soccer basket. And neither should we.
Work in progress. Sleeves up, crack on.
Footnote
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