Let's start with the game. Preston lined up with a Miller up front, although with the capacity to control the ball and, as it would turn out, more prolific than the other one. This was proper football. Nicknames like 'Zico' ; centre halfs taller than Oak trees and, in a delightful nod to more senior ranks, atrocious, self-important officials. Oh, and casuals. And a Young Team. But more of that to come. As the teams took to the pitch to the cry of "get right intae these bastards" it would soon become evident that the home team were in no way inferior to their loftier and much older rivals.
To be frank, Stenhousemuir were a disgrace, bereft of any great passion and singularly unable to impose any sustained level of pressure, far less dominance, against a team well-organised and far more tactically adept. The Warriors attempted to hold a high line throughout and although this broke up the play in the early stages, it was not to prove successful. Both sides struggled to create clear-cut chances in the opening stages, so it was fitting that the opening goal had an element of the scrappy about it: to take nothing away from the finish of Paul Cowie, who blasted home from close range after a passage of play Arthur Montford would have enjoyed. Inevitably, the SFL side came more into the game and the remainder of the first half was largely spent in the Preston half, yet without troubling goalkeeper Gilpin. Events off the park brought rather more excitement as the half came to an end.
Stenhousemuir had brought through a small, but exciteable band of young fans, standing behind the goal and indulging in a repertoire which may have brought them trouble at some larger grounds, but displayed a keen sense of fun and enthusiasm. 'Bring your Casuals over Here' and a not too enthusiastic ditty concerning the denizens of Falkirk were early efforts. But as their team lost composure, and fell behind, matters took an odd twist. Local youths, not persuaded by the £3 concession incentive but happy to take advantage of the local pigeon shed roofs, rather uncharitably failed to welcome their hosts and the local constabulary, all three of them, were forced to intervene to stop a happy slapping or two. Local, seasoned campaigners, the guys who brave every Preston Athletic game, come rain, sun or surf, were none too pleased; largely, as one told me, because these scamps refused to share their carry-oot.
Half time came, and the karaoke machine doubling as the PA system was hijacked by one local who treated us to an interesting interpretation of the latest Scissor Sisters offering and we were left to reflect on the lunacy of the Stand side linesmen regulating the number of people in the technical area allowed to talk at once, and the rather odd physical resemblance between Referee and Thomas Gravesen. And to marvel at the linguistic marvel of the official announcer, telling wandering kids that their interval kickabout was not very welcome and warning them that if they were hit by a ball they would 'get f***ed'. He may have meant hurt, but a spade is a spade in these parts.
Sadly, the second half started with controversy, as the Stenhousemuir left back prostituted his faith while entering the field and then spent the rest of the second half giving a good going rate to all who passed him in the rear. The Warriors started strongly, and it looked as if the East Lothian team would struggle to protect their lead. Football occasionally broke out, but it was very difficult to break down the committed Preston defence, despite the best efforts of John Paul McBride. Stuart Miller, about a foot taller and lacking the facial uncertainty of his sibling, had performed admirably as the conduit for the home team's attacks, and he combined well with Wilson and Kirk as Preston began to make a mockery of the uncertain and unconvincing tactics of the Stenhousemuir defence. One such move, in the 55th minute, brought the second goal, a lovely finish from Miller, beating McCulloch with a well placed shot into the bottom corner. Cue some mighty celebrations, and the total collapse of the visitors sense of belief.
Tired legs and inferior fitness, perhaps only a worry, were never to be considerations, as the home side won most 50/50 challenges and continued to make use of both wide players and the superior skills of Cowie in midfield. In truth, despite a succession of late corners, and coming close with a nice effort from a hotly debated free kick, the efforts of the Stenhousemuir eleven were woefully inadequate and it could so easily have been three nil if a little more clinical precision had been applied to one of Preston's common counter attacks. For Preston, centre half Craig Scott was immense, organising and leading by example.
The knackered Miller received a welcome rest near the end but long before that point the result was in no doubt. Full time brought some real joy for the home crowd and the chance to clap lessened the impact of the refreshing sea breeze. It may be worth noting that a number of the local heroes came from Junior ranks and looked as good as, if not better, than their opponents. The local programme, £2 and as value for money as an issue of FF, speculated on the effect of proposed changes to the Scottish Cup format. On this evidence, some complacent teams may be in for some hard times ahead.
Romance, be damned. This was a deserved win for the lower league opposition. And a treat for those who had almost forgotten how to enjoy a matchday. Our esteemed editor, resplendent in Arctic Wolf clothing and Jonathan King spectacles, organised a small stop-off on the way home, only to find that our friend, a fellow FF poster, had left the house. Not to be disappointed, we were treated to a game of snooker and some refreshing beverages by the hospitable Mr and Mrs POG and, despite the oncoming sleet and lack of directional sense not uncommon with the type of boys expelled from the Scout movement, home was reached.
The football may have been limited, although it was clear which team had the more astute manager, but the experience was rewarding - standing right at the pitchside next to the manager and being able to touch the players, pint at the social club next to the ground, and we even had the local WAGs to interrupt our viewing pleasure. A day out to cherish and a reminder that football, whisper it, is fun.