Alan Hornell (8 Jul 1955 - 22 May 2018)

When Happy started to let people know that he had cancer and that the prognosis was not positive I wrote the following poem to acknowledge my friend's life-long passion with his beloved Workington Reds. Some of his greatest, happiest and most memorable moments were spent in the Derwent End at Borough Park in the company of like minded brothers united in their love of the Reds. Happy was a legend and we are unlikely to see his kind again; he was a one-off, totally unique with a larger than life personality that was infectious and filled with good natured banter and humour. Happy and I were life-long friends. Born within a few months of each other our Mothers "the 2 Hannah's" were best friends and it was that bond that led to myself and Happy becoming friends. We got into our fair share of scrapes, scraps and bother but nothing that was malicious or nasty. I feel privileged to have known Happy and even more privileged to have been his friend. Like everyone who were fortunate to know him I will miss him desperately, miss him but never forget him.

The Night Match

As if waking from a shallow and silent rest,
the old stadium stirs to welcome the red vest.
'Johnny Todd' drifts on a tormented icy gale,
spawning distant shadows of times less frail.

Arms locked in brotherly bond and clasp,
lungs struggling for crystallised air to grasp.
Workington, Workington, Workington the cry,
the eleven warriors set for battle, to do or die.

Steel towers of light give rise to silhouette and shape,
as the proud eleven to the famous Silloth turf take.
Rich blood powers through young organ and vein,
and the West Cumbrian's hold fast, sensing the strain.

A sharp shrill from a piece of smoothly engineered tin,
and eleven red shirts are set for the fight to begin.
The scent of liniment floats on a cold night breeze,
but none of the Workington fans are feeling the freeze.

Wonderful stories of Workington footballers now long-gone,
captured in rude chants and poorly sang song.
Borough Park the 'home of football' is bursting with the ring,
We've got Johnny, Johnny Martin on the wing, on the wing . . . .