The thrills in football aren't confined to the Premiership

Two exciting things happened to me at Carlisle United - well, I thought they were pretty exciting. Usually, here in rural Loweswater, the most noteworthy event of my day is a red squirrel opening the feeding box and, on finding it empty, turning and glaring at me. That's my cue to rush into the garden to quickly fill the feeder, muttering, "Sorry, your worship."

I went into the big city to see Carlisle play Crewe Alexander, whom they beat easily, so that was good. Early in every season, my friend among the directors invites me to watch a game from the directors' box. That day, he happened to have the job of escorting round the Fan of the Month. I don't know how this works, but I think people write in boasting about some fan's amazing loyalty over hundreds of years to CUFC, in all weathers and all divisions. The "best" fan is then given a tour of the club by one of the directors. The winner this time was a retired railway driver, with his son. I decided to tag along.

People write in boasting of a friend’s loyalty to the club over hundreds of years, in all weathers and all divisions

We went first to the security-control room, a makeshift-looking hut at the river end of the ground that I'd always assumed was the hovel where the St John Ambulance crews ate their sarnies. It turned out to be a state-of-the-art electronic powerhouse, with 11 cameras focused on every corner of the ground and direct radio contact with the 81 stewards on duty that day. The staff showed us how they could zoom in on a face in the 7,000-strong crowd, and even read seat numbers.

Then, when the teams went out on to the pitch to warm up, we went into their dressing room. The fetid atmosphere reeked of bodies, liniment, oaths, hopes, fears. Stuff was scattered around, as if there had been a burglary. Knowing the players would be back shortly, I felt like an intruder.

I haven't been inside a match-day dressing room of a pro football club since I did a book about Spurs 30 years ago. The smell was much the same, but the tea urn that traditionally was plonked in the middle of the dressing room has now gone. Instead, the room was festooned with bottles of high-energy drinks with strange names.

At half-time, I was asked if I would give away a new motor car. I said I didn't have one - mine is 12 years old. But it was explained to me that all I had to do was go on the pitch and hand over the car keys to the person who had won the club's lottery. The previous winner had their car presented to them by Sir Tom Finney, during a friendly with Preston North End. Hard luck on that day's winner.

After the game, I met David Dent in the directors' lounge. Later secretary of the Football League, Dent became Carlisle United's club secretary in 1960, at a time when the total number of full-time staff, apart from players, was four people (today, it's 16). He was at Brunton Park for pleasure, but was due the following day at Old Trafford for a Manchester United game, working for the Premier League doing a job I didn't know existed.

All refs are assessed by an official from the Referees' Association. As we know, managers eff and blind in the press conference, saying the ref was a homer, needed specs, should be shot, etc. I thought that was that. Turns out there's a match delegate, such as Dent, at every game. Afterwards, he talks to the managers when they have calmed down, listens impartially to their moans - or praise - then submits a 400-word report.

I told the squirrels all this when I got home. They were most interested.

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