1985

sat in the flat in muswell hill watching the rugby on telly and it’s bradford v wigan and the fans are on the pitch and it isn’t all over and it’s 1985 and the wiganers are wearing flares… flares what the hell is happening? i’m sat at home - the flat in muswell hill – wearin’ nike omega flames and hardcore jeans and a mustard baggy shirt, hanging out never tucked in but this was 1985 this was not the nineties and the mondays. and wigan win and they get to wembley and we all go to wembley to watch them against hull and I’m wearing omega flames and I’m out of sync but I’m in sync and wigan win and it is great. and we go again to wembley on the first day of june to watch latics against brentford and it’s the saturday after heysel and things are about to change and latics win and it is great and wigan celebrates but as i say things are about to change. and all these lads that fought and celebrated for wigan would be split up and two years later when leeds come to town wigan stands firm and maurice lindsay says his bit and people are drifting about and although it will be a few years before wigan rl go on that wembley run the damage is done but in dark dusty places like the bricks and the crofters and the springy the hardcore stand firm and as jjb sports and its supremo put money the way of the rugby we fight the corner. against owners and regulators, id cards and hooligan firms and the wigan football fraternity stand shoulder to shoulder. nobody chips the goon squad and nobody chips wafc. to the gills and cambridge on friday nights and carnage with carlisle and treatments with bradford and arguments with people from our town that turn up their noses at soccer and all that is over. meetings at the mill and music and fashion change and it is us against them and still it kicks off – everywhere - and those were dark and dirty days and we survive. we get by and we go our own little ways. the 7.34 to london and 35 of us going into orient’s supporters club and back to orient on another friday night and 25 of us go in there end and it kicks off and they run and we go back the pub and I go back to the girl that i love and we go to wolves a minibus of us and we are not to be beaten and Hartlepool in the cup when two firms had it in a way that people today would never understand and the italian kits and the friendly faces in the club shop and the phonecalls to tell the club there’s a good lad playing at burscough and they should have a look and we put some pennies in a tin and rotherham next week and mansfield the week after and we stood firm and the cockney latic fanzine and the legal letters and the market tavern and west ham in the cup and, and, and, and all this is muddled-up because it was and it is and amongst it all we went to wembley again and we stood together, and got stuck in together and there are so many stories that could be told in print and many, many more that could never be put anywhere near print and it was great and now in 2009 maurice lindsay is on the board of wafc and nobody says or does a thing…

The Youth of Today

I know I sound like mi dad but I have to say the youth of today really are the pits of the earth. Me, I reckon it’s all come about due to the arrival of Maccy D’s and the demise of youth clubs. Take any pretty rural area put a drive-thru Maccy’s there and before you know they are smashing up bus shelters. I mean whatever “zinger, dinger, winger minger” burger they may produce (complete with cuddly toy) they are never going to compete with the glory that is/was chips n’ scraps, chips n’ smacks, chips n’ curry sauce, chips n’ pey wet or if you were flushed chips, sausage and gravy – with a wooden fork naturally.

These were our regular scran after a night at the local youth club and that is where it’s all gone wrong. Now they hang outside Ali’s Pizzeria (“Home-made like momma used to make” – back in Tehran!) drinking White Lightening and shouting “Oi Slaphead” at me every time I walk past. Back then we were off the streets and enjoying the delights that the youth club could offer. They made me (and my generation) the man I am today (oh dear).

I MEAN YOUTH CLUBS WHERE WERE:
I had my first kiss
And my first feel up
My first proper fight
And my first 2 black eyes
My first taste of beer
And it was Manns Brown Ale
I had my first ciggie
And attempted to smoke dried banana skins
Discussed the width of our trousers
And the cut of our jib
Developed my love of black music (Little Piece of Leather – Donnie Elbert)
And my love of black culture
I experienced the adrenaline rush of running with a mob against the Catholic youth club
And the even bigger adrenaline rush of being chased by their mob
I developed the backspin at ping-pong
And learned to screw back on the pink
I learned the latest terrace chants
And “ those were the days my friend we took the Stretford End”
I spun and back-flipped and there was “A ghost in my house”
And watched Stuart “Radio 2’s Mr Northern Soul” Maconie replace Freda Payne with Led Zeppelin on the old Dansette!
I swapped girlfriends more than a vicar at a swinger’s soiree in Sydenham
And “treated them mean to keep them keen” (and that fucking worked, didn’t it?)
But most of all I learned about life
And how fucking good chips n’ gravy tasted on the way home.
That’s what the youth of today require.

I’d even offer to help run one if I didn’t despise the little twats so much.

A little story about Spurs and Alfie and Jermaine

And on the day that Spurs sign an (above) average player in Jermaine Defoe for an (above) average price my mind goes back to 1979. I’m at Finsbury Park tube station waiting for the lads. The Michael Sobell Centre for five-a-side. The dark, dismal Finsbury Park. Before yuppies and the gentrification of Islington. Arsenal country and a mix of Paddies, Greeks, Turks and West Indians with very few white faces and they are all at the Sobell.

But we play twice a week and down Dr Peppers after the game. What or who the fuck is Dr Pepper? Not had that in Wigan before but then again I’ve not had doner kebab or jerk chicken or goat curry. I’ve had Guinness though and I’ll be having a few more after the football and the Dr Pepper but for now I’m waiting for the lads in this dark and dodgy Finsbury Park. And as they turn up we start talking about football and our favourite players.

“Bob Wilson,” says Anwar and Anwar’s our goalie and he’s Arsenal and he’s allowed to say Bob Wilson but for the rest of us it is outfield players and skilful outfield players. And for me it’s Stan Bowles ‘cos Stan’s the man and we all know that. Passing the ball better than betting shop’s and all those old clichés but of course he’s much more than that. Saw him a few years back many times. Ran the show. Won 2-0 at Goodison and it’s the best I‘ve ever seen anybody play. But Gal thinks Charlie Cooke’s better. He isn’t but I let him have his say. Cooke’s Kings Road while Bowles is White City - a postcode away but a world apart.

And the Spurs lads turn up and we say: “Who’s your favourite ever Spurs player?”

And Ade says: “Alfie Conn” and Dell says “Alfie Conn” and Tone says “Alfie Conn” and I say “Who the fuck is Alfie Conn?”

Which is a bit of a wrong un really as I know who he is but he isn’t that good and he hardly played for Spurs? But of course such things don’t matter that much. Because greatness is measured n different ways and Alfie Conn was magic to these lads.

He was the King of White Hart Lane…

He only played thirty odd games and scored just six goals – three in one match and then three at the end of the season to keep Spurs up. His final goal was against Leeds – dirty Leeds – and Spurs won and he bewildered a dirty set of bastards before sitting on the ball while Bremner, Clarke et al snarled. And Conn had all the skills in the world ad he had attitude and mad hair and mad sideburns... And that is why Alfie Conn was their favourite player. Because that’s what football is about.

And on the day that Jermaine Defoe signs for Spurs Alfie Conn does a night shift in a warehouse. The man that started at Hearts went to Rangers and went to Spurs and then – shock horror - signed for Celtic…

Last year Conn told the Daily Record that he had no regrets about his career nor begrudges the modern football his wages.

He said: "I'm delighted because in December I became a granddad - and you can't buy that."

And you can’t “buy” who your favourite footballer is and in ten years some Spurs and Arsenal and Wigan lads might be sat around talking about whom their favourite footballer is and you never know it might be Jermaine Defoe…

A glass is a glass

Clueless cunts and scruffy twats. And kids on footy messageboards that think they're grand and wonderful and so fucking special... and they bang a drum and seventeen miles away 75,000 people watch a cunt called Ronaldo. Those Mr Premiership Fans.

Switch on talk sport and spit my views on Steeeevvviee Geeeeeeee and how he's been wronged. A married man out at 2.30am and Emile Heskey and Craig Bellamy and rugger is the new soccer and Danny Cipriani is on the front of Arena magazine. And he is shite. He is no Dan Carter. He is no Barry John. He is no Stuart Barnes. Just another clueless cunt and scruffy twat whose threads cost more than Everything I Own.

And...

You sheltered me from harm
Kept me warm, kept me warm
You gave my life to me
Set me free, set me free
The finest years I ever knew
Were all the years I had with you
And...

I would give anything I own
Give up my life, my heart, my home
I would give ev'rything I own
Just to have you back again

But I am not Ken Boothe or David Gates or George O'Dowd.

And I am not Steeeevvviee Geeeeeeee and I am not in some shitty fucking nightclub called something with Lounge in it in some shitty town like Southport and I am not asking for Phil Collins or Coldplay. He should get ten years for asking for Phil Collins or Coldplay. But we can joke cos he's innocent until proved guilty. I mean he - or one of his party - only threw a glass or bottle (allegedly) and the kid that through a glass or bottle in that pub in Heywood is innocent until proved guilty but tell that to the partner of Emma O'Kane or her three children... But Michael Shepherd - for that is her partner's name - isn't Steeeevvviee Geeeeeeee and it doesn't matter does it?

It only matters if it's Steeeevvviee Geeeeeeee or some other overpaid wankfest of a footballer that the Mr Premiership Fans love so much. The man and his nail technician of a girlfriend or his £120,000 a week and his pay-offs to gangsters and her past and the transfer window opens in a few days and it's all so fucking great.

And all this time clueless cunts and scruffy twats check their footy messageboards and laugh and joke and accept that people kicking a bit of leather about can be paid £120,000 and they love it and they love the fact that the people they idolise can be in bars at 2.30am and aren't that bothered about glasses and bottles being thrown...

The Queen Anne Hotel in Heywood or the Lounge Inn in Southport. A bottle's a bottle... a glass is a glass.

Wish for what you want in the January transfer window you clueless cunts and scruffy twats...

Twenty Years ago : Lockerbie

But before then 34 years ago...


I’m sat in my bedroom dreaming of Loretta, Lorraine and Louise.

And Doreen who is a hunk of a man,and she can wipe every boy from the land.

And that is what London is about when you’re 14. Victorian vases and girls that are trying to stick their cosmic philosopher’s words into rhymes.

And it all smells of incense and patchouli oil and there are violins and glam make-up and wicker chairs and wicker men and Britt Ekland.

And it’s Jesus wellies and cut-off Wranglers and it’s Orrell ressies. But it could be Hyde Park and girls that could sweep, skip, jump and leap into a room full of clowns.

And the sun shines and in my mind I watch Loretta taste the wine and kick the actor from behind.

And I am now home sprawled across the sofa and Marlene enters my mind and as her make up starts to fade away I spy Ramona by the door calling me the perfect whore.

And I never lost control.

And for a while it was a very strange show.

And it got stranger as five years later I am in Hyde Park and there is no Loretta, Lorraine and Louise.

And there is no hideaway. No lady from a background of pearls. Just me spaced out in this human menagerie – fooling with bravado.

And on that great song and that great album there was a bass player called Paul Avron Jeffreys. They were/they are my favourite group of all time. Cockney Rebel. The first two albums are exquisite, better than anything they later did. But that's always the case with bands isn't it? Well maybe.

Steve Harley disbanded the first Cockney Rebel, wrote his side of the story in a little ditty called Make me Smile. Life went on... Paul played in a number of groups with varying success

In 1988 Paul Jeffreys married Rachel Jones and he was begining his honeymoon on the flight Pan AM 103 when it exploded in mid-air above Lockerbie. 259 people on the plane and 11 people on the ground died that day.

RIP all of them

I am 17 going on 50

I was on the way home the other Friday when two pretty indie girls bowled on the bus at The Conny in Skem. Vintage dresses, smelling beautifully, bottles of wine jangling in their bags and great big gorgeous smiles.

Sat behind me - I soon deduced they were going to the indie night in Wigan. And they brightened my journey. Talking and laughing about how Alex Turner was fit and Alexa Chung was horrible (I think they got that the wrong way around but…), the latest Kings of Leon album, visiting London in the spring and discussing what university they were going to. Along with snogging boys, dancing to Northern Soul, what party they were going to next week and a myriad of other subjects.

I enjoyed listening to their chat. So bright, so naïve, so lacking in cynicism and so in love with the world. And when I got off the bus I felt sort of strange as I got thinking about the girls. Then as I buttoned by coat up and hastened my step I was suddenly hit with sadness. A lump formed in my throat and tears came to my eyes and I so wished I were 17 going on 18 again. And I've never felt that before. I've always loved the fact that I was 18 when punk rock hit the nation. Loved the fact that I went to Wigan Casino. Stayed up long after tonight was all over. Loved the fact that I had worn original Ben Shermans as a 12-year-old and loved the fact that I'd seen Bowie and Rod and Roxy and Bruce and Marley and Luther and everybody else.

But at that moment walking through the cold dismal streets of Wigan WN5 I just wished I could be going to Café Nirvana that night. Dancing with pretty indie girls, planning on going to uni and getting so drunk that the room would spin later that night.

Between the ages of 16 and 19 the world is truly yours. I remember those days so vividly. Going to the pub with your mates. And nightclubbing and getting in and out of scrapes. Forging proper relationships with girls and getting to know your dad as a man. Learning to drive. Learning to drive with my dad and the two of us singing along to Al Green and Simon & Garfunkel on the 8-track cartridge player. Turning out on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Then playing football on a Sunday. And going to the cinema with the girl you met on the Saturday and buying clothes and records. And loving - absolutely loving - music just as the two girls on the bus obviously did. And like them dancing to Northern Soul and not giving two hoots about work or money and just being in love with the world.

When I got home I put the stereo on. Put Rod on. Rod singing Mandolin Wind. The saddest, most beautiful of songs. And I'm back in Pete Carroll's parents front room in Orrell with all my mates. All of us - 16/17 years of age talking about The Faces and Springsteen and Mott the Hoople and Johnny Cash. And Wigan and Everton and Liverpool. And Christine Macey and Anne Holmes and all the other beautiful girls we know before going to the Delph Tavern and a long time before going our separate ways in life.

And I am 17 again. And I don't need to be Café Nirvana tonight. And I've still got that lump in my throat and those tears in my eyes…

Always Fighting

Used to know this kid called Stevie G – got cut to fuck in Amsterdam in 81. Spurs had a go at Ajax. Got a bit messy.

Great lad wouldn’t hurt a fly unless it was football. Also used to play a bit. Had the best fucking shot I’ve ever seen. Used to play in his specs. Used to call him Bins cos of it – well some people did. Used to play on Hackney Marshes. Opposing players would see this kid in glasses and think: “Fucking hell were in here” – took ‘em ten minutes to realise they weren’t! And then we’d get a free kick and it would be in the back of the net. Or half way to Bethnal Green if it missed!

Ah, Bethnal Green. Went down there, regular like. The Carpenters and Green Man are two I can remember. Always fighting. Always Spurs.

Fuck knows – used to go The Lyceum on a Sunday and they were always fighting. Always Spurs. Soul and scraps. Chelsea and Spurs and Arsenal and QPR battling away. Wood Green versus Wanstead all to the sound of Lonnie Liston Smith.

And we’d mooch west to Stuarts or over the river to Moda. All Lois cords and Diadora Borgs. Fila and Forest Hills.

Football in Regent’s Park with trackie tops for goal posts and beers in Fitzrovia. Prince of Wales Feathers for strong continental lagers to go with our continental clothes. And daft fucking places like the Room at the Top and the Royalty and Crackers on a Friday afternoon watching the boys and girls dance. Oh and even dafter fucking places like some roller skating place at Ponders End. All to a soundtrack of Roy Ayers and Incognito and Junior Giscombe and Doctor Buzzard's Savannah Band. Oh and Spurs fighting. Always fighting.

Weekends in Caister and Canvey Island and Wembley and dim-lit pubs around the flats at Kings Cross, back of Saddler’s Wells where the posh go the ballet and the plebs drink in fucked-up pubs with fucked-up people like us. And we’d eat roast potatoes from the bar on Sundays. Jellied eels and cheese and biscuits. Putting us on until the Kentucky called late on Sunday night. When we’d wash it down with a can of brew and a bong.

Then Saturdays we’d go the football . Go our separate ways. White Hart Lane, Highbury, Loftus Road, Stamford Bridge. Me I’d go where Wigan were playing or if it weren’t possible I’d go down the Bush to watch the R’s. Then when Spurs were down there it would go off. Huge fucking mob – taking the piss. Went to Wembley with QPR against Spurs in 81. Sat in Wembley car park for hours after a dull, dull game. Back to Southgate for Pizza Hut and beers. Got up Sunday queued half way around the White City for a ticket for the replay. Then queuing for the turnstiles on the Thursday and Spurs came and kicked it off! Always fighting. Always Spurs. Hoddle won it with a penalty – both games were shit.

And White Hart Lane and the fear. As soon as you got off at Seven Sisters it was on . No hiding place there. No nipping up back streets or jibbing into a local pub. One long walk. Walking on Nike Wimbledons soles that were made in the USA and not China. Zip up the Tacchini get your head down. And West Ham are on the Shelf and Spurs try to move them and it’s bad. It was always bad. Bad and mad. KR’s coaches. Taking big firms up north. Set-to’s and Stanley knives. Moss Side and machetes.

The fucked-up eighties and Margaret Hilda Fucking Thatcher. Yuppies and brokers and jazz funk and Spurs. Nasty nights in dark alleys. A nasty decade in a nasty North London. And Spurs always fighting.