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…