TNH – The Northern Hemisphere

www.berwickrangers.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/04/Trust-Winter-Magazine-Mar-20.pdf

Alnmouth United Part 1 & 2, a fictional account as featured in issue 14 of VFTAE, also a nice piece in The Times by Henry Winter featuring this issue:

ALNMOUTH UNITED UNDER 11’s

PART 1: Preseason Training

“That’s it Baxter you run off home to Mummy and take your shitty dog with you!” The blood was now running down his leg from an open cut on his knee and collecting in the ruffles of his football socks. Wiping the tears from his face as he stands in the middle of the road outside the football club all the lads looking and laughing at him, he turns around blows a raspberry, sticks up two fingers and yells “cheating bastards!!” where is VAR when you need it?

The autumn evening sunlight is now cascading shadows as the tide gently washes onto the sand banks of the Alnmouth estuary where the river Aln meets North Sea.

This is no ordinary September Monday evening in Alnmouth, this is the first of two preseason training sessions at Alnmouth United for the Under 11’s side.

Alnmouth United’s pitch is located on the Lesbury Road in between Hipsburn Primary School and Lesbury Cricket Club. For Baxter this is a moderate walk over the bridge up the hill to one of the modest houses just before Alnmouth Golf Club. He usually jogs part of the way home reducing to a walk as a cool down after his training session. Tonight, though with his knee cut and feeling sorry for himself he can barely bring himself to walk never mind anything more exerting.

Stopping halfway up the hill to gather his thoughts he takes in the familiar view of the expansive estuary wetlands. It’s quite a drop looking down from this vantage point and he has often thought when driving home with his parents if their car went off the road it would be one hell of a ride! There seems to be a distinct lack of fencing or railings along this little stretch.

Wiping the sweat from his brow the tears have now dried up from the head wind as he walked, the stinging from his knee is numbed by the rising aroma of what can only be described as dog crap.

Looking down at his left leg nostrils flared in disgust Baxter can see a brown crustation on his upper thigh as though it is emerging from the bottom of his shorts. So how has he come to be in such an unfortunate position, glazed look on his face, nostrils flared, one soiled thigh, one cut knee and ruffled football socks?

The preseason training session began at 7.00pm sharp, the Under 11’s coach is a stickler for timekeeping. A school teacher from Seahouses who was laid off two summers ago due to local Government cut backs. Now a fully signed up agency supply teacher he travels at short notice all over the Northumberland area and sometimes further afield around the Scottish Borders. Being able to pick and choose when he works it affords him the luxury of devoting extra time to his passion as a part time football coach. Mr Jefferies as he likes to be addressed believes in discipline, respect and downright bloody hard work.

Blowing his whistle, the lads in the team know the drill and all stand in line, shuffling to get in place. Baxter kicks Tommo on the back of his calf to speed up the process.

“Right lads Welcome back! Hope you all had a good summer and ready for some hard work?” Mr Jefferies had arranged over the summer for a delivery of old car tyres from the local breakers yard to use during their training sessions.

“I want you to line up these tyres in pairs” the lads looking puzzled but too afraid to ask why, they carry out the task.

After 10 minutes of rolling the tyres into each other they finally get the tyres set up in line in pairs.

“Come on now lads form a queue” They all line up behind each other, think Tommo needs a wee as he keeps hopping from one leg to another pulling the material at the front of his nylon football shorts.

“On the blow of my whistle I want you to each in turn do the tyre run” A tyre run is a football training exercise to increase one’s agility and speed.

After picking his nose Baxter shouts out “What’s a tyre run?” Mr Jefferies explains which seems to just confuse the boys even more so he decides to give a little practical demonstration. The boys look at each other smirking as he loosens up by doing some Yoga type stretches. He takes a run up and begins the tyre run each knee seems to get higher with each tyre completed, the back of his football shorts appears to be getting chewed up in crack of his bottom. As he reaches the last pair of tyres the toe of his football boots catches on the rim of the inside of the tyre and he lunges forward, performs a kind of gymnastics stance to break his fall and pretend it never happened.

Jefferies was one of those mid 50’s chaps who let’s just say can scrape a fringe from the back of their head a modern-day comb over. During the acrobatic recovery his fringe didn’t follow suit quite so gracefully and was now flapping around in the sea breeze over one side of his face. For Tommo this amusement was almost too much for him in his borderline urination state, the hopping has become more frantic and he calls out in a high pitch voice “I need to go for a wee!!”. Excused and told to join the back of the queue on his return. The tyre run begins which looks like a scene out of Full Metal Jacket each lad taking their turn, Jefferies commanding the session with constant whistle blows and barking instructions in a military fashion feeling completely in his element.

As the sun starts to set the sky is illuminated in a wash of orange and flame red colours, the final exercise of the evening is about to begin a free for all 10 minutes kick around, if the ball goes out of play kick it back in, a mad run around of tackling, defending and shots on target.

Tommo had spent a lot longer in the toilets than anticipated due to dropping some of his paper round money in the trough then trying to figure out the best way to retrieve it after also urinating on it, so in his defence when he ran out from the toilet block and joined the kick around he had missed the rule of not to commit any fouls.

Tommo is straight into the on-field action just as Baxter gets the ball after a nifty little tackle, he runs down the right wing, with the goals in view in his tunnel vision. A stud clips the back of his heel he goes down on his right knee on to a sharp pebble his reaction to the pain makes him recoil and twist over on his left side his leg now squelching in what he now knows is dog mess.

He catches his breathe and gets himself back on his feet, he can see Tommo is still laid on the ground after his horrendously reckless sliding tackle. The red mist comes down almost overwhelmingly, in a fleeting fit of rage Baxter kicks Tommo in the side of his ribs and runs off the pitch, he can hear Tommo and some of the other lads shouting as he makes his exit out of the football ground.

Fences have now been put up around the football pitch and even CCTV installed to try and prevent the irresponsible dog walkers letting their beloved canine friends from fouling on the pitch. But unfortunately, these measures haven’t worked so it really is a case of doggy foul play!!

PART 2: The Away Day

The smell of fresh filter coffee fills the kitchen of chez Jeffries, he flicks on the radio for Saturday morning Talk Sport. Taking a deep breath in and out to clear his lungs and release the air from his diaphragm. It’s the morning of the first away game of the season a local derby against Alnwick Town AFC Under 11’s.

His managers tracksuit is washed and ironed laid out on the bed with his trusty Puma King football boots which have been with him for many a managerial season now. Faithful to the cause of Alnmouth United Under 11’s unlike his ex-wife who ran off with “Sailor Roy” as he likes to call him, Roy runs the tourist boat trips to the Farne Islands at Seahouses. She met him one Friday evening while on a hen do in the Ship Inn. Not that he is bitter at all, he was more upset she took the family cat. Harold or Harry as his name was shortened to was a large male neutered Tortoise shell, they always had a special bond together as his wife made him have the snip early on in their marriage as she definitely didn’t want any children.

He has moved on now and met other women since they divorced, the most significant relationship a local woman a bit older than him, turns out she was going through that “change” or so the lads down the local called it. After a meal one evening at her house an argument ensued about who should wash and who should dry the dishes, the situation became somewhat heated and she tried to stab him with the bread knife. Luckily for him the knife wasn’t fit for slicing a Tiger Bloomer never mind actually puncturing flesh. It did though leave a terrible hole in his favourite La Coste polo shirt, which she never apologised for or offered to replace the damaged garment. So inevitably they went their separate ways.

So, for Jeffries these away fixtures have a double element of interest, obviously his main focus is managing his football team to victory, but he also likes to keep a keen eye out for any single soccer mums on the side lines.

With that in mind he finishes his Granola and coffee and heads upstairs for a shower. His dilemma now is he knows on daily basis he needs to shave his head but he is in no man’s land and just can’t quite commit, bit like his ex-wife! With Shockwaves gel at hand he manages to cobble together a fringe from the depths of follicle hell.

Happy with his creation he dons the managerial tracksuit and with a skip in his step makes his way downstairs leaving a trail of Lynx Africa behind him.

Smelling like he has just stepped of a dance floor in a nightclub in the 1980’s he packs his car up. Fresh A4 copies of the team sheets, not really his responsibility but he likes to be on the ball from an admin point of view.

Football boots and notepad sit next to him on the passenger seat, he has been driving a relatively new Kia Sportage for the last few years, he wanted and SUV and the Sportage fits in with supply teacher sporadic salary.

Jeffries bought his two-bedroom terrace on Main Street Seahouses about 8 years ago. After the divorce went through, they sold the marital home and split the money. The house is quite a way back up Main Street away from the hustle and bustle of the small harbour town centre of Seahouses. The property has some nice views of Seahouses Golf Club some of the more obscure holes set to challenge the higher handicapper. As an avid golfer himself and a member of the golf club the location is perfect, he over the years more so after the divorce managed to get his club handicap down to 19. He tries to play most weekends and actively participates in the medal competitions, never quite securing a win he has come a close 2^nd and 3^rd a few times now there has been talking in the locker room of some inter club “banditry” within the Rabbits division, surely not? These are all upstanding members of the local community!

This first away fixture of the new season is amusingly only a 25-minute drive via Beadnell and down the A1 to St James’s Park, not the home of Newcastle United but home to Alnwick Town FC.

He has calculated his journey to perfection allowing him enough time to pick up another coffee from the lovely Salt Water Café in Beadnell. He parks up near the Craster Arms and takes the short walk over to the café. Being a Saturday morning, it is always busy with a mixture of locals and tourists. It has a nice welcoming relaxed vibe to the place. The staff know him as this coffee stop forms part of Saturday morning football routine during the season. He always orders the same, an Americano with a splash of milk.

“Coffee to go” he sets off on the road again to Alnwick, it’s a grey cloudy morning but he is pleased the first away game of the season won’t be played in the rain. There will be plenty of time when the rain, frost and snow will see many a match postponed leaving a headache later in the season to fit in the abandoned fixtures usually midweek at short notice with little time to prepare or train his young team, which in past seasons has led to some strange but often entertaining results! For and against.

Arriving at Alnwick Town FC he pulls into the busy carpark, senses in overload he spots the opposing team manager. Tommo is also getting out of his mum and dads’ car, but where is Baxter??

His last know sighting was on the Lesbury Road doing a reverse victory salute after a run in with Tommo during preseason training.

A screech of car brakes, dust cloud, pebbles flying as Baxter’s dad’s car makes a late arrival into an already busy car park. The passenger side door flings open a sports bags hits the pebbled concrete floor, out steps Baxter hair like Boris Johnson football boots on but unlaced.

Jeffries breathes a sigh of relief and lightly ruffles his heavily gelled fringe, little beknown to the rest of the team he regards him as one of his best players. An attacking midfielder with a forward-thinking vision when on the ball and still only 10.5 years old. In contrast Tommo is a formidable force in the defensive role, to have them both arrived safely is good news for him.

Baxter’s dad finds a parking space and parks the car, gets out looking like he took full advantage of 5-7pm happy hour at the Black swan down by the harbour in Seahouses last night. It doesn’t take a genius to equate to the fact Baxter is fashionably late due to Baxter senior not waking up on time.

Mrs Baxter works part time at the crazy golf in Seahouses her shifts are Saturday, Sunday and bizarrely Thursday mornings. It gets really busy during the height of the summer but it is just easing off now for the tale end. Her lack of presence on a Saturday morning to get the boys up and ready has been noted previously last season.

Both teams and managers are now on the pitch going through their pregame warm up routine, a series of stretches and moving the ball around. With now only 10 minutes to kick off the tension is mounting around the ground.

A decent turn out from the home and away supporters, made up of overly zealous and somewhat over protective parents.

Jeffries taking up his managerial position on the side line notepad in hand commandeering his team gets a concentration breaking pleasant smell of perfume from behind him, curiosity gets the better of him and he manufactures a drop of his pen and spins round on the pick up to face the away fans.

Auburn hair with ever so subtle blonde highlights, not quite so subtle with the makeup, plenty of eyeliner and a bright red lipstick. She smiles and gives him a wave and a coy “Hi”.

Its Tommo’s mum Janice, they went to school together. Janice left at 16 and went away to study at nursing college. She now works at Rothbury Community Hospital.

He always had a soft spot for Janice and often wondered what might had happened if she hadn’t gone away to college and met Tommo’s dad.

Through the football team they had become friends again, nothing beyond chatting at games about her son’s progress and performance. But for her husband with the knowledge of them growing up together this sparked a rage of jealously inside him that sometimes he struggled to contain.

For Jeffries the smell of her perfume took him back to a dance floor he probably never wanted to leave in the 1980’s.

As they made eye contact, he replied and said “Hello Janice, you ok?” she replied in a voice that could if you wanted to describe a slightly flirty “Yes, fine thank you love”. Tommo senior picks up on this and growls like a constipated Rottweiler. Jeffries smiles back much to his disgust.

Turning back around as kick off is literally only minutes away he can feel the proverbial daggers from her husband burning holes in the back of his football shirt.

Both teams take their positions as the whistle blows to get the game under way. First 15 minutes are very uneventful, the most exciting incident was Peggy from the local newsagent spilling her hot cup of Bovril down her brand-new beige Burberry mac. By all accounts the villagers have never heard her swear like that before.

30 minutes into the first half and Boris, sorry I mean Baxter picks up a loose pass from the centre half, lands nicely balanced at his feet though. On the move now down the centre of the pitch the away fans go wild, well Baxter senior at least. Getting over excited and still probably slightly fuelled from the Seahouses happy hour he launches into “Come on son into these Bastards!!” The other parents look at him and each other in disgust, some of their little boys have never heard such terrible language and by the looks of it some of the posher parents faces they may not have done either.

A comment is made from another out spoken but slightly posher parent “Hey Sir, no need for language like that in front of the children”. Baxter senior already on a short fuse due to his hangover and failed alarm call this morning, Mrs B had already sent him 5 texts as she had found out via the ever-faithful soccer mums they had arrived late.

The lingering feeling of post night out beers get the better of him, if only he hadn’t had that Jameson’s at closing time as he shouts out rather unpleasantly “go fuck yourself, SIR!!”

The fellow supporter gasp in shock, hands over their mouths, but attention needs to be drawn back on the football pitch as Baxter slots a lovely shot into bottom right hand corner of the goal, the keeper completely misreads it and dives left.

The problem is none of the parents have seen the goal. Jeffries is on his feet jumping up and down like a mad man little respect for his comb over. “GOAAAAAL, what a goal!!”

Baxter is on his knees with Tommo draped around his neck hugging him in adulation.

One nil Alnmouth United, the ball is respotted and play resumes. All attention again seems to focused on the crowd, Tommo senior has squared up to Baxter’s old man and has him by the throat accusing him of flirting with Janice. Baxter senior has absolutely no idea what he is talking about and no idea what is going on. He thought he had taken offence for the “Bastards” comment.

The whistle blows for the end of the first half and Jeffries claps his team off and pats Baxter on the back as they get water and oranges. A positive team talk from the manager sees them ready to for the second half.

As the lads walk back out onto the pitch Jeffries hears Janice call him over, his ears prick up, shoulders back her perfume still smoulders in his nostrils. Tommo senior is no where to be seen. Has Janice sent him home after his altercation with Baxter’s dad?

“Hi again, did you see my stupid husband and Mr Baxter? He had him round the throat accusing him of looking alluring at me” she says with pouted red lips.

“No, I was too busy watching his son score the goal” Jeffries replies.

A flutter of her eyelashes and an almost embarrassed looking stare she admits that her husband has had the same optician’s prescription for the last 6 years, ignoring their letters for an eye test.

Looking more and more confused and trying to keep a fully focussed eye on the football match barks a valid question at Janice “what has that got to do with me?” She replies “Well I think my husband thought Mr Baxter was you”.

Dazed and confused, or just dazed by the time he focusses his attention back to the football the match is on the 81^st minute. Feeling guilty that he has not given the game his full managerial attention he looks down at his notepad and the his guilt is even more compounded the only notes he has written from the match are “must find out what perfume Janice was wearing” no formation changes, no substitution ideas or in play tactics.

All of a sudden, the whistle blows, looking up shocked he claps and smiles like has given this game his full attention. Shaking each of his players as they come of the pitch tired, mud splattered but emotional in victory it’s been an eventful ending in a 1 nil win to Alnmouth United the first away game of the season.

The parents disperse, some glad in victory, some still concerned about the blasphemy they may or may not have heard. Part of the managerial role is to stay back and help the home or away staff tidy up the locker rooms and pack away the kit bags. Saying his farewells and high on victory he ignores the comments from the Alnwick back room staff on the stuffing in the rematch.

The skip of this morning’s match day excitement had evolved into a satisfying and almost confident stroll back to his car, a result for him all round. His beloved team had won and he had a flirty encounter with Janice.

There are only three cars left in the car park his Sportage being one of them as he gets closer, he can see his front right-hand tyre is flat, the dust cap laid on the car park floor nearby.

Was Tommo senior’s vision suddenly restored to his correct prescription or did pouting Janice tip her husband off. The plot thickens in the first away game of the season.

By Michael Conboy

Strategic Manoeuvres with a Manchester United Fan featured in issue 76 of Mudhutter (February 2020) also featured in VFTAE 13 below.

Strategic Manoeuvres With a Manchester United Fan and Ballad Of George Formby featured in issue 13 of VFTAE (October 2019):

The sleet falls down on a hum drum town, I shall stop now in fear of potential copyright infringement, you get the picture I am sat on coach in Leeds bus station on a cold January midweek morning. The prospect of the next 36 hours ahead is one I am increasingly struggling to relish.

But I am here for better or worse, I could get off now and redeem this situation to the rear cerebral cortex never to be mentioned or thought of again, but my luggage has been uncaringly discarded in the hold with the rest of the passenger’s bags.

I have also failed to mention we have an elephant in the room, my travel companion is a Manchester United fan.

A loud beeping noise, as our coach reverses out of Leeds coach station.

Staring out of the window with this piercing noise in my head what I say and what I do are two completely different things.

“Giggs is playing well mate, having a strong season!” (I couldn’t really care about Giggs season, but fast forward and his purchase of Salford City FC and their success is something he can be proud of, so fair play to him and the other owners).

What I am really thinking is though “Are you Man U You??”

It’s the mid-nineties I am travelling with my Irish mate from Sligo, a well-educated follower of the red army.

To be fair his old man is a school teacher so he is from prominent stock! But what is with all these Irish lads supporting Manchester United?

Next stop Meadowhall, Sheffield has two football clubs, you would not think so with the cliental boarding this coach, let’s just say shoppers with too much time on their hands.

This coach is feeling like the pied piper…..next stop!!!!

I won’t bore you with every coach stop but as you can gather it’s a painfully long journey, and yes “Man U” is still at my side, he talks a good talk and likes a Guinness, guess what he has brought us some coach cans! “Con, you like the Black stuff?”

Sat on this coach I am looking around thinking, this isn’t racist, drug related, so must be Guinness!

“yeah mate, anything to numb the pain, a long trip!”

We finally arrive at Holyhead, its 4am.

What can only be described as a disused aircraft hangar we get unloaded at Holyhead ferry port, we step off the coach all feeling like we have just scaled Everest in our bare feet.

The place is deserted as it is 4.15 in the morning, we have a 30-minute wait for the ferry. We find a vending machine in the far corner of the waiting room. I need a cold drink and some chocolate to rehydrate me from the painfully long coach journey.

The time passes quickly and we board the ferry as foot passengers. We didn’t book a cabin to keep the costs down as we a travelling on a tight budget and really didn’t seem worth it for a steady 3.5-hour crossing to Dublin. How wrong was I!!

We make our way to the bar and seating area with the other foot passengers, rejuvenated with sugary drinks and chocolate I brave a pint of Guinness, well what else am I going to do on a ferry to Dublin full of Irish comrades?

It goes down surprisingly well baring in mind the journey we have been on to get to this point.

My travelling companion is in fine spirits as always, he seems to run on fumes! He is making friends with the other travellers. Stories of him growing up in Sligo, watching Sligo Rovers play in the 1970’s. He relives the famous 1977 season when Rovers were league leaders after playing 11 games by Christmas with a 3-1 win over Drogheda. Followed then by back to back wins against Home Farm and Athlore both games Rovers won 5-0. He smiles proudly and his voice gets louder as the Guinness flows and the crowd of listeners grow, ordering another Guinness for himself and me he confirms that Sligo Rovers remained the top of the table for the rest of the season. All of a sudden there is a sudden judder and the boat sways quite violently “turbulence!” he shouts, it doesn’t deter him as he continues reliving the season as a young boy going to the games with his Father and Brother who is now also a teacher, a music teacher in a middle school in Sligo.

The boat rocks again “So the final game of the season” he bellows was against Shamrock Rovers and Sligo need to win for the league title.

The game is played on Easter Sunday so crowds are high and full of expectation. An early goal by Gary Holmes put Sligo in the lead, the Easter crowd erupts he recalls as young boy.

Still 1-0 to Sligo by the end of the first half, things are looking good. Second half and Shamrock equalise 1-1, the crowd goes quiet and look slightly subdued.

Goal!! Sligo score to put them back in the lead 2-1, the pace of the game and flow steady’s until local winger Paul “Ski” McGee scores to make it 3-1 and title is well and truly secured, what a season!

The gathering crowd around our bar stools cheer as the story draws to a conclusion. By this time the empty Guinness glasses have piled up on the bar next to us. Again, the boat rocks and the empty Guinness glasses all shift down the bar like something out of a Sergio Leone Spaghetti Western.

Something is wrong the turbulence is getting gradually worse we go look out of the window but cannot see much as it is dark outside, ordering another pint we think it may be wise to go sit on one of the sofa’s in the lounge/bar area. As we make our way across the boat rocks, glasses fly off tables and smash on the floor. I am now starting to feel a little uneasy, I check my watch another hour at least to go until we arrive in Dublin. We take a seat next to a bloke with a guitar playing from what I recognise Pogues songs from their 1989 album Peace and Love. Even he is looking unwell and starting to sound out of tune.

The turbulence just gets worse and worse, as most of the travellers in the bar have obviously had a few drinks some of them are not taking this very well and start being sick. This then seems to have a domino effect and others follow suit. What was a joyous scene with singing, story telling and drinks flowing has turned into carrot swilling carnage!

After an hour of hell and tightly grabbing the arms of the faux leather chair I am sat in we finally arrive in Dublin port, I really cannot wait to get off this ferry. We move hastily along with the other ill and bewildered passengers and make our way to queue to get off the boat. Walking as fast as I can after a night of unrest, I see daylight through the door of the ferry port. At last fresh air and dry land!! A journey I never want to repeat and is giving me palpitations thinking about it all these years later.

As we walk to down the tunnel to what now seems like freedom, we brush past the customs officers. “Hold on there lads” a voice shouts, we turn round they are talking to us. Pointing at my mate they summons him over, they must have heard his Irish accent. This is the las thing we need after a night of hell on the Titanic. They check his papers and ask for the purpose of his visit.

Now in Southern Ireland we take a walk in the crisp January morning air to Dublin (Busaras) Bus Station. We need to complete the first part of our Irish leg of the trip to Castlewellan in Northern Ireland:

The bus from Dublin only takes us as far as Rathfriland which is in between Newry and Castlewellan. We get our tickets and board the bus, I am tired but also looking forward to seeing the Southern Irish countryside and crossing the border into Northern Ireland at Warrenpoint.

I get a window seat and make myself comfortable, I am hoping for a relaxing journey now.

I must have fallen asleep, my eyes open I feel a little groggy, but also refreshed from a well-deserved sleep.

I get my bearings, let’s hope I haven’t been snoring but no one is giving me funny looks and my mate never says anything. I look out of the window and can see a sign on the road side for Dundalk. We have made great progress and once we get past Dundalk the next destination is Newry.

On the outskirts of Newry just a few years before on the Dublin to Belfast road was where the British Army Checkpoint was situated. During the height of the troubles in the rush hour traffic it was known to take more than an hour to pass through from the Republic of Ireland into Northern Ireland, if stopped you were asked for your name, address, date of Birth and reason for travel, destination of your journey and in some cases yourself and vehicle searched.

The Checkpoint at Newry was dismantled as part of the IRA ceasefire and subsequently all the checkpoints disappeared after the Good Friday agreement.

With the blink of an eye the checkpoint has passed us by, the bus gathers some momentum and slight increase in speed as we head into Newry, we pass the town hall over the bridge, old age and my failing memory I don’t recall much more about Newry.

What I do remember is they do have a football team “Newry City FC” or as they are now known “Newry City AFC” after the club was dissolved in 2012 and a new club formed in 2013 “Newry City AFC”. You need good eyesight to spot the name difference!

They are a semi professional football team who play in the NIFL Premiership following promotion from the NIFL Championship in the 2017/18 season.

Heading out of town the clouds start to thicken and the air feels cooler on the bus, as we head to our last stop on this bus to Rathfriland it starts to snow. The countryside and surroundings are rural, bleak at times but stunningly beautiful, steeped in deep history of the troubles that have had such a lasting effect on so many.

In now blizzard conditions we arrive in Rathfriland, we all get off the bus. I say all but between myself and my mate there are only now another 3 passengers left on. They scurry off sheltering from the blizzard to where they are going to, probably home to a real fire and warm drink. We make our way to Rathfriland bus station, a strange looking building with a high peaked roof like a large garage with two entrances for buses to drive in and out of, there is a sign on the wall saying “ulsterbus”.

We have no ideas of bus times and just hope we don’t have to wait long, plan B in the back of my mind is if there is a long wait to find a local pub with a real fire and sample an Irish Whiskey.

Lucky or unlucky I will let you decide as we walk into the bus depot a bus is just reversing in. As it stops, I let my mate take the lead and he asks what time the next bus goes through to Castlewellan. He seems like a jolly chap and advises this bus does but it doesn’t leave for 10 minutes but says we are welcome to sit on it and wait for it to depart. As we chat to the driver, he says we have been lucky as the bus to Castlewellan only runs every two hours. As I say lucky or unlucky!

He advises its only a 14-minute journey depending on the traffic. At last our destination is in sight. My mate glances across to me and says “I can’t wait to see my wee boy”. What I failed to mention as we left Leeds coach station all those hours ago was the purpose of our trip. We are heading to my mate’s ex-wifes to see his son. The second part of the trip we will then travel to Sligo with his son to see his Grandparents. I am just along for the ride so to speak with promises of the best Guinness you will ever drink in the North and the possibility of catching a Sligo Rovers home game in the South.

No other passengers get on the bus, the blizzard which has now cleared to just a light snow shower has deterred them or this is a bus service which is not in popular demand on a snowy January lunchtime

The 14-minute journey which has been calculated to accurate perfection goes quickly as we chat with the jolly bus driver.

We say our goodbyes as we get off the bus at the bottom of Castlewellan Main Street, on the right-hand side is a pub. We definitely need a celebratory pint now we have finally arrived in our destination. My mate also says his young son will still be at school so we have a couple of hours for a drink and a wonder around.

I open the door of pub to be completely overwhelmed with wooden décor, a long wooden bar running down the left with a wooden floor and matching bar stools. As we walk in it’s the old cliché “the piano stops” all the locals stare at us, I say all the locals there are about 5 blokes all must be over 60 sat on bar stools at the bar. “what you having lads?” the barman asks. We order two pints of Guinness and go sit in the corner. Something catches my eye and it’s the same with all these men at the bar they all have carrier bags at the side of their bar stools. When we sit down I ask my mate what’s with the carrier bags? He says as they are locals, they are allowed to bring their own cans as long as they still buy the odd pint during the day. I thought how not to run a successful business, but I guess these local pubs are more of a hub in the community rather than a money-spinning investment opportunity.

After a couple of pints of Guinness my mate says he is going to pick his son up from school. I order another pint and say I will meet him at his ex-wife’s flat later on. He says we will have a look at Sligo Rovers fixtures this evening for a home game on Saturday, I hadn’t mentioned this to him as I thought he had already sorted it.

As I look out of the window of the warm bar, the aroma of highly polished oak is almost overwhelming but somehow comforting. The snow is now falling again and darkness is only broken by the street lights on Castlewellan Main Street.

I say my goodbyes to the barman and the now friendly locals, as I head onto the street, my breathe is taken away by the bitterness of the winter evening as the snow soon covers my clothing.

Luckily the flat is only a short walk up the road, I can see the welcoming lights in the window. Making my way up the stairs to the flat I am feeling extremely hungry, something is definitely cooking. I am hoping its not my mates handy work as let’s just say his culinary skills leave a lot to be desired, I am sure the local fire brigade has been called out at least once in the past!

Introductions and pleasantries out of the way we sit down with a large glass of Merlot and are presented with a steaming bowl of Irish Stew, this is the traditional recipe made with Mutton and Potato and served with Colcannon. I know all this because I quizzed the “chef”, Colcannon by the way is Mashed Potato with Kale, Spring Onions and Butter. The perfect meal after nearly 2 days of travelling.

After we finish our food, I take my bag to the room I am staying and get settled, this bed is so comfy………

I wake up to the high pitched almost bell like call of the Waxwing, whose species invade parts of Ireland during the winter Months if their food supply in Southern Scandinavia have been exhausted.

The curtains are open and I am fully dressed on top of the duvet, I must have nodded off, for a change!

Laying there staring out of the picturesque window I can see Ballymagreehan hill in the distance, a soothing sight on a cold winters morning with the snow capped on top from the previous days fall.

The bus from Castlewellan to Enniskillen takes approx. 4 and a half hours, the first part of the journey is via the Europa Bus Centre in Belfast.

I am now glad for the early night with the prospect of another long bus journey ahead, I am pleased my friends parents are meeting us off the bus in Enniskillen. My mind gets wondering to whether he has sorted the Sligo Rovers game, if he has he isn’t giving much away.

Arriving at Belfast bus station we make our connecting bus with plenty of time to spare. We get a coffee and I buy a newspaper to check the Irish football fixtures.

I now start thinking are there any Enniskillen football matches on this week, but I don’t even know if they have a football team!

Enniskillen Town United Football Club a name that immediately stands out in length, they are simply known as “The Town”. A relatively young club formed in 1970 their debut game was on 22/08/70 against Maguiresbridge, unfortunately not the start the club had hoped for they lost 4-1 a shock to the system and a steep learning curve lied ahead of them.

Fast forward 20 seasons later and the club win the Mulhern Cup, they won 2-0 against Shelbourne.

It took Enniskillen another four seasons to win its 2^nd Mulhern Cup with a 1-0 win against local town rivals Enniskillen Rangers.

The bus journey to Enniskillen is underway and I am happily reading the sports section of the local paper still trying to find anything remotely resembling the weekends football fixtures.

A few hours later we pull into Wellington Road and can see the bus station. Its nearly lunchtime and I am hoping my friends parents will take us somewhere for a decent lunch. We make our way off the bus and my mate waves to his parents waiting nearby.

We put our bags in the boot of the car and I say hello to the Sligo school teacher, he warmly welcomes me and has an emotional reunion with his Son and Grandson, comments on how the young boy has grown since his last visit and fondly ruffles his hair.

As we head out of the bus station the conversation turns to lunch, the young lad loudly announces he is hungry, well said young man and perfectly timed! You can always rely on the youngsters to cut through any politeness and get direct to the point.

We are informed we are heading to the nearby Killyhevlin Hotel where a table has been booked.

The hotel was the scene of the bombing during the first ceasefire, a jeep packed with over 1000 lbs of explosives parked in the hotel car park went off injuring 17 people in the hotel attending a wedding. The front of the hotel collapsed and it left a 12 foot crater in the carpark, as you can imagine the surrounding parked cars were all destroyed.

We pull into the car park of the newly refurbished hotel over looking Enniskillen Golf Club, a beautiful parkland course in grounds of the Castlecoole estate.

The crackle of the tyres driving over the loose pebbled drive into the hotel carpark remind me of my youth arriving on cold winters morning at the golf club in my local village, I still play there all these years later and still friendly with the owner, so the view of Enniskillen Golf Club is something that I relish.

We get seated in the hotel restaurant nothing to formal, we order from the menu but to the life of me I can’t remember what I ate I just know I was hungry and it was lovely.

Bill paid back in the car the final leg of the journey Enniskillen to Sligo:

Sat comfortable and full of food we embark on the last leg of our journey, unzipping my Adidas rucksack I get out my Sony CD Walkman which has been a savour on this journey, not that I haven’t enjoyed “Man U’s” company along the way. Just sometimes you need your own space and thoughts.

Limited for space I haven’t brought many CD’s and just the one book James Joyce Dubliners, so fittingly as I get the book out to find a CD to play directly underneath is Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks a bittersweet journey through childhood memories just like Joyce captures in his short stories in Dubliners.

We make it to Sligo in 1 hour 10 minutes a slight delay due to roadworks, we settle into our rooms only to be enticed downstairs in the evening by the smell of a ham cooking, served with potatoes and cabbage the end to a perfect day.

We never made it to a Sligo Rovers game and ironically I later found in life that my family is from Sligo after previously being told we come from County Mayo.

The Ballad Of George Formby by Michael Conboy – Featured in Issue 74 of Mudhutter fanzine (November 2019):

I scribble pen to paper the ink slightly smudging the words as I write at what seems to be at a rate of knots, cough, splutter and dock out an imaginary “Capstan Non Filter” (1) in an ever filling ash tray of wonderful memories , actually I used to love being given a new text book at Middle School, blue cover, opened to lines and lines of clean pages just waiting to be populated with a load of waffle and incomprehensible equations.

Inside the cover write your name and form number, then would come the important and interesting stuff, what to populate the front and back cover with.

For me and my likewise class mates it was always going to be The Jam, that mod target you drew with a blunt circumference compass that had been passed around the local approved school to make Borstal tattoos. We wrote “The Jam” with the Who defining down arrow on the “M” something Weller had copied from Townsend.

Confessions….and I confess pre my text book artwork I was what was known as a Teddy Boy, Rockabilly music, The Stray Cats, Elvis, who to be fair is one of my earliest musical influences and still one of my favourite artists. I think though on this particular Saturday morning Elvis and my Dad must have been on the same tee at Coble Hall Golf Club, a sight to behold same haircuts! I wonder if my Mum charged Elvis the same price for his haircut as my Dad.

9.30am Mum up the street for the 768 bus into town to meet my Grandma, coffee and cake, then to Marks and Spencer to return last week’s purchases. Did they wear the stuff out through the week? no they just lay on the bed in a constant state of indecision. “David what does this look like?” my Dad is hardly the Georgio Armani of Leeds. His fawn slacks have had the pockets repaired that many times a field mouse would struggle to get some small change out of them.

House free I make my way to the garage, feeling rebellious like a poor mans Danny Zuko, I fluff up the collar of my PVC Marks and Spencer’s “ faux leather” jacket, pink socks on show, I spark up a week old docked Capstan feeling like one of the T Birds I prop myself up against the garage door, once inside I find a can of car spray paint from the back of the garage, fuck it we are Teds! A shake of the spray can I shake and aim towards the rusty old work bench, here we go I spray “We Are TES” I am not sure who “TES” is but I think I must be the first dyslexic Ted in Leeds.

The long hot summers passed, early rising listening to The Beatles then up the woods at the back of our house, dens, BMX’s, fires, cans of Tennants Super lager and chipped teeth opening cheap bottles of cider. The world was our oyster until it was time for tea, you never knew whether the fried egg with your chips had been cooked on the pavement as the heatwaves hit record temperatures.

We are three years apart in age me and my older sister, it’s the early 80’s Grandma is sat on the sofa sucking on an endless supply of polo mints supplied by her dealer down Old Lane Beeston, arms and hands busy knitting another Mo Hair jumper, she drops a stitch, the ball of wall runs away with itself, pupils dilated a young feral kitten named Charlie takes full advantage of a plump rounded domestic kill presented to her in the front room, it never stood a chance!

The ball of wool unravels uncontrollably like the memories unfolding, early 80’s I am sat on our black horse Dusty, Denim jacket, Leeds scarf, jeans and doc boots, the big Sister about that time would not have looked out of place on Mississippi river boat as an extra in a Culture Club video.

Fast forward what would only seem like a few Months but could be a year it’s all changed, Maroon Sta Prest trousers, the classic Skinhead Fred Perry Polo shirt black with the yellow trim for me, for her we have gone full on Sade hair tied back with big hooped ear rings and red lipstick, very much the “Smooth Operator” (2).

Its late 1983 I am sat on my bedroom floor pencil in hand trying to wind back in a C90 cassette my Sister has given to me…….

The Jam SNAP was released in 1983 a bold compilation album i don’t think many words were exchanged when she handed over the said cassette through the gap in my bedroom door, like being on covert ops with an undercover operative. No words were required once I had listened to SNAP once – brilliant would have been a vast understatement. I was aware of “Beat Surrender” and “Bitterest Pill” (3) in 1982 and the demise of The Jam, but I was still probably getting my head around The Beatles later albums, far out man!

There is a knock on the door, loud, bold and era defining! I can hear the stepladders unfold in the parent’s bedroom, Mum on a stepladder peering through the gap between the curtain rail and curtains. “David, there is blue car in the drive, go see who it is!” Dad finishes his highly polished quiff and slowly makes his way down stairs, leaving a trail of small change from his fawn slacks pocket as he goes.

Top bolt unlocked, bottom bolt unlocked the gate keeper is almost there just one more lock, door open and what can only be described as a taller, stockier version of Nick Leesam is stood there looking a little worse for wear, blonde hair slightly electrified after a heavy night on the trading floor with a magnum of Moet, more likely scenario though a skin full of ale at the Barley Corn with the local Cricket team! Holding a “mobile” phone which is as big as breeze block and looks far from mobile. The rest as they say is history! “Happy Together” (4) he will become my Brother in Law and in later years more like the Brother I never had….

I have seen Paul Weller more times than I can count now, unfortunately I binned all my ticket stubs years ago in an OCD cull. Each concert has great memories for me, some of the most enjoyable been shared with my Sister and Brother in Law.

Fast forward to present day and a lovely Birthday present from them both, tickets to Paul Weller at Dalby Forest Summer 2019. This will be my second time seeing him there. The first time was some what eventful. I went with two of my female friends both Paul Weller fans, we got lost on the way there and stuck in a terrible traffic jam getting out of the venue which subsequently ended up with us not getting home for a further two hours! Not that I am mentally scared by the experience.

Concert day has finally arrived and didn’t get off to the start I had anticipated to say the least.

Limbs all over the place, white boxing gloves landing confident body shots and some stunning upper cuts. Positive defensive head movement and lovely blocks.

For the last 20 years I have been crawling around on my hands and knees when I hear the metal sound of that ladder being every so gracefully propped up against the window, the swishing of the shammy leather. Not this unfortunate summers Friday morning, this soldier had been caught out in his own trench.

If we go back a paragraph or so I can hopefully cast some blame of what is about to unfold, but then again he could he been warning me after all we have “always been thick as thieves” (5). I have to think the cleanest cat in Tingley was alerting me in the only way he could.

Half asleep my cheek firmly moulded into the pillow I look up into a dimly lit bedroom, the cat has his head forced through the 4^th slat of my bedroom window blind, white boxing glove paws through the 5^th slat either side the picture not far from resembling a peasant in the stocks from the Victorian times.

This sight is nothing new to me, a familiar silhouette of my silly little cat shadow boxing in his white boxing gloves on the window sill against the “Burning Sky” (6) of the dawn of a new summer’s day. Thinking nothing of it I turn over, I smirk to myself as the cleanest cat in Tingley unlaces his white boxing gloves giving each paw a wash before curling up next to me we both fall asleep.

KLAXON!!!!!!!! 7.00am the big alarm booms out BEEP, BEEP, BEEP!!!!!! Until I am able to turn it off. I am alert and now fully aware the dice were always unfairly loaded not in my favour this morning. All the evidence had pointed one way, the cat had all but let off smoke flares, spelt it out on the lawn in cat litter in big dirty white letters which could have been seen from Mars. Still I missed all the “Clues” (7) ignorantly oblivious.

7.05am stripped bare of all my armour apart from my boxer shorts, eye sight of a poster boy for Spec Savers I saunter across the landing to the bathroom arrogance personified like Liam Gallagher invading the catwalk at the Versace Menswear show in Milan all those years ago.

As I sit there like a middle aged “Porcelain God” (8) phone in hand checking the BBC News and Sky Sports I suddenly hear the metallic sound of a ladder banging against brickwork behind my head, shortly followed by a piercingly jolly whistle and watery cloth wiping the window.

The sickening reality suddenly kicks in, I am half naked sat on the toilet with the window cleaner looking in behind me. Apologies for the graphic image that portrays!

Beads of sweat begin to form on my forehead, thoughts are racing through my mind of what my next move can possibly be, if in fact I actually do have a next move available to me. Do I say good morning as if nothing has happened? Do I use the reverse camera on my phone like a modern day periscope to get a clearer view of his actual location?

I opt for silence and complete backside numbing stillness. Head down in sheer desperation the salt from the sweat stings my eyes as it runs down my forehead forming clammy particles on my upper lip. I can taste the realisation as I now look up, pure unadulterated horror as I see that the bathroom door is wide open and so is the door to my office across the landing! Is the window cleaner now on his way to clean the windows at the front of the house which will give him the front view of me sat on the toilet?

The swish of his greying pony tail underneath his baseball cap, dressed in his camouflage jacket as I hear him slam my gate and exit my back passage.

Tick tock…..the clock is very much ticking, I quickly work out in my head I have approximately about 3 minutes to shut the bathroom door before his ladder and head appear in my office window.

Strategy and mathematical equations are needed in this sands of time scenario, like an antiquated task from the 80’s television show the Crystal Maze. But for the task that lies ahead I feel I have had the sand well and truly kicked in my face. Drastic action is need as I now only have 1.50 minutes left.

Soldier Stand Up! I am up sir, deliriously and in appropriately now reliving scenes from the film Full Metal Jacket in my head. Step one, step two, step three I am closer to the bathroom door as I reach out to shut it my left foot gets tangled in my boxer shorts and I do a Zola Budd, but at this point in time I am not sure that under the circumstances a pair of Nike Flame running spikes would have saved me crashing on my arse on to the cold tiled floor.

The window cleaner never reappeared so I can only assume when the cat was garrotted in the bedroom blind the window cleaner had done all the front windows. Dusting myself down I still had a morning at work ahead and a Co-Op meal deal to consume.

The afternoon completed event free its now 5pm and I am greeted by the twerk of a bottom and some big eyes looking up at me from a ginger haired face. Thankfully its my sisters littler cocker spaniel and not my local window cleaner staring back at me, he likes his back scratching, that’s the dog not the window cleaner!

We arrive at Dalby Forest in good time, get parked up and head into the arena to the sound of the support act Stone Foundation. A Weller influenced soul band who the man himself has written for and performed with.

My plan was to write a roving review of the gig but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I am still emotionally scared from a rejection by the NME at the age of 15 years old. Maybe I should have got over it all these years later? I wrote an album review of The Pogues – Rum, Sodomy and The Lash and sent it by Royal Mail to the contributors address from the inside cover of the NME. Patiently waited but never heard anything back! From that day on I swore I would never write another music review again. So its with a slightly bitter taste in my mouth I come to this part of the article as its absolutely crying out for a concert review!

The whole evening from start to finish was brilliant, great venue, great music and most of all great company.

I said I wouldn’t do this but the stand out tracks for me were always going to be Strange Museum, Holy Man and Into Tomorrow. I don’t actually think I have heard him play Strange Museum or Holy Man live. I know they featured in those iconic concerts from around 1994 the most memorable for me being Glastonbury 94, what an amazing set. He was like Icarus raising from the flames after being incarcerated in a darkened room listening to Traffic, Neil Young and Nick Drake on repeat since the Style Council split up.

Into Tomorrow always sounds amazing live a real 70’s rock groove to it and an amazingly long self- indulgent guitar solo and to hear it in an open air venue like Dalby Forest just as the sun was going down it didn’t disappoint.

Being sensible and having inside knowledge of past Dalby Forest concerts we decided to make our way slowly out of the arena half way through the third encore song Broken Stones.

As we are nearing the top part of the venue the Beatles riff from the Taxman aka Start begins, we stop in our tracks under the corner of the trees near the men’s urinal such a picturesque setting!

No fucks given and no lead need taken we all start dancing, the combined age of 152!

A three song Jam medley unfolds – Start, a brass version of Precious and the fans favourite Town Called Malice to finish, we were in the car and moving out for Malice.

I suppose I couldn’t end without a two finger salute to the corporate brand the NME and Happy 50^th Birthday again to my lovely sister.

For those interested below are the musical references used.

REFERENCES

1. “Capstan Non Filters” – lyric by The Jam from Saturday Kids from Setting Sons album 1979
2. “Smooth Operator” – Sade from Diamond Life album 1984
3. “Beat Surrender” and “Bitterest Pill” – The Jam from The Gift (deluxe edition) album 1982
4. “Happy Together” – The Jam from The Gift album 1982
5. “always been thick as thieves” – The Jam lyric from Thick as Thieves from Setting Sons album 1979
6. “Burning Sky” – The Jam from Setting Sons album 1979
7. “Clues” – Paul Weller from Paul Weller album 1992
8. “Porcelain God” – Paul Weller from Stanley Road album 1995

My first digital publication for the Gil Heron piece for DUCK Summer digital edition 2019, see below:

GAZZA IN 96 by Michael Conboy – Featured in Issue 12 of View From The Allotment End Fanzine and also issue 30 of STAND fanzine:

Marianne Faithful, Nancy Sinatra, Debbie Harry, the sun light shines through and captures their hair, the bass line misses a beat, the symbol crashes to the floor.
Jagger knew, Frank knew, Andy Warhol knew, these were the women that would capture, and in some cases “Rapture” the lives of young impressionable men for generations.
As Nancy said “These Boots are made for walking” but in the case of Paul “Gazza” Gascoigne those boots were definitely made for playing football and some tremendous football at that!
It comes as no surprise that the likes of Paul Gascoigne and David James among others have adopted the peroxide blonde look over the years. Albeit a subconscious and maybe a possible unaware spiritual connection with the great Marianne, Nancy and Debbie.
The smell of peroxide, testosterone and dubin in those football dressing rooms must have been a toxic powder keg for the young bleached blonde Tazmanian devil Paul Gascoigne.
At the time Gazza was playing for Rangers, and some would argue in the playing form of his career, he would inevitably be selected for the England squad for Euro 96. He was in a good place mentally when he was up in Scotland although he was suffering from insomnia, Rangers at the time had a strict dress code for players turning up at Ibrox whether it was match day or just for the midweek training session. Training through the week would start at 10.00am on the dot with players typically arriving at Ibrox between 9.30 and 9.45am. On one particular week day training session Gazza still hadn’t arrived for training and it was nearly 10.00am. His colleagues were becoming increasing concerned especially with Paul’s quirky personality traits.
The doors burst open into the dressing, Gazza has made it for 10.00am training, stood there out of breath in a shirt and tie and a pair of fishing waders holding a trout under each arm which he had caught through the night. He had a passion for fishing and he would often go during the night due to his insomnia. The shirt and tie were to uphold the clubs strict dress code!
Being a kind and thoughtful soul Gazza thought he would share the two trout he had caught with a colleague by hiding them in his car, one was relatively easy to find the other was under the spare wheel which turned out to be a little bit harder to find, let’s just say the share prices rose dramatically for the pine air freshener company that particular Month.
It was probably perfect timing that Paul had been selected by Terry Venables for the England squad for Euro 96, keep him occupied and hopefully out of trouble! Prior to the tournament Venables decided the squad needed a trip to bond as a unit and also relax before the Euro’s. He arranged a trip to Hong Kong for the squad, the rest is etched in football folklore history!
Murdoch’s red top blood hounds circle like they are being thrown scraps of meat, it’s the pictures Venables would choke on his Weetabix for weeks.
There for the world to see the England squad blurry eyed, sweaty, shirts undone and in some cases off completely. This wasn’t an early morning training session underway, this was a night out in Hong Kong! At the centre of the pictures was a bleached blonde Gazza strapped to a leather dentist chair with the local bar man pouring a mixture of Drambuie and Tequila into his open mouth. The media back home had a field day, the headlines whipped up and blown out of proportion.
The England squad returned home, the dust settled the feeding frenzy had rinsed the “Dentist Chair” for all they could and had moved on to something else.
The England squad and manager Terry Venables now had to concentrate on the job in hand the Euro 96 tournament.
Progressing well through the group stages England find themselves in the favourable position of facing Scotland in their final group stage game, a win would see them through to the Quarter finals. Tense times called for some unorthodox managerial man management strategies, to calm Gazza down pre match Venables arranged with Wembley swimming baths to allow him to go “pretend” fishing the evening before each match. It must have been a crazy scene to see Gazza fly fishing in an empty swimming pool. But if it works don’t knock it!!
The date is 15th June 1996 the location Wembley Stadium, the time 15.00, the game gets underway the first half is goalless.
The players back out for the second half after a Venables rousing team talk, rallying the troops. It definitely worked as Shearer scores after 53 minutes. The England supporters go wild, could this be them going to the Quarter finals?
Gooooooaaaaal!!!! What a second goal for England after 79 minutes from the bleached blonde bombshell himself Gazza, chips the ball over Colin Hendry’s head then a beautiful volley into the back of the net.
The England fans go wild, Gazza runs to the side of the goal and dives on to his back, arms spread out either side his team mates surround him and proceed to spray water into his mouth. His celebration a two fingered salute to the British press who had made such a big deal of the dentist chair incident. His celebration re enacting the dentist chair was almost as good as the goal. Lapping it up the red tops breathe new life into the “dentist chair” once again.
The game finished two nil to England and its full steam ahead to the Quarter finals!
A week later and it’s the 21st June, the eve of the Quarter final match against Spain, all is silent apart from the zip of the line and the whip of the fishing rod as Gazza spends another evening pretend fly fishing.
The next day and Wembley stadium at 2.30pm is holding a cool 75 thousand football fans for what is hoping to be a mouth watering quarter final clash against Spain.
The curse of the footballing gods and its goalless after 90 minutes, extra time still sees no goals, so it goes to the dreaded penalties! Nadal misses his and the Gazza nails his, England are through to the Semi Finals, again the crowd go wild. Gazza showing what a confident force he is on the pitch.
Pre match fly fishing done, England now face Germany in the semi finals, it couldn’t be set up for a better footballing stage, a theatre of dreams for Venables boys.
Wembley stadium on a June evening kick off 19.30 Wembley again full with a 75 thousand crowd.
Straight out of the blocks Shearer scores after 3 minutes, this is it, it has to be! What a brilliant start to the game. Sixteen minutes and Kuntz scores for Germany, Kuntz by name hey!
Well that was that 1-1 after full time and again it goes to extra time, a goal drought proceeds so the inevitable penalty shout out beckons.
The usual candidates line up for the England penalties Shearer, Platt, Pearce, Gascoigne, Sheringham all scoring theirs. Germany match England and get all theirs Habler, Strunz, Reuter, Ziege, yes you guessed it he’s back Kuntz!
Next up for England is Gareth Southgate the newly knighted England manager, a nervy penalty missed see’s Muller confidently get his and that is it England are out of Euro 96. But what a run on and off the pitch, delightful stuff!
The dust settles and the next time you see Gazza with a fishing rod he is in the back of a taxi with a 4 pack of beer, a family bucket of KFC and the trusty fly fishing rod, the least said about that incident the better!
So now when I think about the advert “Fly Fishing by JR Hartley” it has a completely different meaning for me.
As I draw to a close I feel should offer up some kind of explanation for the some what abrupt and seemingly meaningless opening paragraph, I have been listening to some old Smiths vinyl of late which lead me to think about some female influences, notably so Nancy Sinatra and her connection with Morrissey, that lead me to think about the other three blondes, well one not a true blonde and also male! Somehow the madness of the planets collided.

Two articles featured in issue 72 of Mudhutter fanzine….by Michael Conboy:

• From Russia With Love (part factual, part fiction)
• Gil Heron – Celtic Football Club (also featured in VOT Fanzine)

The fanzine can be purchased on line via http://www.mudhutter.co.uk

Article featured in issue 2 of VOT Fanzine……by Michael Conboy:

Gil Heron – Celtic Football Club

The revolution will not be televised, the revolution will not be televised, the revolution will be live…

In my 20’s I was on a musical journey, free from the shackles of the second summer of love, or was it the third, it depends on who you speak too! I was somewhat worn out both mentally and physically.

I wanted to grow up from a musical perspective, I started listening to Dylan’s Desire loved how powerful Hurricane was and still is, the cross over between music and sport, Dylan’s sweeping verses the poetic storytelling only he managed to master through his song writing and precise delivery.

Rubin Carter a black American middleweight boxer 5 foot 8 inches tall fighting his professional career at the weight of 155-160lb. Rubin was renowned for his early round knockouts due to his aggressive fighting style, but in 1966 his life and career were about to drastically change…

At 2.30am the shooting began in the Bar and Grill on Lafayette Street, 2 immediate fatalities, another customer died a Month later, the only survivor from that fatal night was a customer who lost sight in one eye.

Witnesses at he scene who were interviewed at the time told the police they saw two black males fleeing the scene of the crime in a white car, with further independent witness statements corroborating this.

Rubin Carter and his friends driving a white car were stopped by the police that night and taken to the hospital where the one eyed witness was recovering from his injuries. The witness was unable to identify Rubin as the man who shot him.

The white car they were stopped in was searched and bullets were found that fit the murder weapon, yet no finger prints were taken and no tests for gun shot residue were done either.

Rubin was tried and convicted once in 1967 and again in 1976. It was only in 1985 that the 2^nd conviction was overturned but Rubin Carter had spent the best part of 20 years in prison.

I digress as I have somehow detracted from the subject matter in hand!

Over the years there has been some iconic images of Bob Marley playing football in an Adidas tracksuit and what look to be 1980 Cop Mundial football boots, he was a midfield player who idolised Pele. These images have stuck with me and in more recent years brought those classic memories for me back in Richard Ashcroft’s video for Are You Ready where he is in a green Adidas tracksuit, Grey Gazelles playing football in the snow, again that fusion of music and sport which sit so comfortably together yet decades apart.

I have Sky Sports News on in the background, which is nothing new in my house. It always seems to be on one of the many televisions in most rooms. I sometimes don’t pay a great deal of attention to it as I go about daily chores or getting ready to go somewhere. But on this occasion my ear picks up the name “Gil Heron” and “Celtic Football Club” all in the same sentence by a Sky Sports presenter.

It was shortly after my Dylan and Van Morrison phase I started listening to Gil Scott Heron. I confess not through my musical intellect but through Paul Weller’s cover of “The Bottle”, I guess like most people’s musical journey’s good or bad, artists are picked up along the way by others influences.

I say started listening to, I confess I bought just the one album, but this album would have a lasting effect. Well I think it was just the one album, looking back through my collection I can only find a CD copy of “Pieces of a Man” which was recorded in New York and released in 1971. The copy I have is the 1993 RCA Compact Disc reissue.

This his first studio album, he had moved away from the spoken performances of his 1970 debut live album “Small Talk at 125^th and Lenox”.

The opening track “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” interested me the most initially, I had heard nothing like it from that time period, was this the mouldings of early Hip Hop, which along with some of the stuff George Clinton was doing certainly had to be massive contributors.

This opening track was direct, it sounded like it had to be politically motivated, but I wasn’t interested in the politics I was interested in the music, that track and that album blew me away, for a long time after discovering it I barely listened to anything else and if I did it never really stacked up against it. I won’t dissect every song as they all stand the test of time, from “Lady Day and John Coltrane” to the “The Needle’s Eye”.

So now me picking up on the name “Gil Heron” on Sky Sports News has some meaning and context.

Gil Heron was the first Black footballer to play for Celtic, he was a gifted centre forward who played in the North American Soccer League from 1946.

In 1951 he was spotted by a scout from Celtic who was in America at the time and asked Gil to go to Scotland for a trail with Celtic. During this trial game he scored twice so inevitably he was asked to join the club and signed for them.

He made his debut with Celtic on the 18^th August 1951 against Morton in a league cup game, Celtic won this 2-0 with Gil scoring one of the goals, the solid debut he had needed to get his Scottish football career off the ground.

He was only with Celtic for one year, but within that time he made five first team appearances and scored twice.

After his short time at Celtic he then went to Third Lanark and then to Kidderminster Harriers before moving back to America.

Gil Heron sadly passed away 27 November 2008 at the age of 86, his legacy being the only black player for Celtic, being capped by Jamaica and his son being the famous poet and singer songwriter Gil Scott Heron.

I still haven’t worked out what the news piece on Sky Sports about Gil Heron was, answers on a postcard please! but I do know the connection between music and sport never ceases to amaze and entertain.

As I finish writing this I cant sign off without remembering Robert Nesta Marley and his Copa Mundial’s he would be 74 years old today and still an attacking force in midfield.