GULLHANGER
Or How I Learned to Love Brighton and Hove Albion
Mike Ward
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Published by:
Mike Ward at Smashwords
Copyright (c) 2011 by Mike Ward
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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Acknowledgments
A lot of people have helped make this book happen, even if many of them can’t possibly realise it. This is my thank-you bit:
FOR ALL-ROUND ENCOURAGEMENT: Alison Barrow, Jane Middleton, Andy ‘Super Brighton Factman’ Garth, Jo Morrow, Claire Morrow, Fergus Kelly, Nikki Murfitt, Tim Curran, Paul Cheston, Kathryn Spencer, Simon Spinks, Mel Whitehouse, Veronica Clark, Hugh Whittow, Richard Leifer, Dawn Neesom, Irvine Hunter, Brian Dunlea, Andy Griffin, Stephen and Denise Taylor, Dominik Diamond and his wee brother Michael, and, obviously, Mum and Dad.
FOR INSPIRATION: everyone at Brighton and Hove Albion, in particular Dick Knight, Martin Perry, Bob Booker, Paul Camillin and, needless to say, all the players. Also: Paul Samrah, Adrian Newnham, Tim Carder, Liz Costa, Sarah Watts, Matthew James, John Cowen and the rest of the FFA team, plus Micky Adams, Cyril Edwards, Ian Hart, Andrew Hawes, Paul Hayward, Bennett Dean, Paul Hazelwood, Simon Levenson, Terry Garoghan, Liz Fleet, Nicky Keig-Shevlin and, OK, Peter Taylor.
FOR THEIR BELIEF: Peter Hill, Phil Walker, Richard Stott, Katy Bravery and Bill Campbell.
FOR THE SOUNDTRACK TO A SEASON: Paul Weller, Billy Bragg, the Electric Soft Parade and Attila’s ever-inspired matchday selections.
FOR THEIR LOVE AND INFINITE PATIENCE: Julie and Em.
And never forgetting Charlie Morrow.
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‘ ... but you find out life isn’t like that ...’ – ‘When You’re Young’ – The Jam
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Sneaking In – MONDAY 23 JULY
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The ticket-office woman flashed me a wary half-smile. A split second later, she was making this strange, low-level grunting sound that I’m not sure I know how to spell. Something like ‘urrggggh’, I suppose. Possibly with a couple of extra Gs.
Call me naive, but it wasn’t quite the reaction I’d expected. Had I dipped into my trouser pocket and whipped out a rasher of fluffy bacon, or flicked open my wallet to reveal a topless snapshot of Ann Widdecombe’s slightly less attractive sister, then fair enough. But all I’d said was, ‘I’d like a season ticket for block B, please.’
So why the unspellable grunt?
Well, I think we can rule out shock. Since Brighton and Hove Albion finished last season as Division Three champions – the club’s first honour in 36 years, unless you count signing a sponsorship deal with Fatboy Slim’s record label, or hiring Des Lynam to narrate their videos, or getting namechecked by Terry Wogan on Auntie’s Sporting Bloomers – the poor soul must have processed God knows how many of these things.
So maybe it was the ‘block B’ bit. Perhaps, in my ignorance, I’d requested a seat in a section of the ground notorious for black magic and half-time ritual goat-sacrifices, or directly above a fracture in the Earth’s crust.
Or maybe – and this seemed the most likely explanation – she’d simply got me sussed. Maybe she’d taken one look and thought, ‘Here we go, another lousy bandwagon-jumper.’
In which case, she’d have been spot-on. That’s exactly what I became this afternoon, shortly before 1 p.m., for the sum of £380, charged to my NatWest Visa card. Probably the most despised of all football-supporting types: the glory-hunter. The sort who ignores his local club through all the rough times – such as, in my case, a few years back when the Albion were 90 minutes away from plunging out of the League altogether. The sort who blanks them completely when their very existence is under threat, as I did for two years – or was it three? – when they were left to share a stadium 75 miles away, in Gillingham, following the demolition of their famous Goldstone Ground. The type who waits until the club is back in its home town and doing rather well again – and the goals are flying in, and the points are piling up, and an Albion car-sticker would no longer single you out as a sad case – before scuttling shamelessly, louse-like, out of the woodwork. The type who has only ever ambled along to a measly handful of the club’s matches in the 15 years he’s lived in the city – and these so long ago that he couldn’t even begin to put a date on them, let alone recall the opposition. In short, a bit of a git.
Yep, I’m afraid that’s me. And if it’s that transparently obvious, then I may as well be wearing my own personalised T-shirt – ‘Glory-Hunter: Please Knee In Goolies’ – when I start turning up at the actual games.
So at least let me explain why I’m doing this – forking out all that money, disrupting my Saturday routine (plus a fair few evenings) well into next spring, risking being singled out as a slappable phoney. Because the point is, this isn’t really about Brighton and Hove Albion. Not as such. It isn’t even about football. Not specifically.
What it’s really about is caring. Or, to be precise, finding out if I still know how to care. About anything.
I’m serious.
I don’t mean caring in that low-key, gently-ticking-over kind of sense – about my family, my friends, my job, regularly changing my underwear etc. Obviously I care about them. Lots. Especially the underwear bit. But that’s the routine, taken-for-granted type of caring. What I’m talking about here is something altogether different: a passionate, irrational caring that doesn’t even begin to stand up to common-sense scrutiny. The sort that gets you worked up about stuff when you’ve no logical, grown-up excuse for doing so. The sort which, to the more sceptical outsider, might suggest you’re a bit of a half-wit. The fun sort, which we allow to burn out – or, almost worse, fizzle – as middle age creeps up on us.
Ah, middle age. To be honest, I’ve never entirely understood what that means. How can you possibly know when you’ve hit the mid-point of your life unless you can say for certain when it’s scheduled to end? But by the loose definition which most people seem happy to go by – too old to be young, too young to be old – I suppose I have to cut the crap and accept that I’ve reached it. Indeed, by some people’s definition I probably hit it years ago. Sure, I’m still some way short of the stage where I’d consider investing in one of those funny baths with the door on the side; but I’ve also edged well clear of the age bracket where I could order a watermelon-flavoured Bacardi Breezer without suspecting that I looked like an utter twonk.
I’m 41, for God’s sake.
Forty-flipping-one. Blimey.
Believe me, turning 41 is a lot worse than turning 40. When you turn 40, you’ve been gearing up to it for months, possibly even planning a big party where you and your peers can compare bellies and bald patches, especially if you’re male. People buy you profoundly amusing cards, hilariously hinting at imminent senility or death, or comedy mugs daubed with rib-tickling slogans such as ‘Old Fart’. All of which helps you to cope. OK, you get quietly depressed about it, but if you’re anything like me you’ve been so busy assuring everyone it’s going to be ‘just another day’ that you’ve more or less ended up believing that.
Forty-one, on the other hand, is a bugger. Not just because it seems to arrive only about a fortnight after you’ve turned 40, but also because it’s a clinical reminder that your ageing process hasn’t suddenly ground to a halt. It’s daft, but a part of me expected to be allowed a couple of years to get used to the idea of being 40 before having to face the next step. And yet it didn’t turn out that way. Odd, that.
And, like I say, what scares me most at this age – other than the distended freak who confronts me whenever I catch my naked profile in our bedroom mirror – is that when it comes to this business of caring, I seem to have shut out all the mad, irrational parts.
In certain cases, of course, that’s just as well. I’d have to be a deeply troubled soul, for example, if I still sat nervously gnawing my nails as the Sunday night Top 40 rundown reached its climax. Likewise, I’d be considered a tad pathetic if I continued to hold a grudge against whoever it was that failed me at Chemistry 0 Level in 1976. Although obviously I do hope they’ve suffered a horrible, lingering death.
The trouble is, whenever I do manage to get worked up about anything these days, it’s almost invariably sad, moany-old-man stuff. I’m in serious danger of becoming Victor Meldrew before my time. Indeed, to illustrate this very point, I’ve been keeping a note of things that have riled me during the past week alone. I should warn you, it’s pretty long and quite staggeringly petty. Still want to see it? Thought you might:
1. The bloke in the advert for Gillette Mach 3.
2. Economy bin-liners.
3. Service charge in restaurants. (So, let me get this straight: I’m paying you to cook me some food, right? And then I have to pay you an extra 10% if I actually want you to bring it to me?’)
4. Anyone over 20 riding a skateboard.
5. People saying ‘alternate’ when they mean ‘alternative’.
6. Highway Code Rule 198. I’m not sure if it’s only happened here in Brighton, but a reminder of this rule (well, I say ‘reminder’ – they could be making it up for all I know) has been pasted to the back of all the city’s buses. What it says is: ‘Ha-ha! I’m allowed to pull out right in front of you, Mr Anti-Social Car-Driving Fascist Scum, and there’s stuff-all you can do about it. In fact, I think I’ll do it right now! Wahey! Here I come! Up yours, matey!!’ (Admittedly, I’m paraphrasing.)
7. The use of the word ‘workshop’ in any sense more pretentious than as a place where my car gets fixed.
8. The person at the till who makes a big drawn-out deal of examining my credit card signature.
9. Sellotape substitute: the bargain alternative that looks exactly like the real thing, until you try peeling some off, at which point it shreds itself into half a dozen useless gummy shards.
10. My daughter Emily’s inability ever to switch anything off – lights, TV, stereo, bath taps – when she leaves a room.
11. Cyclists who ignore red lights.
12. Cyclists who ignore one-way systems.
13. Cyclists.
14. The bloke I encountered on Saturday afternoon when I popped into a ‘major’ electrical retailer and asked whether, in his role as a sales assistant, he could possibly talk me through the operation of a JVC micro system that I’d taken a fancy to. I’d actually have stood a more realistic chance of success if I’d asked this knobhead to translate Jamie Oliver’s fish pie recipe into Serbo-Croat. ‘Look, I hate to sound fussy, mate,’ I told him. ‘But I’m not very likely to buy this thing if you can’t show me how it, y’know, works.’ To be fair, though, he acknowledged my point. ‘No, you’re right,’ he admitted, before walking off to serve some bloke wanting batteries.
15. The way ‘our Graham’, the announcer on Blind Date, always says ‘Blind Daaayyyyyyyyte’. And ‘Cilia Blaaaaaaaaaack’.
16. TV weather forecasters who talk to me as if I’m six.
17. Those fish-shaped stickers that religious people put on the back of their cars. ‘God is great,’ I assume they’re saying. ‘And, while I’ve got your attention, this is what a fish looks like.’
18. Grown men flying kites.
19. Lisa’s eyebrows in EastEnders.
20. Fast-food joints where it’s assumed I’ll have chosen exactly what I want within four seconds of stepping into the store.
21. Sales people in fast-food joints who inquire if I’d like milk and sugar with my coffee when I’ve just asked for it black.
22. Anyone who seriously believes that the political opinions of a total stranger walking past your house will be influenced to the tiniest degree by a poster you’ve stuck in your window.
23. People moaning that ‘there’s never anything on TV’.
24. People setting their office phones to go straight to voicemail on the very first ring, so that they can decide, at their leisure, whether or not you deserve a call back.
25. Wacky ties.
26. Wacky socks.
27. Wacky anything.
28. The word ‘wacky’.
29. Clipboard-wielding blokes who turn up at my front door every fortnight and try to persuade me to switch gas/electricity suppliers. I particularly enjoy the bit where they brandish their price comparison chart, which confirms that their own service is by far the best value and that to have subscribed to one of their competitors singles me out as a feeble-minded half-wit.
30. People who say ‘oriented’ when they mean ‘orientated’.
31. The bloke walking up North Street in front of me yesterday, who lit his last B&H and then let the screwed-up packet fall to the pavement. (I’d have had a word, but he looked as if he might use my face as an ashtray.)
32. The expression ‘pro-active’.
33. The receptionist at our local health club last Friday, who refused to pass on my message that somebody had left their lights on in the car park, on the grounds that it wasn’t ‘company policy’ to use the public address system except in emergencies. ‘I think the person who’s left their lights on might feel it’s an emergency,’ I’d suggested. ‘But I’ll tell you what: just to make sure it qualifies, I’ll pop back outside and slash their tyres as well.’
34. Anyone who defends a decision as ‘company policy’ while failing to appreciate that all it really means is, ‘’Cos we said so, so there.’
35. Second-hand shops with pretensions.
36. The avalanche of useless leaflets that tumbles out of my free newspaper.
37. People in bookshops who are standing in front of the very section I’m trying to get to. (There’s a whole bloody A-Z to choose from, for God’s sake. Shove off and find a Jeffrey Archer.).
38. Check-out operators who start serving the next person before I’ve been able to pack all my shopping.
39. People urging me to ‘enjoy’ without adding another word to explain what it is I’m meant to be enjoying.
40. People who insist on thrusting their promotional flyers into my hand as I’m walking through town.
41. People who don’t bother thrusting their promotional flyers into my hand because they’re advertising a new nightclub and the last thing they want to attract is some speccy old lardarse.
42. The expression 24/7.
43. Killer dogs who are ‘just being affectionate’.
44. Keith Chegwin’s laugh.
45. Big Issue sellers who politely tell me to have a nice day when I’ve just made a special point of blanking them.
46. Ashley’s voice in Coronation Street.
47. Setting off the security alarm when you leave a shop and having everyone gawp at you and assume you’re a thief, even when it’s the shop’s fault because they forgot to remove the plastic tag at the till, but they still don’t say sorry or offer you compensation or a free biscuit.
48. The personalised message on the front of buses, saying: ‘Sorry, I’m not in service.’ (I’d hazard a guess that you didn’t really write that yourself, did you, Mr Bus? On the basis that you’re a frigging bus.)
49. The assumption, by whoever’s responsible for the above, that we’re so profoundly simple as to find it endearing.
50. Guests who turn up for the weekend and announce they’re on a wheat-free diet.
51. The expression ‘What are you like?!’
52. Motorists who aren’t me.
53. The fact that I let all this stuff annoy me.
So, like I say, quite a long list. And, remember, it only covers the last seven days. What we’re talking about here is a permanent, on-going condition. Come to think of it, I hate the expression ‘on-going’ as well. Make that 54.
For all I know, these rants may well be textbook midlife-crisis material. And if they are, well, fine. So be it. Even if the diagnosis isn’t quite that extreme, if they’re just the inevitable result of my priorities and perspectives shifting as I get older, it leads me to pretty much the same conclusion – namely, that there’s not a lot I can do about it.
But that doesn’t mean I should let these become my only fixations. Even if I’m stuck with being this way – just as I’m wearily obliged to accept that for the rest of my time on Earth, my hair will be increasingly reluctant to sprout from those areas where I’ve previously taken its emergence for granted (the top of my head being quite a good example) and increasingly keen to pop out of places where it can only possibly be of comedic value (ears, nostrils, upper cheeks) – it shouldn’t mean that this stuff is all I’m allowed to get worked up about. Should it? Just because I now devote so much time and energy to griping about the dreary, the petty and the niggly, it doesn’t mean I can’t counter-balance this by getting equally worked up about something fun, something uplifting, something indulgent, the way I used to. Of course it doesn’t.
And that’s where the football bit comes in.
Watching football is the only pursuit that has ever had the power to excite me in that euphoric, pulsating, lost-in-the-moment sense. In public, at least. Only at a football match have I ever been prepared to sit (or, ideally, stand) among a bunch of complete strangers and howl like a nut. The trouble is, I’m talking mostly in the past tense here. Quite a distant past at that.
Now and again, the game can still work its magic on me – but not with that consistent, aching intensity that I crave. In the last few years, watching football has largely meant slumping in front of Sky Sports, occasionally getting myself into a temporary tizzy if the match merits it, but usually ceasing to care much beyond the final whistle.
It was an incident during Euro 2000 which suggested that perhaps all is not yet lost, that my passion may be dormant rather than clinically dead. When Phil Neville lunged in like a lummox to give away that fatal last-minute penalty against Romania, thus ensuring that the England players would be back home in time to watch the highlights on their own TVs, so bitter was my frustration (God almighty, I thought, will it be this way forever until I die?) that I leapt up from the sofa and kicked the skirting board, temporarily forgetting that, if you intend to make this sort of histrionic gesture, it’s usually best if you’re wearing shoes at the time. By the following morning, three of the toes on my right foot had taken on a dramatic, intense purple hue; it would have been rather beautiful, had it not also felt as if a fridge-freezer had been dropped on them. When the hospital assured me nothing was broken, however, I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. If I’d caused myself some genuine, high-profile damage, wouldn’t it at least have demonstrated, albeit in a somewhat prattish fashion, that I still cared about something? I think it would. Instead, I had to make do with semi-convincing myself
In a way, I feel as if I’ve become the opposite of Nick Hornby in his book Fever Pitch. Whereas Nick began to feel that football – or at least Arsenal – continued to matter way too much to him as he grew older, to me it doesn’t matter nearly enough. I want to be round-the-clock obsessed, and I’m patently not.
But I do have one thing in common with Nick – namely, that, in theory at least, I’m an Arsenal fan. My uncle first took me to Highbury when I was ten, after which I’d head up there quite a lot – not fortnightly or anything daft like that, but several times a season – right up until the mid-80s. But then marriage, relocation, fatherhood, the fact that each excursion started costing more than a decent filter-coffee-maker, all combined to put paid to that routine. That, plus the fact that, if I’m being honest, I stopped really caring that much.
I still continued to think of them as ‘my’ team. I still do, I suppose. I still went stupid with delight, hammering the floor with my fists, on that famous night back in 1989 when they snatched the title from Liverpool by winning 2-0 at Anfield. I still cry whenever I see that clip of Michael Thomas ‘storming through the midfield’, in the words of Brian Moore, to nab that decisive second goal in stoppage time. But I’ve only been back to see them once in more than 15 years, and only then because I joined a mate – a Bradford fan – in the away end one Tuesday night. I’d like to say I miss them, but if I really felt that way I’d have done something about it a long time ago.
Even so, how can I really justify this sudden switch of allegiance to Brighton and Hove Albion, other than through the fact that they’re my local club? From the traditional football fans’ perspective, I clearly can’t. But given that, for me, this season isn’t so much about football as it is about learning how to care again, the simple truth is that I think I stand a far better chance with the Albion.
Clubs such as Arsenal aren’t just in another league; they occupy a world beyond reach. From my own strictly selfish point of view, they’re simply too big, too rich, too powerful, too remote, to help me reignite that raw passion. They’re just not up to the job. The Albion, on the other hand, are a far more exciting prospect. They’re comparatively small, they’re human, they seem to be prone to the occasional spectacular cock-up – on face value, they’re exactly what I’m looking for. Admittedly, I’ve always found their old-fashioned name – the ‘Albion’ part, I mean – a bit odd, not least because it’s an anagram of ‘albino’. But if I allowed myself to be put off by an archaic name with peculiar letter-juggling potential, I’d hardly have followed the Arsenal for so long.
I’d like to think, however, that this isn’t such an easy option. After all, there are no cast-iron guarantees with glory-hunting. Bandwagons can break down, or veer off course, or lose a wheel or two, or maybe even plough into the central reservation (do stop me if I’m overdoing the analogies here). Division Two could mean more glory, sure – but equally there could be a desperate relegation battle in store, or a season of dour mid-table mediocrity. Look, I’m taking a gamble, OK?
And in a funny way, I’m not sure I’ll mind if it fails, at least on the footballing front. If, four or five months from now, I find I’m sweating over a midweek injury crisis, or getting steamed up about a goal drought, or staring in horror at a Division Two table in which ‘my’ team have slumped to 19th, I don’t think I’ll feel I’ve made a horrible mistake.
If they’ve reduced me to a gibbering wreck by Christmas, that would have to be considered real progress.
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Male Support – SATURDAY 28 JULY
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Andy dipped his finger into the creamy topping of his Guinness, then began swirling it around in lazy circles, as if he hoped this might somehow produce one of those corny little shamrock patterns. I couldn’t help wondering when he’d last washed his hands.
‘So you’re serious about this, then?’ he remarked.
Oh, here we go.
‘What, about supporting the Albion?’ I replied. ‘Yeah, of course. Why?’
‘But you’ve never been to see them in your life.’
‘I have, actually, smartarse. A couple of times, several years ago, at the Goldstone. But, no, you’re basically right. I’m a glory-hunter. I admit it.’
I took a slurp and grinned, trying to make light of the whole thing, hoping Andy might at least appreciate the fun side to all this. I wasn’t planning to take the conversation to the next level, to explain the more serious motive behind my decision (‘Oh, and also, Andy, I’m on a semi-spiritual mission to rekindle my inner passion and to avoid being sucked into the emotional vacuum that is middle age’) because I knew he’d just scoff. Trust me, Andy’s like that. He doesn’t even cry during Surprise Surprise.
As it was, I could already sense he was about to dismiss the whole idea. I knew that look of old. He was going to tell me I was wasting my time.
‘If you ask me,’ said Andy . . .
Wait for it.
. . . you’re wasting your money.’
I was close.
‘Yes, well, I didn’t, did I?’ God, he could be such a negative, sour-faced sod.
‘Didn’t what?’
‘Didn’t ask you. I don’t really care what you think, Andy. I’m doing this for me.’ I was beginning to sound like a suppressed suburban housewife, finally asserting her independence by taking up naked salsa-dancing. ‘So what happened to the Arsenal, then?’ asked Andy. ‘I thought you were a Gunners fan.’
‘Well, I am,’ I insisted. ‘Sort of. It’s just that, oh, I don’t know . . .’
‘What?’
‘Well, the thing is, I can’t really bring myself to care about them that much. I’m happy enough if they win, but it’s not really that big a deal.’
‘So?’
‘So it should be, shouldn’t it, when your team wins?’
‘Why?’
‘Because it just should.’
‘Ah, right. That explains everything. Thanks for making it so clear.’
‘Oh, come on, you must know what I mean.’
‘Nope. Enlighten me.’
I was at a turning point here. Carry on this way and, against my better judgement, I’d have to own up to my real motive. This might be a mistake. In fact, there was very little ‘might’ about it.
Still, what the heck?
‘Well, I’m 41, OK?’
‘Uh-huh. So, about time you grew up, then.’
‘Well, that’s my point, you see. I have grown up. I’ve grown up so much that nothing gets me excited anymore.’
‘Really? I’m sure Julie would be flattered to hear that.’
‘No, I don’t mean in that sense. I mean in the sort of . . . the silly sense.’
‘The silly sense? Oh, I understand entirely now.’
‘You do?’
‘Nope. Sounds like you’re talking out of your bottom.’
God, why was I even wasting my breath?
‘Look, remember when you’d still get really thrilled about how your team were doing, and winning the FA Cup really mattered, and so did, I don’t know, having the best haircut or the coolest shoes or whatever?’
‘Jesus, yeah. Pathetic.’
‘All right, so most of it was. But don’t you feel hacked-off that middle-age has killed all that – including the fun bits that might have been worth keeping?’
‘Well, I might be able to dig you out a pair of my old DMs if you’re that worried.’
‘Oh, ha-ha. Look, I know this might sound like some sort of midlife crisis . . .’
‘I didn’t like to say, mate . . .’
‘But all I’m trying to do is find something I can still get irrationally passionate about.’
‘Irrationally passionate??!! Oooh, get you!’
‘As opposed to celebrating when, I don’t know, the bloody mortgage rate drops a quarter of a per cent, or I manage to park right in front of the house when I get back with a bootload from Sainsbury’s.’
‘Or Asda?’
‘Oh, shut up.’
‘Or Tesco’s?’
‘Look, I . . .’
‘They deliver now, Tesco’s, you know.’
‘Listen, the point is, I reckon I’ve got a better chance with football than with anything else. And a better chance with the Albion than with the Arsenal, simply because they’re not so big and rich and . . .’
‘Up themselves?’
‘If you like. So surely even you can see what I’m driving at. It’s not that complicated.’
‘Course it’s not. So, what, next time we meet up, I’m going to be looking at a rejuvenated Mike, am I? You’ll have rediscovered your zest for life, thanks to watching Brighton and Hove pigging Albion?’
‘That’s roughly the idea, yeah.’
Andy just laughed. ‘Oh, fantastic!’ he exclaimed, scooping up our empties and heading back to the bar.
‘This I must see! Same again?’
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Goody Gumdrops – WEDNESDAY 1 AUGUST
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I’ve become like a kid in a sweet shop, albeit with marginally less inclination to shove sherbet fountains down my jumper. The way I’m acting, anyone would assume my real motive for splashing out £380 on that season ticket wasn’t football-related at all, but that it would finally give me a legitimate excuse to purchase Albion novelties from the Seagulls Shop.
Oh, yes, the mighty, mighty Seagulls Shop. Not that mighty at all, to be honest, at least not on the scale of your average Man United megastore, but still offering a fairly impressive and curiously tempting range of goodies. I’ve walked past the place often enough – No. 6 Queens Road, a short downhill strut from Brighton station towards the sea, sandwiched between the BSM Driving School and the Lee Cottage Chinese Restaurant – and, all right, I admit it, I’ve popped in there once or twice, even before I had any valid reason to. Only to browse, you understand.
Well, OK, I did once buy a little Albion lighter. Just a disposable thing, back in the days when I was still on the Silk Cut Untastables. I didn’t feel too bad about this, though; my excuse being – not that anyone ever asked to hear it – that I happened to need a new lighter in any case, and that this one (white, with a jaunty blue Seagull logo) was no more expensive than the regular sort they sold at the newsagent’s just up the road. So there.
Or words to that effect.
But obviously I’d never felt able to indulge myself the way a proper fan could, by treating myself to something that openly implied a solid allegiance, such as an Albion T-shirt. And I certainly didn’t feel I could stroll through town wearing the official replica top.
Up until a couple of seasons ago, mind you, I wouldn’t have wanted to. I don’t mean for football reasons, but because of the various sponsorships that the club had gone through. No disrespect, but I really didn’t fancy strutting around with ‘Donatello’ (a local Italian restaurant) emblazoned in red italics across my chest, if only because I knew how soon I’d tire of the Ninja Turtle gags. Nor, in previous years, had I been hugely tempted by the prospect of having ‘Sandtex’ or ‘TSB’ strung between my nipples. As for buying an Albion shirt during the phase when the club was being sponsored by an office supplies company called Nobo, I’ve a hunch this would have ended up figuring in my top ten of Most Regrettable Purchases Ever, somewhere between the bondage trousers and the David Gray album.
But then, a couple of years ago, coinciding with all sorts of other key changes at the club – not least of which was the move back to Brighton itself – along came Fatboy Slim, superstar DJ. Also known as Norman Cook, or That Bloke Who Used To Play Bass In The Housemartins. (Or Quentin, if you want to call him by the name he was christened with and really hack him off.) When Norman’s record label, Skint, took over as sponsors in 1999, a new hipness seemed to attach itself to all things Albion. Suddenly the kit was a style statement.
Norman is a huge local hero and has apparently been an Albion fan since approximately forever. He and his wife, TV and radio chirpy-person Zoe Ball, have a place on Hove seafront, complete with their own cordoned-off chunk of private beach. It’s pretty impressive, if you ignore the fact that, from the back, it gazes over a mini industrial estate. Not that I’m jealous or anything.
Anyway, the point is, Skint – besides being an amusingly apt name to associate with a club that’s no stranger to financial troubles – is a cool thing to have slapped across the front of your team’s shirts. Or certainly cooler, I’d argue, than Donatello, Sandtex, TSB or Nobo. (And infinitely more hip, if you want to go way, way back, than Phoenix Breweries or British Caledonian.)
So all of a sudden, from my perspective, those replica kits became a lot more desirable. Added to which, the club shop began stocking a range of other Skint/Albion paraphernalia. The range of goodies seemed to multiply in a matter of weeks. I was becoming increasingly tempted. I’m nothing if not shallow, me.
So in a sense what I was doing ten days ago was buying myself a part of all this. Purchasing the right to show I belong. In fact, it occurs to me that maybe this is all I really wanted to do in the first place, which would be a bit of a worry. Obviously I’d always been at liberty to wander in to this oddly magical place and purchase what the hell I wanted, regardless of whether or not it made any sense. But now, thanks to my financial commitment – as if that’s all it ever really required – any of this stuff can legitimately be mine. Like for real. I’m free to buy, wear, carry, watch, read, drink out of, set fire to, whatever Albion-related piece of gubbins I happen to fancy. And here’s the most alarming bit: I’m genuinely thrilled by the idea. Totally exhilarated to think that I’ve now as much right as anybody else to indulge myself in these knick-knacks. At least I think I have.
There are obviously still a few grey areas. For instance, one of the goodies to which I treated myself today was an Albion car sticker, proudly declaring ‘Champions’. Admittedly, I’ve not hesitated to attach this, slightly wonkily and still with one or two air-bubbles trapped underneath, to my rear windscreen, but I do feel a wee bit uneasy about it – as if I’m trying to grab a share of the glory associated exclusively with last year’s achievement.
The end-of-season video (£16.99) I feel I can justify, if only for research purposes. Championes, it’s called, with reference to that strange Spanish-ish chant (‘Cham-pee-oh-nayz! Cham-pee-oh-nayz!’) now adopted, somewhat embarrassingly if you ask me, by just about any triumphant football team, whether they’ve proved themselves to be the cream of Europe or snatched a scrappy last-gasp winner in the West Sussex Gusset-Stitchers’ Memorial Plate.
I suppose you could say I purchased this video (narrated by Albion obsessive Des Lynam and with a Fatboy-and-pals soundtrack) to try and get a feel for what I’ve bought into. It actually covers only the second half of last season, through to the promotion, followed by the title win itself, but that’ll do. Don’t want to go mad or anything…
Anyway, as I watched it I felt quite strange: an unsettling blend of envy, guilt and detachment. Envy for all the obvious reasons – watching the celebrations I’d not been a part of, knowing those hardcore fans were being rewarded for a loyalty that I could never hope to match. Guilt, because I could now be accused of trying to gatecrash on all this, albeit months later. And detachment? Well, yes, because, if I’m being honest, something was missing: Des kept implying that the hairs were going to stand up on the back of my neck, and they didn’t. Now, obviously it had been assumed that I, the purchaser, would be an established Albion fan. But even allowing for that misunderstanding, the truth is that the video just didn’t move me. Which is weird, because I can watch other teams, teams with which I have an even more tenuous connection, if any at all, and become genuinely emotional when I see them achieve something glorious. Show me a non-league side beating a Premiership club and you’ll have me welling up.
So what’s the explanation? I can only put it down to two factors. The first is that the guilt which I mentioned – and, OK, which I keep mentioning, because, God, that’s how flipping guilty I feel – was even more oppressive than I’d first imagined, and that it kept gnawing away as I watched the tape. Had I been entirely neutral, I’d have probably just sat back and enjoyed it.
And the second? The second is that I think I’m suffering from AFS.
If you don’t know what that stands for – perhaps because I’ve just made it up – then let me explain: AFS (I’ve decided) is Armchair Fan Syndrome, a twenty-first-century condition particularly prevalent amongst bone-idle blighters who’ve come to rely exclusively on digital TV for their football, and who consequently expect to view every goal from 29 different camera angles, ideally accompanied by big whooshy noises and a chicken dansak. From an AFS-sufferer’s viewpoint, a relatively low-budget video, however lovingly and professionally crafted, and even with Des doing the voiceover, lacks a certain edge.
As far as treatments for this condition are concerned, scientists have yet to conduct any detailed research into the controversial Shift-The-Lazy-Chubster Technique, whereby the sufferer is repeatedly winched from his armchair over a nine-month spell and deposited inside a real football stadium. But, hey, I’ll soon be able to save them the trouble.
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Who Ate All The Pies? – THURSDAY 2 AUGUST
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It’s the first match of the season tomorrow, a friendly against First Division Sheffield United, and – gasp! – I simply haven’t a thing to wear.
Forget the replica shirt, though. The sponsor’s name may be suitably cool these days, but that’s no guarantee that, when I actually go and try one of these things on – as I did this afternoon – I won’t look completely absurd. I picked out an XXL, slipped it off the hanger, tugged it over my head and – hey, presto! – Mr Hot-Air Balloon. I appreciate I’m not exactly Kate Moss, figure-wise, but who the hell works out the sizings on these things? Extra-extra-large what, might I ask? Flipping leprechaun?
Still, I’m not too bothered. For one thing, I’ve never been that anxious to wrap myself in crackly man-made fibre. At best, I’d probably soon reek of sweat, and at worst I’m likely to turn myself into a fire-hazard.
Besides which, it’s a bit naff, really. I know it’s commonly accepted that to wear your team’s shirt is an honour, the ultimate gesture of support, and that the only thing usually likely to dissuade you from doing so is a shortage of funds. But beyond your mid-20s – maybe 30 at a pinch – I can’t help feeling you look a bit of a Muppet.
Added to which, it’s a tribal thing. And part of my problem – one which I can’t decide whether or not I’m looking to overcome this season – is that I’ve never been a tribal sort of bloke. I find it a bit scary.
I do realise that if every fan felt the way I do – introverted, understated, a bit of a wuss – then the atmosphere at matches would be roughly akin to an amateur bowls tournament. So I suppose what I’m saying is that I recognise football needs its tribal types; it’s just that I don’t want to be one. Or at least I don’t think I do. I’ll let the others get on with it – and when, come the next day of triumph, the manager acknowledges the fantastic role played by the vociferous fans, I’ll just have to kid myself that he includes me.
I didn’t leave the store empty-handed, incidentally. In the end I treated myself to a black cotton Skint T-shirt with ‘Brighton Bloke’ printed across the front in white lettering. Cool, adaptable, relatively understated – and, best of all, it fits me fine. It’s only an XL, too. Work that one out.
For the record, I also bought an Albion mousepad and screensaver for my computer (old stock, featuring pictures of long-departed players wearing the Ninja Turtle kit, but it was all they had, and only a fiver), plus a mug (£3.99) and a key-ring (£1.99). I’m kind of easing myself in.
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Sea Lions On A Shirt – FRIDAY 3 AUGUST
BRIGHTON 2 SHEFFIELD UNITED 3 (pre-season friendly)
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Here come the teams. A mighty cheer goes up, or as mighty as you can expect when the ground’s only half full. I look up from my programme, from which I’ve been trying to learn a few of the players’ names, and – hang on, where the hell are they? Oh, right. That’s where the tunnel is. Oops, how embarrassing.
If only for a split second, I’d shown myself up. Or at least I would have done, in the unlikely event that anyone was more interested in my reactions than in what was happening on the pitch.
Still, I’ll know next time, assuming nobody moves it for a prank; the tunnel, one of those foldaway concertina jobs, the sort seemingly designed mainly to deflect cash donations of the airborne variety, is at the far right-hand corner from where I’ll be sitting, between the end of the North Stand and the tiny section set aside for away fans.
Besides, I don’t know why I’m being quite so paranoid. It wasn’t as if I’d stood up and yelled, ‘Come on, you Sea lions!’ or turned to the bloke beside me and asked which team was which.
Being a pre-season friendly, the main purpose of tonight’s match was obviously to allow the players to sharpen up, to move several steps closer to readiness for the new season, mentally and physically. But I suppose it was also a warm-up for the fans, still some way short of match-fitness themselves, in the spectating sense. One of them, of course, was a long way short of it.
With kick-off at 7.45 p.m., I figured I should leave the house just after seven. I realise this is an early contender for this book’s Dullest Piece Of Information award, but I needed to work this stuff out. If I was going to get off on the right footing I’d have to allow myself enough time to arrive in relative comfort, soak up a bit of the atmosphere, grab a programme and, in what I assumed was still an important matchday tradition, treat myself to a crushingly disappointing burger.
Withdean Stadium isn’t a football ground at all, by the way. At least, not a real one. Lying within one of Brighton’s leafier, wealthier suburbs, it’s actually an old athletics stadium – council-owned – which the Albion are being allowed to use until they find themselves a permanent new home. After the sale of the sadly crumbling Goldstone Ground in Hove – at a site on which there now stands the profoundly depressing Goldstone Retail Park (Comet, Burger King, Toys ‘R’ Us, Sofas ‘R’ Flaming Expensive These Days Aren’t They, and a sports shop which doesn’t even sell Albion shirts) and following those two years at Gillingham, the council agreed to let Withdean be the club’s temporary base. A lot of local residents initially reacted in the huffy manner in which local residents feel obliged to react in these situations, but the club eventually got the nod. That was in 1998, and the agreement has since been extended. As far as I can establish, the objectors have mostly stopped objecting now, or at least stopped objecting out loud.
Long-term, the club wants to build a flash new stadium, up the road at Falmer. But before there’s even the vaguest prospect of that happening, there’s a huge, dreary local planning process for it to wade through. Technically, this procedure isn’t hugely different from the one you’d encounter if, for example, you wanted to convert your loft into a poky bedroom where you could repeatedly smack your head on the ceiling. In practice, I gather the planning process for the new stadium is on a slightly bigger scale, and no doubt tub-thumpingly tedious.
For the moment, then, it’s Withdean or lump it.
On first impressions, I don’t entirely hate the place, although I must admit the South Stand scares me a smidgen. It reminds me of one of those rickety-looking arrangements they erect for golf tournaments – or worse, the ones you see on harrowing TV news stories about foreign stadium disasters. The fact that, as I learned this evening, the fans also have a habit of stomping their feet to create an almighty rumbling effect doesn’t exactly put me at my ease. But, look, I’m sure it’s absolutely fine. It’s just me.
With its minimal protection from the elements, and its running track separating the crowd from the pitch, Withdean almost feels like an old eastern European ground. One which, admittedly, may have seen better days. And which hasn’t actually got any fans behind one of the goals. And, OK, one without crumbling stone terraces crammed with menacing militiamen clutching Kalashnikovs. But certainly a ground with its own slightly alien character.
The view my seat affords me isn’t bad – or at least I assume it isn’t, because when I arrived tonight it was already filled with someone else’s buttocks. ‘It’s sit anywhere tonight, mate,’ explained a burly, bearded steward, sporting what struck me as an unnecessarily fluorescent jacket for an August evening. It turned out that ‘sit anywhere’ was the policy whenever Withdean was substantially below full capacity for a match, which it sure as hell was tonight. With some relief, I noticed several other fans also questioning the arrangement as they filtered in, double-checking their stubs and quizzing the owners of the particular buttocks deposited on their own seats. So at least my ignorance hadn’t singled me out.
To be honest, I reckon I’d have been well within my legal rights to have stood my ground and demanded the spot I’d specifically paid for, particularly if I’d been in one of those moods where I like to look a pompous pillock. It hadn’t come as part of my season ticket package, but I’d made a special point of requesting the same seat I’d be occupying all season, to allow myself the chance to, you know, acclimatise. To turn up and discover somebody else already occupying it – chatting merrily with their mates, clearly indifferent to the impact of what they’d done – well, I don’t mind telling you, it had been a sizeable blow.
Still, never mind, at least my debut snack hadn’t let me down.
‘And have you got any Diet Coke?’ I’d asked the weary-looking lady, as she’d prepared me my quarter-pounder with onions. ‘Yep,’ she’d replied, handing me a warm plastic bottle of Diet Pepsi.
Drooling with anticipation and exactly four quid worse off, I’d carried my teatime treat into a relatively quiet corner – between a couple of bins and what looked like a generator – and taken a greedy bite. It had turned out, just as I’d expected, to be the sort of burger for which the description ‘adequate’ would be crazily generous. One of those in which the burger and the bun feel as if they don’t really want to be a part of the same snack – the cold crumbliness of the catering-pack bap forming no sort of palpable partnership with the hot greasiness of the ‘meat’. I gobbled it up in seconds.
It’s a funny thing, me and rubbishy food, but there’s something about it which I adore. I’m not talking about food which is obviously designed to kill me, or at least lay me up in hospital for several weeks. I just mean food, such as this burger, which scores a big oily zero on the scale of nutritional benefit and which doesn’t even taste very nice. The fact is, I can’t resist it. Julie finds this extraordinary, pointing out that at home we’ll spend hours preparing decent, imaginative meals for ourselves, many of them as previously demonstrated by people wearing white hats on BBC2. To be honest, I think I probably find it quite extraordinary too. The only way I can even begin to explain my love of junk food is that it’s fun. I don’t mean so much the flavour, or even necessarily the physical process of consuming it, but just the fact that I’m allowing myself to do something I wouldn’t normally do – or be expected to do – at home. The same sort of emotional release, I suppose – if we really want to move into amateur psychology here – as when I shout like a moron during the match itself
Because, yes, I do shout. I remember now. I may not sing, or join in the chants, or wear the replica shirt, but individually I’m happy to yell. Provided everyone else is yelling at the same time, that is, and given the right circumstances.
Tonight’s first real test for me came midway through the first half, when Albion conceded a corker of a comedy goal. A mix-up between their Dutch keeper, Michel Kuipers (I’m learning), and defender Andy Crosby (it feels a bit early for me to start saying ‘our’, although perhaps this is just because it was the sort of cock-up I’d rather not be associated with) allowed United’s Somebody-Or-Other to sneak through and tap in the type of goal even my grandmother wouldn’t miss. And she’s been dead 20 years.
The interesting thing, as far as I was concerned, was how I’d instinctively react to this. Would I swear? Would I sigh philosophically? Would I – God forbid – burst out laughing? Or would I just do what I normally do when ‘my’ team concedes a goal – namely, just sit and stare ahead, kind of numbly? I was relieved to find myself doing the latter. It’s not the most potent expression of disappointment, I grant you – not, for example, as visually impressive as bursting into tears like some fans I’ve seen on TV (although admittedly this is usually reserved for when their side has been relegated or lost a cup final or discovered the board has appointed Gordon Strachan as manager). But it was a steady enough start for someone keen not to draw attention to himself. Besides, I did experience a kind of sinking feeling at the same time, which had to be encouraging on the do-I-really-give-a-monkey’s side of things. Unless that was just down to the burger.
The second goal, conceded just before half-time, was better in one sense and worse in another. Better in that it was a ‘proper’ goal, and therefore not half as embarrassing. Worse because, as the teams headed back to what I assume is a dressing-room, I was left to reflect on what I’d really let myself in for here. If it had just been a case of feeling twice as p***ed off, now that the deficit had doubled, I wouldn’t necessarily have minded. Again, it would have indicated an encouraging sense of commitment on my part. But it was more a simple case of wondering whether I was in for a season of frustration. Three hundred and eighty quid could have bought me a half-decent stereo.
And then, five or so minutes into the second half, came the goal. The first significant milestone on my journey towards . . . well, towards whatever the hell it’s meant to be towards. And yes, I cheered. Of course I cheered. Not the biggest, screamiest, most powerful release of pent-up emotion, but a not-bad reaction. Easily a big enough buzz to be going on with. Besides, exactly how mad are you supposed to go at friendlies? You’d have to be a bit nuts to cheer too loudly. Either that or concerned that what you’ve just witnessed might prove relatively rare in the months ahead.
The fact that, after Paul Brooker’s effort had raised Albion hopes, United nipped straight down the other end and banged in a third, effectively putting the game beyond reach, was probably the night’s most gutting moment. It was as if the visitors – the better side, although not by miles – were saying: ‘Don’t even think about trying that again, you sorry gaggle of mediocrities.’
As it happens, Albion did try it again – and succeeded – this time thanks to Paul Rogers, the captain. But it wasn’t enough.
Still, pre-season friendlies are notoriously unreliable gauges of a team’s chances for the season. Apparently. And if that’s true, there was nothing tonight to suggest that the Albion should approach the coming campaign with trepidation. As for my own response, I’m sure I did fine. Not caring too much was a perfectly understandable reaction.
For now.
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No-Score Drawers – SATURDAY 11 AUGUST
CAMBRIDGE UNITED 0 BRIGHTON 0
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Marks and Spencer’s ladies’ lingerie department is probably not the sort of place where a bloke should really draw attention to himself. But it was only a mild expletive, and I’m pretty sure nobody heard.
Just before half-time in the match at Cambridge, with the score still at 0-0, Albion’s captain Paul Rogers was sent off. Quite harshly, by all accounts. And there was me, not yelling abuse from Cambridge’s away section, as were the Albion’s travelling fans, but standing beside a rack of lacy thongs in Brighton’s M&S, going ‘Bastard!’
‘What’s up?’ inquired Julie, inspecting a gusset. So I explained.
Up until this point, I don’t think she’d even noticed the earphones, fed from the tiny radio in my trouser pocket. Nor had I really wanted her to. I didn’t want her to think I’d become one of those husbands who spend Saturday afternoons being dragged against their will around a succession of shops, feebly feigning intense interest in every item that grabs their partner’s attention while secretly longing to be at a football match. Because, honestly, that’s not how it is. There are times when I quite like shopping with Julie – preferably in small doses, I grant you, and ideally when no actual transactions take place. It’s just that this was the first afternoon of the season, and I was meant to be showing some sort of commitment to ‘my team’. So I had to make at least a token effort.
It wasn’t Five Live who were covering the match (for some reason, the Albion are rarely top of their agenda), but our local BBC station, Southern Counties Radio. One of the brilliant things about local radio, however – and an advantage it will always have over any national counterpart – is that it can be blindingly, bloody-mindedly, unashamedly biased. The co-commentator, an Albion obsessive called Ian Hart, virtually blew a gasket over Rogers’ dismissal, and that’s exactly how it should be, whatever the merits of the decision. Harty (it didn’t take me long to pick up on the nickname) gave the impression he’d like to rip off his headphones, charge down to the pitch and sort out the official in person, and I suppose some of that incensed passion must have filtered through to me, as I stood in ladies’ lingerie. So to speak.
Julie would have gone equally ballistic, however – or at least sulked in spectacular style – if I’d spent the entire afternoon with my earphones attached. So I satisfied myself with just shoving them in for a quick burst of commentary every five minutes or so. That way, if she wanted my opinion on whichever laughably overpriced garment had caught her eye, I was able to respond in the usual manner. Namely:
JULIE: So, what do you think of it then? Lovely, isn’t it?
ME: Hmmmm? Oh, yeah. Yeah, it’s really nice.
JULIE: Do you like it?
ME: I do, yeah.
JULIE: Are you sure?
ME: Yeah. Honestly.
(30-second pause, while Julie holds the dress / jumper/ indeterminate piece of cloth up against herself in the mirror, swivels a bit etc.)
JULIE: So, what do you think of it then? Lovely, isn’t it?
This can go on for hours, as if on a loop, and it might, on face value, seem like a ridiculous waste of time. But we’ve been together for, what, 17 years now, and we both know what it’s really about. My role in these situations isn’t really to offer Julie an independent viewpoint, but merely to confirm what she’s already thinking, or at least half-thinking. It’s as if she’s talking to herself, really. All I’m helping her to do is buy herself some thinking time.
It took a good many years for me to twig this, mind you, and for us to perfect the routine. For a while I genuinely used to imagine that she valued my opinion, so like an idiot I’d go ahead and give it.
She’d pick up some overpriced monstrosity, ask me what I thought of it and I’d go, ‘Nah, it looks like the sort of thing the dog sleeps on.’ Then she’d slap it back on the rail and storm out of the shop, purple with rage.
‘What’s the matter?’ I’d cry, in all innocence, as I chased her down the street.
‘Nothing,’ she’d go. ‘It’s fine.’
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