We All Have Our Idols.

    A face has appeared in the news for the past week. Fame is non existent for most of us, and often fleeting at best for others. Noteriety, infamy, now there's something very different. As Max  Bygraves would say,' Let me tell you a story'.

    "When I were a lad', as we used to say, I stood out in all weathers after a football match at the Baseball Ground, collecting autographs of the players. Our heroes, my heroes, heroically defying the Baseball Ground mud to thrill us with their footballing prowess. Only the prowess of the Derby players was not always present. At one stage we descended to the Third Division of the Football League, only to rise again like the Phoenix in later years. Ah happy, cash strapped austere days. And my little autograph albums contains the names of many, some famous, others less so. I, little Kenneth, did not fully appreciate what I was seeing; three names, for instance Tommy Lawton, Len Shackleton and Wilf Mannion.

    Some say Tommy Lawton was the best centre forward in Britain in the 20th century. Finished his career at Notts County in the lower divisions, and suffered financial difficulties, footballers wages being unexceptional in the Forties and Fifties. Tommy died 6th November, 1996.

    Len Shackleton, rebel extraordinary but a genius where football was concerned. Played for Sunderland amongst others and later wrote a book entitled 'Clown Prince of Soccer'. One chapter is entitled 'The Average Directors Knowledge of Football' and consists of a blank page! Len died 27th November, 2000.

    Wilf Mannion, played mainly for Middlesborough. At one stage regarded as 'The Golden Boy' of British soccer. Played twenty five times for England yet after his football career ended he worked as a labourer and lived in a council house.

    In later years I had the honour of meeting Mr Mannion in a smokey working man's club in Staithes, East Yorkshire if memory served me right. An unassuming, frail gentleman, he eagerly asked me how the likes of Jack Stamps and Chick Musson were fairing. (ex Derby County footballers). Also, they, and others of whom he enquired had long since died. Not long afterwards Wilf died, 14th April 2000.

 

    Many years later, in the 1990's, having retired from teaching, I tested whether I had any brain cells still working. After months of extreme meticulous effort, though not as hard as teaching I devised a 'Birthday Certificate' which gave very detailed information as to any individuals date of birth. I sent these certificates to many famous people over the years and received many letters in return. Some did not reply, their prerogative of course but I was intrigued by those who did. There are still some lovely people in the world. Don't let people tell you otherwise. (Sadly the details concerning certificate production have since been lost.)

Roger Lloyd Pack, forever remembered as Trigger in 'Only Fools and Horses' sent me a delightful note on Garrick Club notepaper. Can you imagine, Trigger sipping posh drinks in the Garrick Club! Bill Owen, Compo of 'Last of The Summer Wine' fame, real name William John Owen Rowbotham,  also approved of his certificate whilst Stanley Matthews 'Much appreciated' his, sending me a delightful note on Stoke City notepaper. It may be of course that 'professionals' worth their salt see it as their duty to keep their fans happy. Fair enough, but some go over the simple limits of their 'professional duty'. Let me tell you 'A story within a story.'

    James Galway, the famous flutist suffers from nystagmus, a serious eye condition, as does my granddaughter, the delightful Helena. I happened to mention this fact when I sent Mr Galway a certificate. A short while later my wife the industrious, nay illustrious Paulette came into the room with the news that there was 'a Mr James Galway on the phone, ringing from Switzerland'! It was indeed flutist extrordinaire Mr Galway and he gave me valuable information concerning nystagmus. What a generous, thoughtful gesture, a gentleman indeed!

    So many famous persons gave of their time, though their place in posterity was not necessarily assured in a way they had probably expected, for as as I suggested at the beginning of this post  'Fame is a funny thing.

    Andy Gray, footballer turned Sky Sports commentator was a popular figure on our televisions. He wished me good luck on receiving a certificate. I wished him likewise, that is until his unacceptable views on the 'weaker sex' met with widespread disapproval and banishment to the nether regions, at least where television viewing is concerned.

    I have a letter starting 'Hi Ken, signed by a man whose fall from grace is complete; a man of whom  I can find no-one who now says 'I always liked him'; strange but true. I had completely forgotten I had ever made contact with the unfortunate, sad individual until I found the letter I had written all those years ago. A face that has adorned many a newspaper recently, be they 'eyebrow or gutter press.' (The equally sad Rolf Harris has dominated press and media alike most recently. an unfortunate figure I never made contact with, though I was amused by him, like so many others in his early days on the all consuming 'goggle box'.) I refer of course to Jimmy Savile, whose exploits were horrific beyond comprehension. He was, honestly, no hero of mine, though I had never an inkling of the sheer depravity of the man.

    We are all influenced by others as we grow us. It is a part of life, an important part of life I suggest. Who were your heroes my friends. Any of them affected your life for good or bad, for better or worse?

(To all who have so kindly commented on my posts in the past weeks. Apologies, I read every comment. I have not got round to replying. I will EVENTUALLY,  honest! Thanks for your interest, comments are valuable to me.)

Possessions

Like most of us I like possessions. I assume it is a natural human trait. 'Possess - to have as property, own; wealth.' To own something implies having something that is ours, personal belongings exclusive to us. And again like many of my generation, I was poor in the extreme in childhood. (Note I said poor, not unhappy.) One Christmas I asked for something to wear and something to play with. And the family bought me a pair of trousers and cut the pockets out. Not true of course but you get the message.

Something happened this week that made me examine a lifetime of possessions.

I remember one Christmas receiving a small replica of an army field gun. Totally mesmerising and highly prized it fired matchsticks. (All of thirty or so inches but no matter, it repelled the dreaded Boche in a six year old's imagination.)

In a later year a cardboard Subbutteo set gave hours of pleasure. Make no mistake, Derby County lost few games in hard fought matches played by the light of the gas mantle.

I once had a pocket stop watch, complete with chain which I proudly produced one every necessary or contrived occasion. The strange thing is I don't remember where it came from (I probably swapped it; I hope I didn't steal it) Plus I don't know where it went though I vaguely remember dropping it and stop watches don't bounce.

I also once had a large leather football, courtesy of an uncle who lived near the famous Baseball Ground. That ball was my ticket to the 'big boy's club', for ownership of a real football was prestige indeed. No matter that I seldom got a kick of my own ball.

I remember well the Raleigh, three geared bike with drop handle bars, cost around seventeen pounds, bought with my paper round wages, seven and sixpence a week. And the superior Dawes bike that I wrapped round an oncoming motorbike; a sad end to a prized possession. And the similar demise of second hand Francis Barnett number TNU 137. Cost fifty two pounds and a lifetime of aching bones. (see blog dated 14th March 2009)

The green minivan is remembered as my first ownership of a four wheeled vehicle, less so for my attempts at brush painting. (Racing Green I think the paint was optimistically described.) GDT 703C was definitely a pride and joy, a Mini Cooper that signalled my arrival in the swinging sixties; what joy, what memories!

Marriage brought an end to selfish frivolity and the introduction of semi poverty for many a year. The bonus has been a loving wife and two tremendous children; plus a lifetime of work, the lot required of the working man.

I have had much in life. I have lived in many different circumstances, some homes rented and some owned outright in later years. Whilst not rich I consider I am blessed and want for little. For what does a man close to his seventieth year need or want. Therein lies the reason for this blog. What prized possessions do you remember from your past. And are there any things you are going to 'treat' yourself to before you go.

As I write I gaze in wonderment at my latest 'toy'. If I die tomorrow, I die happy. For there it is. I reach out and touch it, amazed at my purchase. It's sensational, impressive, exciting, mind -blowingly awesome, and expensive with it. Lord, please excuse my extravagance, but almost septuagenarian males never truly grow up nor ever really grow old. (Sorry kids, bang goes some more of your inheritance, but hopefully the house is yours when we go!)

By the way, a vow of poverty does not suggest being for ever poor but the sharing of any thing you have, (the idea of not claiming private ownership of any possessions.)
Anyone who knows me will guess what I now possess. If not watch this space in five days time.

And you are very welcome to come and share it with me.

Nostalgia Ain't What it Used to Be

Never stopped 'faffin' about this week but getting there I feel. Our move to our present address in July is, I hope our last without the aid of a pine box. Still unpacking and frequently stopping as items that have never seen the light of day for years come to light; more later. Time wasting maybe but far more interesting than digesting dull depressing daily diatribes, both written and spoken concerning the world's ominous traumas, over which I have often little real interest and certainly no control.

I remember few worries as a child. Instead life was a ball, so to speak, one long pleasure from dawn to dusk. Talking of balls, I had a bloody great leather football, purloined I believe by a streetwise relation from the town football team. ( The balls at the Baseball Ground often landed in the streets behind the ground; they were not always returned.) It meant I was thus ensured of a game on the local field, often with the older boys, no mean feat for a left footed, mediocre midget. Mind you, I don't remember getting too many kicks. What was it the British used to say, "It's the taking part that counts." What a load of old rubbish!

In winter it really seemed to snow for months on end, and we seemed to go sledging nightly. Often returning home wet through from finishing in the brook, crying with pain and the inevitable chilblains. The next night repeating the process, again and again and again.

Long hot summer days spent up the fields, digging for pignuts, chewing vinegar leaves, fishing for bullyheads and learning to smoke. Our first attempts dried walnut leaved smoked in a pipe made from a straw and an acorn cup. We progressed on to the pith of elderberry bushes, one hell of a smoke; occasional flames would literally scorch your tonsils. And finally the ultimate smoke, dog ends collected from the streets and smoked in pipes purloined from home or bought at local jumble sales. Today's kids, eat your heart out. Come to think of it, how did most of us reach adulthood reasonably intact.

On of my favourite lessons as a teacher involved Rupert Brooke's poem 'The Great Lover'. I used to read it to pupils and then we'd encourage each other to list, initially the greatest joys in their often humdrum lives and then hopefully to transfer their memories into a more poetic form. Many of the kids I taught had limited experiences and some lived soulless existences. But I never ceased to be amazed at the enthusiasm for life they showed when pushed. I am even moved when I think about it even after all these years.

An extract from The Great Lover by Rupert Brooke

These I have loved:

White plates and cups, clean-gleaming, Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust; Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food; Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood; And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers; And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours, Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon; Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen Unpassioned beauty of a great machine; The benison of hot water; furs to touch; The good smell of old clothes; and other such -- The comfortable smell of friendly fingers, Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers About dead leaves and last year's ferns. . . .

We may not have the skill and sensitivity of the great man himself but we all have our memories from childhood. I have never forgotten the best, most sought after delicacy in the world, namely condensed milk sandwiches. And who could forget Little Miss Muffet Junkets; where on earth did they go. But enough of my choices, what are your favourite childhood memories?

A New Season Beckons.

Every waking moment is taken up by the move. Trip after trip after trip, the new bungalow will only take half of our belongings. Choices have still to be made, hard, sometimes anguished decisions as to what to keep and what to part with. With no end in sight, trying to stay positive without screaming. But never fear, we'll get there and, you lucky people, the new football season is just around the corner. Only joking, honest, I do realise football is anathema to many, and I confess, it doesn't seem five minutes since the season ended.

Derby is very much a footballing town and Derby County were one of the twelve founder members of the Football League in 1888. A friendly game on Saturday prior to the start of the new season included in the Derby County team the names Pereplotkins, Albrechtsen and Kazmierczak. How times change.There will be over twenty five thousand people in Pride Park at the first game on Saturday versus Doncaster Rovers including my wife and myself. The majority home supporters of a team that won only one game last season and ended with the worst result ever in the history of the English League.

I have been a Derby County supporter, man and boy for over sixty years. The old ground, the Baseball Ground was an infamous, dilapidated, wooden and corrogated iron structure, with a pitch reminiscent of a ploughed field and offering minimum facilities and maximum discomfort. Two or three years ago I wrote a short, somewhat nostalgic story entitled The Autograph Album. (One of the stories in 'There's Nowt so Strange as Folk'). The story may be fictional but the memories are real; happy days.

“Fame is but the breath of the people”
- T Fuller, Adagies and Proverbs, 1732

The Autograph Album

They told me you were coming. You want to interview me about me album, now why would anyone be interested in my football memories? You’re new to reporting, you say. You have to fill a little column once a week and you get all the jobs experienced reporters don’t want. At least you’re honest, lass, so what do you want to know?
Do I mind if you record what I’m saying as we go along? No me dear, as long as it’s not going on the wireless, I’d feel daft hearing misen talk.
When did I first go to the football? Well I were born in 1939 so I’d be eleven in 1950. It would be any time after then I suppose. I used to stand in the Boy’s Corner behind the goals. Boy’s Corner, mark you, no mention of girls in them days. Big boys, little boys, all ages, shapes and sizes, but I don’t remember any girls. Not that I’d have noticed, the football were more important.
Three o’clock, every other Saturday, two fifteen in winter. No floodlights in them days. Then at the end of the match queuing for autographs outside the player’s entrance. And sometimes at the railway station if the teams travelled home by train. We were often cold and wet, but we didn’t mind. Now here’s me album, where shall we start?
Let’s see, who played for my team, Derby County. Jack Stamps, Albert Mays, Bert Mozley, Ray Straw, Ray Middleton, Cecil Law. Reg Harrison. My, how they bring back memories.
Jack were an old fashioned centre forward. Went blind in later life, they reckon it were from heading those old leather footballs. Albert ran a snooker hall after his football career ended. Bert, the first footballer I ever heard of who wore contact lenses. Saw him once looking in the mud after one came out during a match. Ray Straw, not too sharp, Ray, to put it kindly. See his autograph, you can only just read it. Mind you, he scored more goals for Derby County in one season than anyone else, thirty seven; a record that’s never been beaten. Mr Middleton, now he must have been bright because he became a JP. How many footballers do that? And Cecil Law, now he were Rhodesian, and there weren’t many Rhodesian footballers in them days. Not too many now, come to think of it. Reg Harrison, played in the Cup Final in 1946. There’s only him and Jim Bullions left from that team. Over eighty now is Reg. Still walks to the shops for his paper. Takes him ages, everyone insists on chatting. And he still goes to Derby County matches with his wife. A very popular man is Reg.
Do I remember all of the players in my album? Remember them all, good heavens, no, lass. In fact half of them you can’t even decipher their names; they were footballers, not scholars! And funnily enough, I don’t remember seeing individual players who were household names. Yet there they are, in my little book, as Arthur Askey used to say, “Right before your very eyes.” Whose Arthur Askey, did you say? Oh dear, I’m really showing my age!
Can I give you examples of players who were household names? Now let me see. Here you are, Wilf Mannion, and Tommy Lawton, oh, and here’s another, Len Shackleton.
Wilf Mannion were a slightly built man who were a wizard with a football. Played for Middlesborough and England, one of the best ever. Funnily enough, I were introduced to him in a working man’s club in North Yorkshire when he were in his seventies. He were ever so interested when he knew I came from Derby. A frail old man who had made no money from a game he had graced at the highest level.
“I remember Derby County well.” I remember his eyes lighting up at his memories.
“How’s Jacky Stamps?” he’d enquired.
“I’m sorry, Mr Mannion, he died.”
“Oh Dear.” A short silence followed.
“How’s Chick Musson?”
“Chick’s been gone a long time, Mr Mannion.” I remember squirming with embarrassment, but Mr Mannion were oblivious to my discomfort.
A much longer silence. “And how’s Leon, Leon Leuty?”
“He’s gone too.” I hated to have to pass on such depressing information, but we were, after all taking of an era long since gone. Mr Mannion returned to the housing complex he called home and I returned to Derby. Not long afterwards I read a glowing tribute in the Times in memory of the late Wilf Mannion.
Tommy Lawton, now there’s a famous name if ever there were one. One of the best centre forwards who ever lived. Here you are, see, playing for Brentford. Who are the others? A J Bloomfield, a Cliff Jefferson and a Bill Dare. How lucky they were to have played in the same team as Tommy Lawton. And what a privilege for me to have seen him. You’ve no idea what that means to me, my dear. And do you know how he ended up? So poor that he were caught shop lifting to make ends meet. His old club, Notts County had to play a match so that the poor man didn’t starve. Bigger than pop stars, they were, yet paid a pittance.
Len Shackleton, now there were a character if you like. A brilliant footballer, played for Sunderland, and wrote a book about football after he finished. One chapter were about what football directors knew about football. Left it blank, he did. He were his own man, were Len.
Are you getting bored, my dear, for you it’s all so long ago. Can you look through the album, of course you can.
What do you say you’ve found? A B G Palmer, Hasland 18c. What did you say, he doesn’t sound like a footballer.
You’re quite right, my dear. One day I lost my album. Distraught I were, I’d no idea where I’d lost it. I weren’t half upset. Mr Palmer were a railwayman who picked my book up on Derby Railway Station and posted it back to me. Thank you, Mr Palmer, you made a small boy very happy.
You’ve found another? Let me see. H Gartside JP, Chairman of Oldham. As Tommy Trinder would say, “Now’ there’s a funny thing!” Who’s Tommy Trinder? Don’t even ask! Strange that a football chairman would want to sign a small boy’s book. I reckon he were right proud to be chairman, don’t you. Strange too that a small boy didn’t know the difference between youthful footballers and ageing chairmen.
Why did we collect autographs, you ask. I don’t rightly know, if truth were known. In search of heroes, I reckon. Role models if you like, only such terms hadn’t been invented in them days. A bit of excitement, what do they say nowadays, getting a piece of the action.
Famous players, famous teams, the stuff dreams are made of. Cardiff, Swansea, Oldham and Chelsea. West Bromwich Albion, Bury, Birmingham and Bolton; Blackpool, Burnley, Stoke and Charlton. Such wonderful teams, with marvellous players.
Sam Bartram, Willie Watson, Malcolm Allison, Davie Drurie. To you, nothing, to me, magical memories to savour on dark winter nights. Nat Lofthouse, nicknamed The Lion of Vienna because of a wonderfully brave performance for England against Austria, one of the finest teams in Europe. George Robledo, a South American player for Newcastle when most players were home grown, and Lindy Delapena, a Middlesbrough player and the first black footballer I ever saw. What were it that young girl used to sing, “Those were the days my friend.” What were her name, Mary Hopkirk, something like that.
Is my autograph album worth anything, you ask. I suppose it might be. Would I sell it? What do you think. It might be dropping to bits, but it’s still my most prized possession.
I hope I’ve been of help to you. Thank you for coming. Do you like football yourself? You do? And who do you support? Manchester United! Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!