Football Stories...

All this talk of football has made nostalgic...

My father is a lifelong Rotherham Utd Fan.

Rotherham is in the North of England. And like much of the North of England it used to be an industrial town. The greatly celebrated UK economic switch from an industrial / manufacturing economy to a financial services economy came at a high price. Towns like Rotherham paid that price.

Rotherham Utd very much reflects the condition of its town. It is dieing.

While the super clubs of the Premier League give opulent and excessive opportunity for the super rich to demonstrate their wealth, many English football clubs are going bankrupt. Specifically, they are going bankrupt chasing debts that wouldn't even pay a month's salary for anyone of the many 'superstar footballers' that play in the Premier League (you know, between golf games).

Nevertheless, and in the face of all reason, my father continues to support Rotherham Utd. When unable to go to Rotherham Utd matches (due to living too far away), my father would go to other lower division matches (Hartlepool and Darlington). And when he did this, he took me with him. It is in this unique arena, in my very early years, that I learned about football.


I learned many things at football matches:

I learned how cold it could be standing on a winters evening, in the rain, in the North of England for 90 plus minutes.

I learned how bad English food can be. The football ground pork pie can be used for many things: throwing at the referee, throwing at your sister (some times she came too), or as a huge meteorite from space during a particularly exciting car chase (keep reading - you'll understand later). But the one thing you can not use a football ground pork pie for is... for eating.

And as a young boy, I learned about swear words. And I learned about anger. I stood terrified as a man behind me shouted with absolute hate the following at a player on the opposing team: 'F*ck off! F*ck off you f*cking sh*t! You f*cking cheating sh*t! F*ck you you f*cking f*cker!!'. In near paralysed fear, I dared to turn round very slightly to see the angry man's face. It was my father.


But it wasn't all bad. I shall end with my favourite football story, which, honestly, I was too young at the time to remember - so this is based on my father's telling:

When we went to see Hartlepool, my father and I would sit beneath one of the cast iron pylons (for the flood lights) at one corner of the ground. In point of fact we would stand, not sit, because most of the grounds were predominately terrace at that time. A Terrace is like a big concrete staircase that fans can stand on to watch the game. Actually, my father would stand and I would play with my toy cars and trucks. The terrace made for a massive landscape of chases and high speed crashes. Cars and trucks would career about wildly before tumbling to destruction off the sheer face concrete cliffs. Meanwhile on the football pitch, Hartlepool were probably drawing 0-0 with Exeter.

When the car chases become too exhausting or too boring, my father would read Thomas The Tank Engine books to me. During one particularly boring 0-0 match, my father and I were sat upon the concrete slabs of the terrace deep in the midst of Thomas' latest adventure. Gradually my father became aware of something. The five or six 'hard as nails, working class Northern blokes' that had been standing just off from us, were now standing a lot closer. And they were no longer watching the football match. They were listening to the Thomas the Tank Engine story.


Millionaires of the world. Leave football alone. F*ck off. And spend your money on Ferrari's and Supermodels instead.