Glory, Glory...

... Man United?

The old and the new.

It has never been my desire or intention to harp on about the old day and old fashioned ways. There is an awful lot about 'now' that is really good and useful, I'm glad I live in the present.

But here comes the but.

When I were a lad, Cup final day was a holy day. The nation paused, you watched telly from lunchtime until 5.30. I don't know what the outside world looked like on those saturdays in May, I never left the house. It was always on a sunny Saturday in May and the build up was giddily exciting , even if the game was anything but. Cup Final day marked the start of summer. And as for the name? It was the Cup, You didn't need to call it anything else.

And during those days there was also the European Cup. Between 1977 and 1984 English clubs won seven out of the eight finals. It was expected that an English team (normally Liverpool) would be in the final and would be pictured the next day emerging from a plane with the trophy. You would stay up late on a Wednesday night and watch the slightly scratchy pictures from Rome or Paris, the commentary would have that wonderful longwave radio quality. Those were the days long before digital, HD quality.

So what's changed? In short, plenty.

Let's start with the FA Cup. It's had a sponsor for years and has perhaps graduallylost some of it's aura. A couple of years ago the cup 'needed a cuddle' and got it with a drab Portsmouth V Cardiff final. This year (ironically because of the ECL final at Wembley tonight) the final was bedded in amongst Premiership fixtures two weeks ago. I caught about ten minutes of the match. The holiest day of the year was completely lost amongst relegation struggles. Tonight, I settle in front of the telly with some grub and a beer in order to support Barcelona against Manchester United in The Champions League final.

Supporting Barca? Surely unpatriotic. Cobblers. I've a few teams I dislike for a number of strange irrational reasons. I dislike United for one simple reason.

Their fans.

Almost every full grown United fan I have ever met has been a pillock. I have never met a United fan over the age of 11 who has not got an excuse for supporting them . An excuse? You should be proud to follow your team. You should not need an excuse!

"United were crap in the 80's"

"My dad's cousin was from Manchester" (But you have lived your entire life in Essex?)

And in a nod towards tonight's coverage of the big game, I do not need Christopher Ecclestone to tell me where I have gone wrong! You were a good Dr Who but you know 'shit all' about football.

I accept that they are the benchmark and that Sir Alex Ferguson is an incredible manager, and I don't buy into the idea that Barcelona represent all that is beautiful and good in a sour old world, But I still reserve the right to cheer on whoever United are playing

City 'til I die!

Ah, Spring in England. Is there anywhere finer? Why stop there? Why not narrow it down to a fine city in the East, perhaps Norwich? And for a month let us choose May.

The fifth month, as we all know is a time of decisions. Who stays up? Who goes down? Who lifts silver to the sky gods and who completes two promotions in as many years? These happy cyclists are on their way to worship at the alter of Mr Lambert of Carrow Road, off they go, bells ringing and smiles a wide as the road they travel!
These fellows were lost. Lost and foreign but delightful in their bemused enjoyment of thousands of Norfolk folk in their revelry.
The message was clear, come footballing success, come large plastic banners with the club's motto.
I spent a large part of the festivities in an ancient churchyard, the view was awful but the noise and atmosphere was real enough. I was also amused by rowdy teenagers letting loose in the sacred space. Then again, if Jesus were around in Norwich he would be enjoying this (or kicking us all out of 'the temple' for being sacriligeous, your call).
Flags and crowds abound.
The other side of St Peter Mancroft's yard.
Soon I was joined by a friend working in the city. Following the disappearance of aforementioned 'yoofs' we moved a few feet away from my initial perch and found our view much enhanced. City Hall, a 1930s masterpiece. OK, a massive block admired by Hitler (he ordered the Luftwaffe to avoid bombing it during WWII so that he could take the salute from it's balcony following a German victory).
The flag flies over City Hall.
More flags, more people taking pictures.
The Lord Mayor was greeted with the traditional football call to recognition "WHOAREYAH????" My companion was concerned about such disrespect "I voted in the referendum" he pointed out.
The banter, shouting and jollity continued for an hour or so.
Then, following mildy slurred words and an expletive from Delia we all trooped over the Forum to wait for the bus.
Theatre Street. Waiting. Architecture geek moment. Look at the 14th century church on the right. Everything else is postwar. This area of Norwich was flattened in 1942.
Looking the other way, still waiting. The kids in the bottom right of this picture (with the flag) were mucking about and must have stood on my foot about three times. I didn't mind.
Then, slowly, down the street, a bus full of drunk footballers!
YESSSSSSSSSSS!!
The real deal, this is why we are here! A bunch of great looking, young, tremendously rich blokes with incredibly hot wives and girlfriends who play football for a living get to ride a Double decker bus through the city!
And then they pass.
And so it's off to the pub.

I must have taken about 100 pictures last night. I sat on the train home, folk around me singing the songs and messing about. Me? I was a bit wobbly after a few pints and some bangers and mash with some friends. I sat there deleting the very many blurred shots and pictures of the back of strangers heads. I hope they tell something of a fun night to celebrate a brilliant season.

BRING IT!

Sunday. The Germans!
Sunday. The Germans!
Sunday. The Germans!
Sunday. The Germans!
Sunday. The Germans!
Sunday. The Germans!
Sunday. The Germans!
Sunday. The Germans!
Sunday. The Germans!
Sunday. The Germans!
Sunday. The Germans!
Sunday. The Germans!
Sunday. The Germans!
Sunday. The Germans!
Sunday. The Germans!
Sunday. The Germans!

I am very, very, very excited!

It's here.

Phew,
Blogging has been slow of late and I'm sorry.
OFSTED came and went (and went away happy!)
Both twins visited the hospital and both came home ok.

And of course, Fabio's boys take on the USA on Saturday!
One golden month of footy!

I can't bear the suspense!

Interesting times

These aren't such bad days for your everyday political junkie/footy fan.

It's looking like being a rather sharp election with Brown using all his dark powers to grimly cling to power whilst young Harry Potter tries all manner of spells and tricks to convince us he's for real. It's only 36 hours old but I'm already enjoying this election, especially the way they all talk about stuff that we've known about for months and try to make it fun.

My prediction? Slight tory majority. 6-20 seats.
Out of this world insanity would be for Brown to cling on with a similar size rump, could happen, perhaps.
It looks like being a poisoned chalice with all the cuts looming.




A few weeks after the 6th of May we move south to South Africa!
Need I say more?

My prediction?
England reach the semis (AT LEAST)

24th of March 1985

A new start?

I'm liking the new Norwich.
I think I'm almost liking them alot.
I might even start believing in them again.

My reasons?

I'm no fan of the folk who run footy but Mr McNally, the Chief executive, seems to be a man who is keen to halt the dithering. The dithering that has been a big part of our fourteen year decline. Keeping Bryan Gunn on as manager after he had failed to keep us in the Championship was wrong. His sole aim when he took over in February was to keep us up.

He failed.

McNally came along and saw that. After the 7-1 defeat against Colchester he made a decision and carried it out.

Good.

Paul Lambert was hired and has introduced a new air about the place, the old guard are looking uncertain and I like that. When we were relegated I was telling anyone who wanted to listen that we needed an aggressive youngish coach who was not afraid to do things his way, a dash of the early Clough? A hint of O'Neill?

I think we've got him.

Another good point has to be some of the fresh, young talent coming in. This matter is best summed up by the silver fox. I watched City get beaten 4-1 by Sunderland last night, an entertaining game despite the result. Dad is becoming slightly besotted with a 17 year old boy. I would be worried but it's not all bad. Tom Adeyemi reminds my father of his first love, the World Cup winner and City's 70's icon Martin Peters. He sits there and mutters "He's the new Martin Peters". I've not heard my dad talk that way in years, if ever.

Old love, England's hero and City star, Martin Peters.

New love, 17 year old 'wunderkind' Tom Adeyemi.

In the car on the way home a caller to the radio offered mild, slightly ambiguous criticism of Adeyemi, My father's response?

"Piss off! You have absolutely no idea what you're talking about!!!" 

On another Adeyemi related note, I sat behind some of his schoolmates. I was only aware of this when the player was warming down after being substituted towards the end of the match. One of them shouted at him, he turned, waved and said hello and all that, then on about his business. I have heard all the tales about the old days when players used to travel to the games on public transport but have never actually seen a player with such a normal local connection.  He is, in every sense of the word, A Norwich boy.

The European Cup Final

Since our relegation to the Third Division I have taken to rewinding history and referring to things by their pre corporate nomenclature. I'm not trying to be a wanker, it's just that things seems less confusing to me, it's a very confusing world and inside my tired mind I need a touch of clarity.

Hence the fact that I am very much looking forward to tomorrow evening's European Cup Final between FC Barcelona and Manchester United.

Of course, as a Englishman I should want United to win, but as a Norfolk nationalist I have tremendous sympathies with the Catalan peoples of Barcelona. Oh I don't know, just hope it's a cracker.

I also find evening games much easier to cope with, what with a toddler and all. There's no way I could sit down in the middle of the day and watch a game right now, whereas a 7.45pm kickoff is perfect, a beer or two, an early summer evening, that slightly magical scent of the European finals of one's youth, Wonderful.

I should also add that the European Cup is a thing of absolute beauty, the most perfect sporting trophy in the world.


POSTSCRIPT

Another 'win win' situation, United were awful and deservedly lost. I was able to enjoy seeing them humiliated. Barca were great, Thierry Henry was great and to cap it all off United were sponsored by AIG whilst Barca reject sponsorship and actually donate money to UNICEF.
Maybe I'm being a bit too new worldy about all this but it felt good at the time.

Carru'rud

Here are a few shots of my day playing footy at carru'rud.

Posing before the player's tunnel.
Posing before the Barclay.
Posing before the Jarrold stand (shall I go on?)

With my brother (Wor Bobby) in the dug out.

There were more pictures but I played on the far side of thr pitch so no good action shots. Also, I entrusted the silver fox with the camera but he spent the entire game grilling the club official (OK, steward) about the severe crisis gripping the club and didn't take too many pictures. 

I don't blame him.

We lost but it was great fun.

Carrow Road

At last, some good news to come from the newest Third Division football ground. On Sunday I will join 21 others and play at Carrow Road! Just as long as I can shake off this swine flu.

No more hypotheticals.

Just over 24 hours ago Norwich City were relegated.

For the first time since 1960 they will play in the third tier (The old Third Division as I still think of it).

I didn't watch the final defeat, preferring to spend time with my family at the beach.

I turned off the radio with 9 minutes remaining.

For a while things were uncertain, in my mind anyway.

The bush telegraph has been silent, you know things are really bad, people are hurting when nobody talks about it.

I left my phone off, didn't look at the telly or the internet, tuned into music stations on the radio.

I got on with the otherwise agreeable family weekend.

That's how I handled the initial stage of relegation, the other stages will follow.

You know why I've been quiet and you know what I'm about to say...

... It's going to happen isn't it?

A couple of moments from the last week I'd like to share.

After the 0-2 defeat at home to Reading on Monday night I overheard two blokes chatting to each other about the places they'll visit next season. "Colchester will be a local derby won't it?"

The radio guy telling us how the last time Norwich were in the Third Division was 50 years ago but hardly any Norwich fans remember 50 years ago. My dad responded "I remember 50 years ago, it was shit".

On Sunday we must beat Charlton and Barnsley must lose to Plymouth.

Not impossible but very unlikely. Light a candle for us?

Relegation (again)

I'm back in that sorry place again.

We lost 3-2 to Ipswich.



F**********************k


This could really be it.

Oh gods of sport!

Help us now, in this, our hour of need!

Relegation

It is March.
I have become resigned to our fate.

The Cup.

The Cup in the olden days.



Me and my brother more recently.

Remember when I mentioned the '59 Cup run?

Here's a picture of me and my brother with the grand old lady of football, The Cup.

Actually, we think it's one of several officially sanctioned 'The Cups' that probably tour the country attending functions such as the one we attended.

Whatever the truth of the matter, we were not allowed to touch her.

And if anyone comments about how they replaced the original in 1991 because it was getting worn out, I know. we talked about it on the night, alot.

Thanks for the picture Mr Henderson.

1959

It's 50 years since Norwich City reached the semi finals of the FA Cup.
They were a Third Division South team at the time.

The days before 24hr-nonstop-super-sunday-footy on telly, sponsorship or money of any kind. The only foreigners in the English game were a few former prisoners of war who married local girls and decided to stay on. The players, so I'm told, used to travel to the ground on a Saturday morning by public transport, have a cup of tea and a fag and then get out there and play. After the game they's either go out for a pint or staright home for fish and chips and an evening in front of the latest invention, the telly. I think half of them still lived with their mums.

I'm sure that when they sent Ilford home in the 1st round few suspected that it was going to be any kind of special year.

They beat Swindon in the next round and in the 3rd round destroyed the mighty Manchester United 3-0. A game which we will remember on Friday night. To beat Manchester United 3-0 today would be unbelievable, in 1959 it was beyond the wildest dreams of a small provincial team like Norwich. They progressed by beating Cardiff, Spurs and then Sheffield United before losing a replay to Luton Town. Luton Town? Exactly.

According to legend, and so much of this tale is beautiful, glorious legend, people used to ride their bikes from miles around to get to games. One bloke even sold his bike for a semi final ticket. I remember being told about that by Dad and being mildly unimpressed. "HE SOLD HIS BIKE!" my Dad replied "IN 1959 SELLING YOUR BIKE WAS LIKE SELLING YOUR HOUSE AND YOUR GRANNY!!"
There's also the brilliant rumour about a bloke taking his horse into a pub to get it drunk after the Sixth round victory against Sheffield United. I really hope that one's true, I'll be telling my boy about it one day.
My Dad was 17.

Buddy Holly also died that winter.
Music has never been the same.

The three men my father admired the most were Sandy Kennon, Terry Bly and Ron Ashman.

He's talked about little else for fifty years.

This Friday night we're all going to a special dinner at Carrow Road to remember those glory days.
I suspect it will be tremendous fun, especially for those of us born years after the evenते.'ll be able to have a few drinks whilst watching the old fellas get a bit misty eyed at the passing years। I understand there may even be the odd star from those olden days there.It's the stuff of legends and we were brought up on these tales.
I've got good friends, friends who've also been City fans forever but they're not as aware of 'The 59 Cup run'. I guess their dads weren't there or weren't supporting City or something like that. Our Dad was and that's why we'll be there on Friday night.

Book learning # 45

The Damned United by David Peace

Brian Clough was one of the most outrageous managers in an era of outrageous managers. This is a novel based upon an outrageous episode in his career.

He had won the league with Derby and would go on to win the league and two European Cups with Forest.
In 1974 he took charge at Leeds United, a club he had done nothing but criticise for the previous decade.
His managerial role at Leeds United lasted 44 days.

This novel explores the mind of Mr Clough during those booze fuelled, paranoid 44 days.

I loved the story but didn't appreciate the author's style, stream of conciousness, flashbacks to his Derby career, emotional tangles and the contradictions of a soul in turmoil. At times I felt that I didn't really need yet another drunken night in a midlands hotel, but another drunken night in a midlands hotel was what I got.

I battled through it, mostly enjoying it, wondering about the point of it all.

Did Mr Clough set out to destroy Leeds United from the inside?

Why on earth had Leeds hired Mr Clough in the first place?

Was he really that manic? That obnoxious? That drunk?

The answers to the last three?

Probably yes.

Oi Vey!?

I'm just about to settle down for the second presidential debate and then this.

A great show about the most important job in the world.

The England Manager.