For those of us that enjoy the noble art of people watching, the old standing terraces of football grounds used to provide an environment of very rich pickings. Some of these characters undoubtedly still inhabit the seats in our modernised stadia though are palpably not as easily spotted..
I’m a football fan of long-standing over the decades, one who has had the good fortune to watch the great game portrayed in a few famous arenas and a few less so. This includes grounds in Scotland, England and mainland Europe, from Easter Road to Nottingham Forest and Notts County more regularly, via impressive arenas such as the Olympic Stadium, Amsterdam, the San Paulo, Napoli, Anfield, the home of Liverpool FC, and even from the North Bank at Highbury. One thing I can state quite clearly is that all of those football stadiums had something very much in common – they were a psychologist’s dream.
Some of the maddest fans, in the nicest sense of the word, I have ever seen were on the slightly crumbling terraces of Notts County’s Meadow Lane. Here, during the 1970s it was a veritable hotbed of stranglings, I’ll never forget any of them. One of the strangest – and I’m really not sure how he was let out on a Saturday afternoon amongst the public – was a gent probablyaged in his mid-thirties who would attend each home game in a biker jacket adorned with chains and a German Stormtrooper’s helmet complete with Nazi Swastika. He never actually said very much but once or twice a game would emit a deep-throated yet resounding sounding Come on you piiiieeeeessssss… (a reference to the team’s ‘Magpies’ nickname) I wonder where he is now and if the electric shock treatment was successful?
British people do standing jokes quite well don’t they. Well how about the same joke every other Saturday afternoon for practically ten months of the year? Like the sound of that? In those days a trio of gents who looked like they were probably closely related (what to and how large the gene pool was I confess I do not know) used to take position at the very same crush barrier every week in the County Road Stand at Meadow Lane. Whether this had any relevance is not clear. At half-time every home game the Golden Goal competition winner would be read out over the tannoy system to which the trio would all leap in the air as one with a gleeful shout of yeeesssss!!!!! as their torn up unsuccessful entry tickets were thrown in the air and reigned down on us as confetti does. We laughed the first time and I suppose that was our biggest mistake.
It’s 1973 (yes really) and I’m in among that crowd with my mate, Graham as the fans invade the pitch to remonstrate with the Notts’ club chairman’s decision to ban German soldiers helmets from the ground. Actually it’s the last day of the 1972/3 season when Notts beat 4-1 Tranmere to gain promotion to the old Second Division.
Another oddball roamed ‘The Cowshed’ as it was known at my team, Hibernian’s Easter Road Stadium some years ago. The Cowshed was not the place where I was usually to be found at Easter Road, preferring instead the ‘glamour’ of the old North Stand and the Hibees!! stomp, stomp, stomp chant that would echo around the old wooden construction. This day however, I found myself under the sparse covering of The Cowshed and for some reason was continually distracted by the wanderings of an old gadgie around the back of the little stand.
The ‘Cowshed’, Easter Road
Purple-faced – it was either an anger-management, high blood pressure or Tennants Extra Strong lager problem – I know which I’m plumping for – all three of course. A small man with a large bunnet on his napper and a green and white Hibs scarf wrapped generously around his neck four or five times, he appeared to be getting, shall we say, a little more ‘upset’ as the proceedings unfurled when the boys in green and white went a goal down to Glasgow Rangers.
With Hibs losing out in a crucial moment of open play, let’s a say, being second placed at a throw-in or some such other calamity, our friend could take no more…
HIBS!! YOU’RE A BUNCH OF ****ING CATHOLIC B******S!!!!!!
Staggering really, like he’d just discovered, after going to watch his team four probably aroundfour decades, that the club was actually formed by Irish Catholic immigrants in Edinburgh. Something or some perceived slight perhaps had clearly been lodged at the back of his mind for some years and now was the time to vent it.
There have been so many more of these people on the terraces during my ‘career’ on the hallowed terrace steps – too many to tell, in truth. My concern is that I’m actually one of them…
I was saddened to read of yesterday’s news story about Paul Gascoigne being detained under the Mental Health Act after an incident in a Gateshead hotel. It seems as thought the mercurial former England international footballer is never to be found far from problems or controversy. Indeed this latest report possibly shocks very few observers.
Gascoigne attracts very polarised views from the public, his image is that of a troubled yet cheeky chappy. A sad clown and one who possessed a serious talent for the game of football but struggles endlessly with the more serious game of life.
It would be repetitive to further relay some of the quirks, the twists and turns his life seems to have always taken. I have to confess to having been no admirer of his in the past, aside from his footballing skills. Here was a self-confessed wife-beater and alcoholic. In many lesser ways he has upset a myriad of people with his daft-as-a-brush mentality and just general ignorance. Infamously and ominously his former Newcastle United chairman in his early years as a young professional referred to him as like George Best without the brains. I wonder how hard we should be on him though?
What changed my opinion about Paul Gascoigne was the last book he co-wrote, Being Gazza. I picked the book up for two pounds in a discount shop after hearing someone along the way claim it to be an interesting read. Perhaps not my usual choice in literature but worth a gamble for so little money. I found the book extremely difficult to read, not in understanding it but in its nature. Being a depression sufferer myself I wanted to understand if there was anything I could learn from Paul Gascoigne’s experiences and observations.
The book was partly written by Gascoigne along with Hunter Davies and the ex-football player’s long-time therapist, John McKeown. It takes the form of a case history of Gascoigne’s recent turbulent years with notes from him interspersed by notes from therapist, McKeown. A strong first point to note is for those who talk about his problems being solely those of alcoholism and bipolar depression. This is by no means the case. One glimpse on the book’s back cover refers also to the following issues which he apparently battles with, amongst others:
Now some may point to that long list and state that many other lesser-known individuals suffer from these various problems – often without diagnosis. That would be true and for me, obviously also as sad. The book goes on to chronicle many incidents and experiences which were the product of one or a combination of the many health issues above, most of these whilst Gazza flounders around trying to comprehend what is happening to him. At times he appears as an innocent child who doesn’t understand the consequences of his actions. Not in a bad or evil way but rather in an almost endearing, childlike way. I did mention that my attitude towards him had changed after reading the book.
Throughout Being Gazza a constant feature are his many trips to a rehabilitation clinic in the USA. At times it seems as though this is the only place where he is able to find peace. I’m not sure how many of these long visits are known in the public domain aside from the book but I for one was surprised at the quantity and regularity of them.
Gascoigne often points towards a tragic incident in his younger years when a younger boy he was detailed to look after was killed in a road accident. Paul talks of his guilt and of picking up the boy’s ‘broken body’ from the road – an image that was to haunt him through his life. Who can say how great was the psychological influence this incidence had on him, but I’d like to offer that he is a far more sensitive individual than his public persona indicates. I feel that moment in his young life may underline what has happened, and to be fair, he has allowed to happen since.
His friends from back in Newcastle receive no slack at all from the public and the media. They are referred to as ‘sycophants’ and ‘hangers-on’ repeatedly and are often blamed in part for Gascoigne’s roller-coaster ride towards his demise. I am not sure if this is so however. I believe that his well-known friend, Jimmy Gardner would have been his friend, fame and fortune or not. These friends fulfilled a need for Gazza. He never wanted to leave his own class behind and was always just as happy having a few pints down the working men’s clubs back home as swaggering amongst the glitterati in London or elsewhere.
Similarly people talk of him being ‘his own worst enemy’ and abusing and wasting his talent. When Gascoigne talks of his school days and first getting into football though his main focus always seemed to be in making money in order to support his family. I believe he stayed true to his roots in that respect and don’t believe that he threw it all away without caring. To think so shows neither compassion nor understanding of what makes the man tick.
When Paul Gascoigne talks about his recent achievements or lack of them in his last book, his words are often directed towards the ill-fated short stay he had as a manager at Kettering Town Football Club. In my view it is a great shame that for whatever reason this venture did not succeed, (the cynical may say it was never going to but I’m not so sure). The one thing that the man understands is the game of football which has been his life for so long now. He seems a husk of a man without the game to focus his thoughts on.
When I see Paul Gascoigne in the media these days his appearance worries me. Gone is the weight and stockiness which characterised much of his playing days. He now appears a gaunt and haunted-looking individual, a strange-looking man uncomfortable to focus on. It is so sad but his face amply belies his many troubles.
So as I write, we wait for further news on his most recent incident and a report about his ‘sectioning’. No doubt the pressmen and photographers will be working hard to bring us the latest piece of harrowing news and images of this tortured and mixed-up man. They are certainly not without blame themselves for the current situation he finds himself in. In my words here I could mention some of Gascoigne’s less salubrious acts, the self destruction, the aggression and the apparent stupidity but what I truly believe is that he deserves understanding and further help. Reading into the man did change my views about him but it was what was rather between the lines than the lines themselves. Paul Gascoigne needs compassion for his has become a most difficult life to live.
I wish him well whilst sadly fearing the worst.
Some time ago I embarked on a very special journey into the world of teaching Special Needs children. My original remit was that of a student on a six-week placement at a Special Needs School in the district of Nottinghamshire where I live. My working role was as a Teaching Assistant, aiding the children with their learning whilst carrying out my research. Hearing that I was slightly ‘sporty’, the Deputy Head volunteered me as a helper in the Physical Education class, which would happen every Wednesday afternoon. To my relief, I learned on that very day that the school basketball season had just ended and that football season was about to begin!
I got changed over the lunch break and having donned a rather snazzy Italia Azzurri jersey, acquired on a Roman holiday, headed for the nice gym hall that the little school proudly owned. The children filed in and got changed excitedly, chattering away, with only one young boy dissenting for a game of basketball instead.
We had enough for two teams of five children each, girls and boys, but before choosing sides, like all dedicated footballers, we did our warm-up routine. To my relief the footballs were finally produced and we paired off to practice our skills of trapping and passing the football – an essential part of any footballers armoury as we all know. My training partner was an extremely hyperactive young boy of about 10 years who was greatly out to impress. Firstly, he guided my eyes down to his flamboyant footwear – his feet boasted bright, cherry-red trainers. He then showed me what areas of the shoe he would use to curl the ball and also unleash his ‘powerblasters’.
We gathered in a circle for a group passing game. Though being an amateur footballer for many years in the past, I had not been near a football for a little while, save for a kick around on a beach here and there. I thus decided to make the first touch a telling one and, ah well what can I say but the old magic was still there. (Some relief here when I managed to deftly control the football first time, flip it up and pass it on). There were a few gasps from the children as ‘sir’ had obviously played before at some time they quickly computed.
After our stretches and a little jogging around the gym we were down to business. In the time-honoured fashion, teams were duly selected. In spite of displaying a little bit of old-fashioned Scottish ‘tanner-ba’ play in the warm up, I was roundly selected last – just behind a 12 year-old girl with learning difficulties. Well I was still still an unknown quantity right?
The game duly kicked off. Oh, did I mention that we had nominated names for our teams? Ours was called, ‘The Venomous Blades’… Our formation cohesively fell into its natural classic formation of 0-4-0, sliding fluently into a 0-0-4 and on one occasion a 0-0-2 when our defense disappeared momentarily behind the gym curtains for a little contemplation on life. Our midfield engine room, consisting of a very affectionate young Downs Syndrome girl and myself played in close harmony, taking a firm grip in the middle of the park. A really firm grip actually as my midfield partner insisted she held my hand whilst we played. What a midfield duo we were that memorable Wednesday afternoon.
Play ebbed and flowed in a typical battling cup-tie fashion until the first flare-up between the teams occurred. The opposition left wing-back drew his leg back in order to make a hefty clearance up the line and struck the ball fair and square in the smack between the legs of the Venomous Blades’ star striker. There were tears. Tears like you’ve never seen on the field of play before, (excepting curious man-child Gascoigne playing for England of course). Resisting the strong temptation to offer the age-old advice of ‘don’t count ’em, rub ’em’ we then witnessed the said young striking star eventually gain his equilibrium and storm back into the action in a fit of barely controlled frenzy.
In the meantime all hell had broken loose. The like of which our referee, a nice American lady member of staff, would have needed six pairs of arms to sort out the transgressors. In the melee that ensued ‘Powerblaster’ boy had swiped the opposition sweeper for daring to laugh at the hapless state of The Venomous Blades spearhead. In fairness ‘Powerblaster’ did offer himself up as prime material for an early bath, which he was duly requested to take.
For the statisticians out there, the game ended at one goal each. A fair result all in all with both sides taking a home point as it were. More worrying were the disciplinary issues after the three separate fights that broke out over the game’s duration. I mentioned this to a fellow staff member only to be told that it had been a ‘great afternoon – much quieter than usual!’ Oh yes I almost forgot…another skirmish that almost carried the violent tendency of the game into the changing room. That will teach me to take my eye off the ball whilst handing the star striker with the numbed testicles his Goofy watch back from safekeeping.
Now all this was much fun and very amusing at the time, please accept my word if by some chance I have not illustrated the humour adequately here. There is a more serious side as to why I write this account however. I wanted to talk about this beautiful game that we all share a love for and illustrate the pleasure it can give to all. My young students had a fabulous afternoon; it brought fun, enthusiasm, competition and many other factors into their lives that Wednesday afternoon. Surely that is what this game is still all about? Does anyone still share this belief of mine?
In these days of contracts, football agents, ground shares, boards of directors and Bosman contracts the game is still basically the same as when I spent hours in the back yard bang, bang, banging a little ball against the wall and trapping it. The days at school playing twenty-a-side with a tennis ball in the schoolyard. I try never to forget that. This week I had the most poignant reminder with these very special young people. They were a joy to watch and indeed took me back to my own childhood when football was everything and Denis Law was The King.
If those little children can still understand the same simple pleasures – the joy of football, then why can’t we?
Since that time I have tried to remember this. It’s still a game, a very beautiful game at its best. We should attempt to keep the joy in it, just like those children.