Back to the future for the Lilleywhites

This month has simply flown by. Returning to work after 2 weeks on holiday, my deflated mood has been lifted by a book I was recommended to read before my departure to sunnier climes. The book in question is The Bromley Boys by Dave Roberts (Portico books) – available through all good online bookstores (and Amazon).

It is a story of a 15-year old boy's obsession for his local non-league football team, Bromley Football Club, a club with a proud history who in 1969/70 were enduring a season to forget.

I was particularly keen to read the book because not only did I grow up in that area but Bromley Football Club was also part of my life during that period. From the book I have learned that Dave is slightly older than me, we played football in the same local park, but probably have never met.

It was a wonderful trip down memory lane, a reminder of my forgotten youth and some of the joys of living in the borough. It was interesting to read that we both went to private schools – Dave managed to get expelled from his because of his love for Bromley Football Club – How cool is that! Theft, violence, vandalism, arson, insubordination I can understand the need for such a drastic course of action but to be expelled for being obsessed about a football club, and Bromley of all clubs, must have been a first.

The book documents the difficulty of being a fan of a non-league football team at school in great detail. It is not easy living with the taunts and jibes especially when you are at a rugby playing school and everyone around you supports one of the big league teams.

I wish I had thought of getting expelled in the same way because the 1969/70 season was a difficult time for me. I had just moved from primary to a completely different (or should I say indifferent) secondary school. All I wanted to do was play football, morning, noon and night. I'd like to think that at the age of 11 I could run faster with a ball at my feet than without it. I doubt that was true but at that age there is nothing you believe you can't do.

My new school didn't play football, they played rugby – I had been sold out by my parents, a pill I found even harder to swallow when I learned that I had been offered a scholarship to another school in the area that not only played football but had a good reputation for their cricket. From being a promising footballer at primary school I found that because of my height (or lack of it) I was allocated to the lowest tier for my ongoing rugby education, consigned to the group of carthorses, shirkers and asthmatics. Fortunately my form teacher recognised early on that there was little value to be gained from adding my paltry weight to the scrum and I was allowed to play in the backs where I at least had the opportunity of outrunning the carthorses or belting the ball as far as I could before they clattered into me.

In the book Dave talks of his teenage crush on Una Stubbs. I was a bit young to have a crush on anyone but I was very taken with Caroline Munro whose image was being plastered on giant billboards across the country in a series of posters for Lamb's Navy Rum. I seem to recall KP nuts producing a marketing pack with photos of a series of glamorous models on, I think she may have been one of them, but maybe I am mistaken. There were 24 packs of peanuts on each display and as each pack was sold it would reveal a bit more of the hidden photograph. The nuts were always on display in the tea room at Bromley and I made a point of checking to see how many packets had been sold every time I went in for my mug of tea and iced bun.

There is a section in the book about Dave's Christmas wish list which reminded me of my own experiences. Unlike Dave who proudly sported his supporters club badge on his blazer, I wanted my passage through school to be as painless as possible so had already nailed my colours to the mast as an Arsenal supporter (I chose to wear my Bromley pin on the back of my lapel, which gave one kid a nasty surprise when he tried to rough me up in the playground).

In my last year at primary school a friend had been kind enough to lend me his pair of George Best Stylo boots that had the laces at the side. They were dog's doo-dahs and I really felt that they helped my game so this was top of my wish list, along with the familiar red and white Arsenal shirt.

Come Christmas, what did I receive? A red and black striped shirt and a pair of rugby boots! It was definitely not my year. My father told me that I could play as AC Milan – but I didn't want to play as AC Milan, I didn't even know where Milan was (geography was not one of my subjects). As for the rugby boots, what was I to do with a pair of ghastly, ill-fitting lumps of rubber with laces thicker than a washing line. They were probably molded from old tyres, they certainly smelt as if they had been. Part of the Christmas surprise was not letting me know what my parents were buying me, which explains why they didn't fit me properly.

My limited understanding of the construction of a standard rugby boot is that the high sides are supposed to give padded protection to the ankle. From painful experience all I can attest to is that I lurched around the field like Coco the clown, the high sides rubbing the skin off my ankles which they were supposed to protect.

Thankfully, my feet grew very quickly and it was not long before I had outgrown these monstrosities. It took 7 more years for the rest of my body to catch up, considerably less for my ankles to heal, but I was at least given the opportunity to choose their replacement, a more sensible pair of Pele Santos football boots.

I never did get my Arsenal shirt, even though they went on to win the double in 1971. Dave Roberts now lives in the States where he writes his books and continues to follow the exploits of his beloved team via the internet. Bromley FC have never achieved the successes that they experienced in the 1940s and 50s, they remain a non-league side, subjecting their supporters to a rollercoaster of emotions that no theme park ride could ever capture.

I never played regular competitive football after leaving school, though I do still carry a pair of boots in my car in case a kick around is in the offing.

A film based on the book is in the planning which I am really looking forward to. In the meantime I am still available should Roy Hodgson wish to give me a call.

Bleak expectations

Homework completed, I go through my Bruce Lee inspired stretching regime in front of the Enter the Dragon poster that takes pride of place in my small bedroom. I watch my torso reflected in the mirror, not an ounce of fat, or muscle, in site, so much for working out. Eventually I turn in for the night, blocking out the throbbing of the huge chest freezer with which I have to share my room, while I try to focus my thoughts on cruising the city in my Testarossa, accompanied by a mysterious, leggy blonde with a Farah Fawcett hairdo.

Admittedly, beyond the locks I have no idea what the girl looks like nor have I calculated how I can afford a Testarossa on my ten bob a week pocket money, but hey, it's my dream. Old habits die hard, technically I should say 50 new pence but 10 shillings always seems better value, and how long are we all expected to refer to those tacky pieces of silver coinage as 'new' pence? I wonder if Bruce Lee suffered from acne.

Over breakfast I learn that The Who are on tour again, as are The Rolling Stones, Status Quo and Fleetwood Mac. David Bowie has released a single ahead of his new album and there is a new Dr. Feelgood album in the pipeline so I am feeling better than usual for first thing in the morning. Then I listen to the rest of the news, have I really been sleeping for nearly 40 years? Is that a muscle I've just pulled removing a milk bottle top? If I can put on this much weight overnight then I will have to invest in an alarm clock.

Economically the country is on the skids, there's conflict in the Middle East, the government are bemoaning the demise of the GCE exam, Arsenal have lost again, the transport system is on its knees, unemployment is unacceptably high, a significant proportion of the workforce are on a reduced working week, the state of the NHS is still causing concern and almost everything we eat is bad for us.

The only conclusion I can make is that decades may pass quickly but very little changes during that time. The empty driveway would indicate that the Testarossa was just a dream, leggy blondes remain a mystery to me and I am still living on ten bob a week pocket money. Maybe I should go back to bed.

The Leaning Tower of Westminster

The deteriorating state of the Houses of Parliament is causing increasing unease to its present occupants. Of particular concern is the Neo-gothic tower that houses Big Ben has suffered cracks and crumbling for decades which has caused it to tilt in the direction of the more recently built MP's offices across the road in Portcullis House. Originally completed in 1858 to the design of architects Charles Barry and  Augustus Pugin the tower has suffered subsidence due to the amount of building work that has taken place in that area.  A recent survey estimates that the top of the tower is now one and a half feet off perpendicular, enough to be visible by the naked eye. It has also been calculated that it would take a further 4000 years, if left unchecked, before it reached the same angle as the Leaning Tower of Pisa. How very typical for politicians to get their knickers in a twist over something that may not happen for the next 4000 years when they have no idea how to get to grips with the present day troubles.

The fact that it is leaning at all does however coincide with my own mental images of the Palace of Westminster. Since school days I have viewed our seat of government with a high degree of irreverence.  I think it must have been the Monty Python influence that inspired me to view  the workings of parliament being driven by a crusty, old street entertainer churning out a tune on an ornate, Victorian hurdy-gurdy musical box. While he cranks the  wheel the tower rises and falls as the automatons of that period used to do and the bongs of Big Ben would drown out the metallic noise emanating from inside the palace.

I realise now just how fanciful my ideas were since I have subsequently seen the tower in my dreams suffering a serious case of 'Brewer's droop', buffeted around in the wind like a ladies nightie hung out to dry on a blustery day.

I am far too old to take politics or politicians seriously. As long as they continue to wave their papers, jeer at each other and  behave like a group of yobs from the Lower 6^th  form, I shall hold on to the images that the very mention of the Houses of Parliament conjures up in my mind, that of a flaccid phallus wafting in the breeze, cocking a snoop at the rest of the world.