My Own Goals

By Roy Webster

Real Roy of the Rovers stuff!

My Own Goals is a fascinating A-Z account of the Roy Webster’s life in football. Covering his early years, school life, and his first live matches, he also shares his encounters with venomous hooliganism plus the many a scrape he’s had along the way, including a near-death experience.

Roy delivers his intriguing memories of watching several clubs such as Liverpool, Bolton Wanderers and Manchester United, before finding his true calling as a fully-fledged Spurs fan. Also covered is a riveting period whilst working for Manchester United, a time when he saw and did it all, before losing everything.

My Own Goals is a hugely entertaining read that you won’t want to put down. If you read only one football book this year, this should be it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roy Webster
• Release date: May 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781916901919

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

MY ROOTS

THE OTHER ROY

From being very young, I loved football. Like most young boys, I was always kicking a ball. Little did I know that it would play such an important part in my life for the next 50+ years.

I was christened Roy after a very close family friend, who I will always refer to as Uncle Roy, despite him not actually being a blood relative. When people use that awful saying, Blood is thicker than water, I usually reply with, Yeah, custard is thicker than blood, pass me a trifle.

Roy was a successful singer with big bands, most notably the Sid Phillips Jazz Band; he then had a great solo career, doing the club circuit, later travelling the world, earning a very good living. Prior to all this, he was a professional footballer, his biggest success was at non-league level with Bromley FC and his regiment’s team in the army, though he did turn professional, playing for, amongst others, Chelsea. Roy was an original cockney, growing up in London’s Mile End, but had a liking for Spurs, with their Arthur Rowe push and run style of football and later the legendary Bill Nicholson with his great philosophies and incredible successes. (Here is my first gloat.) We will always be the first team to do the double in the 1961/2 season and the first English club to win a European trophy, famously lifting the European Cup Winners’ Cup in 1963. I know that Arsenal fans taunt us, saying and singing, You won the league in black and white and another one asking if we have, or if we will ever see Spurs win the league in our lifetime. Now as a football fan, I know that other great saying, Every dog has his day. I firmly believe that the power in North London is shifting, and we are starting to enjoy the fruits of our wonderful manager’s labours; I of course refer to Mauricio Pochettino, who I would not swap for any other manager in world of football. I will speak more on this later and the exciting future in our magnificent new home. In the meantime, MIND THE GAP! Karma is a powerful phenomenon.

Sadly, Roy is no longer with us, but the important part he played in my life will be evident throughout my story. I remember many years ago – I literally just typed tears instead of years, which is probably one of those strange quirks of fate that happen and was meant to be, it’s probably more accurate and appropriate – anyway, many years (and tears) ago, I remember him showing me a letter he received from Tottenham Hotspur, asking him to sign for them; he always said that I could have this letter once he passed away (more on that later). He didn’t sign for the team he liked the best. I am reluctant to use the term supported because I don’t think, more to the point I am not 100% sure about this (wanting the book to be truthful, I am only including facts and personal opinions), if he was given the opportunity to become a proper fan of any one club I don’t think he would have, he just loved football. The reason he didn’t sign for his favourite team was the fact that Chelsea were sniffing around and offered him £5.00 per week more than Spurs. See, some things never change. Bloody Chelsea were at it, even back then, and an extra fiver a week was a significant amount of moolah at that time, and Roy did the sensible thing. In those days, footballers weren’t the icons and superstars that they are today, they were just given the opportunity to earn an exceptionally good wage, if indeed they made the grade. It was obviously nothing like the crazy amounts of money branded about in the modern game. Decisions were made, based on vastly different times, circumstances and situations. Football and indeed life were completely different, in so many ways.

Roy became a close friend of the legendary Jimmy Greaves and his family. They weren’t just acquaintances, they were really great pals, often visiting each other’s homes. They would also travel on public transport to matches and training sessions at Chelsea. In fact, Jimmy sought Roy’s advice over his move to Italy and other important decisions throughout his career.

Sadly, Roy’s professional career was brought to a premature end playing for Chelsea’s reserve team, at Queens Park Rangers’ Loftus Road ground. He once described the incident to me; the pain was etched on his face as he was recalling the incident. Those who have been to QPR’s Loftus Road ground will appreciate my account; I have been there and seen what Roy said to be true. Not that he would have lied to me, actually, he was the most sincere person I ever met.

He was a right-winger and making a slide tackle on their full back. Tackling was an art back in those days; footballers were honest and genuine, unlike today’s prima donnas. In my opinion, tackling has been taken out of the game, as referees issue red and yellow cards willy-nilly, even when no contact has been made. Players act, feigning injury, and regularly dive; it is just cheating, FULL STOP! Back to Loftus Road; the full back rode the tackle, jumping over Roy’s attempted slide. Loftus Road was very compact, one of those grounds where supporters were almost on top of the players, particularly at the sides, there is, or was, very little space between the touchline and the advertising hoardings. Roy’s perpetual motion took him straight into those hoardings, his knee just imploded on impact; it was a serious, ultimately, career-ending injury. Roy was rushed to hospital for major surgery but was never able to return to play football professionally again. This was, obviously, a devastating blow that sadly quite a lot of sportsmen and women will be able to empathise with. The names of Ledley King (I am, strangely, currently wearing my KING tee shirt), Norman Whiteside, more on him later, Dean Ashton and Coventry City’s David Busst (after THAT horrific injury at Old Trafford) all spring to my mind, although there are many more who suffered this cruel fate and would be equally worthy of a mention. My heart goes out to any sportsperson who has suffered such devastating bad luck, injury and, ultimately, a life-changing setback. As I am editing this, we have recently heard that this cruel fate has also impacted someone who all Spurs fans will always refer to as one of our own, a thoroughly decent man and always sadly missed at White Hart Lane. Personally, I was glad when he went to Hull City, above all others, due to my personal links to the club. I am also very sincere when I say, as many do, I really rate him and liked him a lot. I, of course, am referring to Ryan Mason, and I wish him well in whatever he does; he seems a very likeable person.

Anyway, back to Uncle Roy. His teammates were incredibly supportive and rallied around him. They used to love his singing voice, he was an incredibly good singer, and they knew it, often asking him to entertain them with a song in the dressing room on match day. Some way down the line, while he was recuperating, unbeknown to Roy, they entered him for a famous competition, Lou Praeger’s Find a Singer. I suppose it was the equivalent of today’s monotonously boring X Factor, but with genuine talent and judges without huge egos who made the contest about the acts and not themselves.

Despite his initial reservations, Roy won the competition, comfortably, and that was the start of a new career that would serve him well throughout his new life. It was a great alternative to football, though he never lost his passion for the game, even towards the end of his wonderfully fulfilled life.

Me, I was born and raised in St Helens, a grim, northern industrial town, famous mainly for two things, glass and rugby league. It is between Liverpool and Manchester, about ten miles closer, in opposite directions, to Liverpool than Manchester. When the boundaries were changed, it became part of Merseyside, much to the annoyance of real Lancastrians. Without wishing to offend anyone, especially locals with differing views, also family and friends, I do not have much of a love for my home town, or feel a bond that some people feel for their roots. Nowadays, it just seems so stuck in a time warp; ironically, my daughter is of the very same opinion. Uncle Roy always referred to Sintellins (as the locals pronounce it) as a bloody one-eyed hole!. It really is hard to argue with that description, but this is a debate for another day, or publication. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my childhood days and growing up in my area of the town, Blackbrook. It was as nice a place as any to grow up in, but life was totally different back in the 60s and 70s. The whole country has, in my opinion, lost its way thanks to politics, successive government failings and other bureaucratic nonsense, but that debate is also for another time and place.

My late father, Robin, was born in St Helens at home at No. 12, Sherdley Road (which is long since demolished), but spent most of his early life in Hull. He was a great man and very hard-working, having gained a proper apprenticeship as a cooper, which took FIVE YEARS, unlike today’s airy-fairy exploitative, cheap labour ones. He also chose rugby league as his sport, watching and even playing a few matches for the team he supported, Hull FC (pronounced ’Ull), as a trialist, listed in the programmes as A. N. OTHER. He did attend a few football matches at Hull City, at the old Boothferry Park ground, often telling me of a City goalkeeping legend, Raich Carter, who played then later managed the Tigers, but rugby league was Dad’s real sport of choice. Being in Hull, like many other young men, he worked on and around the docks for a short time, but after coopering, he gained his HGV licence and mainly drove wagons. It was while doing this that he had a near-death and certainly life-changing experience which would eventually lead to him meeting my mum and, obviously, me being brought into the world. It was one of the worst road traffic accidents in Yorkshire’s history; it was 1959, on the road between Rawcliffe and Goole. It was a pea soup type of fog, three vehicles involved, my dad’s lorry and another lorry crashing, head-on, with another smaller van also involved. Despite him not being Catholic, I was told that a priest at the scene gave my dad the last rites; I believe that, at one point, someone pulled the sheet completely over him. He was then airlifted to St James’s Hospital (Jimmy’s, now unfortunately famous for the wrong type of publicity) in Leeds where they performed miracles in saving his life. He was in a coma for many weeks. He went through extensive facial reconstruction and had around 200 stitches in and around his face. When he was finally released from hospital, his mum, my other grandma, who, unfortunately, I never really saw a lot of and consequently was not really that close to, had already moved to St Helens. She was a serial flitter (a term for moving house); 17 times (which is a very conservative estimate) would make a great football chant. Robin eventually followed on to St Helens. For those familiar with the town, he got a flat located at 2A Water Street, which would make it above Swinton Insurance nowadays. I have noticed, in passing, that the door to a flat is still there, whether the flat is, I do not know. I must, at some point, investigate that fact.

Without digressing too much again, my mum, who was a hairdresser with her own salon, Hair by Betty no less (she was, and still is, very well known around the Blackbrook area), had made friends with my dad’s sister, Sylvia, later and, obviously, becoming my Auntie Syl. She set up a blind date for my mum (Betty). Again, for those familiar with the area, it was at The Maida, later The Court School of Dancing, on Prescot Road. My mum thought she had been stood up and was quite rightly annoyed. My dad was now driving wagons once again and had unfortunately broken down, in Stoke-on-Trent, right by Stoke City’s Victoria Ground; now do you see the football connection? As mobiles weren’t around at that time, Robin rang his sister, Sylvia, from a telephone box near the ground, explaining the situation and asking her to please let Betty know. Sylvia rushed to The Maida, just catching Betty (later my mum) as she was leaving. They arranged another date at St Helens’ best hotel, The Fleece, and the rest, as they say, is history. The Fleece, ironically, became a regular haunt of mine in my later life. The Thursday-night Fleece disco was £1.25 admission with pizza and chips included. The DJ, Ian, who is also now sadly deceased, was a massive Evertonian, attending all their matches, home and away. Our paths would cross again, many years later, as we both had radio shows on Solar 1287AM.

Betty and Robin enjoyed their courtship, married in September 1961 and had me in the winter of 1962. My other grandma, Mum’s mum, certainly the one I was closest to, she was my best friend while I was growing up, in other words, she spoiled me rotten. I loved her dearly until her sad passing in 1987, aged 92 years.

However, she never liked my dad one bit, venting her feelings (a little too vehemently on many occasions, might I add, now that I have formed an impartial, unclouded view), totally undeservedly. She did, however, worship Uncle Roy and his gentleman friends, who were, in fairness to them, exactly that, gentlemen!

CHAPTER TWO

DISCOVERING FOOTBALL

LIVE MATCHES AND PROGRAMMES

My earliest recollections are of me loving two things, football and the limelight. I seemed to excel at kicking a ball and singing or being the centre of attention – 50+ years on, nothing has changed, much. I will add that although I am a self-confessed extrovert, I am not a show-off, boastful or that type of annoying person who has to be better than you or likes to belittle people. We all know a few of those; I just believe that I was brought up properly, being taught right from wrong and to always be respectful. Today, I have the same core values. My personality and the jobs I have require me to have an outgoing persona and presence. In truth, not many people know the real me, the quiet, sensitive, private side of me, the rest is an act. One of my heroes, Elvis Presley, once sang the lyrics The world’s a stage and each must play a part etc. I suppose I have been acting and playing a part for most of my life.

Uncle Roy was brilliant and really loved me like a son. He was actually, as I was alluding to, homosexual; gay wasn’t a term associated with homosexuality. In those days, the definition of the term gay was happy or carefree, e.g. with gay abandon. Homosexuality was also not spoken about or even referred to, in fact, during some of that time, it was illegal, so naturally, homosexuals didn’t come out etc. as they do today. Some of the views, comments and ignorance of those times are now unbelievable in today’s more modern, understanding and tolerant society. Roy had a partner or close friend as he was referred to by my family, called Dai Morgan, who instantly became Uncle Dai to me; it is no surprise, with that name, that he was Welsh. He was a huge man, in stature, with a completely bald head and a smile that lit up any room. His sonorous voice and roaring laughter were infectious; you could not help but like Dai. I still recall, aged around five years, Dai popping through the double doors from the kitchen to the living room at Christmas dinner and BOOMING in his Welsh accent, DOES ANYONE WANT STUFFING! Auntie Nellie, who was a Preston North End fan, nearly had a coronary, she must have wet herself; everyone was in tears with laughter.

Roy and Dai idolised me, they spoiled me terribly, always bringing presents or gifts of some kind, ranging from toys to lovely, designer clothing. I was so lucky to have these two wonderful men in my life. Being an ex-professional footballer, Roy’s love of the game remained with him throughout his life, until his sad demise, which I will discuss later; it is a very relevant and poignant part of my story, indeed, of my whole life.

One of my favourite early memories is collecting the various football-related, free items from petrol stations, the first being Esso stickers. You got a booklet and then got a shiny club badge with every gallon of petrol you bought. Everyone in my family circle was collecting these for me. I still possess a letter from Roy and Dai, sent from their flat in Stringes Lane, Willenhall, West Midlands, addressed to me with the one missing badge I needed to complete my collection. I was so unbelievably excited to receive it, it was for Manchester City. I now treasure that letter dated 1970 and, of course, the completed collection of stickers. The other, which I still possess, was the Cleveland Petrol, 1971, Joe Mercer football bust collection which was fantastic. I completed this collection, which had a flimsy plastic presentation stand, apart from just one figure. The missing figure was that of George Best. It really annoyed me that my cousin, John (sorry John, I did try to contact you before I wrote this book. None of it is intended to be derogatory, it was a long time ago and we were typical kids. Although, I’m sure that The Undertones wrote the song My Perfect Cousin for me), had this figure three times, yet he wouldn’t swap it with me, which was typical of him and the way we both were at the time. John is mentioned in more detail later. To be fair to him, he was a lifelong Evertonian and still is, as far as I am aware, he was not one for changing teams. He was typical of that Everton motto, once a Blue, always a Blue. Having said that, Wayne Rooney once said the same, I believe. Sadly, I have just today discovered that John has recently passed away. Obviously, this now becomes more poignant and upsetting for me. He has passed at the same age as my dad, 56, which is far too young and deeply distressing for those left behind who mourn their loss. RIP John. I hope you would have appreciated this book and my account of our childhood. We didn’t always get on, but there were some great times too. I wish that things had been different. In my mind, it is no coincidence (I don’t believe in them) that Spurs beat Everton 4-0 at Wembley on Saturday. I would have loved to have been able to labour the point with him, perhaps over a pint. Actually, I can’t drink at present due to medication, following an accident in which I broke my neck. (More on this later, too.) Thankfully, the paralysis has not been permanent; I had my operation two weeks ago. John would’ve taken the mickey out of me, and I would have laughed with him. I’m sure we would have both mellowed with age and grown up enough to respect our opposing views and opinions. Sadly, I will never know, at least until we are watching matches together from that highest of vantage points in the sky.

We also collected the equivalent of today’s Panini stickers, I suppose, except they were cards, not stickers. You got five or six in a packet and an oblong piece of pink chewing gum. A few players I always remember from those cards are Harry Redknapp and Frank Lampard (Senior) both of West Ham United, Jeff Astle (WBA. Boing!), the bearded Trevor Hockey of Sheffield Utd, he actually looked like one of the Slag Brothers from Wacky Races, and for some reason Tony Want and Mike England (who was actually Welsh) of Spurs, oh, and Terry Cooper and Norman Hunter, both of Leeds United, and I almost forgot, Tony Currie of Sheffield United. I could go on, there were indeed many, many more but those particular names, from that time, stick in my memory.

Going back to my dad, I suppose we had a typical father son relationship. As I got older, and during my adolescence, I resented the authority and discipline he had to show as a good, responsible parent, but we clashed, often. Looking back, he was completely right. He was also a wonderful father to me and an equally good husband to my mum, I so wish I could tell him that fact again. I thought I knew it all, when in fact I knew very little. How could I at that young age, I hadn’t done anything, whereas my dad had the life experiences and had probably done and seen it all before.

He did take me to my first proper football match. I had developed a liking for Liverpool, because my best friend Alan supported them. My first match was a European game in the UEFA Cup against Dynamo Dresden on the 7th March 1973. I can even name the team, from 1-11, entirely from memory:

1. Clemence, 2. Lawler, 3. Lindsay, 4. Smith, 5. Lloyd, 6. Hughes, 7. Keegan, 8. Hall, 9. Boersma, 10. Heighway, 11. Callaghan and the ONE permitted substitute, 12. Toshack. It was 2-0 to Liverpool and the scorers were Hall and Boersma. It was a night not to be forgotten, as I just proved, entirely from memory, without needing assistance from Google or suchlike. The atmosphere in the Kop was something else, I felt squashed, but safe. I managed to see a lot, the game, the vivid green pitch and the contrast of the shirts was just incredible to me.

People were much more caring and generally nicer, in those days; a completely random man picked me up and sat me on a barrier so that I could have a better view. Everyone seemed to be looking out for, and protecting me, not just my own family. For that match, at least, I was part of the Kop family.

Unfortunately, outside the ground, after the match, a Scouse spiv tried to remove my dad’s watch from his wrist at the bus stop, as we were boarding the bus, the type of bus with the grab rail at the back that were everywhere in those halcyon, claim-free days. Dad was a stocky man and scared the Hell out of the would-be thief with his loud insults and threats! Today would have probably been a completely different scenario, but the lad just ran off, terrified. Undeterred by that incident, Dad, who was now working in a shipping office in Liverpool, came home one evening to announce that we were going to see Liverpool play England in a testimonial. I am having to look up the details of this one, unfortunately I couldn’t remember whether it was the testimonial for Liverpool legend Roger Hunt or their equally adored manager, Bill Shankly, both were against an England XI. I do remember that Rodney Marsh was playing for England and the Kop constantly sang Rodney wants a sh*t to the tune of Ee Aye Addio, much to my dad’s, feigned, disgust; at least in front of me and Mum. For me, seeing Liverpool and the England team was just so special. I loved the national team and am still as patriotic today. What a great atmosphere there was again at the match. Once again, the Spion Kop, to give it its full title, produced an unbelievable crescendo of noise and was amazingly choir-like. My dad obviously thought so too, a few days later buying me an LP record of The Kop Choir from Woolworths, actual recordings of fans singing, amongst other fascinating anecdotes from fans, mainly celebrating the 1965 FA Cup win over Leeds United. Was I to be a lifelong Liverpool fan?

My dad worked with a lot of Merseyside football fans in his office at Liverpool’s Pier Head area, one of whom, Peter Braithwaite, was a programme seller at Anfield. Dad arranged for me to meet him and go to a game with him. At this point, may I apologise unreservedly to Liverpudlians for my attempted translation, it is not meant to ridicule or offend in any way, quite the opposite, it is done affectionately and in the best possible taste, to quote another late, legendary, Liverpudlian comedian, Kenny Everett.

I met Peter at his family home, Dad had driven me there. It was a typical 1970s scene on match day, lots of anticipation from the teenagers and twenty-somethings, a lovely mother, or Ma as she was referred to, who was very welcoming towards me, making me a nice cuppatea. All of which puts me in mind of the TV series Bread. Anyone who knows me will confirm that I am anything but shy, I will instigate conversation with anyone, the problem was that I couldn’t understand a lot of what they said, and they spoke so fast and so Scouse. I remember hearing and feeling the hatred for Man Yanitd or dem Mancs as they also referred to them. (It is totally ironic that as I am writing this, all these years later, I have my radio on listening to talkSPORT for the Europa League draw, Liverpool have been drawn to play Manchester United.) I couldn’t understand that hatred, at the time, they weren’t even playing Manchester United, they were playing Stoke City actually. I felt a bit uncomfortable at first. The adults were great en route to the match, making a fuss of me, calling me lad and youse. It was something like, orrite lad, a youse a Livpewl fan den? As long as yer norra dirty Mancchhhh, der ’orrible day aer. Come ed kid, gerra wriggle on, we gorra match to go to, burra a bevvy fairst. We went into the pub, right opposite the ground; it was full of like-minded fans, great atmosphere, very loud and very smoky. Obviously, visiting supporters would not be welcomed. I had fizzy orange and crisps and kept myself to myself. The atmosphere, though, was electric. I could not hear anything above the singing and chanting. When they sang their anthem, You’ll Never Walk Alone, it was incredible, spine-tingling, genuinely making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up; great support indeed.

From there to the ground, it seemed much bigger and so different in the daylight. We walked in after Peter showed his pass to the elderly, uniformed commissionaire and told him that I was his lil’ nephew which was fine. I recall there was a type of small kiosk we went to, with programmes underneath. He told me to watch and learn, or lairne as he pronounced it. Da proeees are 5p right? If dee give yer supppn biggeh, yer just give em der change, dead easy lad. I must admit, he was incredibly good at it, plenty of banter and laughter. Match day programmes and Programmes, get yer programmes ere, 5p yer proeees. Der ya go, mate, ta la. I watched in awe and wonderment as he sold countless programmes.

Suddenly Pete announced, Dooze a faver kidt, watch me stall for a minni, gorra see a man abarra dog. With that he just walked off.

But, but Pete, I don’t…

Yerl be farn lad, don’t wurrie abarit. Then he was gone, immersed in the crowd of people which suddenly seemed very daunting, indeed, to me.

I tried to copy Pete’s patter which was lost on the punters; talk about being thrown in at the deep end. One kind gentleman noticed that I was struggling.

Orrite lad, yer norra Scouser are yer kidt? he asked.

No, I’m from St Helens, I replied.

Yerra Wool then?

No! I’m from St Helens.

Sssackly, yerra bleednn Wool (the term Woolyback was what Scouser’s called people from St Helens). Never mind kidt, lose the pretend accent, just shout, ‘PROGRAMMES, 5 PENCE YER PROGRAMMES!’ He did it and gave a man his programme, easy. Now, you avvago n arl watchyers forrabi. It actually worked. Before long, I had a stream of customers and felt quite confident, thanks to Bill, my hero.

As he walked off waving, I shouted, Bill, take a free programme for your help?

Ahhh, don’t be wurryin’ ’bout dat, yer orrite kid, bu thanks anyway. Be luchcceee. Tarrraaaa. See ys. With that he disappeared, consumed by the crowd. I don’t know if Bill would be able to recall that incident, if indeed he is still around, but he was my hero on that occasion and the memory will remain with me.

Pete rolled up at 2.40 p.m., smelling of booze and giggling a lot. Eyyy, well done, kid. Told yer it was eezy, dinni eyy, eyy. He handed me another carton of orange and more crisps. I was actually quite pleased. We cashed in the money and then took our place on the Kop. I didn’t confess to having some inside help and information, proudly accepting the plaudits Pete bestowed upon me.

It was tightly packed again on the Kop, over 52,000 fans inside Anfield. I knew all the Liverpool players, I also knew the Stoke team from collecting cards, etc. and watching Match of the Day and The Big Match on TV. Their standout names to me, at the time, were: Mike Pejic, Alan Bloor, Terry Conroy, Sean Haslegrave, I can’t believe that Geoff Hurst, now of course Sir Geoffrey, was playing for Stoke. One player who stood out and I would meet in person, many years later in my working life, was Jimmy Greenhoff.

The match flew by, Steve Heighway scoring the only goal after only six minutes. I must confess to having to use Google for this information. At this point, I remember being thrust forward a great distance, propelled in the sea of fans as they surged forward like a tidal wave, then, astonishingly back again, to almost the exact starting position.

The fans’ love for the players and their legendary manager, Bill Shankly, was evident throughout the match (which makes me believe that the other game was in fact HIS testimonial match), constantly singing and chanting their collective names for almost the entire duration of the game. We made it back to the house safely. Peter and co had really looked after me, and I had thoroughly enjoyed the whole experience. I remember we caught a bus to the ice rink, getting off in Sheil Road, to meet my dad who was waiting for us in his car to take us the short distance to their house.

Peter was a good man. He and my dad arranged for him to take my autograph book to Anfield and for the whole Liverpool squad to sign it. They did so, on one double page, and personalised it, To Roy, Best Wishes, From Liverpool FC, on the reverse, a lovely gesture from everyone involved.

My next football match was on New Year’s Day 1974. Uncle Roy had been singing at clubs local to our house over the festive period, staying at my grandma’s house, he also arranged to take me to see Liverpool v Leicester City. Because it was New Year’s Day, the kick-off was brought forward one hour to 2 p.m. It would prove to be a whole new experience for me, as we went in the Anfield Road end of the ground, opposite the Kop. I am naming the two teams with good reason, firstly to demonstrate how little teams altered in those days. Although I have only used surnames, I can also name all the players’ Christian names, from both teams.

Liverpool: 1. Clemence, 2. Storton, 3. Lindsay, 4. Thompson, 5. Lloyd, 6. Hughes, 7. Keegan, 8. Cormack, 9. Heighway, 10, Toshack, 11. Callaghan.

Leicester City: 1. Shilton, 2. Whitworth, 3. Rofe, 4. Earle, 5. Munro, 6. Cross, 7. Weller, 8. Sammels, 9. Worthington, 10. Birchenall, 11. Glover.

Just typing these names is again giving me goosebumps, as I recall the great footballers from those days. The Liverpool team was virtually the same as always, just Trevor Storton at right back instead of Chris Lawler and Phil Thompson replacing Tommy Smith. It was virtually the same solid team; great defence, fantastic midfield and the outstanding partnership of big John Toshack and the mercurial Kevin Keegan up front, proper football with two strikers. It was often mentioned on TV, and indeed the local television news, Granada, did a feature on them, suggesting that their understanding on the pitch was telepathic. I adored Kevin Keegan. Little did I know that we would soon meet in person, and he would ask me a leading question which was a real double entendre. In today’s society, it would sound like a sensational tabloid newspaper heading and compensation claim, it is true, but of course it was completely innocent, as was Kevin, as I will shortly explain.

Back to the match, Roy was stood at the front of the Anfield Road end. I had managed to find a place to sit; it was a wall with a large mesh fence for me to cling on to, which was right in the corner but completely comfortable and safe, with a great view, especially of corner kicks.

Now residing in the Midlands, Roy wanted Leicester to win but didn’t publicise the fact, being that we were amongst the home support. He had told me to look out for certain players in the Leicester team, particularly Keith Weller and Alan Birchenall. He also told me that young Worthington is a great player but needs a bloody haircut. Weller and Birchenall, who I already knew, were great entertainers and very flamboyant, in fact Keith Weller came on to the pitch wearing black tights under his shorts and gloves. You can imagine the stick he took from the Scousers, back in those days this was unseen or unheard of, but it was all in good fun; he played up to the fans with a smile on his face and blowing kisses, especially when he scored a great goal to give Leicester a shock half-time lead. He and Birchenall were instrumental in everything Leicester did; they really were a great team. They’ll never be that good again, I say, completely ironically and tongue in cheek, especially after their heroics during the 2015/16 season, which saw them crowned champions of the Premier League. Again, I had no idea that Frank Worthington would become so much of a cult hero to me in the years, and chapters, to come.

The spoils were shared in this match, with Peter Cormack equalising for Liverpool, midway through the second half (67 minutes). Outside the ground, there was a skirmish between rival supporters, but Roy quickly ushered me to safety, away from it. Other than that, I had really enjoyed the day; it was a great start to the year.

Later that season (1973/74), in March, Roy came to visit and had to go out on business to Preston. He had looked in the newspaper and Preston North End were playing, at home, to Notts County. He asked if I would like to go with him on his business, we could drop in on Auntie Nellie and Uncle Jim; we could also take in that match. Of course I did, it was football. We arrived nice and early and went to the ticket office where Roy bought tickets for the Main Stand. I don’t remember too much about the game, other than Bobby Charlton was playing for Preston; in fact, there was quite a contingent of ex-Manchester United players now plying their trade at Preston, Francis Burns and Nobby Stiles were also now at Deepdale. I do recall Preston lost 2-0. Once again, I enjoyed the whole football experience of being at a live match. We were sat right on the halfway line in the Main Stand. I was completely neutral but thoroughly enjoyed the game. I remember thinking how sparsely populated the ground looked with the 8,907 attendance. (Thanks again Google; other search engines are available, just not as good, in my opinion.)

CHAPTER THREE

YOU WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND, IT’S A SPURS THING

MEETING AMY – ROY’S BIG WIN

During the following month of April, our whole family were going to London to attend a big talent event in which Roy was auditioning. I can’t remember exactly what it was, but I recall it being a large, prestigious event. We were going to support Roy at this showcase on Sunday 14th April. Roy rang us a few days prior to this to ask if he could take me off my parents’ hands and go to a Spurs game, it would also give Mum, Dad and Grandma a chance to explore London on the Saturday, without hearing Can I have…? or Can we go…? every few minutes. Everyone was happy with the arrangement, me especially, I was actually going to see Tottenham Hotspur at White Hart Lane, in London. I had never been to the capital before. I couldn’t eat properly, sleep or concentrate on anything in the build-up to travelling the 200+ miles, down south, I was so excited.

We travelled on the Friday lunchtime, packing everything into Dad’s blue, two-litre Vauxhall Ventora; registration UTE 519H. We packed enough food and clothing to survive any expedition, embarking on our journey south to the hotel. Sadly, neither I nor my mum can recall the name of the hotel and the photographs do not have any signage on them, I just remember it being very blue in colour. The journey seemed endless, but I loved travelling and was reading my football magazines to help pass the time, this and a primitive version of Eddie (Stobart) spotting involving standard lorries and certain cars; it was telephone boxes once we exited the motorway, of which there were loads. I’m sure it was Goal and Shoot I was reading, with a copy of the comic, Tiger. I remember we stopped at Watford Gap Service Station before continuing to our hotel. It was a lovely hotel; I remember instantly thinking that the receptionist was gorgeous, as she commented on my lovely accent. She noticed my magazines and remarked, Oh, I see you’re a football fan. Who do you support, Liverpool? I could hardly speak; I was smitten and in complete awe of this beautiful young lady.

Actually, I am going to watch Tottenham Hotspur tomorrow against Southampton, I replied, rather indignantly.

Oh, you’re a Spurs fan. I wasn’t expecting that. Well done, so am I, she beamed and put her thumb up, I instinctively did likewise. I was smitten and had discovered love, in London, aged ten and a half.

Roy and Dai came to meet us in the hotel bar, where the adults had a few drinks. I had my usual pop and crisps and was happy reading my magazines. The receptionist, Amy, seemed to be responsible for everything in the hotel, even collecting glasses. It was while doing this that she came and sat next to me, making more conversation about football, which I lapped up. I recall her asking who my favourite player was.

I instinctively replied, Martin Chivers, he’s a great centre forward and scores lots of great goals. I was on a roll; I knew my football and was desperately trying to impress her. Amy’s favourite player was Steve Perryman and her uncle actually knew Beally (Phil Beal). I was hanging on her every word; what a gorgeous woman, lovely personality, and she loved football, what more could a young boy of my age wish for?

Grandma had found the hotel piano and was in her element, entertaining the other guests, taking their adulation in her stride. She was a sort of much slighter version of Mrs Mills (a real blast from the past). Everyone was just so warm, friendly and welcoming. Dad had met a couple of fellow jazz enthusiasts, and Mum was in conversation with locals and a little tipsy; her laugh becoming louder with each drink, probably because she didn’t usually drink alcohol, apart from very special occasions, of which this was definitely one. Roy sang a few impromptu songs, which went down a storm. It just so happened that one of the guests was a professional pianist. He was making the piano talk, much to Grandma’s condemnation of his unnecessary fiddly bits, calling him a bloody show-off in a rather too audible whisper. She often did this, sometimes, I believe, purposely. This tickled me, as she idolised Liberace, refusing to accept his sexuality or over-the-top flamboyancy, defending him vehemently. With no disrespect to anyone, whatsoever, perhaps she just loved gay men?

I remember Roy singing Chattanooga Choo Choo fantastically well, accompanied superbly, and rather elaborately, by the new pianist. He had also noticed my developing crush on the young lady and began singing a few bars of the Dean Martin song Once in Love with Amy to my complete embarrassment; he just winked and smiled. What a fantastic night it was. How would I ever manage to sleep with all this excitement? I did though, very well, in fact.

The next morning, after a great breakfast, served by you guessed it, Amy, who looked even more gorgeous in the morning, Roy picked me up for the match. He had purchased tickets for one of the stands, which would have been the East Stand, above a paddock underneath, known as The Shelf. I was so excited on the journey to the ground it was all just a blur. The sights of London meant nothing to me at this time, I just wanted to get to White Hart Lane to sample the atmosphere and take in THOSE sights.

We arrived and parked up with the other fans’ cars, on what I now know is just off the High Street, we then headed towards the ground. What a great atmosphere there was all around, I loved the southern accent too. There were the usual programme sellers (I knew, only too well, about that profession), burger and hot dog stalls, souvenir stalls and a man selling a vast array of programmes and books. There was also a man selling badges. I had never seen so many in one display. Roy asked me to pick one. I chose one with a rabbit coming out of a hat with the words Spurs Pure Magic underneath. Even then, I noticed how expensive things were compared to up north. They didn’t seem to deal much in pence; everything seemed to be in bobs and quids. We arrived at the famous Tottenham Hotspur gates. WOW! I was in Heaven, what a sight. There were so many more fans than at Preston for my last match, with blue and white scarves everywhere. It was fantastic; in fact, breathtaking was a more suitable description.

We went into the ground and, after what seemed like a mountaineering expedition up the old, wooden stairs, we took our seats. Wow! What a view, we were so high up, it was amazing looking down on to the pitch. The players came out for their warm-up. Pat Jennings in his green jersey looked immense, even from such a distance I noticed his shovel-like hands. Among my other favourites were Phil Beal, not just because of Amy, I already knew a lot about him, Mike England, Jimmy Neighbour and my ultimate favourite, Martin Chivers.

I also knew quite a lot about Southampton, but not their goalkeeper, Ian Turner, he was making his debut. Jim Steele, David Peach the left back, Mick Channon, another of my all-time favourites, ex-Chelsea legend Peter Osgood and the appearance of record-breaker elect, winger Terry Paine, a real, consummate professional in every sense of the words; google him.

Surprisingly, the match is a bit of a blur to me now, though I will always remember the result, 3-1 to Spurs and Big Chiv, my new hero, scoring two goals, resulting in me jumping up and down like a lunatic, along with everyone else around us. Unfortunately, I have had to google the remaining information; John Pratt scored the other Spurs goal. The Saints’ score was an own goal from Mike England, which I don’t remember at all. It’s funny really, I imagined the match would be my clearest memory but, unfortunately, it isn’t. The actual occasion, though, will live forever in my mind. We left the ground in a sea of Tottenham fans, me clinging