Grounded

By Adrian Wicks

In 1989, British football was shaken to the core when ninety-six people lost their lives in the Hillsborough disaster.This, combined with the Bradford City fire four years earlier, enforced wholesale changes within stadiumssome clubs electing to move, lock, stock, and barrel to brand-new arenas.

Grounded is a unique memoir of the authors visits to these grounds done in sequential order from Scunthorpe in 1988 right through to West Ham in 2016, each chapter correlating with trips to their former domiciles and summarized with his opinion on their comparativesnot as obvious as may appear. In the process, he details what he finds there, how the journeys didnt necessarily go according to plan, and the friends he made and, in one instance, lost, whilst indulging in his favorite pastimea hobby, an addiction, or merely a candidate for the lunatic asylum? Read it, and you can draw your own conclusions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Oct 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546282822

Adrian Wicks

Adrian has been watching the game for over 40 years,attending close to four thousand games in that duration.Add on 70 Speedway tracks,numerous Rugby grounds in Union and League as well as the odd Ice Hockey and Cricketing venue and you have the proverbial recipe for a sportaholic! Born in Exeter he is an unofficial member of the ninety-two club and,barring two spells living in London,continues to dwell in what he unashamedly entitles Devon’s number one city.

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© 2017 ADRIAN WICKS. All rights reserved.

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Published by AuthorHouse 10/20/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5462-8283-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-8284-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-8282-2 (e)

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DEDICATION

For Grampy,devoted husband and father,gone but not forgotten. I dedicate this book to him with loving thanks from his grandson.

ALSO BY THE AUTHOR:

Football Addict-diary of a season

CONTENTS

Introduction

Bradford 1986/87

Scunthorpe United 1988

Walsall 1990

Chester 1992

Millwall 1993

Huddersfield Town 1994

Northampton Town 1994

Middlesbrough 1995

Bristol Rovers 1996

Sunderland 1997

Stoke City 1997

Derby County 1997

Bolton Wanderers 1997

Reading 1998

Wigan Athletic 2000

Oxford United 2001

Southampton 2002

Leicester City 2002

Hull City 2003

Manchester City 2003

Darlington 2004

Burton Albion 2005

Coventry City 2005

Swansea City 2006

Arsenal 2007

Doncaster Rovers 2007

Shrewsbury Town 2007

Milton Keynes Dons 2007

Colchester United 2008

Cardiff City 2009

Chesterfield 2010

Morecambe 2011

Brighton & Hove Albion 2011

Newport County 2012

Rotherham United 2012

Barnet 2013

West Ham United 2016

Postscript

Introduction

In life, regardless of whatever you do, there will almost certainly be times of endurance, periods when your resolve is tested, and the advent of a tragedy is such an example. My concise dictionary, in part, defines it distinctly-a sad or calamitous event; a disaster. In English football this translates into two words: Bradford and Hillsborough. On the final Saturday of the 1984/85 season Bradford City were due to be presented with the Third division championship trophy prior to their home game against Lincoln City, this bestowment upon Trevor Cherry’s men a fine reward for their endeavours, a celebratory moment indulged before undertaking the compulsive on-field business required to rubber-stamp a prosperous campaign. Amidst a light-hearted atmosphere the game began in flippant manner, undue levity shared by the watching majority expectant of a stylish win by their favourites against opposition who had avoided relegation by a slender margin. However, after forty minutes of goalless action there was an element of unrest brewing in the main stand, initially attributed to a disturbance in the crowd but in reality due to a plume of smoke emanating from beneath the floorboards. Just minutes later the game had to be abandoned as flames engulfed the wooden structure, a conflagration which resulted in the loss of fifty-six lives. It was a massive shock to the system and I felt a profound sense of relief that I was not in attendance. In the lead-up to that day I was in a bit of a quandary, a predicament as I had to choose between travelling to that game and the one that prevailed-Shrewsbury’s Second division encounter with Middlesbrough. Both were requisites amongst a mere handful of grounds I needed to complete the ninety-two and I had a predilection for Gay Meadow as that match bore relevance whereas the Bradford game was, for me anyway, one with no significance attached. Obviously I made the right choice although I feel morally obligated to emphasise that I would assuredly have been an onlooker from the terracing and therefore out of harms way; Nonetheless, I thank my lucky stars that I did not bear witness to what occurred.

In the aftermath an inquiry was led by Justice Popperwell, whose findings resulted in a compulsive tightening of safety regulations, sufficient to sound the death knell for many wooded stands across the country and the prohibition of smoking within those that remained. It was a step in the right direction.

On the 15th of April 1989 I was at the Hawthorns watching WBA’s 2-2 draw with Plymouth Argyle. I travelled up on the away club’s supporters bus and, like many, watched ninety minutes of footballing fare completely oblivious to the harrowing events unfolding in Yorkshire; Indeed, at half-time, the PA regaled us with news of the abandonment of this FA Cup semi-final between Liverpool and Nottingham Forest at Hillsborough, citing crowd trouble as being the cause; Remember, this was an age in which the nation was blighted with hooliganism, reaching its nadir just eighteen days after the Bradford fire when thirty-eight people were killed before the European Cup final staged at Heysel stadium. Therefore initial reaction to such negativity was an attitude of undoubted exasperation, our section of the stadium alleviated by the Pilgrims comeback from two goals down to rescue a point in the second period, a mindset that was to alter drastically upon returning to our transportation after the game. Here, the radio was solemnly broadcasting the horrific details, a narration of what had REALLY happened which up until that point we were genuinely ignorant about. Retrospectively this may seem incomprehensible but technology in those days meant that the definition of a smartphone would have been a calling device that looked impressive to the naked eye! Even now I can recall my sense of disbelief, my dazed mind struggling to understand or fathom how this could happen at a football match, the mood of those travelling alongside equally-minded judging by a sombreness reflected in a conversational absence on our return journey, all no doubt struggling to grasp the notion of the loss of life-any yet alone the tally of ninety-six people we now know it to be. The subsequent post-mortem into how this could have occurred and who, ultimately, was culpable for their actions became a long, drawn-out affair as the families of the bereaved sought justice, such admirable persistence, I am thrilled to say, reaping rewards on Tuesday April 26 2016 when a jurys’verdict of unlawful killing brought some form of closure; it won’t bring their loved ones back of course but it’s a start.

If the events of 11 May, 1985 had not been a wake-up call then this surely was, Lord justice Taylor’s post-mortem report recommending all-seater stadia, it emphasising in no uncertain terms that spectator safety was paramount, clubs reacting by either upgrading facilities to an acceptable standard or by electing to construct new ones. Perimeter fencing was obsolete, likewise those days of involuntary embroilment amongst a morass of people surging forward or sideways on the terracing when a goal was scored or a chance missed by a whisker, this an occupational hazard and symptomatic of the big game experience. There have been a couple of instances, which I will relate to in a following chapter, when this purportedly harmless action developed into something of a tumultuous nature, terrifying in the extreme; despite my propitiousness towards a standing mode at games I feel we have to accept that in principle it has no place at the top level. The propensity for spectators to adopt this stance at certain times has led to the idea of safe- standing, a mooted notion sound of theory but based on current trends I believe to be unworkable in practice-we’ll see.

Tragedy is also the title of a song by the Bee Gees, later re-released as a more up-to-date hit by the group Stepps. A quote from one of the Gibb brothers who wrote the original stated his belief that this covered version was better than theirs, a view that in some way correlates with the general standard of new football stadia built today.

What you are about to read is an anecdote of my visits to these newly- built arenas and those superseded, the chapters being in chronological order and summarised with a considered, personal evaluation on the differences between stadiums past and present. Also, I have indulged in the odd light-hearted comment or two that you may or may not define as being humorous but were suitable at that time. I trust you will not take them too seriously. For the record I have included clubs who are no longer in the Football League but were at the time, such as Chester; conversely, I have embraced a handful who at the time of my visits were non-league representatives, Burton being an example. It goes without saying that a striking sense of disparity will be blatantly obvious but in some instances I regard modernisation as not necessarily being of a positive nature, opinions that do not detract from what generally-speaking is an upwardly progressive trend. It’s just a pity that certain events had to occur before any advancement in such matters became a topic of urgency-now THAT is a tragedy.

Bradford 1986/87-a portent of things to come

The Bantams were a Second Division side unable to stage home games on their own turf during the 1985/86 season, one where the Wanderers suffix was metaphorically added. Thanks to a combination of the Football League and neighbouring clubs they roamed from town to town, Huddersfield and Leeds the primary ports of call. Under the circumstances their thirteenth place final position was, one felt, more than acceptable.

The following campaign began with Bradford still not able to return only this time they came to an arrangement with the Rugby League club to play their home matches at Odsal Stadium until they could go back to Valley Parade later in the season, a scenario that appeared to have a detrimental effect to on-field performances, their first win coming at the fourth attempt albeit a good one as it was against their neighbours Leeds United. Come October 18th they were fourteenth having played ten games and were five places below Ipswich Town, their opponents that afternoon and a match I decreed most worthy of attending in order to satisfy the prerequisite of seeing a game of football there, the fact that I had already darkened its doors the year before giving me an idea of what to expect as I attended Odsal to watch the world individual Speedway final-won by Danish rider Erik Gundersen after a three-way run-off with fellow compatriot Hans Nielsen and the American Sam Ermolenko. The contours of this circuit lended itself to some thrilling races such as this and in subsequent years I would be present at more meetings here, swede Per Jonsson’s World final win in 1990 after another run-off adding to a handful of Bradford’s British League matches. Sadly the sport was lost to the town several years ago and although an attempt was made recently to revive it I do not envisage its imminent return. Anyway, I made the long journey up to Yorkshire by train, cost-efficient as I was in possession of a young persons railcard, the direct majority taking me to Leeds before the need of a change to a localised service. Things almost went awry due to my impetuousity as the train I initially boarded was due to venture into territory located in a totally different direction. This I discovered upon enquiry, extrapolating the lesson I learned five years ago when self-assumption resulted in an unwanton diversion, the upshot of this double-check proving that lessons can be learned. Once ensconced in the carriage NOT heading to North Yorkshire it was a relatively short journey, the ups, downs, ins and outs when tackling the crossing of the inner ring road negotiated before facing up to what was a long and quite arduous walk uphill to the ground, gradual but seeming to go on and on until eventually filtering off the main carriageway and up, of course, a sliproad to a roundabout landmarked by a pub that I would frequent prior to those Speedway meets, before crossing the road and finding the ground just down on the right, the use of a sequence of entry points scattered along here depending on what part of the stadium you wished to be in: right-side one for away fans, the left for the main stand and the middle ones-where I gained admittance- for the terracing.

This venue cuts diagonally into a slope, the surrounding terrain overlooking the ground before levelling out at the far end. Upon entry I was immediately welcomed by a flattish tarmacked surface before needing to descend upon a selection of stairwells, set at intermittent intervals along this end, to access the terracing itself. Semi-circular, it provides a slightly elevated view of the action due to the banked bends of the Speedway track, seamlessly sweeping around to the right-hand side as you look- that particular section utilised by the visiting fans. This capacious expanse includes myriad crush barriers as you would expect and comes to an abrupt halt on the left, where a small voided section precedes the main stand. It is, however, a stupendously long ascent from bottom to top and in its current status a congratulatory certificate ought to have been awarded once a first-time scaling of mount Odsal had been accomplished; you got one for swimming fifty metres at school so why not? But if Bradford had chosen to co-habit on a permanent basis I would have strongly recommended they erect a series of ski- lifts for upwardly transportation after the game-one in the middle and at each end sufficient methinks; too European? OK then install escalators, a British trait supplanted with that embodiment of our culture: queueing for its use, an awaitiing privilege for the chair ride too. Funding can be obtained from courses for budding Chris Boningtons’who’d accustom themselves to pitons and practice the finer arts of abseiling as a gentle introduction to climbing the Eiger or the Matterhorn. Fully versed you’d wave them off with that well-worn phrase ‘Alp be seeing you soon’, this far less nervewracking than ‘Break a leg’, a term used by the acting profession, disconcerting if they were a stuntman set to play a stand-in role in a mountaineering movie and assuredly not going down well; Mind you, if they WERE to plummet hundreds of feet and survive, merely acquiring a broken bone or two in a lower limb upon landing, then surely it would! But I digress.

Those sitting in the stand avoided this painstaking climb, its access coming via a gentle tarmacked downward slope from the turnstile entrance to be greeted by what was a large, cantilevered construction with a spread of perpendicular uprights in-between its open ends, amber & red plastic seating the inner ingredients and a white-painted metal fence along the front with a two-metre gap between it and the first row of seats-a circumnavigable trait as this formed the outer perimeter of the racing strip and was a necessary safety requirement in this sport. Normally you would expect the dressing rooms and player entrance to lie beneath the stand but here it is on the opposite side, with perspex dugouts placed directly to the left and right of its entrance on halfway. The far end was off-limits to spectators, a short grassed bank below the speedway pits later replaced by a structure used for hospitality. Tall and thin metal pylons, each with a minute cluster of lamps on top, supplied the floodlighting and as such were found in each corner, those updated in due course. Overall, I had a tangible sense of its vast contrasts, so vivid with the enormity and spaciousness of three sides enhanced by the nonentity of its remainder, the formers criterion blighted as it was rarely half-full thus affecting the general atmosphere. Nonetheless, at the time it more than served its purpose and at least ensured that City were back home.

I always purchase a programme, here served up as an A5 version priced at 50p with 24 pages, the contents elementary and including standard items such as the manager’s column, news and fixtures and a feature on the away side. The team line-ups governed the back cover, Ipswich boasting a pair of exotically-named players in their side in the form of Mitch D’Avray and Romeo Zondervan whilst Don Goodman-now a summariser on Sky Sports-played at number 8 for the home side. Whilst none of these players scored there were seven goals netted in the contest-five in a first half which saw Bradford lead but concede two in the second period to lose by the odd goal. Nigel Gleghorn was Town’s hero, bagging a hat-trick alongside Jason Dozzell’s singular strike, City’s treble coming via two Greg Abbott penalties and one from Martin Singleton. Afterwards the clock was my enemy, time at a premium as I scurried back to the station in a strenuous bid to ensure I was aboard the last available connecting train, one that secured a homeward passage lacking the call for overnight arrangements to be made; It was close, too close but I just about made it.

Come December Valley Parade was all shipshape and Bristol fashion, enabling Bradford City to make their long awaited return. An exhibition match starring an International XI literally got the ball rolling, Boxing Day heralding competitive action at the rebuilt arena after a nineteen month absence. The Christmas carol ‘Oh come all ye faithful’ being in vogue amongst some members of the populace was a happy coincidence, an analogy of sorts for the club to welcome back home their fans, but the outcome left most joyful at first but not triumphant as visiting Derby County were the victors. Before long it was my turn, the first Saturday of 1987 bringing forth an opportunity to undertake the penultimate step towards completing the full set of ninety-two league grounds, Sunderland preordained as the rousing finale to my quest. British Rail would again supply the transportation, a journey replicating the route taken before minus any potential faux-pas’, the stroll undertaken upon arrival somewhat shorter in length. Naturally it was prefixed by an uphill stretch, taking you out of the town centre before the eventual right turn off the main road and a brief descent to the ground.

Despite the unsurprising lack of visual evidence it was apparent that the scene I encountered was undoubtedly the side where the wooded stand once stood. Of course this didn’t prevent my imagination from kicking into overdrive as I visualized the setting, assisted by the images I had browsed over: its twin-gabled roof, which is unusual in itself, and what appeared to be a three-levelled interior of seats back and middle with concrete terracing to the fore. The front had a series of verticals with cross-struts, the fascia quaint with its downward- pointed boarding. This architecturally-pleasing structure is a source of regret, not having seen it at first-hand, but its downfall was the void contained underneath the seating where debris accumulated, its flammable qualities ultimately leading to the fire and loss of life. Unsurprisingly the programme I purchased differentiated little from that which I bought two and a half months ago, the opposition a patently obvious alteration in Birmingham. It was apt that the visiting club be based in the country’s second city, this being Valley Parade league game number two in its renaissance, the Blues up against a team struggling at the bottom of the league having lost their last four matches. Despite this I sensed that the fans were hoping a return to their rightful home would bring an upturn in results.

I entered through one of the turnstiles on the north side of the stand that accessed the Spion Kop terracing behind the goal, roomy with an innate sense of its coldness that seeped from the grey concrete steps and the covering above, shelter that was not too dissimilar to that on my right-cantilevered and voluminous within a shallow-pitched roof, here a fairly broad fascia lining the front above four evenly-spaced verticals. Like its Odsal brother it had red and amber plastic seating but adhered to tradition in other aspects, the dugouts either side of the players entrance from the dressing rooms on halfway. On its opposite was a stand allocated for families, smaller in size and thinner in depth, whilst the far end was used to house the visiting fans, covered terracing that felt unwelcoming to the eye in its enclosed state, later altered into an all- seated section. Floodlighting was akin to those at Odsal, four corner pylons a scenario modernisation would also alter in due course. Indeed there have been radical alterations elsewhere, the visiting end and the main stand gaining second tiers, the Kop now being of similar ilk with the corner in-between filled in to unite the two and that small stand developing into a larger single-decked unit with side panelling that retains its isolatory status. It’s safe to say that since 1985 this ground has changed beyond recognition, although the memorials to the disaster erected on the main stand and outside Bradford City hall are rightful reminders of those who are gone but not forgotten. In the footballing sense the same could be said about the second division encounter that took place here that afternoon-a goalless draw that was frustrating on a personal level, my failure to see a goal at this ground igniting a strategy that is ostensibly flawed: an absolute need, an obligation to re-visit until this criteria is fulfilled-silly I know but there we are. So, on March 7, I was in-situ for their encounter with Blackburn Rovers, one that saw the still-bottom of the table hosts pick up a much needed 2-0 victory thanks to Stuart McCall and Mark Leonard. It triggered a decent run of form, good enough to give them a tenth place finish come the end of the season and result-no pun intended-in a third trek in October of that year; either I was a glutton for punishment or I enjoyed my visits. Crystal Palace came and went, the contest bizzarely providing me with the same score AND scorers as seven months previously, and I have not returned since; better not push my luck!

Later the club managed to get into the Premier League and after a last- day victory over Liverpool in their inaugural campaign they suffered second-season syndrome and were relegated, eventually ending up in what is now league two thanks to financial shortcomings. However, they appear to be on an upturn once more, boasting a sizeable fan base if the high number of season ticket holders is to be taken seriously, and Valley Parade unquestionably a dominant feature on the skyline especially when viewed from a lower elevation as I did recently, a shining incarnation and one of the best around in the lower spheres of the Football league, it epitomising the countrywide transformations undertaken in this respect over the ensuing decades: out with the old and in with the new…..

Scunthorpe United 1988

Most people tend to remember something that is done for the first time; it usually forms a benchmark for others to try and emulate: the first running of the sub-four minute mile, the first man on the moon and the first person to be intellectually stimulated when watching an episode of Celebrity Love Island! Pioneers, too: Louis Bleriot, first to fly across the English Channel; Guglielmo Marconi, whose experimentations led to the system of directed wireless transmissions was ground-breaking. Football’s idea-less revolutionary but a significance of sorts-was ground moving.

As with any radical change this required an originator, in this instance Scunthorpe United, to lead the way and relocate to a freshly built arena, undergoing the move from The Old Show Ground to an out of town stadia with better, more up to date facilities befitting the modern era. Not that there was a great deal wrong with the venue that they had decided to vacate. Whilst it could hardly be described as salubrious it wasn’t exactly falling to bits. However, the financial ramifications made the proposition an attractive one, the offshoot the replacement: a superstore where the locals replenished their food and drink supplies and the Iron in future playing their home games at Glandford Park. For the football club it was a good move all round, with its location heaven sent if you were travelling by road although from my distant perspective the issue of public transportation links was unknown, guesswork as to its close proximity from the towns epicentre leading me to believe this was a surmountable task. All in all it was a scenario that was the shape of things to come in many other places.

In May 1983 I made the first of what would be two visits to the old venue. Scunthorpe United were embroiled in what would ultimately prove to be a successful promotion campaign from what was then the Fourth division and were entertaining Swindon Town on a bank holiday Monday. Andy, a born and bred Scunny lad who I’d met whilst working in London, kindly invited me up to stay at his parents house, this episode part of a extended weekend away for the both of us. Indeed, two days prior to this we traversed the Pennines by road to watch United play Bury at Gigg Lane, a crucial match between rival promotion contenders that saw Craig Madden bag a late winner for the hosts, and a visit I vividly recall for unusual reasons. The game was a tense affair and one we chose to watch from the main stand, my friend’s idea and one that resulted in THEM paying ME to watch the game! I parted with a ten pound note upon entry and blithely assumed I’d receive a five in return along with the pound notes-yes, notes and not coins-but instead, when I discovered a calculative aberration in my monetary stash for the day later on I surmised that the gateman had unwittingly reunited yours truly with his tenner, putting me in profit; not something to celebrate, though, and it did give rise to a twinge of guilt despite it being an unintended act on my part.

Less than forty-eight hours later and my intuitive awareness of what lay ahead of me that afternoon favoured an spectulatively intriguing encounter against visitors who were just below the hosts in the table. Of course this was preceded by a pint at a local hostelry, the brewery unfortunately not Samuel Smiths; if so it would have been a virtual feat of impossibility for me to imbibe but a single, solitary glassful of this liquid gold. In that respect 1983 was a blissful time as twelve such pubs existed in the London area, a T-Shirt the reward should you get their leaflet stamped at each one. Naturally I had to go the whole hog by doing them all in one day, my timetable providing sufficient intervals that enabled me to partake of some solid sustenance in-between pints-and yes, I DID only have one in each on this occasion! I must have been completely barmy-no change there then!-although when the tally later increased to twenty-five the likelihood of me replicating a similar experience was about on a par with my chances of wrestling a crocodile with one arm tied behind my back. Anyhow, here in this Humberside-or technically-speaking Lincolnshire-town I was ignorant to the possibilities of anywhere in the locale being in possession of this sumptuous nectar, pragmatically content with an acceptable alternative.

I would have settled for a similar outcome from the ninety minutes of footy fare ahead of me that’s for sure, an experience that began with our entering on to the Doncaster Road terracing behind the goal. This, like the opposite end, had a shallow-angled covering with broad lipping both to the front and sides, an open-ended structure with supporting girders along the front and a walled rear. To my left there was a seated stand-a small, orthodox affair with its sloping roof and a blend of red and light blue seating, a central passage tunnelling its way out from the dressing rooms underneath. Between it and the playing perimeter was a standing area covered by what resembled a oblonged box lid held by four braced supports to the front and rear, a lean-to that was beguiling in its susceptibility to be easily swayed by a gale force wind. It was flanked by open terracing to the left and right, the latter also sheltered. However, that all paled into insignificance in comparism to the cantilevered stand facing it, an cavernous structure with a gentle slopeaway roof that sweeps in an arc down its back where the base of its steel supports were clearly to be seen. The scene was completed by paned glass side panels and a puzzlingly high frontal wall, a splendid piece of craftsmanship as a whole that had a stip of narrow terracing to the fore. The floodlight pylons were located in each corner, box-shaped with kriss-cross struts and tapering up to a rectangular frame, the lights fitted among vertical and horizontal bars set within. These were a tad slimmer than at most venues, a facet that suited the place as a whole, this type of supplying night time vision a common denominator at the time.

The programme was a mix of colour but mainly black and white and cost 30p. Looking through it I noticed one or two interesting things: for a start Allan Clarke was the manager, he of ‘sniffer’ fame during his playing days at Leeds United. In those schoolboy days I favoured this club, much to the annoyance of my pals, Peter Lorimer being my favourite player. I pretended to be him when we kicked the ball around, resplendent in my pair of replica number 7 sock tags that the clubs’ players uniquely wore back them-which I still have. Also, the fact that he and I shared the same birthday was a contributing factor for my idolation. I also noticed that a certain Ian Botham made four appearances in the first- team that season-wonder what happened to him?! More pertinently there was an article relating to the Chester Report, advocating restructuring the Football League. It comments on the general consensus of a potential Super League not doing enough for the lower divisions, stressing that the snow-ball effect must have an equally pleasing outcome for the Crewes and Rochdales of this world who are just as important. This was just over nine years before the Premier League began, which has done HOW much for the lower divisions? Mmm, not a lot.

In the match itself the home side won with relative comfort thanks to a 2-0 scoreline, prolific marksman Steve Cammack and Mike Lester the scorers, Scunthorpe going on to achieve promotion with a last-day win at Chester, which I attended. By that time I’d almost become a part-time fan of the club, having witnessed their efforts at other venues such as Aldershot and Northampton, but with my erstwhile best mate being an ardent fan I suppose that was inevitable.

My return to Devon resulted in us losing contact, a point of regret on my part, so his presence upon my return to the Showground in 1987 for a Fourth division game with Scarborough, the new-boys of the league, will remain unknown. For me it formed the second part of a double-helping, Doncaster the aperitif having kicked off in the morning due to a horse race meet at the neighbouring course, the train taking the strain from my London base. This meant an early, really early departure and with the benefit of hindsight a jaunt I regret doing for more than one reason: firstly because my original, singular choice proved to be an eleven goal extravaganza that you seldom get to see at league level; secondly because of my upsetting encounter with a neanderthal prior to the game. This was in the days when membership schemes were in operation, my attempts to ascertain where I could gain entry meeting with the disapproval of a nice, welcoming fellow who grabbed hold of me and informed me that as I was from Scarborough I should go in their end, or words to that effect. I can only assume that this guy was an unfortunate victim of the nearby Flixborough Chemical disaster a few years earlier and the fallout of this was a meltdown of his brain! Thankfully there were human beings present and their helpfulness enabled me to witness a cracking strike from Ray McHale that won the game for the visitors, one that involved a lengthy stoppage for a bad injury to keeper Kevin Blackwell.

The 1988/89 campaign began with Scunthorpe safely ensconced into their new home, my penchant for fulfilling the role of neutral spectator at such venues leading me to choose Tuesday September 20 for my elected visit. Unlike before the train journey began from Devon, a return directly afterwards untenable thus necessitating my booking into bed & breakfast accommodation, a task accomplished in advance and whose geographical position in relation to the town centre and the railway station was most convenient. Upon arrival it was plainly evident it was not going to give the Ritz a run for its money but I was pragmatic enough to acknowledge the price I was paying correlated to the distinct lack of luxuries one associated with the Piccadilly residence, or indeed other such fineries, and that was fine by me-anyway, without meaning to boast, I have sampled the tastes of a five-star hotel or two; when it comes down to it you are in essence coughing up for a load of superfluous flim-flam. Not that I cared then because someone else was generous of mind to stomp up the readies, my not being frivolous enough to part company with such large quantities of cash for such privileges whereas here, up in the north, I was happy enough to cough up for overnight digs that satisfied my basic needs.

It took me about twenty minutes to negotiate the elementary walk out to the ground. Once there I went down its approach road, ahead the sighting of a venue that to be honest didn’t exactly get my pulse racing, one barely evocative of the stereotypical type of ground I was used to. A stroll around its exterior to the right revealed the prominence of a bland, flat-roofed construction with minute windows and twin doors, the main Glandford stand sat beyond whose roof was marginally higher than the remainder on all sides. A perfunctory sense prevailed, the design uniform amidst an overall blend of greys and whites. I’d seen enough and decided on turnstile entry into the near end where the home supporters stood, found a decent spot and noticed that its opposite, where the visiting fans resided, was identical with its concrete steps and modern-styled, perpendicularly-elevated crush barriers aplenty. Both sides had plastic seating in the claret and blue club colours, the stands frontal uprights a slight hindrance from a viewing perspective. Not so the floodlight poles, positioned on the outside of the ground itself in each corner. There was plenty of tarmacked car parking here, too, and as stated you didn’t exactly need to be an orienteering expert to get here, it being a stones throw away from the end of the M181, the stadium unmissable on the right-hand side as you come in on this road.

At a later date I would sample this particular vista en-route to the Speedway track sited to the north of town and have to say that my opinion of the place remained unchanged. Whilst the Old Show Ground did not have smooth and consistent lines it did have differing features and an individuality, an IDENTITY that Glandford undeniably lacks with its blandness. An enhancement of the colour scheme would help, the current resembling the exterior of an industrial unit and if not for the lights easily mistakable for one, neatly corresponding with the interior but not too ostentatious. As it stands, from a neutral standpoint, my opinion is that practicality has won the day in this instance.

Another change was the manager, Mick Buxton’s notes informing of this being the fourth senior game to be played here. I also noted that mr. Botham was now a vice-president, although I’m sure he would not have deemed a Fourth divisional encounter with Carlisle as worthy of attending. Value was in shortage with the programme too, anotherblack and white edition that exuded dullness with its plethora of statistics, and at 60p double the price! The away travel informed of their forthcoming trip to Exeter City, the coach departing at 8.30am on the Saturday, which felt odd-them undertaking a 250 mile ride to watch their local team; me, with no compunction to walk two miles in order to see mine!

The match was unspectacular, Andy Flounders scoring his fifth goal in five games to put the hosts ahead at the break. Carlisle eventually gained a share of the spoils with a Paul Gorman penalty and at least both goals were scored at my end of the park. Afterwards I popped into a pub I spotted just off the main road en-route to the match, one that to my delight was a Sam Smiths-hooray, they DID have one of these establishments in the locality. I partook of a couple of pints that slipped down the throat with consumate ease as usual before going back to my B&B-I might have had one or two more but I am not good at being in pubs on my own for too long and I was feeling tired anyway.

I went home the next day via Bristol Rovers game against Brentford and concluded a hectic vacation by watching the Bees again in a show of empathy, merely coincidental with the coach travelling FROM rather than to Exeter, the journey marred by a delay on the M4 that saw me miss kick-off for the game versus Sheffield United but not a goal. The following week it was back to my normal routine-at least until the next league club decided to move-never for one moment contemplating that Scunthorpe would seriously think of moving AGAIN; That’ll be another first.

Walsall 1990

The Black Country is an area based to the west of Birmingham and gets that name from its industrial past-past being the relevant word here thanks to the MT(modern technology or, some might say, Maggie Thatcher) factor, parts so desolate that they resembled the aftermath of the Second World War bombing raids, rubble and half-demolished structures seemingly the norm. Some areas have undergone regeneration, not necessarily of a high calibre and fundamental as a rule: green or grey-toned metallic units a popular solution, cloned retail parks not far behind with the standard mix of retailers such as McDonalds, a PC World and of course a DFS furniture store; Talking of which: is there any time during the year that DFS do NOT have a sale? I feel sorry for any poor soul who bought a suite at full price there, although they must have planned it with military precision or, more likely, have been unlucky!

Some might say the same about fans who follow the three main football teams in the heart of this region-namely West Bromwich Albion, Wolverhampton Wanderers… and Walsall, all of whom begin with the same letter-as indeed does Willenhall, an amateur club whose chances of joining this elite group are on a par to my building a one-man rocket ship that will propel me to Mars for the holiday of a lifetime; Nice club, though, and I along with my faithful hound were made welcome on my visit there.

Even their most ardent supporter would profess to Walsall being the smallest in stature of the trio listed above, an assertion that correlated to the respective merits of their grounds: West Brom and Wolves large venues that had undergone various changes over the years and would reinvigorate themselves further in years to come. The Saddlers, though, decided to move lock, stock and barrel from their old headquarters and thus become the second team to transfer into a new home.

Up until that point their base had been at Fellows Park, a venue I was to visit for the first time at the beginning of 1984. Despite the fact that the opposition for them that day was my hometown club Exeter I elected to travel up by train via Birmingham New Street and take the branch line out to Bescot station. In the process I passed Villa Park, which I’ve frequented on a occasion or two. The last time I saw their side in action was the one, singular occasion that I witnessed Jurgen Klinsmann play in a Tottenham shirt. Unfortunately he was carried off with a bad injury in the first half so in essence missed out on seeing him put his artistic skills to the test at first hand. He was a top player; you don’t become a World and European champion for nothing, which made his tendency to dive at any given opportunity even more annoying. I read somewhere that he learned these nuances from watching WWII videos of Stukkas doing what they did best, and it’s a pity Jurgen didn’t choose to display his footballing talents in the 1990 World Cup final, instead opting to show-off his gymnastic skills and potential to become the world rolly-poley champion if such thing ever came to pass, and at least I was able to see him perform ably at the Euro 96 tournament.

When it comes to blending into the background no-one does it better than moi so upon arrival at the ground I cunningly infiltrated the home terracing. Not that there was a cat in hells chance of me starting off a full-scale riot by doing so, as my hooligan phase was well and truly over. In fact you could say it never even started, unless you count an incident on a school trip to Bicton Gardens where some of my mates and I decided, for some unknown reason, to ambush the train ride there. Safe to say that I, resplendent in blue anorak and with plastic carrier bag at hand, was about as far from a threat to the locals as you could be! I found myself a reasonable spot about ten yards from the corner flag along one side, and near the point where the terracing becomes the Popular side, this partially covered by a gabled roofing with a series of frontal struts, whilst shelter for the standing enclosure at this end of the ground was a triple, split-levelled version in slopeaway form. These areas had crush-barriers at intermittent intervals as did the open, terraced railway end where the away fans resided. This had a brick wall at the top and advertising boards to the fore that completely surrounded the playing area. The main stand ran along most of the remaining side, was slightly set back from the pitch and was flanked by open terracing. It had a gabled roof, was glass-panelled at each end and had seats that were accessed via some narrow steps through its white-painted brick wall frontier. In places the view was obstructed from within by the steel girder uprights. Floodlighting was supplied from four corner pylons of average design. All in all the scene was reasonable enough, its differing features summoning up a character of its own, serving a useful purpose at that time-a bit like the programme issued, which was a mainly black & white effort whose contents included some interesting reading material.

Exeter went into this game on the back of a reasonable run. They had not won a home game before December and went out of the FA Cup to non- league Maidstone-again! Gerry Francis had been appointed manager amid much ballyhoo pre-season, immediately stating his intention to take the club into the First division. To be honest I would have took him more seriously if he had announced that he was going to win the Grand National by dressing up two of his players in a pantomime horse! Well he did make them into the strongest side in the league-they were holding the other twenty-three sides up in the table-but now had risen to the heady heights of nineteenth! The hosts were third so a home win looked likely. However, the Grecians shocked them-and me-by taking an early lead thanks to a curling effort from Steve Harrower, who’d taken Francis’ spot in the side, but was too good to last. Walsall levelled by the break, going on to win 4-1, a comeback victory although not quite on a par with their brilliant League Cup success at Arsenal six weeks previous, which I am pleased to say I witnessed as well. They would go on to the semi- final before losing out to eventual winners Liverpool and actually drew the Anfield leg. Alan Buckley’s side went on to finish sixth in the Third division-there were no play-offs back then-whilst my home towns loss at Fellows Park triggered a fantastic run of one win in twenty-three that saw them finish ten points