I was to deliver 2 window-mounts to go with the prints already purchased, to a doctor’s house, to the East of the County – far away from the gallery teetering on its mountain outlook in the centre of The Lake District (at Ambleside). That morning had gone well – the first match on Tarn Hows for 22 years, since that long fabulous cold winter 1985/86. It was a close match, with loads of diving. And sliding tackles. The ice held.
Now late afternoon, the moon was high over the Howgills and, content with the radio playing Xmas songs, I set the satellite navigation to find the address. It took me off the main road up a side road. Narrowing. Twisting. Across a ford. There on the other side on a steep incline, I was suddenly on an ice sheet – melt water off the fields. Slipping back. inch by inch. Trying not to lose control. Until finally, in the perfect still. Minus 9 degrees, the car was wedged bumper to bumper sideways blocking the lane. For a vehicle including a tractor to have come round the corner and down the hill would have been to have ploughed into me. There was not a sound of vehicles to be had. I was desperate to deliver the picture mounts. I had promised. The doctor was so impassioned about the pictures – a gift for his son.
No mobile phone reception. Unsure of what was to become of the car, I rescued the two window-mounts and put them round my head (framing it I suppose). And set off. Towards the lights a mile or so away.
Past heavily-breathing oxen of the field. A barn owl disturbed of its perch. And nearing the village, a coal truck doing its rounds. Through the heavy frost I crunched.
If ever you are to see the two pictures : “Yellow Brick Road” Bradford City 1992 and “The Day After Christmas Encounter” (and you can view them on the web) – look at them with added interest. Look at the two window-mounts – look for the slightly grubby imprints to the sides where I clutched them for dear life. For they may be the very ones walked through the crunchy cold the day before the day before Xmas Eve way out there east of The River Eden.
The snow is settling on the cars. Those that came into town from the mountains with it all over their bumper and stacked on their roof like the wearing of some silly hat, are now excused. They are understood. They were merely ahead of their time. The town has now caught on. Caught the snow.
Small town. In The Lake District. Beautiful beautiful place and home to no professional football team. Perfect then for a gallery totally devoted to the beautiful game!
Not concerned with money. Build it and they’ll come.
70,000 in the first year. 70,000 in the 10th year. Must be doing something right – or wrong – we are no better off now than when we started! Oh well, progress is just a way of standing-still.
And that’s all we ever wanted to do : to grasp the game for all it is worth. Not to make a killing.
Someone asks how much is that John Motson in the window – that one in the snow? ‘Too much for you’ I feel like saying. The idea that some things just can’t be bought. Not even the ‘original’ of Mottie on the pitch in his sheepskin at Wycombe stood before the tv cameras, before the days of Sky and satellite tv. This was a terestial vision, live on the Beeb for everyone to see. And I was the only one who captured it ‘still’. Tell them there’s a postcard of it.
The hairdressers across the way are scantily-clad. It helps custom. Beauty knows no pain. They also file nails and make mostly women feel good about themselves. Is it not akin to a Bordello?
One could also say that about the wine bar also recently opened. People go there to jig their drinks. Most of these places are about making people ‘happy’ and comfortable.
Football is about suffering. One goes to pop festivals to have fun and one attends politely other sports and other events and then goes home and maybe goes to another event the next night or so. But football is all about suffering : the endurance, the loyalty, the battling with the seasons, sheepskin or more likely replica shirt on top of a favourite pully. Shivering-in-style. Most of our teams – indeed most of us supporters – hardly win anything ever. Football is a thorough commitment. Religion?Bah!
Our gallery used to be open every day of the year but we’ve decided to close Mondays ‘to get a life’.
But we’ve opened today (Monday) – because we decided to. Life will have to wait until next Monday or after we’ve closed. Maybe on the way home. The journey takes me right through the Lake District. Anything could happen. Especially in the snow.
I think we like a bit of misadventure and disruption in this country. Snow is the perfect mistress.
Down in the local park, in the cup of the valley, there is s great game being played. In the snow. Both sexes on closer inspection. The ball twice its normal size until it is kicked again and the snow flies into someone’s face everybody else gufawwing. Sliding tackles are again the rage. And – given that you are already wet – diving headers. The vicar is in his garden. He likes this sort of thing. He is always posting football things on that blackboard outside the church to encourage attendance. Or just to have some fun. The pitch is next to his church. That will do nicely. The snow is a leveller, the University Ladies team are holding their own.
Someone has apparently bought that Motson picture – or a replica , as a Christmas present . I had better go and get my skates on home before the Kirkstone is completely unpassable and refuge in the Inn is the only option. The radio stations are full of it.
I contemplated taking to a football match for what would be her very first time – a rather posh woman and witnessing what she would make of it – see if it is all it is cracked up to be.
Watching Xmas tv, that woman would be the golden-haired Rose character from Titanic, Miss Winslet.
Watching Spurs v Reading I thought that Reading might become Rose’s team, with Dave Kitson her golden boy. The Royals ever involved in games with lots of goals. Hardly a chance of her getting bored, getting cold, letting go.
Oh-oh, a problem… she points at Berbatov to make a case for supporting Spurs instead. I redirect her fingers towards Jenas and Malbranque as proof she shouldn’t. Anyway, on hearing Kitson speak would seal her loyalty to Reading. The Royals. She’s rather posh afterall.
Hold on! What would she make of the beautiful Arsenal phenomenen? I would explain that whilst they are the best team they will undoubtedly not finish in the Top Six, as the English game is attrition and effort. She would stare at me with enquiring eyes and seek out the lie.
She would be stood in admiration at Upton Park, the entire crowd not wanting to go home, exploding with verses of“Bubbles”, their having beaten the other United yet again. She would raise her gaze to the night skies as City belted out “Blue Moon”. She would be swamped by green in Glasgow’s impoverished East End at the Parkhead home of the Celtic hordes – squeezed by strangers arms around her urging “You’ll Never Walk Alone”... her breath returning, she would whisper that she thought that someone else sung that song.
“Why Irene?” she would enquire at The Gas as The Bristol Rovers pummelled my Carlisle United. And “Delilah” at Stoke? What on earth has this (song about a) crime of passion got to do with football? – we had better not go there!
Back in the suburbs of the big one (lowly) QPR fans would be singing a loony tune about money as they turned over the Championship leaders. Puzzled shewould say that she was sure she had heard that neighbours Chelsea were the rich ones!
We would watch the local game, where she had a chance to get on first name terms with everyone present.
But only having scrambled over the Bullens roof at Everton, on our way to the tv gantry, her high on a rail, her arms outstretched, eyes closed (me holding her from behind).
Afterall it was in this very city that Titanic ship was built.
Here ends the first part of a titanic football education.
Songs go well beyond what you can see before you – they have the ability to make you listen, feel, move, paint imagery, have you spill over with enthusiasm or curiosity. Perhaps later when that curiosity is satiated, they won’t quite do it for you, again. But in 2007 (a year for women singers) on hearing UP FOR DANCING for the very first time, live, but feet from the stage, I was so overwhelmed, I wanted to lead the singer by the hand and take her outside like there’s no tomorrow.
Of course, there is a tomorrow. There is 2008 and there was 2007.
11. Soul of America by Ian Hunter – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XVp91YQ3PeU&feature=related
10. Foundations by Kate Nash – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=orACIBjHuI4
9. Your Own worst enemy is coming to town – Bruce Springsteen from “Magic”
8. 1973 by James Blunt – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B2Cq7BJeBh0
7. This Is The Life by Amy McDonald http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gKXcHEHm0ps
6. Roots by Show of Hands http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P5h4PFBuzvw
5. Poet by Sarah Griffin http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c1r-aYZ9mV0
4. Sweet Caroline by The Northern Ireland football supporters in the stands
3. Until You Come Back Home – Black Bart (from Bournemouth) http://www.faustuss.com/blackbart/index.php
2. Can’t Get Enough of Your Love (Baby) by Barry White
1. Up for Dancing by Sarah Griffin Band – http://www.myspace.com/sarahgriffinmusic
