My first trip to Oakwell was on Monday 4th May 1983; I came
away delighted following my team Newcastle United’s 5-0 success, though the
home fans were rather less pleased and not just with the result. Little was I
to know that a few years later this, for me, hitherto obscure Yorkshire town
and team would become a vital part of my life for a decade or more. The game in
question had been originally scheduled for the previous Saturday and, with
Newcastle still in with an outside shout for promotion (we finished 5th
that season) in Kevin Keegan’s first season as a player, about 6,000 Geordies
made the ultimately fruitless trip down, though I wasn’t one of them. As an 18
year old who was about to go to University, I was doing my best to earn pin
money for college (beer as much as books) by working in a betting shop on
Saturdays when NUFC were away and in a pub at night. Fortuitously for me, the
weather intervened and an incessant downpour resulted in the game being
postponed for 48 hours just after lunchtime, which allowed me to make the
rearranged fixture.
Typically, the away supporters had been in town on the
Saturday since opening time and were drinking deeply in every establishment
that would serve them. One such place was The Ring of Bells, renowned for its main
attraction; a talking parrot that would charm away fans with its range of
football chants for a variety of teams. These days, Newcastle’s support is
tolerant, easy going and fun to be around; 30 years ago it consisted of a
minimum 90% of maniacs. Putting them in a pub with a talking parrot and a coal
fire was always going to end badly. When I arrived down as part of a much
smaller travelling support on the Bank Holiday Monday, we tried for a pint in
The Ring of Bells, only to find a sign saying Closed due to family Bereavement pinned
to the door; it was the parrot and not Varadi 2, MacDonald 2 and Keegan that
upset the denizens of the Brewery Stand and Ponte End at full time, as we tried
to inconspicuously make our way from the Kop to our coaches, parked where Metrodome
would eventually stand.
Ordinarily, away travellers tend to appropriate such
tragicomic stories as something they themselves had experienced, in the way
that if everyone who’d attended the Sex Pistols debut gig at the 100 Club had
actually been there, they would have had to play Wembley Stadium. However, from
late 1990 until around 2003, I found myself explaining to various Barnsley fans
at least 3 times a season, that I wasn’t the person responsible for the demise
of The Ring of Bells parrot, because I wasn’t even there. The reason for my
insistence on this alibi? My first wife is from Darton and throughout the
1990s, I was proud to call Barnsley my second home and also my second team.
I’m an old romantic you know; Sara (for that is her name)
and I had our first date at St. James’ Park on 17th November 1990,
when Newcastle and Barnsley played out a despicable goalless draw that didn’t include
a single shot on target. Rather more importantly though, the afternoon set in
motion a course of events that led to us tying the knot at Barnsley Town Hall
on July 31st 1992. We were young, she was foolish and I was happy…
In all seriousness, I was lucky to be married to Sara, who
is the mother of my son and someone I still consider one of my closest friends
as we get on remarkably well. Looking back on things now, I will always
remember the times I spent in Barnsley, especially at the football ground, even
under Mel Machin, with great affection. After all, not many people can say they
were lucky enough to see Phil Gridelet or Troy Bennett in the flesh.
After my 1983 debut visit to Oakwell, circumstances
involving geographical details related to education and work dictated that I
didn’t set foot in the ground until 1st January 1991 when, suffering
from a desperate hangover occasioned by the New Year’s Eve trek from The Hermit
in High Hoyland to the Crown & Anchor (White House) at Barugh (Bark?) Green
and all bars en route, I blearily saw goals from Andy Rammell and Gerry Taggart
defeat Bristol City 2-0, with former Owl Gary Shelton getting a red card as
well. Sara and I stood on the West Stand Paddock towards the Kop with her
sister’s then boyfriend Nick; this was to be my favourite and indeed only spot
to watch games until redevelopment, and despite the ups and downs of all the
relationships involved, Nick is still a mate to this day.
I think what I immediately liked about Oakwell was the
laconic, latent misery among the impatient observers, which contrasted to the
intense, unreal expectations of the hysterical support that I was used to at
SJP. Remember, for the first few years of my time watching Barnsley, they
finished above Newcastle in the table. Almost a quarter of a century later,
Barnsley are in a similar position to when I first started watching them and if
Mike Ashley has his way, Newcastle will be back to the same level as well. As
my son, so proud of being half Yorkshireman, prepares for to apply to Leeds and
Sheffield Universities, he’ll no doubt arrive in what he considers his
ancestral county just as the wheel of football fortune comes full circle; even
if his paternal grandfather has influenced him in to having The Blunts as his
second team.
Over Easter 1991, I attended a dreary 1-0 win over Plymouth,
but a superb post-match session in The Manx (it used to be my favourite bar; is
it still there?) was one of the reasons I found that I was increasingly drawn
to following Barnsley, to the extent that the release of fixtures each June
would decide whether we spent Christmas or New Year in Barnsley. Nothing will
ever beat the enjoyment of the 4-1 walloping of Grimsby on Boxing Day 1994,
when Craig Shakespeare’s red card was followed by an East Stand wit solemnly intoning;
now
ist Winter of iz discontent…
If Barnsley’s pub scene was a little earthy in the early
1990s (other than the aforementioned Manx, the Corner Pin, Shakespeare or
Radical & Liberal were about as exciting as it got of a Friday night,
before Hedonism opened), then at least there was a superb fanzine in the shape
of South
Riding. Having scribbled about punk and indie in various music fanzines
since I was at school, I had leaped on board the football fanzine phenomenon
from the outset by writing for NUFC’s The Mag from 1988 and I still write
for The
Number 9 to this day (not to mention keeping a blog at http://payaso-del-mierda.blogspot.co.uk/).
Nervously I submitted an article chronicling an outsider’s view of Barnsley to South
Riding and was delighted when they not only published it, but invited
me to wrote for them whenever I wanted.
I was honoured to write for SR for 6 seasons,
producing articles musing on the intense banalities of Keith Lodge’s
journalism, querying why Dave Copping’s commentary sounded like he was actually
in fear of his life when describing play, as if a knife wielding maniac was sat
beside him or wondering exactly why only 3,185 turned up to a 3-1 win over
Southend (Stan Collymore scored for them) in April 1993 and half of them
started scrapping each other when debating whether Machin should stay or not. I
quite admired how SR called it a day after promotion in 1997, which was when I
began to imperceptibly lose interest in Barnsley. At the time I thought it was because
they were in the same division as Newcastle again, or that the ground was
losing its quaint appeal after redevelopment, or that the new fans in the new
seats seemed to be Leeds or Owls followers on a gap year. In retrospect, I
suppose it was because my marriage was falling apart. Ironically, Sara and I
received our decree absolute on 9th October 2001; at least I got the
final word that day, as Craig Bellamy’s goal put Newcastle through at Oakwell
in a League Cup tie the same night, though I wasn’t there as I was seeing The
Fall in Newcastle.
The last time I was in Oakwell was 17th August
2002 when I took my son, who’d just arrived home from a holiday with his
grandparents, to see Chris Lumsdon’s goal defeat QPR. He was 7 and cheered the
winner fervently; I was just glad to be back there, on the now seated West
Stand. I particularly enjoyed how Kevin Betsy had picked up the abuse baton
from Andy Rammell, whose name I actually thought was Pathetic for about a
season, so often was the phrase Pathetic Rammell shouted from the
terraces.
Sadly, I don’t know when I’ll get back to Oakwell again, but
I must. Perhaps one autumn Saturday when my son’s at University in another Yorkshire
town we can meet up and revisit the town that is definitely his second home; to
watch the side who were once my second club and for whom I’ll always have the
utmost affection. Mind that 3-0 loss on 30th November 1991 still
smarts to this day!!
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