I didn’t
have what you would call a normal undergraduate experience. This is mainly
explained by the fact I moved from Gateshead to Derry on the day Peter
Beardsley signed for Newcastle in September 1983. Don’t get me wrong; I had 3
wonderful, if slightly intense years, in the north of Ireland, but I did wonder
what it would be like to experience the kind of student life my peers enjoyed.
Consequently, I plumped for Leeds for my post-graduate degree. One thing I’d
missed over in Ireland was football; not just the Magpies, but that chance of
picking a second team in your adoptive city to cheer on. Football in the north
of Ireland is a whole, different story. Mates of mine had experienced the joys
of developing affection for the likes of Brighton, Bristol Rovers, Cambridge
and Notts Forest, according to which academic institution they pitched at. I
didn’t have that experience with Leeds United, you’ll be glad to know.
My first
visit to Elland Road had been on the opening day of the 1983/1984 season.
Newcastle won 1-0, with a John Anderson goal, but it stayed in my mind mainly
on account of the fear instilled by Leeds fans as we sheepishly crept back to
our bus on a blazing hot afternoon, the air rent by more sirens than I’d heard
on a bad day in Derry. Curses, threats, missiles; a real Tetley Bittermen’s
welcome. However, the usual fresher freebies persuaded me to give Leeds United
a second chance. I wish I hadn’t bothered; a 2-0 win over Man City at the end
of September 1987 was again not an enjoyable afternoon. I mean, I was brought
up on the Gallowgate so I’d known about football yobboes, but this was
something else. A nasty, seething, pit of hate that seemed to take little
pleasure in victory. That and the dozen varieties of fascist filth on sale
outside the ground ensured I’d never go back. Don’t get me wrong; I love Leeds
as a city and I had one of the best years of my life there, but Elland Road is
certainly not the place for us.
The
proximity of home, the lack of a washing machine in my Headingley hovel and the
cheapness of National Express student
fares meant I relied on trips home every couple of weeks for my football fix.
However, I was nothing if not adventurous, and when a 2-1 victory over
Shrewsbury in the glamour of the Full Members Cup (I don’t think ZDS were sponsoring it as yet) gave
Newcastle a trip to Valley Parade, I knew I had to be there. Consequently,
passing up the chance to see The Bhundu Boys at the Astoria in Harehills with
the rest of the household, I made a solo trip over to Bradford on Wednesday 4th
December, intending to follow the crowds to find the ground. There wasn’t much
of a walk-up trade, so I spotted the floodlights and headed for those. My
knowledge of the geography of Valley Parade was not really gained that night as
I accidentally stumbled my way on to The Kop. I’d like to pretend I bought a City Gent that night, but that pleasure
came later; I’d not heard of fanzines back then.
The
attendance that night was 6,866. The score was 2-1 to Bradford and the only
thing I remember distinctly was Newcastle’s Kenny Wharton being sent off for
deliberate hand-ball, after leaping to catch a throw-in, for no readily
apparent reason, on the Midland Road side. Full time, I headed back down to the
station and to the east of Pudsey, alone, ignored and safe. You know, despite
the result, I’d thoroughly enjoyed it. A low-key game in a relaxed atmosphere,
but there was sardonic humour and a sense of community that I liked. I’d also
always marvelled at Bradford’s shirts. I decided I’d definitely be back. I
remember a crazy 5-3 win over Oldham in February, when I persuaded half a dozen
student mates to come along for booze and then a curry, as well as a 4-1
clattering of West Brom in March. Good times.
Sadly, my
stay in West Yorkshire was only for a single year, so I moved back to Tyneside
in summer 88, but still kept an eye on Bradford’s results. In the 1990s, I met,
married and divorced a lady from Barnsley, who is the mother of my son. The
Tykes are her family team and I saw an appreciable number of their games during
that time, but I still made the odd foray back to Valley Parade; 0-1 v
Bournemouth (92), 0-0 v Scunthorpe in the Cup (93) and 4-3 v Burton the year
later. I even saw Newcastle there in a pre-season friendly in 97, but I missed
out on the two Premier League encounters as my life had taken me to Bratislava,
capital of Slovakia, for a couple of years. It seemed as if Bradford City were
no longer part of my orbit, though I would always look out for them.
However, my
son’s education has taken him to Leeds Met to do History and I’ve seized on
that to revisit old haunts. In his first year, that meant visits for gigs by
The Pop Group at Brudenell Social club and the Jesus and Mary Chain at the
Academy, but this year, in the absence of suitable noisy post-punk bands on
weekend nights, we opted for a dad and lad day out; a game, a drink and a curry
in Bradford. A quick check of the fixtures made the Crewe game on 14th
November the best bet. Firstly, Crewe were bottom so a win looked likely and
secondly my team Benfield of Northern League Division 1 (a combination of Mike
Ashley and Sky TV has driven me away from Newcastle United), for whom I edit
the programme, were away from home. Tickets sorted, the weekend looked
promising, even if the weather was lousy.
And then;
Paris, Friday 13th November. The addictive horror of unfolding news,
just as I was about to hit the hay. Mute shock. Helpless indignation. Fear.
Anger. Sorrow. Every emotion and a bad night’s sleep. What did Saturday have in
store? You see, my friend David Pendleton, former editor of City Gent, had told me of an EDL protest
in Bradford already scheduled for the Saturday. There was no option; we still
had to go. Normality has to win over panic and hysteria, otherwise evil
triumphs. Sombrely, I sipped coffee and digested the news on-line as the train
took me south. At Leeds I met Ben (my son) and we took a quick trip to the
hilarious, surreal exhibition of Spanish cartoonist Joan Cornella’s work. Going
back to the station, the rain started coming down hard. You couldn’t see out
the train windows en route to Bradford.
We arrived
in a downpour, to be met by 100 coppers; one of whom asked us if we were here
for the rally or the counter demonstration. He looked baffled when we said the
football. A lone Crewe supporter made the crack that the police had
overestimated the size of Category C away fans. Laughter eased the crackling
tension, until we hit the street. A cordon of vans and riot police, keeping the
Fascists back; across the road perhaps 100 counter demonstrators, furiously
chanting their opposition; I recognised several of them as activists from my
union, UCU, employed at Bradford College. It wasn’t a day to stop and chat.
In pouring
rain, we struck upwards towards Valley Parade, via North Parade. We found ourselves,
in the company of Dr Pendleton, in a craft and real ale paradise. As a bearded,
middle-aged CAMRA bore, The Swallow
and The Record Café were my idea of
heaven. Suitably refreshed with a sociable and steady half gallon, we made our
way to the ground, arriving at our seats in the top deck of the main stand at
the Kop end, just as the wreath laying ceremony that preceded a minute’s
silence for the victims in Paris was about to begin. Immaculately observed, it
gave way to a full throated roar of support, approval and affirmation at kick off.
The £149 season ticket offer has filled most of Valley Parade, the swathes of
empty seats in the Crewe section apart, and those there were ready to give full
on support.
The sterile
indifference of many Premier League crowds, no doubt disaffected with the whole
charade, depress the occasional visitor. Valley Parade is the antidote to this
cynical anomie; regular applause and a lack of whinging. It was a privilege to
be part of. The crowd are different as well; Ben’s sole trip to Elland Road,
again on a fresher freebie, echoed my experiences of 1987. He says it’s half
full of angry bald men in Stone Island, gesticulating wildly.
Valley
Parade is not like that. Some people think the magnificent views over the city
from the Kop and Main Stand are what make it a special ground. True, but they
are only half the tale. I’m not a sociologist, but I’d venture that Bradford
City’s crowd, while not being an exact model of the area’s demographics,
contains almost every section of society, both young and old. In that sense,
Bradford City remind me of Hibs, not just in the shape of the ground, but in
the pride the fans have for their home turf and their team. However, by
covering so many sections of society, Bradford are possibly closer to a
Bundesliga club than any other team in England, now Arsenal is so damn
expensive. For instance, two young, African Muslim women were sat near us and
they were on their feet for both goals; well, definitely the second one. I
missed the first getting rid of that sociable half gallon. I think I saw it on
the Football League Show when I got in…
And so full
time. A well-deserved, comfortable, easy 2-0 win, followed by another plodge
through puddles, two glorious pints in The New Beehive, a simply stunning
Chicken Balti in Sheeshmahal next door and a float downstream to the station.
Sometime between the end of the failed EDL protest and our arrival, a funfair
had set up and the Christmas lights were on. In a torrential downpour,
indulgent parents shivered while happy toddlers took rides on a Merry Go Round.
It was an uplifting sight as we took our train; Ben departed at Leeds and I
changed at York, squeezing an expensive pint of Porter in The York Tap on the
station.
A good day?
No, more important than that; a great day when good, in the shape of football
and common sense, prevailed. I love Bradford as a city and I almost love
Bradford City. We will be back. Soon I hope. Remember, hate destroys; love
heals.
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