One of the
things I like most about the end of each season is the way that all the issues
regarding promotion and relegation are decided in such an unpredictable and
seemingly haphazard way, rather than blandly occurring on the final day. I’m
not just talking about the hysterical hyperbole surrounding the Liverpool and
Manchester City power struggle at the top of the Premier League, but battles
for supremacy further down the pyramid as well; specifically the promotion race
in League One. Who on earth could have seen such a dramatic and climactic denouement occurring before kick off on
Tuesday 30th April? Portsmouth, apparently revitalised after their
Checkatrade Trophy success, with a seeming home banker against a Peterborough
side who’d started well, but appeared to have lost momentum long before their
failure to reach the play-offs became an established fact; the 3-2 away win
with a brace from NUFC legend Ivan Toney came right out of left field. Kenny
Jackett will be left scratching his Easter Island head about his failure to get
Pompey up. Titter ye not!
Meanwhile, on
the Lancashire coast, a team I’d once seen dump this season’s Northern League
Champions UTS Dunston out of the preliminary round FA Cup back in September
2000, Fleetwood Town were hosting the world’s biggest club, with the stakes
only marginally raised by pre match theatrics by Fleetwood boss Joey Barton’s
comment that he like to send the 25,000 visiting fans home “with tears in their
eyes.” Don’t get me wrong; I dislike Barton intensely and could easily file
5,000 words on why the paranoid, arrogant little twerp’s main personality
problem is vanity not insanity, but the way his superb judged bon mots riled the globe’s best
supporters had me giggling. Not as much as the home side’s 95th minute
winner I’ll admit, but more than a gentle smirk. Possibly the only player with
less moral integrity who has played for Newcastle in recent times is the
appalling Lee Bowyer. He is now boss of Charlton Athletic. For some reason I’d
quite like the Addicks to take the last remaining slot available through the
play-offs.
Of course,
the real and absolute impact of the mirthsome wins for Fleetwood and
Peterborough was to confirm promotion for both Barnsley and Luton Town, without
either of them being required to kick a ball. There are those who suggest
gaining elevation in such circumstances is somehow a hollow, debased
achievement, but having been in a similar situation in 2010 when Nottingham
Forest’s inability to see off Cardiff City assured Newcastle of a top 2 finish,
I can confirm that the joy is no less unconfined. At the end of the season, you
finish exactly where you deserve to be, as the table can’t lie; the fruits of
your labours are rewarded by and reflected in the points you accrue. Some other
chasing team stumbling, face first in the dirt, in your wake is their problem,
not yours.
Anyone who
knows me even slightly will be familiar with my family ties to Barnsley, the
home town of my son’s mother and her whole family who I’m still delighted to be
on good terms with. This means I’ve more than a soft spot for the Tykes. Having
first seen Newcastle play at Oakwell back in 1983 and subsequently found myself
in the home end on numerous occasions between a 2-0 victory over Bristol City
on New Year’s Day 1991 and a 1-0 loss to Crawley Town in August 2014, I think
it’s fair to say I look upon Barnsley as my second English league side. Therefore,
for many reasons, I am elated for The Tykes that they’ve gone up. However, and
this may surprise you, Luton Town are the club I’m indirectly writing about
here.
I’m guessing
the last time I saw Luton play was March 26th 1994; they lost 1-0 at
Oakwell to a 75th minute Andy Payton goal in a pretty uneventful
game. The time before that was a couple of months previously when they held
Newcastle to a 1-1 draw at SJP as a prelude to dumping us out the FA Cup in a
replay at Kenilworth Road. My terminal estrangement from Newcastle United means
I had no intention of taking in the last FA Cup meeting between the sides on
Tyneside; a 3-1 home win in January 2018, when the loathsome fascist slug
Stephen Yaxley Lennon got his grid all over a series of sick selfies with a
load of the big-coated, small-brained, cesspool-dwelling element of our
support.
In many
ways, it’s no surprise that Yaxley Lennon comes from Luton which, as a place,
is a microcosm of all that is wrong with England today: inadequate schools,
hospitals and housing, a dearth of secure, meaningful, well-paid jobs,
rocketing violent crime levels, widespread substance abuse and a lack of
community cohesion that has seen pronounced tensions escalate along religious
and ethnic lines over the past decade. The reason for this shameful state of
affairs is obvious; Tory misrule, pure and simple, but not just following the
pernicious and evil dogma of austerity, introduced after the calamitous election of 2010, instead going
back to the establishment of Thatcher’s police state in 1979. Luton has, by any
measure of social deprivation, been a complete hell hole for the last 40 years
or so. However, ask any football fan of a certain age what they think of Luton
and they’ll express dislike bordering on revulsion that has nothing to do with
plastic pitches. The reason is one man and one man only; David Evans.
From
November 1984 to June 1989, Evans was the chairman of Luton Town and during his
tenure, which included Millwall’s famous impromptu redecoration of much of the
ground, he presided over a controversial membership-only scheme for fans under
which only members were allowed to attend matches at Kenilworth Road, resulting
in a de facto complete blanket ban on
away supporters. This restrictive, draconian and ultimately unworkable measure
inspired Thatcher and the weasel Colin Moynihan, her Minister of Sport, to try
and impose it on all football fans after the Heysel Disaster. Thankfully, this
foolhardy enterprise was abandoned, but only after the deaths of 96 innocent
people at Hillsborough brought some of the Tories, if not Thatcher, to their
senses.
Additionally,
to heap further ordure on his corpse, Evans represented Welwyn Hatfield as the
Conservative Member of Parliament from 1987, until he lost at the 1997 general
election to Melanie Johnson. Shortly before his delightful unseating, in early
March of that year, he attracted controversy over offensive remarks made during
an interview with sixth-formers at Stanborough School, in which he referred to
his opponent as a "single girl" (she was 42 years old at the time)
with "bastard children", topping this by claiming the Birmingham Six
were guilty and had "killed hundreds" before being caught, as well as
vile, racist comments, such as asking how the sixth-formers would feel if their
daughter was raped by "some black bastard". Obviously, the Tories did
nothing to censure Evans for these sickening outbursts, but at least The Six
won substantial damages from Evans in July 1998, who thereafter apologised for
what he had said and promised never to repeat it; even if he still thought it.
Looking back
at this situation dispassionately, it seems unthinkable for any rational person
to have a soft spot for Luton Town, but I did for a couple of years from around
1973 onwards. About that time, I regarded Eric Morecambe as a real influence
and a bit of a hero; a big, daft, funny bloke who was just the sort of uncle
you wished you’d had, instead of the moaning shower of humourless wankers the
old fella had for brothers and brothers in law. All that Bring Me Sunshine and spec wobbling carry on used to have me in
fits and when I learned the Bartholomew fella was a director with The Hatters,
it sealed the deal for me. Not that I remember seeing all that much of them
playing football; they didn’t feature on Match
of the Day and it was only when ITV decided to show The Big Match instead of our own local highlights programme Shoot that you got to see games from
other regions. One of those was a fifth round FA Cup tie in February 1974;
Newcastle won 3-0 at West Brom, but that was on MotD and the Mackems were already out, so we got Brian Moore on the
mic from Kenilworth Road for a rare treat. Luton were banjoed 4-0 by Leicester
and Uncle Eric didn’t get interviewed afterwards. However, the glorious, bright
orange of the home shirts stood out amid the Keith Weller inspired carnage on
the pitch. Impressive or what?
Lighter than
the dull, aoristic hues of the old gold worn by Wolves and Southport and
brighter than the queasy vivacity of tangerine tops worn by Blackpool and
Dundee United, this orange was as sparkly and 70s as Spangles and Opal Fruits.
From then on, I furtively roared The Hatters on to promotion, courtesy of
following their progress in the paper and on Sports Report, rather than the more geographically adjacent
Middlesbrough or Carlisle, who were the first and third sides in the second
division success sandwich with runners-up Luton. As a sensitive 9 year old, I
must state this didn’t make up for Newcastle having their arses handed to them
at Wembley in the FA Cup final when Liverpool twatted us 3-0 and I spent hours
afterwards sobbing on the back step.
Replica
shirts may no longer have the degree of ubiquity afforded them in the late 90s,
but they still remain a gaudy and regrettable fashion statement among countless
millions of football fans, both of the match going and barstool varieties. The
birth of this phenomenon may probably be traced back to the seething foment
unleashed on the domestic game post Italia 90 and pre Premier League; certainly
it was unheard of in my youth to see any adults, other than players, wearing a
football top. Kids were different of course. There were always bairns’ sizes
available.
I got my
first Newcastle United kit, comprising shirt, shorts and socks, for Christmas
1972 when I was 8 years old. The socks were nylon, but the shirt and shorts
were heavy duty serge cotton of the kind that absorbed water and dirt like the
world’s most efficient kitchen roll. I wore it to play football and nothing
else, generally returning from timeless Saturday morning 20-a-side pick-up
games with mud up to my eyebrows, to get a clout and a bath in that order,
while the black and white shirt steeped in a bucket of ACDO by the back door until the dirt had loosened enough for a
gentle hand wash on the Wednesday, before getting it all clarty again the next
weekend.
Despite the
shirt fading and stretching below my knees like a 1920s flapper dress, as
opposed to the poor sods whose mams had boil washed their kits down to Action Man size in their new fangled
frontloading washing machines, it never crossed my mind to get another team’s
shirt. Indeed, the only person I knew with one was a lad called Colin who was a
year ahead of me at Falla Park Juniors. He had a Crystal Palace top; the white
one with the 3 vertical thin stripes in the middle. He always wore it to play
in our mass games on Heatherwell Green, but I don’t recall asking him why he
liked it or how he came by it.
Then things
changed rapidly in the late summer of 1974. For a start, I turned 10 and went
in to top class at school, which meant I got to play for the school team; a
privilege only ever afforded to final year lads. We had a new kit to strut around
in as well; out in the skip had gone the old, heavy duty cotton yellow and red
quarters that are the colours of Northumberland county and in came an exact
replica of Birmingham City and Carlisle United’s penguin kits, provided by the
dad of Deborah St Croix. Interestingly, she was the youngest person in our
year, being born the day after me. The
school team looked the biz, storming past High Felling 6-3 and Low Board 7-1,
though a 6-0 loss at Lingey House put us back on our heels for a bit. Still, we
were proud to play for the (brand new) shirt. Mind, lovely though it was, it
wasn’t the most beautiful piece of kit on show that season.
At some
point in late August, I saw a photo of Luton Town’s squad; all beaming smiles
beneath copper taches and bubble perms. I could have fainted when I saw their
shirt; dazzlingly bright orange with a thin white stripe on the left hand side,
with even thinner navy blue stripes either side of it. Orange, courtesy of
Holland’s dazzling heroics at the 74 World Cup, was enjoying a renaissance and
I simply fell in love with this garment. Having missed seeing this garment on
sale or even in public before my August 11th birthday, I begged my
parents for this shirt for Christmas, even if the schools had just gone back.
They didn’t comprehend; I supported Newcastle, not Luton. Why did I want this
kit? All I could say was I liked the design. Remember, in those days buying a
replica kit wasn’t as easy a task as it is now. No internet. No discount
football clothing outlets. Just Colin Todd Sports (I think he opened it after
Derby won the title in 72, cashing in on his moderate fame, while coming from
Pelton Fell just down the road, and then never darkening the doors again) in
Gateshead High Street. By October half term I’d railroaded my mam into ordering
it for me from the manufacturers, Admiral. All I had to do was wait until Santa
had been.
Christmas
Day 1974 saw me the proud recipient of my first ever Rothman’s Football Yearbook, damaging my eyesight by reading the
print off the page, Roxy Music’s Country Life LP, which I played
incessantly while ruining my eyesight with the cover and, best of all, a Luton
Town shirt. Every Christmas morning since I could walk unaided, we’d had a game
of football on Heatherwell Green, getting ourselves hacky from head to toe in
time for Christmas Dinner. This year was different; it lashed it down all day.
That wouldn’t normally have prevented me going out, but it was excuse enough
for the parents to keep me indoors. Naturally I sulked, but at least it meant I
got to wear the Luton shirt all day.
Up close it
was even more magical than in a photo; it boasted an Admiral logo on the right
hand side, same as the England shirt of the period, though as an Ireland fan
this didn’t impress me unduly. The differing stripes on the left hand side had
been individually sewn in; in fact, they seemed welded together. In all the
time I had the shirt; the seams never loosened or gave, much less unravelled. And
you know what? I started to wear the shirt when I wasn’t playing football. Indeed,
when it was suggested to me that Luton’s 1-0 win over Newcastle in February
1975 may have pleased me, I vigorously denied such as accusation. Love the
shirt; remain indifferent to the team was my motto.
I must have
worn that Luton shirt for about 2 years straight; not every day of course, but on
a pretty regular basis. It never stretched, shrank, faded or ripped. The only
thing that stopped me wearing it was a growth spurt that saw me going from 4 ft
11” to 5 ft 10” in about 8 months. When stopping dead aged 13, the shirt just
about fitted over my head, but I wasn’t keen on wearing it like a prototype
boob tube, so off it went to the rag man. In the days before charity shops,
people gave away their used and unwanted clothes to an old fella with a horse
and cart, who toured the estates and terraces shouting out for “rags and
woollens,” generally in return for a few shovelfuls of equine shite for the
roses. Daft really; I could have got a ton for it on Ebay around the turn of the century. The shirt; not the shite.
After the
Luton top went the way of all the flesh, the only football strips I had were
for teams I played for; royal blue Scotland style at school, garish green and
red at University, then plain red for the pub team. For a decade and a half I
don’t recall hanging a proper football kit in my wardrobe, until December 1992
that is. The in-laws celebrated Barnsley’s 1-0 win over Newcastle, on my
(ex)wife’s birthday, by getting me a Hayselden-sponsored Barnsley shirt for
Christmas and I loved it from first sight. But the adventures of that strip may
yet be another story…
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