Wolverhampton Wanderers Fans Forum - Discuss Wolves Here! - Blogs http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php This is a discussion forum about Wolverhampton Wanderers Football Club en Sat, 19 May 2012 19:18:06 GMT vBulletin 1 http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/images/misc/rss.jpg Wolverhampton Wanderers Fans Forum - Discuss Wolves Here! - Blogs http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php <![CDATA[They Keep Telling Us They're Letting Us Down - Why Do They Keep Doing It?!]]> http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=324 Thu, 17 May 2012 10:43:59 GMT Over the weeks since McCarthy went and then all the way up to the end of the season, we’ve had a lengthening queue of Wolves players – Jarvis, Ward,... Over the weeks since McCarthy went and then all the way up to the end of the season, we’ve had a lengthening queue of Wolves players – Jarvis, Ward, Edwards, Berra, Stearman and the rest all coming out in the press and media, hands wringing, downcast as they should be, adopting plaintive tones, and earnestly saying, “..how sorry we are, how we’re all hurting, how we’ve let the club down, the fans and ourselves…” and variations on that theme.

And it’s not just Wolves players, it’s the Liverpool players too. Liverpool is apparently in a collective cosmopolitan shock that their beloved Kenny has been trashed. Villa players too I expect if I dig around long enough will be coming out with the same sort of soul wrenching, undoubtedly sincere, instantly annoying tosh.

So the manager takes the bullet for his boys. Get out, be gone, you just can’t do it!

West Brom are kind of different because Woy has gone off to manage England towards the quarter finals of the Euro’s. But all the fans at the Hawthornes, Villa Park, and Anfield will be thrown onto this emotional tightrope. Standing on this emotional tightrope as it stretches out into the distance, but you can’t see the end of it and you can’t go back, you really don’t know what’s at the other end of it you’ve just sacked the manager, you must go forward….

So the Managerial merry go round starts again. Managers lose their jobs, clubs thrown into turmoil, uncertainty reigns, young players on the verge of making a breakthrough, get stopped. Players half way through negotiations, players in the middle of discussions on upping sticks and moving, and all the fans uncertainties all get put on hold, from, ‘Oh no! Where is this going to leave us’, to ‘Thank God he’s gone, but who will we get next? I hope it’s not ‘X’ or ‘Y’, cause they’re rubbish…’ and all of that.

But where will it take you? Where will it end? Will the board take a chance, a risk and come up with a great signing? Thank goodness that we seem to have pulled off a bit of a coup! Got a young, experienced manager with a completely different way of doing something. Rock on Stale!

Villa fans hated McLeish, so now he’s gone and they don’t seem too unhappy, but they’ve had too many managers in too few years, what’s going on at the top, why can’t they get it right?

And all of this, all of the pain, tears, heartache because a highly paid group of players can’t seem to garner their collective experience and with the coach overseeing things pass the ball to each other consistently, retain some shape, defend well, attack with venom and smack in goals for fun as they probably train every day to do.

So does it grate on your sensibilities when Mick McCarthy was sacked, to read of players regret saying, “We let Mick down, collectively we’ve not done the job, we’ve let the club and the fans down”. One after the other as the weeks drift by, they come out and earnestly bare their souls, wring their hands look suitably downcast and explain that their performances have been no where near good enough, and, ‘they’re very sorry.’

Working with groups of grown up workers in business, if a group of people or a team aren’t performing well, we stop doing the stuff that isn’t working, we discuss what’s wrong, we compare what we’re doing with other teams or organisations if necessary, we do something a bit different, we fix it, we make progress!

So to see and read week in week, out our players one by one saying, “We’ve let Mick down, we’re very sorry we’ve not performed anywhere near where we should…” really irritates me.

Don’t come out in the press telling the world how shite you are at working together, how you can’t do the basics right, don’t tell us that you’re letting everyone down, pick up your £30 / £40,000 a week then come out the following week and let everyone down again. Then you keep coming out for the next few weeks, under Terry Connor’s leadership apologise – again - when we eventually get relegated and come out saying, “We’ve underperformed, we’ve let everyone down, (again, still, once more…) we’ve not played the way we know we can…”.

I know a chunk of it is down to how they’re coached, or managed if you prefer, but it can’t ALL be down to the tactician…

You see it baffles me.. this is what I do in industry, I get teams up and running, they perform well or we fix it, these are a collection of experienced internationals, they’ve played everywhere, all over the world, they’ve learnt lessons, they’ve seen better teams play, they’ve been beaten by better teams, they’ve watched it on dvd’s, they’ve tried it out in training, they have many years of collective experiences and intelligence to draw on, why on earth we manage to not learn any of these skills, lessons, how we manage to get so much wrong, so consistently, is extremely frustrating to me, beyond comprehension.

What’s collectively worse, bewildering and deeply unsatisfying is to get up in the middle of the night, to drive to the airport, fly over, get two trains, get into the ground at Wigan and watch, in the last game of the season, when we should be all toned up, well sorted, completely familiar with the tactics, understanding completely the way we’re going to play against this team who have won 7 out of the last 9 games and were nailed on candidates for the drop, now comfortably staying in the money, and we come out and play like we’ve just been introduced to each other for the first time at a drinking session 30 minutes earlier.

We pass it into spaces where we don’t have a gold shirt, we give it to any number of players in a blue shirt, we don’t mark their wing players, in fact there were several times they passed it out wide and if you drew a line straight down the centre of the pitch there was not a single Wolves player in the left side of the pitch. Inept, school boy errors, clueless, un imaginative and when we do have the ball it seems that we’re really unsure what to do with it.

Despite all the collective experience we have in the team, the months of training and playing together, the collective wit and energy and experience of the coach and all the other guys behind the scenes, tell me why the whole simple concept of football seems so alien, so foreign to us, so unattainable, so frequently?

Out of 114 available points we gathered just 25, we won only 5 games out of 38, so let the players answer the question, then we might find out why, despite their very best and probably sincere efforts week in, week out they’re all picking up good money and then letting us down. ]]> Wolf Hunting http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=324 <![CDATA[The Sinking of the 'Tayleur'. Part 2]]> http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=318 Tue, 08 May 2012 15:37:19 GMT *The Voyage…* So one bitterly cold morning on Thursday 21st of January in 1853, with a full 4,000 tons of mixed cargo and 652 passengers and crew... The Voyage…

So one bitterly cold morning on Thursday 21st of January in 1853, with a full 4,000 tons of mixed cargo and 652 passengers and crew the Tayleur departed Liverpool under the guidance of the port pilot, who noticed the erratic behaviour of the compasses. However, this was apportioned inexplicably to be ‘due to their newness’ and surroundings and thought they would ‘settle down’. How fateful this would prove….

Upon exiting the estuary off Bootle and Wallasey, the pilot disembarked and the Tayleur was to set a course that would take it west, out of Liverpool Bay then along the North Wales coast, then clearing the North Stack at Holyhead set a more southerly course down towards South Wales, Cornwall and on towards Australia.

However within minutes the weather rapidly deteriorated and a severe and sustained squall developed which had dire consequences for the ship. The rigging and other ropes were brand new, and unseasoned, and the Captain, 29 year old John Noble, commanded that the sails be reduced but the sea water and soaking they’d been subjected to, had made them not only swell but over the whole they’d become slack and stretched and they wouldn’t pass through the eyes and pulleys.

The storm actually blew the ship back towards Liverpool but after many hours of struggling to manoeuvre the vessel, Captain Noble managed to turn the ship around, but with his compasses malfunctioning and giving him faulty readings beneath heavy skies, lashing rain and heaving seas, the fate of the ship was now sealed.

So instead of reducing the large sails in something around 20 minutes, it took over 1¼ hours. Navigation of the ship was further compromised by the fact that the ship’s rudder was too small for the size and weight of the hull, and the rigging being now so slack it was almost impossible to reduce the sails and with the compasses reading incorrectly, the crew thought they were heading South down the Irish sea, but were in fact ploughing remorselessly through the heavy seas West, towards the coast of Ireland.

When, some 28 hours later – having only covered around 124 miles from Liverpool, the lookout was stunned to see breakers about a mile off the right hand bow. An attempt was made to bring the ship about, confusion reined when they felt (the Welsh) land should be on the left side, but the captain only succeeded in bringing the ship broadside on to the wind and heavy seas and irresistibly and with a terrible impact the iron hulled ship, the pride of the White Star Line was smashed against the rocky cliffs of Lambay Island.

Attempts were made to lower the lifeboats but these were smashed against the rocks.
The one saving grace of this disaster was that the cliffs fell so steeply into the sea, that the ship was wrecked very close to them and many passengers clambered along the horizontal and splintered masts to the rocky foreshore, but then had to, in the teeth of the storm climb the 80 foot high cliffs to try to summon help.

As the ship heaved up with each huge sea, she was driven time after time broadside onto the razor rocks and within a couple of hours with the sea at it’s peak the wreck was dragged back out into deeper water where it remains to this day in around 18 metres.

All in all, out of the 652 souls who started out some 382 perished that night.
Out of 53 children who started the voyage only 3 survived.
Out of 117 women who made the trip, only 3 survived.
One of the 3 women to survive was Sarah Anne Carley. As did her husband Samuel.


One survivor clung to the tip of a mast and as the ship was dragged back into the deeper water only the tops of the masts remained visible. This passenger clung on for 14 hours when he was rescued by the coastguard boat which had been raised by survivors climbing the cliffs and going searching for help.

It was found that the fashion of the day with women customarily wearing full and voluminous dresses was a direct cause of so many women losing their lives. Ironic that the clothes that should become so heavily waterlogged and drag the women under the pounding waves would be stripped off them by the rocks as they were dashed relentlessly against them.

The vast majority of the dead bodies laid out on the cliff tops of Lambay were naked, mutilated and many decapitated and dismembered, arms and legs having been ripped off by the sheer force of the waves battering them against the rocks.

Oddity…

Whilst researching this story, I found many confusing references to a similar looking but smaller ship called The John Taylor and there’s a well known painting of it on the Mersey.

The John Taylor was eventually sold many times and ultimately broken up in 1843, a full 10 years before the Tayleur was built. But there are many (incorrect) references to The John Taylor being wrecked off Lambay Island in a storm…

But both in old archived newspaper reports, museum findings and Lloyds shipping register all have references to the John Taylor and the Tayleur being the same vessel.

At various subsequent inquests, the following were found to be Causes of the Disaster…

Faulty and untried compasses
The compasses were caused to ‘behave incorrectly’ by the iron hull.

Watertight compartments
These, as in the later Titanic were held to be at the time of such a design that made the Tayleur ‘the safest ship ever built’

Untrained, small Crew
Of the 71 crew, only 37 were trained seamen, and of these, ten could not speak English. It was reported in newspaper accounts that many of the crew were seeking free passage to Australia. Most of the crew were able to survive.

Ropes and Rigging
The rigging was also faulty, and the ropes had not been properly stretched. They became slack, making it nearly impossible to control the sails. Despite dropping both anchors as soon as rocks were sighted, she ran aground when both unseasoned ropes snapped.

Rudder
It was subsequently found that the rudder was too small for the weight and size of the ship. When land was sighted the crew attempted to turn the ship about, but the vessel failed to respond. The Board of Trade subsequently found the owners responsible because once the ship was completed it went straight into service rather than undergoing sea trials and testing.


It was also found years later that the vessel was ultimately doomed from the outset, as the compasses were faulty and fatally affected by the surrounding iron hull, the vessel was almost unlikely to have found it’s intended destination.

Also, had the compasses been correct, the course that had been set would have caused the ship to founder on the Arklow Banks. These are a (subsequently notorious) set of sandbanks running from the Kish lighthouse at the south side of Dublin Bay which run for about 65 miles about 1 mile off the East coast of Ireland from Dublin Bay all the way down to Rosslare off the Wexford coast. ]]> Wolf Hunting http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=318 <![CDATA[The Sinking of the Tayleur (The 'first' Titanic) Part 1 of 2.]]> http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=317 Tue, 08 May 2012 15:36:43 GMT *RMS TAYLEUR*: (The ‘first’ Titanic) This is a story about a sailing ship, a 3 masted clipper in fact, built to ply the lucrative route from... RMS TAYLEUR: (The ‘first’ Titanic)

This is a story about a sailing ship, a 3 masted clipper in fact, built to ply the lucrative route from England to Australia, where gold had been found in substantial quantities..

But first, let me draw a couple of parallels for you..

Whilst everyone is familiar with the tragic story of The Titanic which sank in April 1912, many older people of that time might have felt the cold chill of déjà vu because some 59 years earlier was the almost unknown mirror image tragedy of the loss of the Tayleur in October 1853.

Startling Similarities.

The Titanic was the largest ship in the world at the time of it’s maiden sailing.
It was technologically at the forefront yet its sinking was caused by carelessness and design flaws.
There was huge loss of life.
It sank on its maiden voyage.
It was owned by the White Star Line

The Tayleur was the largest ship in Britain at the time of its maiden voyage.
It too was full of innovative technology and yet, it too was lost due to carelessness and design flaws.
There was huge loss of life
It too, sank on it’s maiden voyage
And just to add a sinister note, it was also owned by… the White Star Line.

Background stuff. Australia.

In the 1850’s the Australian Gold Rush was in full swing with thousands clamouring for passage. In the 5 years from 1852 to 1857, 226,000 left Britain to seek their fortune, 60,000 of whom were Irish. Indeed in one month in 1853, 32,000 people departed Liverpool for the gold fields of Australia. Large fast ships were in huge demand, which is exactly where the Tayleur slotted into the story.

Gold was discovered at the interestingly named ‘Poverty Point’ on 18 August 1851 and news quickly spread of rich alluvial fields where gold could easily be extracted. Within months, approximately 20,000 migrants had rushed into the district. Unlike many other gold rush boom towns, the Ballarat fields experienced sustained high gold yields for decades

Background stuff. Britain.

The River Mersey is formed from three tributaries just a few miles East of Stockport. It’s about 70 miles long and for centuries has formed the border between Lancashire and Cheshire. After Stockport it flows past Sale where I was born and on through Urmston, Warrington and out as it widens past Widnes, Runcorn and finally exiting into the Irish sea at Liverpool.

But it’s at the unfashionable town of Warrington, roughly halfway between Manchester and Liverpool that this story really starts.

Warrington embraced the industrial revolution becoming a manufacturing town and a centre of steel (particularly wire), textiles, brewing, tanning and chemical industries. The navigational properties of the river Mersey were improved, canals were built, and the town grew yet more prosperous and popular. When the age of steam came, Warrington naturally welcomed it, both as a means of transport and as a source of power for its mills.

Warrington is also famous for being the location of Burtonwood, the largest American Air force Base outside the United States during the 2nd World War.

Warrington was also the birthplace of our very own John Richards in November 1950

Background stuff. Ireland.

Lambay Island is the largest island off the east coast of Ireland and is about 2.5 square kilometres in size, and rises to 127 metres. There are steep cliffs on the northern, eastern, and southern sides of the island, with a more low-lying western shore.

It’s a small occasionally inhabited island 3 miles east of the pretty town of Rush and 8 miles North of Howth Head which is the northern peninsular guarding Dublin Bay.

The eastern tip of Lambay ends with steep cliffs dropping some 80 feet into the waters of the Irish sea. It was against these rocky cliffs that the Tayleur was smashed.

It is now in private hands presently owned by the Baring family of banking fame. Cecil Baring bought Lambay Island in 1904 for £9,000.

Background stuff. The Tayleur.

But it was the entrepreneur Charles Tayleur who formed the Vulcan Steelworks which lead to Warrington becoming the busy town it was.

For anyone who has driven to or from the Ferry in Holyhead, will have driven across the Menai Straits which separates the Welsh mainland from the Isle of Anglesey, I mention this because much of the original steelworks that form the main part of the bridge was made in the Vulcan Steelworks in Warrington, Cheshire.

As the Mersey was tidal up to Warrington, Charles Tayleur started building ships. At Warrington Bank Quay. And following a growing demand he was commissioned to build what was to be the largest ship of its day.

She was 230 feet long, 40 feet wide, displaced 1,700 tons and was one of the first to have an iron hull, able to carry 4,000 tons of cargo in her three decks of around 28 feet depth. She was named Tayleur after the owner of the Vulcan steelworks Charles Tayleur.

Her passenger accommodation was deemed to be of a high standard especially considering the length of sail that was intended for it, taking as many people in relative comfort to the newly found goldfields of Australia in particular at Ballarat.

Two Remarkable Stories of Human Interest.

An extraordinary circumstance took place when the steam-tug ‘Victory’ came up to the ship to take those parties on shore who had gone out to see their friends off, together with those clerks from the office who were on board.

In the confusion and noise that occurred when this steamer went alongside the ship, an Irish passenger thought something was radically wrong , and for self-preservation he jumped on board the tug. It was quite dark at the time the tug left the ship, and when the steamer had receded some distance on her course to Liverpool, someone observed a person standing on the paddle box and said to him 'Come down out of that', to which he replied in amazement, 'Where are we going?' and they told him the steamer was going to Liverpool.

He appeared to be dreadfully confused and said he wanted to go to Melbourne. The steamer was then put about with a view to putting him back on board the ship, but she was going so fast that we could not catch her, and the man was therefore brought to Liverpool as he stood, leaving his clothes and all he had on board - an accident to him, but one which probably saved his life.

More poignant and dramatic, was the story of Samuel Carley…

In 1841 Carley was arrested for stealing sheep in the county of Rutland and was sentenced to be deported to Australia for a period of 10 years. Unfortunately Carley was in love with a buxom girl called Sarah Anne and had a wedding date organised. She accompanied him to court in the hope that the jury would be lenient, but his sentence was passed and the two were separated there and then.
Sarah Anne was forced to try to find work for herself and their young daughter.

She never heard from her husband Samuel. She never heard from Botany Bay.

12 years later, she was boarding a train at Luffenham in Rutland ready to make the 6 mile journey back to Stamford. In the compartment were several men, one of which kept staring at her. So uncomfortable was she at the intense and sustained staring of the man, she resolved to get out at the next station, so she turned away on the pretext of looking out of the window until the man leaned forward and said, “Sarah, it’s me! I’m Samuel, I’ve come home to look for you…!”

He’d served his sentence and had been released and had done well for himself, then had come back to England to look for his wife to be.

They were inseparable, and got married within a few weeks and Samuel gave Sarah such a glowing report of Australia and his fortune from successfully digging gold, that he had little difficulty in persuading her to accompany him to the land of gold.

They organised to make the trip to Melbourne.
Their ship to take them there was to be…. The Tayleur.

Brand new, comfortable and ‘the safest ship on the high seas’…. ]]> Wolf Hunting http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=317 Ahhhh how times change..... http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=316 Thu, 26 Apr 2012 22:13:30 GMT 3 years ago we were sitting behind our computers posting away looking forward to the prospect of seeing the famous Wolves back in the premier league.... 3 years ago we were sitting behind our computers posting away looking forward to the prospect of seeing the famous Wolves back in the premier league. I remember planing out my away trips and was excited by the prospect of going to Old trafford, The emirates, Anfield etc etc... along comes August we lose to west ham at home 2-0 then beat wigan and draw with Hull. The optimisum was there for me and was looking forward to the season. Roll on that infamous night in December. I was at old trafford for the 10 changes by mick and the impact it had. Just thank goodness we beat burnley on that sunday. Roll forward to the hull away game and the 2-2 draw and then came along the famous 4-5-1 formation. The rest of that season we sat through boring 0-0 draws at home and we stayed up and I was over joyed.
In the 2010 summer, we was wondering is this it... Have the famous Wolverhampton got what it takes to stay up. We sign Jelle Van Damme who was good initially but then wanted to leave so he was gone. In this summer we signed Steven Fletcher and this is possibly one of the biggest moves we made in the new premier league era for wolves. Opening game of the season we beat stoke 2-1 and get off to a cracking start get 5 points from the 1st three and we begin to believe this is it we will be a mid table side and then it starts falling to pieces and we are in the bottom 3 ok we got a huge win at anfield and were off the bottom of the league for christmas so wern't cursed. The turn of the year again it appears we do not care about the f.a Cup so that becomes irregardless. We beat chelsea at molineux this month which turns out to be such a huge win come the end of the season. Roll onto febuary A crushing defeat at bolton with a zubar F*ck up. We go on and beat man utd on that cold saturday evening. After big wins against Blackpool and Villa I thought we were set up for the great escape until the losses in april I genuinely thought we were going down till 2 3-1 wins got us into a crazy last game of the season where we stayed up by one lucky lucky goal and relegated Blues... I loved the fact we were heading for a 3rd season till it hit and how much I want to forget this season.
Roll on the 2011-12 season a huge win at blackburn and being top of the league. How confident were we then eh... We thought we were heading to bigger and greater places and I was so confident that we would be a stoke or a mid table side. After the Qpr home game i started panicking that we were in trouble and the buzz had gone from the team. At the swansea game the ball dropped the fans had lost faith in the board and the boss. For the 1st time in so many seasons there was so much hate towards a wolves boss. 8 losses in 9 spealt the another bad run for us and we could not win at all after only 2 wins in so many games and 5 for this season we are eventually relegated. I feel tho over these 3 seasons we have gone from fans looking forward to every game with optimisum to pure hate for everything we do at the club. 3 years ago Jez and Steve were the best thing to happen to the club and the fact of the matter of the lack of ambition from them has turned a set of great fans against them in the matter of a few seasons. For me it is mainly the way the hiracy at the top of our great club handled the sacking of mick. If the reports are true and we were only offering 13 week contracts what is the point of that.... We needed to appoint a permament manager then but no we appointed Terry Connor and fair play to him he did the best he could with what he had. But it was never to be and Old Tc will go down as one of the 1st managers ever in the premier league, which saddens me.....

No matter what happens next season. Aslong as we get a good manager we will be back and win the league the faith will be back and as strange as it seems i'd rather see us in the championship with the loyal fans and the lads playing attractive attacking football instead of the heatache of relegation battles year in and year out.

I will never forget this though for aslong as i live....


Sorry if it is toally shocking i'm not a blogger I just thought i'd give it ago ]]> The Guard Dog http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=316 Is Morgan on the right track? http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=315 Thu, 05 Apr 2012 11:59:00 GMT I wrote this today on my blog (which is in my signature). Penk suggested that I stick it up on here so here it is. When I heard that Steve Morgan... I wrote this today on my blog (which is in my signature). Penk suggested that I stick it up on here so here it is.

When I heard that Steve Morgan and Alan Curbishley didn't 'share the same views', I was mightily pissed off.

Here we had the chance to get a Premier League proven manager in to rescue our season, and Morgan wanted him to bring the youth team in, instead of giving him a load of money to spend in the summer. It sounded ridiculous back then but as we get nearer and nearer to the Championship, it doesn't seem to be such a bad idea.

We've seen the likes of Matt Doherty, David Davis, Anthony Forde and Johnny Gorman all make their Premier League debuts, and it doesn't stop there either. There are plenty of others, such as Zeli Ismail, Jack Price and Liam McLinden.

What caused me to write this article today were these quotes from Scunthorpe manager Alan Knill, where Jamie Reckord is on loan.

“I think he’s got the potential to go all the way,” enthused Knill. “When Mick McCarthy was at Wolves, he said they were thinking about putting Jamie in the team, to play in the Premier League.
“Then he got an injury which knocked him back, but fortunately it meant he could come to us."

It got me quite excited, not just about him but for that fact that next season, we really should be seeing a lot of our younger players getting a chance.

Is it unrealistic to think that Danny Batth could be one of our first choice centre backs next season? Or that Matt Doherty, who has impressed whenever I've watched him, could stake a claim. Personally, I think he's better than Zubar already!

And if Karl Henry were to leave, we've already seen that David Davis can perform at the highest level. He's already shown that he has as much quality as someone like Dave Edwards (who I'm a big fan of, for the record).

It would be silly to expect all of them to become first team players, but with the sheer amount of good young players we seem to have it's not out of the question to see three, four or five players coming through. How I'd love us to be that team who have a team full of young players brought through our youth system. Least of all, it would be quite exciting to see players playing without fear and giving it their all.

Morgan and Moxey have come in for a lot of criticism lately (rightly so) but maybe, just maybe they are on the right track on this one. ]]> YoungWolf http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=315 Welcome to Management Terry. http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=314 Fri, 24 Feb 2012 13:36:01 GMT
Quote Originally Posted by Boozad View Post
So it's come to TC. I'll start by saying that from the day Mick was sacked I was in full agreement with the decision, it was past his time and he'd lost the players, the fans and finally the board. His position was untenable and there was only one outcome as far as Mick was concerned. But it was never their plan, and in that action the board placed a huge chain around their own necks. If Mick was ever going to go it should have been in December, the form was bad enough then to warrant such decisive action, a new man could have been brought in and at least started to mould a squad to his own design. Perhaps it would have worked but it's too late for ifs and buts. The ideal time for change had come and gone so it was forwards as you were.

Then the form continued and we reach the Albion game. The cracks that were papered over during a 20-minute spell against 10 men at Loftus Road turned out (obviously, with hindsight) to not be the answer and the worst possible outcome unfolded. The decision was made for the board on the back of that performance and result, and it was that moment that had a crucial bearing on where we are now.
We know the board didn't want to sack Mick, and as the decision became a formality of its own design they never had a man in mind to become the next manager. They weren't expecting a new manager. And then began the process of the last ten days and the circus they became.

While I trust Steve Morgan and Jez Moxey to do right by this club, I do believe they've handled the situation in a less-than-perfect manner from the off. They should never had announced they wanted a new man in for the Newcastle game, and they certainly shouldn't have announced they wanted experience. For whatever reasons neither of these statements have come to fruition and it's made them look a bit silly.
It would have helped the board (and probably ultimately TC) immensely if they'd stated from the off that they would take their time in deciding what to do next, that both the short and long term future of the club would be considered. It would have helped if they'd at least acknowledged the media once or twice during the whole clusterfuck, even if it was just to say 'We're still looking and we've spoken to a manager or two and a club or two but nothing's been right for us yet.' Even that small amount of communication would have helped proceedings run that little bit calmer.
But they didn't and the circus unravelled.

It all led to what most will see as a huge anti-climax in the appointment of TC. Ultimately it may genuinely be the best option open to the board at this point in time, we'll never know for certain. And while the name Terry Connor will not fill the majority with hope, belief and excitement, it's certainly not his fault he's had this position pushed onto him. Of course, he didn't have to accept it but at least he has the bollocks to.
So hopefully the whole of the club (board, players, staff and fans) will get behind Terry and give him the support he needs, as the job in front of him is huge indeed, and any negativity, no matter how small, is going to make that bitch of a job a hell of a lot harder. I for one hope he surprises us all.

Good luck Terry. Here's hoping against hope you won't need it.
]]> Boozad http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=314 <![CDATA[When Christmas Isn't Christmas...]]> http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=169 Sat, 24 Dec 2011 13:05:33 GMT Well i guess i'll ad lib most of this as being a blog virgin i will have no idea where this will go, but as the title says When Christmas isn't Christmas...I'll see where this ends up...

Yesterday afternoon as i lay down trying to catch a few hours before i did the last night shift before Christmas (I finished at 6am this morning!), i dreamt of the good MrsUKY crying, i woke up to deep sobbing, things have been quite good here lately, i took my old job back, got my US immigrant visa monday just past, we had a car wreck a few weeks ago but i got a "new" car out of it. Sobbing, i thought really? What for, things aren't that bad, and we have a relationship where there really are no secrets, we really DO tell each other everything, we even leave the loo door open when we poop or pee, we are that open, so was a little surprised to hear this...i gandered down the stairs bleary eyed and she was on the phone, i knew instantly something was amiss...

Sadly her daddy passed away yesterday, her being 3000 miles away him being in rural Georgia, things are never easy.

The last few Christmasses have not been all that good, for those that know me, i'm not a grumpy kind of fella, i'd like to think i am light hearted and like a bit of banter, but both my parents passed away recently and now this? It kinda takes the shine off the whole seasonal spirit, i love Christmas and spend most of it baking cakes, sausage rolls and the likes, like my mother did when she was alive (Yes i can cook!!!!), but as much as i try to be festive it just ain't happening.

It will be the 1st time in 10 years that we have been apart, she flies out tomorrow (On Christmas day), to be with her siblings and mother, not a single day in the last 10 have we spent not being together, she travels alone as i have to watch the little ones for a week.

One of the good forum members posted earlier in the week about good health to all on the forum, i sincerely hope for the best for everyone alike as i only know too well members have had their own trials and tribulations throughout 2011, for some like us here Christmas just isn't Christmas this year...

Seasons greets to you all good chaps and chapesses of TWF, i wish you all well for 2012! :) ]]> UKYankieWWFC http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=169 The Diary, Part 10, Bust and Rectal Cream http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=156 Wed, 21 Dec 2011 13:58:26 GMT We all arrived at school that morning and it seemed strange to me that my Uncle Jack’s flag was half way down the flag pole. As usual we all tore about like mad things, screaming that last scream of the day and kicking tennis balls or anything else we could find. Somewhat unusually, Mr K stepped out of the door, a bell clasped in his strong hand and he immediately set about ringing it. At the same time he shouted:

“Quiet! Quiet! Have some respect for His Majesty!”

We fell into line and came to attention. Barry looked around. He always made stuff up so that people would take notice of him.

“I – I - I for-for- f- f- f’got to say… I heard the King is h-h-here today to read u-u-s a story.”

We were marched into the school in single file, the big kids first and then us little ones.

I looked round, shocked that my dad, who was a mate with the King, hadn’t told me about it.

It was that period after the war before secondary education meant the big kids went off to big schools. The school was divided into three sections. The young ‘uns like me who were taught by Mrs G, the middles who came under the infamous Mr W and the big ‘uns who were taught by Mr and Mrs K. We were all directed into the big ‘uns room.

“All stand”, says Mr K

We stood and I reached out to hold my brother’s hand – he was a big’ un.

“Silence. No talking”, squeeked Mrs K, a nasty little woman at the best of times.

Mr K stood up, as straight as a dye; his white handkerchief clasped in his hand. Mr. W sneered at us, his ruler ready for any boy who moved. Mrs G was weeping uncontrollably in the corner.

“It is my sad duty to inform you”, says Mr K with all the solemnity he could command, “It is my … sad .. duty to inform you that His Majesty, King George VI has passed away at Sandingham.”

My immediate thought was that I would get Barry at play time.

Mr W stood to attention, the corner of his mouth flicking and his nervous tick going at three times its normal pace.

“The King is dead, God save the Queen!”

A friend of my brother – a big fat boy called David, who was later to play centre half for the village, looked round and spoke out loud:
“That’s good, we’ll get more meat now, I expect…”

Mr K looked at him. Mr W moved in quickly.

I immediately thought, “Oh no, we’re going to eat the King.”, but I never said anything.

“What did you say, boy?” says Mr K

“I said we’ll all get more meat now, sir.” You have to realise that meat rations were very poor at the time.

Mr K struck David twice round the head and Mr W moved in for the kill and pushed him in the stomach.

Barry asked me, “W – w – what’s up?”

Then pandemonium broke out. Amongst the big boys was this tall lad who boxed in the ABA junior finals and who later became quite a famous boxer – I will call him Roy. He moved in and grasped Mr W by the collars and pushed him flat against the wall. Mr K rushed over and kept tapping Roy on the shoulder;

“Don’t Roy, Don’t. Be a good boy.”

Eventually peace was restored, speeches were made and us little ‘uns were ushered out and into the comfort of our own room by Mrs G. Later we were allowed out into the junior playground to walk about slowly and quietly and think about the King. Because I was considered trustworthy, I was asked by Mrs G to take charge of the school toilet roll, so I sat inside at my desk and everyone who wanted to go to the toilet had to ask me for toilet roll. I asked if they were going for a number two and when that was confirmed I was allowed to pass out two sheets to the boys and three to the girls. At the time there was a terrible shortage of toilet rolls in the country. Little did they know that we had a shed full that father had been prepared to lay down his life for during the war, alongside our dear and now departed King George. I supposed we would get his share now.

As it turned out, we didn’t get the extra meat or eat the King as David had predicted, although about eighteen months later we all received a dictionary to celebrate the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II.

The day they arrived we all took them out at play time and tried to look up the rude words we had struggled hard to learn. Barry wanted to look up “b – b- b – bum” but was b – b – bitterly disappointed at what he found. He was so much happier when I pointed him in the direction of ‘rectum’, which we found on the third attempt. My brother looked up ‘brassiere’ and ‘bust’. I, for my sins, took my time and eventually managed to find ‘prostitute’.

Some of the kids used it to augment their supply of toilet paper at the school.

Noreen, of course, showed us vagina. ]]> EasternWolf http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=156 The Diary, Part 9, OK, encore une fois http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=154 Tue, 20 Dec 2011 18:47:42 GMT Just down the road from our first little cottage stood the Church Hall. At the opposite end of the street was a Wesleyan Chapel. Our first little... Just down the road from our first little cottage stood the Church Hall. At the opposite end of the street was a Wesleyan Chapel. Our first little football pitch was on the patch of grass between the two of them. You’d have thought I would have got the God message, but I never did.

I only got involved with religion because each of them – church and chapel ran a healthy Sunday School. When I say healthy, I mean the kids used go there to run about like mad things in the absence of a proper youth club. Once a year each of them had what was called ‘The Outing’. Each was remarkably similar. A bus was hired and with one or two adults along as shotgun, we were transported to the seaside – usually Hunstanton on the North Norfolk coast where the Wash suddenly became the North Sea and vice versa depending on where you came from. Golden sands, archades, doughnuts, candy floss – everything. I went mainly to be with my mates and because each kid was given a half crown to spend. That is 12.5p in modern terms. Half a crown was a lot of cash for a boy like me and I usually managed to get it up to about ten shillings by doing odd jobs in the weeks before and, as I left home my mum would say:

“Be a good boy and don’t tell your father.”

It seemed strange to me that father was not to know if I was a good boy

Then all became clear as she looked round and tucked another ten bob in my hand.

“Yes mum, no mum.” I would smile and offer myself to be kissed.

A pound – a whole bloody pound! – Christ I could leave home on that much.

We would board the bus and by the time we reached the end of the village Barry would rush forward. The bus would skid to a halt and he would tumble out to sick up what looked suspiciously like rhubard tart. He always sicked up rhubard, even in winter.

Back on the bus, we proceeded to the seaside. From the middle of the bus I would see all the big boys and Noreen on the back seat. Giggles and a lot of breathing took place. Apparently she liked to show the boys how many beans made five – or at least that was what I was told. The most hated of our teachers who, being a religious man went on both outings - I will call him Mr W - would eventually get fed up and make his way to the back. He had been a Japanese prisoner of war and I had suspicions that he had been on their side. His particular form of punishment was either to hit you across the fingers with the side of a wooden ruler or, if he attacked from behind, he would make a fist, raise his middle finger and bring it sharply into contact with that area of baldness behind your ear.

When we reached our destination we would all tumble out of the coach and be told to stand in two lines. Those who stayed would be told what to do and not to do and what time to return. We were to keep together in groups and, should we require assistance, one adult would always be on duty at a central point. Packed lunches were passed out. Boxes to be returned.

To a man we opened them straight away, ate what we liked or swapped and then hid the boxes. My gang would then make our way quickly to the chip shop for the first visit of the day.

Little Ena was what we called tuppence short of a shilling, poor girl. Her mother was always one of the adults. There was no way she should have been let out of sight. One day there was a hue and cry because when her mother’s back was turned, Ena beat a straight line to the funfare. An hour later she made her way back, her half crown spent, to the wrath of her mother.

If Ena was tuppence short of a shilling then her poor mother was at least fourpence short herself. We could hear her shouting at her daughter with a high pitched voice:

“You bad girl. Why didn’t you come up here and tell me you were down there?”

For years afterwards it was the joke of the village and for no particular reason we would greet each other:

“Why didn’t you come up here and tell me you were down there?”, followed by raucous laughter.

I could go back to the village today and there would be lots of people my age who would remember it.

We got a new vicar one year – a great big fat guy who drank like a fish and organised sports teams and a youth club. His mission in life was that he should teach everyone to swim. He was a great guy and we never heard him mention God once. It was clear straight away that he was fond of a certain lady and on one outing he was to be seen about fifty yards out to sea supporting her face down with one arm flat across under her two shoulders and the other one across under her thighs. She was laughing and moving her arms round in what looked very much like a breast stroke with her legs going up and down behind her. Apart from Noreen, it was the most erotic thing I saw until I made it past sixteen and manhood with the fair Diane and her friend Anne. Yes, I’m afraid it was Anne as well. We became what Diane – who studied French at University – liked to call a ‘menace atwa’ or something like that.

Our little group was in an age range between five and fifteen and nobody ever got into real trouble because people cared for each other. A tear has entered my eye as I write when I remember that my little gang put up the one and sixpence for little Ena to have a small cod and six of chips. My very first act of charity. I feel the next one coming along any day now

Ah well, those were the days. ]]> EasternWolf http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=154 The Diary: Part 8, A little something for the (Christmas) weekend http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=153 Tue, 20 Dec 2011 13:34:34 GMT It’s Christmas again and a time for families to get together. Over the years I have come to notice that the most important thing about it is the... It’s Christmas again and a time for families to get together. Over the years I have come to notice that the most important thing about it is the chance for kids to feel that they are loved and part of a family. There is nothing quite like blood and the reassurance that all is well in your own little world.

In the years following the end of World War II, in which my father claimed to have distinguished himself by keeping a careful check on the store of toilet rolls and sundry items requisitioned on behalf of His Majesty’s forces, there was not a lot of money about. If money did talk, it always seemed to say ‘goodbye’ in our household. Notwithstanding the poverty, however, we were deliriously happy as a family and not just at Christmas

Before the time came for me to play sports in various local teams, it was the weekends that were the best. They had a pattern. Saturday was for shopping and watching football and Sunday was family day. This was before the days of the nuclear family and most of my relatives lived in the same village, apart from one uncle who had broken free to migrate to somewhere on the south coast with a woman from North London he had met when he was a Cook Sergeant in the RAF. According to my dad, Uncle Jack now worked for the Secret Service in a large Sainsburys in Brighton. He was there weighing out bacon and cheese, ready in case someone else tried to invade our green and pleasant land. Not only were there Bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover, but there was Uncle Jack as well. He came home about once a year, usually with a large bag containing spoils of his personal war against capitalism. According to dad, his contribution had been so great during the hostilities that King George had announced from Sandringham itself that a medal was not good enough, and in future they would name the country’s flag after Jack.

Apart from Jack, we got together with the rest of the family every Sunday. We would set out after lunch on something called ‘The Family Walk’. With my dog Roy waddling along ahead, we would walk to the far end of the village collecting various relatives as we went. Other families did the same and as we passed each other we had a bit of a chat with most of them. When we got to the end of the village we inevitably turned off the road and walked down a long drove and onto a large wilderness known as ‘The Fen’. It was our version of the Grand Canyon and it seemed to serve no purpose other than as a place to walk through and enjoy. Little clumps of bushes and trees were dotted here and there and small rivulets ran down to the river through marshy land. I remember one year when my father amused himself by taking some buds from rose bushes in our garden, wrapping them in a wet hankie and taking them on the walk. There was a particular patch of wild roses and he had always said he would like to graft some roses onto them so that there, in the wild area, there would be beautiful blooms throughout the summer, just to surprise everyone. Fascinated by the concept, I set about helping him. To my surprise, it worked and just a few years ago, I scattered his ashes underneath them in one of the most poignant moments of my life. The roses are still thriving there over sixty years since he grafted them, still as incongruous and ill-placed as ever.

Every week, when we reached the river, we followed it back parallel to the road we had walked along and got to the other far end of the village where Auntie Eva and Uncle Ernie lived with my two cousins. The journey there would have taken us about three and a half hours of laughter and frivolity when we arrived in time for tea. After that all the kids could then rampage about Ernie’s garden and eat whatever they could find while the adults talked about serious things and listened to the wireless. My personal favourite was a bush of the sweetest and reddest and softest and juiciest gooseberries in the world. A bit later we would take our leave and walk the short way home. Mum would pack up dad’s sandwiches for the Monday and he and my brother would play the piano. They could both play by ear. I sang from the family songbook, did my impressions of Al Jolson and Hoogie Carmichael and improvised on comb and paper. The best paper was a single sheet of His Majesty's Govt Izal Germicide toilet paper from dad’s never ending supply of the stuff. It tasted funny and tickled your lips a bit but it produced a lovely sound. I felt privileged that His Majesty had worked alongside my father during the war, stamping each one ‘HM Government’ on behalf of the country. What a sacrifice, and apparently he had spent his lunch hours walking around the East End of London with the Queen Mother, comforting the people.

After that mum would come in with a bit of supper – often with some brittle toffee she had just made – and we would listen to the family stories, over and over again.

“Dad, tell us about the time when …”

Nowadays it is my turn. The other day, some family members arrived from far away for Christmas. I was reminiscing with the kids in the same way my dad had with me. We had been talking about Strictly Come Dancing and how well Harry Judd and Robbie Savage had done. Despite the difference in our ages, we had plenty of common ground.

“Grandad, tell us about the olden days … “

Cheeky buggers.

Somehow we got it to celebrities. I told them that I remembered seeing Bernard Bresslaw play football at The Walks (home to Kings Lynn FC) – and Jess Conrad.

One of them asked: “who is Bernard Bresslaw?”

Another said “Jess Conrad?”

I explained who they were.

“Better than that”, says I with some confidence, “I remember Tommy Steele, he was a really great winger.”

“Tommy who?”

I don’t give up easily.

“Well, David Frost – you know “Hello, good evening and welcome to throoogh the keeeyhole” - I mimicked.

“You mean that old guy?”

“Yes, I suppose you are right…” I gave up.

My thoughts went back to the TV All Stars football team who seemed to play every Sunday, somewhere. Often televised on a Sunday afternoon. Those unlikely guys played the game seriously, but always for charity.

I remember seeing them play somehere near London against a Billy Wright XI sometime in the late sixties. I’ll swear that Ronnie Corbett played that day.

There was a snort of laughter. I had connected. They had heard of Ronnie Corbett.

They didn’t remember that lovely comedian who died of cancer, Roy Castle. He had been there too, I remembered.

I did a passable impression of Bernard Bresslaw being stupid and told them he was this really big guy who was in Carry On films and a lot of TV. I told them that he didn’t like people to take the piss in real life. It happened at King’s Lynn when he was playing in goal. The crowd behind him kept shouting out one of his famous catch phrases: “I only arksed” – well, as a catch phrase it probably doesn’t travel well through the years, but at six foot seven and built like a brick outhouse, Bresslaw acting like an idiot made it sound funnier than I can.

Anyway, after a while Bernie had had enough and disappeared into the crowd. From where I stood, I saw flailing arms. He emerged a little later having quietened those who had laughed at him.

Some of these players were quite good and one or two could have played professionally to a reasonable standard.

I’ve decided. When the rest of the kids come at Christmas I am going to tell them about when there was only BBC on the telly and about the day I saw a small bi-plane fly over with a banner flapping along behind announcing that Anglia TV would start next week. What excitement! I’m pretty sure they’ll all be impressed.

They’ll never believe me about Uncle Jack’s flag though. ]]> EasternWolf http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=153 The Diary: Part 7, A sudden alchemy http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=151 Mon, 19 Dec 2011 18:13:45 GMT Jonquil was from my side of the tracks – except that soon there would be no railway tracks in our area thanks to that visionary of modern transport... Jonquil was from my side of the tracks – except that soon there would be no railway tracks in our area thanks to that visionary of modern transport Dr Richard Beeching. Anyway, Jonquil had a big brother who also liked sports and their mother was a grand lady who welcomed all into her comfortably untidy home. They had dinner at midday and tea at about 6 o’clock in the evening. If you were still lucky enough to be there at about 10 O’clock, they shared their supper. A proper home. I longed to still be there for a piece of toast and a cup of tea for breakfast. Ah well… A boy should have dreams.

I had reached that time in life when neither girls nor sports took up every minute of my life. I was sixteen and a man about town. I was given a James motorcycle with a 125cc Villiers engine. It had a KZ registration and originated from County Antrim in Northern Ireland. It was a gift from Mum and Dad – he was a lifelong Motorcyclist. We didn’t have ‘Bikers’ in those days. With a lot of time spent cleaning the plugsand mixing a gallon of petrol with a half pint of oil rather than 2 stroke mix it would get me up to sixty on a downhill run. A few friends acquired BSA Bantams and we would ride around together. I shunned the school bus and turned up every day on my little bike. It also allowed me the independence to get extra sports training and cricket ‘nets’ which helped me improve my game. It also gave me the independence to get over to Jonquil’s house which was several villages distant.

And then it hit me. No, it really did hit me. I was sixteen and she was nineteen- an older woman. She lived in the next village. She insisted that we meet and that her friend should come with her. Diane, as well as being older than me, had experience in the arts of desire and satisfaction. She wanted things and knew how to persuade me to surrender my innocence. Her friend Anne acted as agent provocateur and encouraged me along the way. She told me it was ok and that Diane was … well you know, reader. A rather inept and talentless boy tried to improve his game at every opportunity. He tried so hard to become a man.

Football, cricket and, by then, long distance running kept me young and healthy. Diane and Anne did their best to make me tired and listless. My brother dragged me along to play a bit better class of football and cricket. It is a tale that could be told by so many of us. I hear so often of young footballers who are critcised because their excesses seem to get in the way of potential and success. I don’t criticise them. They, like me many years ago now, are prisoners to their own chemistry. They fall prey to desire and persuasion. They feel the pressure rising within themselves and cannot resist it.

Reader, I will give you an example of how it worked for me. We played a game of football against a local village. I was myself at last. I did not need to be Peter Broadbent, or Bert Williams. I played inside left as usual and received the ball somewhere in the centre circle. I passed it square to the right and ran forward to receive the return. I stretched to reach it and a defender hit my ankle in his own attempt to clear it upfield. I went down like a sack of potatoes, clutching my ankle. They didn’t remove my boot but lifted me into the passenger seat of someone’s car. I was in absolute agony.

When they reached the doctor’s surgery, he was out, but his wife – a nurse – was there and they carried me through into the surgery and put me on the bed. She waved them out.

She was not a beautiful woman, but she was pleasantly attractive. She was well-proportioned and personable. She lifted my foot, still encased in its boot. Slowly and carefully she eased the boot off by rocking it very gently and pulling it in a straight line. She removed my sock holding in two hands. Then she lifted my leg straight and placed my foot on to her sternum, feeling round it. I tried so hard not to think of my foot held tightly by her ample bosom while she took a crepe bandage and bound my ankle. Then she did an amazing thing. She lifted my discarded sock and rolled it down. Slowly and carefully she placed it over my toes and then unrolled it back to my knee. Amazing did I say?

And there is was. All that adrenaline and testosterone and other long words coursing around my body at the same time. Chemistry at last. Alchemy perhaps. I always wondered if she knew ,,, ]]> EasternWolf http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=151 The Diary: Part 6, it was a very good year for village girls ..when i was 15 http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=149 Mon, 19 Dec 2011 16:15:05 GMT Fiona later became a ballet dancer. At 15 she was tall and slender. Her finely shaped cheekbones gave her an exotic look that seemed to light up... Fiona later became a ballet dancer. At 15 she was tall and slender. Her finely shaped cheekbones gave her an exotic look that seemed to light up something inside me. Her voice was like cut glass. I dropped Latin and took up Geography. My Maths was atrocious. Our Chemistry was more like Experimental Biology turning slowly into Physics. One day we were all in the Main Hall watching an old movie …I like … old movies … It was a precursor of the Magnificent Seven called The Seven Samuri. It was to become the first time that I held a girl’s hand with intent. Shortly after I started, a bellow came from behind us.

‘You, boy, in my office NOW!’

That was no way to treat Cary Grant. But there I was, a bumbling Jerry Lewis standing in the headmaster’s study. A stern lecture followed. Apparently, it was neither the time nor the place to be holding a girl’s hand. Apparently he was in two minds whether to tell Fiona’s father about my behaviour with his daughter …

Fiona’s father was a Wing Commander at the RAF base. He was nothing like the stereotypical ‘Wingco’ of wartime cinema. He was a small quiet man who liked nothing better than a game of chess. His wife was French, but nice despite that. They had their dinner about 7 pm and a strange thing called luncheon at proper dinner time. They came from a different world where people were encouraged to wash their hands at every opportunity and to stand up when other people entered the room. They didn’t mind me - they really didn’t! Maybe they saw me as an opportunity to introduce a different bloodline into their family at some later stage.

It was for Fiona that I adopted the guise of a rather thin version of Colin Cowdrey and wore my blazer and cap when I played cricked for the local team as well as for the school. At that time, my brother opened the batting for the village and I went from number 10 or 11 and eventually up to number 6. He was the master of the square cut and cover drive. As a left hander, I hooked and pulled. He was a wicket keeper and I bowled left breaks. At school I became the captain of cricket, largely because I played regular cricket with grown men and, in particular, against proper fast bowling.

Playing cricket in a grammar school in the 1960s meant that one had to adopt good manners and sportsmanship. One also had to be familiar with the etiquette of the game. Quite often in village cricket, that aspect of it was overlooked.

Cometh the hour, cometh the man. We turned up at some obscure village on a Sunday afternoon only to find that my brother’s opening partner was not feeling good. After much discussion the captain decided that I could open the batting with my brother. It was the opportunity to impress, not only with the bat, but with my ‘correct’ approach to the game. My brother faced the bowling and after a couple of balls he edged a single down towards third man.

“Yes, one run” I called and we ran it easily.

I looked past the umpire at the bowler’s end and could see the infamous ‘Big Reg’ rubbing the ball on his whites. His sleeves were rolled up beyond his elbow and the muscles of his forearm flexed in the sunshine. No fear.

“Two legs, please umpire’, I asked in the clear and somewhat clipped voice often used by Fiona’s father when he was on the telephone to his mates.

The umpire stood there with Reg’s sweater tied round him, looking vacantly in my direction. He waved his finger about and I moved my bat.

It was late afternoon when I came round. I was in the pavilion. My temple throbbed and I had a bandage wrapped round my head. Someone offered me a glass of brandy to sip. The kind ladies who made the teas fussed around me. Apparently, the umpire who had helped to carry me off had said

“Well, this here boi, hev got the straingst batting stance oi ever saw and oi rember him a saying dont you let Big Reg hit moi legs and I waved him to keep ‘em out o the way, but when Reg bowled he just stood there wi his bat stairt up sideways and dint move. Thet bouncer hit him so hard on the hid and he went a down in a heap.”

Apparently, while I was taking guard, the umpire had brought his arm from the signal to the bowler to wait to direct me. Reg had taken that as the signal to ‘play’.

By then our team had lost 8 wickets and I recovered sufficiently to go in at 11. The brave little soldier in me marched out to the middle. I did not bother with taking guard again. The opposing team clapped me all the way in. Big Reg was on his second spell by then and I was determined to put him over square leg with a pull shot.

He came in at speed and I watched the ball leaving his hand. My left leg went back and across. My backlift went to level with my waist and away from me. I rotated my upper body, following the line and flight of the ball. I brought my bat round swiftly… and the ball took my off stump back to first slip.

Back on the school bus the next day with Fiona, I played the part of her hero as we held hands again. Nothing would ever part us ... nothing - until the scholarship offer came from Saddlers Wells a year later and by then I was already in love with Jonquil. ]]> EasternWolf http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=149 The Diary: Part 5, The red mist descends and more disgrace ensues http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=146 Fri, 16 Dec 2011 15:08:09 GMT By this time my dad was the ‘trainer’ of the village team; that is to say he attended to the on-field injuries with his wet sponge in its plastic... By this time my dad was the ‘trainer’ of the village team; that is to say he attended to the on-field injuries with his wet sponge in its plastic bag, a few bandages and iodine and some new fangled spray stuff that froze your damaged leg if necessary. He agreed to act for both sides.

I was playing inside left and my brother was the opposing right back so it was inevitable that we would come into direct contact at some stage. We were about fifteen minutes into the game and I received the ball and ran forward with it. The centre- half – we only had one in those days - was a slow burly lad, but if he hit you it was curtains. To avoid him I moved out to the left and into the area that my brother controlled. He advanced towards me. I should have passed the ball but somehow the red mist came down and I decide that as he tackled me, I would go over the top and get his shin. He lay on the ground writhing as I danced on past him. The whistle blew. Charlie the ref beckoned me. No red and yellow cards in those days, just a finger pointing for me to go and a telling off.

“What are you fucking playing at you little twerp? Get off.”

By then my father was in attendance to my brother and as I passed him he looked up and said

“Wait there.”

I waited there and, when my brother was on his feet, father took my arm and pushed me off in front of him. It was the only time I ever remember him hitting me. And I deserved it. No longer the gentleman Grammar School player, I was to be regarded as ‘a dirty sod’ by all in sundry. My brother and I never played on opposing sides again.

Later I also played in the Eastern Counties League with my brother, but only briefly because my mind turned towards girls in a big way and playing football never seemed quite so important after that. ]]> EasternWolf http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=146 The Diary: Part 4, Great Expectations and Disgrace http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=145 Fri, 16 Dec 2011 15:00:33 GMT My early decision to support Wolves was justified as the team of my dreams became the top side in the universe for a few short years. As the fortune... My early decision to support Wolves was justified as the team of my dreams became the top side in the universe for a few short years. As the fortune and success of my club rose, so also did that of my family. The explosion of what later became known as social housing at the conclusion of all hostilities meant that we could move from our damp cottage opposite the bike repairer’s shed into a spanking new council house. It also meant that we moved our ground and were able to take possession of a strip of ground in the middle of the estate and the sight of several boys in long grey school shorts pushing their father’s lawn mowers up and down was soon to be seen. It was ideal. It also meant that my own social circle expanded and that the council estate brought together many of the village boys from what was otherwise a long straggling village. We could have two teams of five or six of us most days. They were all there, Matthews, Finney, Dixie Dean, Ted Ditchburn and of course Peter Broadbent. We were an enterprising lot and whenever the ball got a puncture, one of us could nip home and get the family bicycle tyre mending tin and affect a repair. We were in a goldfish bowl and our mother’s could see we got up to no mischief as they went about their own daily business. That little gang became a nucleus of what was to later become the village junior team when we became teenagers and, later still, the official village team to play in the local league. Stability is the key to success and that team played together from its humble beginnings for nigh on 20 years. Not surprisingly it also became the village cricket team, although some of us went on to play for bigger teams in that particular sport. I put it all down to the wisdom of the planning authorities who left the large area of open space for us to take over. Nobody ever gave us permission to do it, but nobody ever said we couldn’t either. My guess is, however, that if I went back there now, they would be no kids playing football or cricket on that hallowed turf.

The age of eleven came and we were all required to leave the village on a daily basis to go to our secondary education in distant towns. Apart from myself, all the boys went to the same secondary modern school in one town and I went to a grammar school in another. I was the chosen one, it seemed. I remember my parent’s taking me for us all to be interviewed by a stern headmaster who was as unlike Mr K as anyone could be. Somehow after he had given my parents the once over I was accepted into the fold. Later that evening I could hear the fevered discussion from my parent’s bedroom as they agonised over the list of uniform and games equipment that had to be purchased from the special shop. I realised then that, far away from my little village green where everyone was equal, money and privilege separates us and lack of money taints us. I was tainted by being poor and tainted by alienation from my boyhood pals.

My alienation was reflected in the attitude of my village chums. Almost immediately they called me names each night as I descended from the school bus. I was ridiculed as a ‘grammar grub’ and, while they kicked and tumbled about on the pitch outside, I was obliged to sit and do Latin homework and all the other stuff that the others failed to accept was imposed upon me. No benefit of the doubt for me. I was snooty and remote and certainly too big for my boots. I played my football and cricket for the school and house teams and learned to speak nicely and act like a gentlemen on the pitch (by comparison). In the meantime, my former friends still F’d and blinded and kicked each other to bits.

The first summer school holidays changed things. No homework. There was plenty of time for Peter Broadbent to bestride the park. Strangely, I was accepted back without a whimper of dissent. In fact, I was asked to be the captain of the little team that would venture forth to play the boys of neighbouring villages. There was nothing formal in the arrangements. A group of us would cycle to a village under a white flag and ask them if they wanted a game of ‘footy’ some time the next week. They usually accepted and we would play home and away games on the proper village football pitches that had been donated to all and sundry around the time of the Queen’s Coronation. Sometimes we would even have a referee if one of the senior village players was off work or on his holidays. We had hit the big time.

By that time my brother was playing in the Eastern Counties League as a right back. I was that strange mixture of pride, jealousy and disillusionment that teenage boys often become. I felt that I was the more talented and that it would only be a matter of time before I would prove myself. My opportunity came one Sunday in the pre-season period of proper football. My junior team challenged the older lads from the village team and others to a game. They accepted and my brother agreed to turn out for them. I had never played against him in a proper game before, mainly because of our age difference; now was my chance. ]]> EasternWolf http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=145 The Diary: Part 3, Silk Shorts and an argumentative nature. http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=144 Fri, 16 Dec 2011 12:03:14 GMT We were a poor family. Luxury for us came intermittently. Trudging about the fields as boys, we often found a few yards of parachute silk to take... We were a poor family. Luxury for us came intermittently. Trudging about the fields as boys, we often found a few yards of parachute silk to take home to our families or long coils of silver paper that was designed to fool radar. The silver made wonderful Christmas decorations and the silk would be made into ladies underwear. Sometimes I would also be given a pair of silk pants which would never be worn for fear that my friends would find out. On one such occasion however my mother made me a pair of football shorts and dyed them black. Never satisfied, I crazed her to make an old gold shirt. Mother was good, but not that good. Instead she took and old white shirt and dyed it a mustard colour, adding black silk collars from the trimmings of my parachute silk shorts. I had my first Wolves kit.

At our primary school we were fortunate to have an ancient headmaster who was a football fan. Whenever it was games afternoon on a Wednesday he would emerge from his study in a pair of football boots with his suit trousers tucked into his socks. He would then chase about the football field with us pretending to be Stanley Matthews. Years earlier, as a young man, he had done the same with my father’s generation. The first time I wore my school kit he said: who are you? And my answer was, of course, “I am Peter Broadbent, sir.” I could not have been more proud had I been the man himself. Being a brave lad, I asked him: “Who are you, sir?”- meaning which footballer are you? He looked at me and said “Don’t be stupid, boy, I’m the headmaster.”

I shall call him Mr K and I suppose for the early 1950s he was a remarkably kind and generous man to be headmaster of a school that was otherwise taught at by pale men who had been prisoners of war in Europe and the Far East and elderly ladies whose husbands all resided in a foreign land that was forever England. Because of their own losses, they seemed to have become equally as cruel as the men who had held them prisoner, or in the case of the ladies, had killed their husbands and boyfriends. Mr K could also be fierce and frightening at times but generally he was a decent and kindly man.

It was a couple of Christmas’s later that I had received yet another football annual, this time a Charles Buchan’s Annual. This one had a cover picture of Stanley Mathews in his England kit on the front cover. Somehow I had got into a discussion with Mr K about the colour of the England socks. Mr K had called me a stupid boy for claiming they were red. He said they were dark blue. Once again I waited for the ideal time and, in front of my friends, I produced the picture of Mathews in his white shirt, dark blue shorts and red socks and handed it to the headmaster. He taught me a lot that day because he stood there, nodded and said: “there you are, I told you they were red, didn’t I?” That told me a lot about evidence, much of which would come in handy, years later.

A year on from Mr K made me Head Boy, so he couldn’t have minded that much. ]]> EasternWolf http://www.wolvesforum.co.uk/blog.php?b=144