v Hull (home) 3rd Jan 1970

Did I hear you say that there must be a catch
Will you walk away from a fool and his money
Come and get it - Badfinger - #4 Jan 70

The alarm clock woke him at 6am, its ring-a-ting-ting cutting through the frigid air in his attic bedroom and easing its way underneath the old satin covered eiderdown that he'd wrapped himself in through the night, shattered the dream of him and Rachel Welch on a table top in the tap room at the Cardigan Arms, dragged him from the depths of his slumber without so much as a "by your leave" it burst the sleep bubble and rudely dragged his senses into the new day that awaited cold and frozen outside.

"What the flamin hell..." the curse from inside the old bedquilt as a pyjama'd arm reached out and groped along the bedside table blindly trying to locate the bloody alarm clock and to stop its ear splitting ring, why the hell did he have to wind the bell up fully every night ?

The still awakening brain was not making too good a job of guiding the hand across the table to the jangling, jingling alarm clock and as each metallic ring etched itself into the brain, the brain discovered that its host's body had still not disposed of most of last nights Tetleys bitter which sat still fermenting in its hosts stomach, still producing acid that was now registering a burning signal to another part of the brain, the blood supply that had been diverted to the stomach overnight to deal with the removal of the massive amount of alchohol consumed had depleted the oxygen supply to other parts and hence the muscles that surrounded the brain outside his skull had tightened and now spasmed with every ring-a-ting of the alarm bell and he groaned out loud as the combined effects hit him in the barely concious part of his brain that screamed "bloody hangover", and while all this was registering another part of his brain received a signal from his nose that implored him to remove the eiderdown from his head before the sulphorous fumes processed overnight by his gut and expelled into the coccon in which he had wrapped himself, finally poisoned him.

The hand had found something on the table but before it could grip it properly it had knocked it onto the floor from where the glass of water bounced on the linoleum and spilled its contents all over the rag rug that had been liberated from his grandmothers house after she'd died.

"Shit.."

The bells slowed and became less urgent as if they understood that he was now awake, their job was done and now they stopped altogether, the alarm spring totally unwound, and now the man could stop groping for the alarm button and concentrate on unravelling himself from the untidy pit of eiderdown and thin cotton sheets that had wrapped him and protected him from the freezing night like an egyptian mummy, and when he had finally managed to get both legs out of the sheets and gingerly placed both feet onto the lino, shuddering involuntarily from the cold shock, he had cursed again as levitating himself upright had swilled the contents of his stomach around and forced an acidic belch up from his stomach which hurt his throat and stank in his mouth like rotten flesh, why oh why did he do this to himself every Friday night ?

"Shit.."

This was Saturday morning.
He didn't need to be up at 6am.
Force of habit made him wind up the alarm every night, force of habit and being idiot-drunk when he came in last night.

Still, no point in sitting here on the edge of the bed, belching, farting sulphur, may as well get up and have a fag and the first of several cups of tea, sweet tea this morning, sweet tea and toast to soak up the beer, some bacon fat would help too, and so he stood up carefully, holding one hand across his forehead to forestall the fresh painfull pumping of blood as the brain tried to kick into top gear to drive this wreck of a 20 year old body downsatirs for sustinence.

"Ahhh, bollocks.."

The low sloping ceiling of the attic bedroom caught him across the top of his scalp as he stood up because, despite the fact that he had slept in this room with his younger brother since he was born, his brain had not loaded that piece of information into the useable part of his memory this morning, being pre-occupied with keeping last nights ale in his stomach.

"Can't you be quiet .." his brothers muffled voice erupted from beneath his mountain of sheets, an eiderdown and his sheepskin coat, "I don't have work today.."

"No neither do bloody I" the man mumbled to no-one in particular.

He stumbles down the narrow staircase, so narrow that his shoulders touch the wall on both sides, to the first floor of the house where his parents bed room and the recently added inside toilet and bathroom stand crammed on a tiny landing, then down another narrow flight of stairs to the living room with its scullery off to the left, apart from the cellar the swift but clumbsy stagger downstairs achieved whilst holding his head in his hands had encompassed all of the rooms in the small back-to-back house in the short but steep cul-de-sac that was Lumley Mount.

In the scullery with the kettle bubbling away on a gas ring and a frying pan sizzling four slices of fatty bacon he hops from one foot to the other trying to stop his bare feet from freezing on contact to the lino. The inside of the scullery window is still patterned on the inside with frost apart from a small piece at the bottom of the window that the heat from the gas ring has started to thaw and he bends down to gaze through this at the outside world although he knows exactly what he will find as he'd walked back up Burley Hill from the Cardigan Arms in the frozen slush last night, sure enough the world outside is still frozen solid and will be for a few more weeks yet just as it had been since before christmas.

Three days into this new year and the world continues as normal, nothing has changed in his life, and he knows damn well that nothing will change in 1970, he's 20 years old, lives with his parents in a small rented house in a working class area of Leeds, study's two nights a week at tech so that he can finally shake off his apprenticeship bonds at the engineering factory down Kirkstall Road and earn some decent money next year, maybe even apply for a job at the Monkbridge Forge where his neighbour Sid Fensome worked, highly skilled they are at the Monkey, make turbine blades for Rolls Royce, loads of overtime, Fenno is rolling in it, he'd have some of that next year when he gets his indenture papers back.

For now its more bloody 6am wake up calls in a frozen attic bedroom and a five minute walk to the bus stop on Burley Road, a nine hour shift at Woodheads on Kirkstall Road, five days a week and some Saturday morning overtime if you were lucky, nine hours stood minding a lathe that spits hot shards of metal at you from the bolts it's carving out of solid lumps of stainless steel, a monotony only broken when the cutting tool needs changing or tolorances adjusting, or the whole bloody machine needs setting up again for a different sized bolt, but even then you have to shout for a skilled setter to come and do it for you because even though you could do it in your sleep you're still only an apprentice and the company don't officially let you tinker with the lathes like that.

The bacon inside his two slices of Mother Pride is crisp and burnt, its how he likes it, and he's just putting a dollop of tomato sauce on it when his dad kicks open the staircase door behind the table where he sits, its obvious that he too has a saturday morning hangover and its obvious that he would have liked to sleep it off.

"What the bloody hell are you doing up at this time, what time is it anyway you daft bugger ?"
"I forgot, set the alarm didn't I"
"Yer daft bugger"
"Aye"
"Mek me a cup of tea"

And as he stands up to go make his father a cup of strong but sweet tea, his father sits in the seat that he had just vacated and takes a big bite out of the bacon sandwich.

"An yer can mek me one of these an all, yer daft bugger, five an twenty past bloody six..."

Later they both sit at the small wax cloth covered table at the back of the room, hugging their pots of tea in both hands, waiting for their respective hangovers to ease, sharing one of the old mans Gold Leaf cigarettes, the tiny glowing ember at the end of the cigarette the only source of heat in the house, the father wearing an old khaki army greatcoat that he uses as a dressing gown these days, the son still in his cotton pyjamas and bare feet and although the living room window is still frosted on the inside the son doesn't feel the cold as much now he has the hot sweet tea inside him.

"You goin to match ?"
"Aye dad, you ?"
"If its on"
"It'll be on, undersoil 'eating'll be on"
"Aye yer right, its on telly, BBC'll be paying 'leccy bill"
"Its on telly if you've got a telly"
"Nowt wrong with our telly"
"It won't stay on for more than 'alf an hour"
"One of t'valves is loose thats all, it packs in when it gets too 'ot"
"Like ah say, bloody tellys knackered"
"Ave just told you, its just a dicky valve, theres nowt wrong wi'telly, ah know what you want, but we're not getting a colour one"
"Don't get yer knickers in a twist dad"
"Well theres nowt wrong wi'telly, its a Baird, years of life in it yet"
"Lets just put it this way then dad, match is on telly this afty, but you're going to t'ground instead of watching it on telly"
"I like to watch it in t'ground, not the same on telly"
"You've changed yer bloody tune"
"I go lots of times, got me own space in t'paddock wi' Wilf an Earnest"
"I bet you don't kow who we're playing today then, eh ?"
"I bloody do you cheeky bugger, its Hull int' it ?
"Aye, go on then, name one Hull player"
"You think your so bloody clever you, I wor watching rugby league long afore you were born you know"
"Go on then, name one"
"That blackie, Sullivan, there clever clogs, give me that ciggie"

There's a long pause as each man sits with his thoughts on this afternoon rugby match, the son takes his last long draught of tea, stands up from the table and walks three paces to the sideboard where the large wooden radio sits. He turns one of the knobs on the front and stands and waits as the dial with its multitude of cities of the world enscribed on it slowly illuminates, and then a faint whistling noise eminates from the huge cloth speaker frontage which gets louder as he fiddles with another knob until the strains of "Lets work together" by Canned Heat bursts loud and clear through the static, and the son sways his hips to the music and raises his arms above his head to click his fingers in the beat, cig hanging from his lips he dances silently there, in his pyjamas.

"Turn that bloody racket down yer daft bugger, yer mother's still asleep upstairs, you'll 'ave the whole street up"
"Keep yer hair on daddy-o"

And he turns the volume down slightly as his father mutters "I'll bloody daddy-o you", taking a packet of his own PLayers Number 6 cigarettes from the sideboard drawer he takes a few steps to the scullery, takes the teapot from the drainer and returns to the table with it, this mornings hangover needs another pot to shift it.

Two cigarettes are lit, one passed to his father and he draws deeply on the other and exhales slowly, staring through the smoke with narrowed eyes,

"He's bloody fast is Sullivan, Atki'll have to watch him this afty"
"Course he's bloody fast, he's a blackie"
"What does that mean ?"
"Well he is isn't he, hes a blackie and hes fast"
"What, he's fast because he's a blackie is that what you're saying ?"
"You know what I mean, he's only in the team because he's fast and he's only fast because he's a blackie"
"Atkinson's fast and he's not a blackie"
"And long may it last lad, long may it last, we won't have blackies at Leeds you know"
"Bloody rubbish"
"We won't, they won't have them"
"Course they will, who's "they" anyway"
"The jewboys, won't have them at the club, well known in the paddock that is"
"Give over, you old bastards in the paddock are like a load of old women with yer gossip"
"We get to hear a lot more than you lot in the south stand"
"Oh yeah, like the directors lean over the wall and shout, 'ere George, we won't 'ave no blackies at this club you know"
"You can laugh, mark my words, you'll not see blackies playing at leeds, thats why that Sullivan gets the stick he does"
"He gets stick off you old wives in the paddock, he doesn't get it in from the south stand"
"Give over"
"No its true"
"Aye, like bloody hell its true"



Chapter 1 (continued)
v Hull Sat 3rd Jan 1970

Together we'll stand, divided we'll fall
Come on now people, let's get on the ball
And work together
Lets work together - Canned Heat - #2 Jan 70

They walk the short distance along Lumley Road and then up the hill to the rugby ground together, father and son wrapped up against the cold, the old man in his grey raincoat, thick hand-knitted muffler and flat cap, the son in the sheepskin coat that his parents had bought him for his 18th birthday topped off by a blue and amber knitted bobble hat that his auntie had knitted for him and although she'd used the wrong shade of blue he still wears it and on a freezing cold day like today he doesn't really care.

As they turn onto Beechwood Crescent they join the steady stream of men, old and young, heading up the hill towards the ground, and whilst they all have the common purpose of all rugby fans most of the ones making their way up the hill have one major difference - they are Hull fans, clad almost exclusively in black and white, most of it knitted by family members.

The buses from Hull have parked down at the bottom of Beechwood Crescent, as do all of the away supporters buses that arrive at Headingley and the father and son are engaged in the familiar cheerful banter, some of it already drunken, that always enlivens their short trip to the ground.

They find themselves in the middle of a group of Hull men, big, rough looking men, dockers probably, some are well on the way to being drunk, they've been drinking all the way across the A63 from Hull for the last three hours, they've probably taken this Saturday afternoon off work to follow their team on the once a year outing to Leeds, its like a special treat for some of these men and its fairly obvious that this is a pub or working mens club outing as they all know each other very well and the jokes and banter fly around the group while the father and his son keep their heads down in the midst of the rowdy crowd.

The father notices a Hull fan of a similar age to him walking slowly alongside, the other old man has trouble keeping up with his crowd as he seems to have a gammy leg and so the father drops back to acompany him and his son does the same, keen to let the crowd move on in front of them before the banter becomes too boisterous.

"Bad leg ?" the father asks pointing at the other old mans obvious bad leg.
"Aye"
"War ?"
"Aye"

There's a silence as the two old men silently acknowledge their common bond as old soldiers.

"We 'ad some of your East Yorkshie Regiment lads in wi' us in '44, up through Belgium"
"Did you ?"
"Aye, were you in t'East Yorkshire then ?"
"No"

Theres another silence as they slowly shuffle up the hill past the allotments.

"Navy then wor it ?"
"No"
"So what wor you then eh ?"
"Docker"

Its an answer that the old man from Hull has been giving for the last 25 years and with varied responses, today he's in no mood for taunts about his reserved occupation status during the war and he glares at the father as if challenging him to comment.

"Oh.....reserved occupation then"
"Aye"
"Jerry bombed bloody hell out of your lot didn't he ?"
"Aye, he bloody did that, are street got hit three tarmes"
"That where you got your leg wound ?"
"No, ah fell off a ladder in a ships 'old like"
"Oh"
"Its an inch an 'alf shorter than me other leg is this one now"
"Aye, I can see that"
"Mah bloody son's in that group up there, won't bloody wait for 'is fatha though, young bastard"

The son interrupts the stilted conversation to try and turn the conversation away from the always thorny topic of what two old men did in the war...

"You guna win this afty then grandad ?"
"We bloody beat you last month lad, ah reckon we'll do you agin terday an all, an don't call me grandad"
"Only just grandad, only just, one point weren't it ?"
"One points all it takes lad"

"Is yer blackie playing this afty then ?" the father interjects and the son closes his eyes, gazes to heaven in abject despair and screams in his head, "nooooo, why does he always have to stir it up like this ?

"Sullivan you mean ?" the other old man replies seemingly unperturbed
"Why 'ave you got another one now ?" his father laughs
"No just the one"
"Aye thats 'ow it should be"
"You'd 'ave 'im in a flash"
"No we wouldn't"
"You bloody would and you know it, he ran rings round Atkinson at are place"
"No, we won't sign blackies"

The old man from Hull laughs and nods his head, "Yer raaht there old lad, your jewboys'll not 'ave blackies in yer ground nivver maarnd yer team" and both old men laugh and agree with each other.

And when they finally arrive at the back of the south stand and the son has to leave them both to continue their slow trek up St Michaels Lane to the entrances for the terrace and the North Stand the two old men are chatting away like old friends and the one from Hull has forgotten that the group that he was with have left him behind and long since disappeared in the distance.

He takes his place in the south stand, centre section just in front of the ladder where Eddie Waring will shortly ascend to the commentary platform above their heads, and he nods his greetings at some of the familiar faces that he sees at every home game in this spot.

The ground is not very full today, in fact its barely a quarter full by his judgement, the freezing cold weather and the fact that BBC's Grandstand are covering the game, it being one of only a few sporting venues in the country with underfloor heating to guarantee that the game will go ahead makes it a dead cert for Grandstands live coverage, have meant that most people have stayed indoors today but the son has a season ticket and theres no point in spending a full three quid at the start of the season for a book of tickets if you're not going to use them, so he wraps up warm and stamps his feet on the concrete terracing to keep the circulation going and every now and again he takes his hand from deep down in his sheepskin coat pockets cups them together and blows on them, with a bit of luck there will be plenty to applaud this afternoon to keep him and the partisan south stand crowd warm and happy.

"Now then Eric"

The voice comes from behind and a large hand slaps him across the back of his sheepskin coat and even through the sheepskin it hurts, he turns his head part way around and asks "Do you always have to do that Wayne"

Wayne is a big daft lad, a labourer on a building site, brain the size of a pea but built like a brick shit house, he plays prop forward for Milford Amatuer Rugby League Club and in his mind was unlucky to be passed over for the Leeds Colts side two years ago, he still cant get over that day and honestly believes that he should be in the Leeds team that is about to run out on the pitch this afternoon, strangely enough this makes him very critical of his favourite team, especially of the two prop forwards.

"Are we having a pint ? You got a programme ?" Wayne is wound up tight before every game, just as if he would be if he were playing, he often goes through the motions of passing the ball or tackling a player when he's standing on the terraces, many is the time that he's grabbed hold of someones head to tackle them without even knowing it.

"No, and no, but here's five bob, mines a pint and get a programe will you"

Eddie Waring the BBC commentator arrives shortly before the kickoff in his light brown camel hair coat and brown trilby, clipboard in one hand, he takes the boos from the crowd in good heart and a man at the foot of the ladder slaps him heartily on the back and shares a joke with him before he starts the vertical climb up onto the south stand roof and the tension in the crowd mounts as they prepare themselves for the entry of the two teams.

Hull enter the field of play first with captain Arthur Keegan leading the black and whites onto the field of play, today they are playing in a white shirt with a black vee due to the fact that the BBC aren't covering this outside broadcast in colour and they need a complete contrast to Leeds' blue and amber shirt.

The Leeds team trot onto the field next from their dressing rooms in the corner of the ground to rapturous applause from the small crowd, especially from the paddock area in front of the north stand where his dad is standing with his two old mates Wilf and Earnest.

Finally Fred Lindop takes to the pitch to referee the game and as is the tradition both Leeds and Hull supporters boo him, the toss of a coin sees Hull playing from east to west and the Leeds supporters in the south stand have the opportunity to start the abuse of Clive Sullivan on the wing, both individually and collectively in the form of chants and songs pointing out the colour of his skin to those who hadn't already noticed but at least no-one throws a banana at him today.

Wayne returns five minutes into the game with two pints of bitter and a programme, he gives Eric his change and puts his pint on the concrete step beneath his feet while he checks the programme to see who the two Leeds props are today.

"Burke and Cookson, bastard, I could have had that Cookson you know, we played Fev a couple of years back an he was in the second row, big bloody nancy boy he was, look at him now, bloody Shirley Temple haircut, how the fuck he got a trial for Leeds I'll never know, got my bastard place he has"

An elderley man, well dressed in a suit and dark blue gaberdine leans forward and taps Wayne on the shoulder and asks him to "moderate his language please as they are not on the building site now" and Wayne apologises to him then turns to Eric and says out loud "How the fuck does he know I work on a building site ?"

The first half goes well for Leeds and Phil Cookson in particular plays a blinder, the prop that Wayne so elequently abuses as "yer big poofta" every time he gets the ball, the Leeds front row dominates the forward battle in the middle of the wet and muddy pitch. Ray Batten scores a try for Leeds and the new Leeds full back John Holmes converts the goal to put Leeds into a 5-0 lead after twenty minutes.

Wayne is also critical of the new full back, a tall gangly youth, no apparent muscle mass and a mop of curly brown hair, he is the antithesis of the traditional view of a rugby league player and with two more teenage years still to come he has some big shoes to fill in the shape of the recently retired Bev Risman, Wayne has his doubts and calls him a "nancy boy" too but admits that he has a good kicking boot on him and if he can stay clear of the opposition forwards then he might survive the winter.

Leeds score a second try just before half time thanks to an individual display of rugby masterclass from Mick Shoebottom the Leeds stand off who twists his way out of one tackle then sidesteps two other would be tacklers to run thirty yards and completely wrong foot the Hull full back to score under the posts, Holmes again converts the try although Wayne is convinced that the big girls blouse is going to miss it and Leeds go in at half time 10-0 up.

Half time is an excuse for another pint and big daft Wayne goes to fetch them again and while he's gone two other friends join them, Big Dave and Smiffy, Big Dave being, well, big, bigger than Wayne, and Smiffy having no neck to speak of and very little hair since he was fifteen is named after the Bash Street Kids character.

Smiffy is chomping on a meat pie and instantly Eric feels pangs of hunger until he asks Smiffy where he bought the pie, when he replies "In the bar", Eric asks him to confirm "The south stand bar ?" and Smiffy confirms, and then suddenly Eric isn't so hungry anymore. The south stand bar is only open on matchdays every second weekend and its a well known fact that the pies can often sit under their plastic domes on the bar top for several home games.

"By its bloody perishing today mate" Big Dave is flapping his arms back and forth across his chest in an effort to keep warm.
"Should have put a coat on then" Eric observes as Big Dave stands there in an arran patterned sweater that his mum knitted for him, although if she'd known how much wool it would take she'd never have started it.
"I left me coat in t'Cardigan Arms last neet"
"Yer daft bugger, it'll still be there toneet though"
"Not if someone wogs off with it it won't"
"No-one'll nick your coat, its bloody threadbare"
"That tramp int' tap room might have it, Filthy whatsis name"
Eric laughs, "Even Filthy 'Arold wouldn't nick your coat, you'd do better to nick his"

Big Dave mumbles something about not being able to afford a new coat, he doesn't mumble the fact that its because all of his money gets spent on beer seven nights a week though.

Shoebottom wrong foots another Hull defender and throws a pass out wide to Ron Cowan who puts a quick pass out to his wingman John Atkinson but Clive Sullivan the black Hull winger that the crowd love to abuse sees the pass coming and intercepts it, running forty yards unchallenged to put the ball down inbetween the Leeds posts, the small group of Hull supporters on the Western Terrace go wild with excitement while the rest of the ground stamp their feet in exasperation, the try is converted and its 10-5.

Big Wayne rejoins them from the south stand bar with two pints of bitter and after greeting Big Dave and Smiffy turns to Eric and asks "Have I missed anything ?", Eric simply points to the scoreboard on the Eastern Terrace and Wayne sighs, "Oh bloody hell, what happened there then ?"

"If you'd been here, then you'd know, where've you been ?" asks Eric of the bemused Wayne.
"Had to go to t'slabs afore I went to t'bar mate" Wayne explains, "There was a queue, queued for t'slabs and queued for flippin bar an all"
"Did you have a piss ?" Eric asks out of curiosity
"Aye, why ?"
"Did you wash your hands ?"
"I don't know, why ?"
"You had your finger in the top of this beer when you were carrying it just then, give me yours you filthy bugger"
"Hark at you, I suppose you wash your hands when you go to t'slabs do you ?"
"Aye I do"
"Alus knew you were a big poofta - GO ON LEEDS"

A penalty for collapsing the scrum goes against Leeds and another two points are added to the scoreboard, its 10-7.

With twenty minutes to go the flat faced Alan Smith on the right wing takes a short pass from his centre Sid Hynes and somehow manages to keep his feet out of touch when diving just inside the corner flag to score a try the conversion for which the big girls blouse John Holmes goes and misses, 13-7 and its still anyones game although the Leeds forwards are doing a magnificent job of holding back the Hull pack in the middle of the field, much to Waynes disgust as its not giving him any ammunition with which to berate his nemesis Phil Cookson.

A penalty against Hull for foul play gives Holmes the chance to redeem his missed kick from forty yards out but his kick hits the post and then just two minutes later and on the other side of the field from where the last Leeds try was scored, John Atkinson snatches at a loose ball after some sloppy Hull attacking play, cold fingers no doubt resulting in the ball spillage, Atkinson cannot be stopped from twenty yards out and this time Holmes converts the try from the touchline, 18-7 and with ten minutes to go the smiles are spreading on the Leeds faces.

The final ten minutes are a scrappy, ill tempered affair and two more penalties are kicked for Leeds witha final one at the death for Hull, Fred Lindops whistle signals the end of a typical red bloodied clash between these two old enemies and at 22-9 Leeds can be said to have avenged their narrow one point defeat at Hull just four weeks earlier, the players leave the field and logjam at the concrete ramp in the far corner of the field where the changing rooms are located, steam rises from their backs and heads and several of them take the opportunity to scrape the worst of the clods of mud from their hair and shirts while they wait to enter the changing rooms.

The four lads in the south stand applaud the payers from the field and as he stand there Eric glances across at the paddock to where his father and his two friends usually stand and he notices two things, the old bloke from Hull is standing next to his dad, and Jack Myerscough the club chairman, a tall, bald, stocky man in his full length worsted coat, is passing along the pitch side towards the dressing room right in front of where his father is stood and as he passes its obvious that someone in the crowd has shouted something to the chairman for he turns and glares indiscriminately and continues walking along the touchline whereas Erics dad, his two friends and his new found comrade from Hull seem to find something hilarious.

Its only much later on that evening in the Burley Liberal Club that Eric finds out that it was his father that had made the remark to Jack Myerscough, a remark that enquired as to whether he'd be prepared to put his hand in his pocket to buy a blackie winger like Sullivan.