v Batley (home) Sat 7th Feb 1970

Down on the corner, out in the street,
Willy and the poorboys are playin;
Bring a nickel; tap your feet.
Down on the Corner - Creedence Clearwater Revival - #31 Feb 70


He pulls back the single curtain on the living room window and sleepily gazes out at the lashing rain which has relentlessly pounded the grey cobblestones of Burley for the previous four days.

The small front yard of the back-to-back property on Lumley Mount that his dad rents from a man who lives in the posher district of Roundhay, a man that they have never met but a man who employs a particularly obnoxious, oily little runt to collect the rent every Friday night, is flooded to a depth of a couple of inches near the low front wall and if the pool of water encroaches any nearer to the house he knows his dad will make him go out there in the rain with a broom and sweep it into the street before it starts to flood the cellar.

He takes three steps across the tiny living room to the old utility sideboard on the wall opposite the fireplace and turns a dial on the huge Pye radio that sits atop the austere, dark veneered plywood cabinet that his mother polishes with love every day as if it were a Chippendale, and watches as the tuning dial glows a dirty orange and eventually from somewhere inside the mysterious depths of the two waveband machine there comes a hissing noise because once again its moved off its Radio One tuning spot and so he tweaks the tuning dial a fraction to catch the last of the monotone refrain of Lee Marvin groaning that he was born under a wandering star.

Ed Stewpot Stewart reads another dedication to another child somewhere in the south of the country and the sounds of White Plains "My Baby Loves Lovin" fills the small, cold and slightly damp living room as he goes into the scullery to put the kettle on the gas ring for the first of this mornings cups of tea and while he is in there his dad stomps down the staircase and slams open the door into the living room,

"Eric, where are you"
"In the scullery dad, cup of tea ?"
"No, put yer coat on, I might need a push again"
"I'm in me pyjamas dad"
"Nivver mind, get some boots on and put my raincoat on, I'm late"

His dad has got an overtime shift this saturday morning in the joinery shop at Kirkstall Forge but he's late and his Honda 50 moped hasn't been starting that well in the rain this week, if it wont fire up on the short descent down the hill onto Lumley Road then he'll have to push the bloody moped until it does start while his dad sits on it peddling like buggery.

"Jesus christ, you need to get rid of that bloody thing"
"Nowt wrong with it once it gets going"
"It won't get going though will it, thats whats bloody wrong with it"
"Stop bloody arguing and put that raincoat on, come on I'm late"
"Jesus christ..."

By the time he's dragged his work boots down from the shelf at the top of the cellar stairs and pulled on the old raincoat that always hangs behind the cellar stairs door his dad is outside and has pulled back the tarpaulin that shelters his Honda 50 moped from the worst of the rain each night and he helps the old man wheel it out onto the street and holds it while his father straps on the off white "tin pot" helmet with the scuffed leather sides and pulls on the old goggles that he bought in an army surplus store, "Monty's desert goggles" his dad always calls them, he'll need them today in this rain.

While he's waiting for his dad to prepare himself for the journey to The Forge he pulls the raincoat tightly around his neck with one hand, his bare feet inside the work boots are cold and rain is already trickling inside them as he didn't tie them up before he rushed outside, what a bloody miserable start to a saturday, if he hadn't got up to have a piss and then found himself downstairs making a pot of tea then he'd still be in bed and his old man would have to sort out the bloody moped on his own.

"Right, I'm ready, go wait at bottom of t'street for me"

He turns into the wind and belting rain to trudge down the short hill to wait for his dad and the knackered moped when they reach the level intersection with Lumley Road, its tough peddling the moped along Lumley Road on the cobbles, in fact its quicker to walk than to try and pedal that bloody thing, he turns back to his father,

"You going to t'match this afty ?"
"What ?"
"Going to t'match ?"
"Hang on"

His father unbuttons the press studs on the helmet and lifts up one of the leather flaps to hear him better

"You what ?"
"Ah said, are you going t'match this afty ?"
"Who's playing ?"
"You've forgotten already haven't you ?"
"No, who is it ?"
"Its challenge cup"
"Ah know, but who is it ?"
"Batley"
"Oh aye, yeah, if I'm back in time, depends on t'foreman"
"I'll not wait then"
"No, now gerrof down t'street"

As predicted the moped coughs and puffs out miniature clouds of blue smoke as it hurtles down the 50 yards of hill that is Lumley Mount but it doesn't fire up of its own accord and his dad has to brake as he reaches the intersection with Lumley Road, the son can see his dads mouth moving in a curse as man and bike slide sideways around the corner of the street in a speedway stylee, and he screams out at his son "Push you bugger, Push, c'mon..."

He pushes man and machine for 150 yards along the cobbles before the moped coughs once then whimpers into life, put-put-putting his father off on his way to work at a stately 15mph, the son gets a wave from his father in some sort of thanks before he turns to walk back to Lumley Mount.

As he passes one of the many identical terraced houses on Lumley Road he notices a neighbour with his head under the bonnet of a Reliant Robin, another victim of the relentless damp, another bloke who is going to be late for work again because he relies too much on unreliable transport, the man stands up from under the bonnet as he passes.

"Ay up Eric"
"Ay up", he can't remember his neighbours name but he drinks in The Cardigan sometimes.
"Know owt about cars then ?"
"Aye, yours is knackered, your forever under that bonnet"
"Ah know, yer cheeky bugger, ah'm going to be late for work again, bloody ovvertime today an all"
"Aye, ah've just pushed old man off on his nifty fifty, he'll be late an all"
"Aye ah watched yer, couldn't give me a push an all could you, its just this damp see..."
"Ah'm in me pyjamas mate, ah've got kettle on in t'house..."
"Go on it won't take a minute, just get me to top of Stanmore Hill, theres a good lad"
"Ah'm in me bloody pyjamas..."

But the neighbour has already jumped in the three wheeled car and turned the key in the dead ignition and is motioning for Eric to go behind the car and shove it out onto the street.

"Ah'm in me bloody pyjamas, ah'm bloody soaked wet through, and ah've had no bloody breakfast yet..." but no-one is listening.

And when he's pushed his neighbours tiny fibre glass car with the dead engine thats no more powerful than the one on his dads moped to the top of Stanmore Hill and watched it gather momentum down the steep slope, weaving from side to side, skidding and slipping on the wet cobbles, and when it explodes into life with a bang and a flash of expelled petrol, he receives another wave of acknowledgement from a grateful driver and turns once more into the wind and perpetual lashing rain, pulls the raincoat collar around his neck and heads up the hill to the shelter of his home, a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich on his mind.

But as he climbs the four stone steps to their front door it is opened by his mother holding the scullery pedal bin in her hand,

"Put this in t'bin Eric love"
"For christ sakes mother can't it wait, look at me, ah'm out here in me pyjamas"
"What you doing out in this weather in yer pyjamas yer daft sod ?"
"Ah don't know mother, but ah'm soaked and I want me breakfast"
"Well seeing as you're already wet, empty this in t'bin and I'll put kettle on love"
"Ah put kettle on ten minutes ago mother"
"Aye well, I've just used all that for my cuppa, I'll boil you another"

He carries the pedal bin back down the steps to the metal dustbin that stands in the corner of the yard, currently standing in four inches of rainwater, and notices then that the bloody cats have had the lid off the bin again and this weeks rubbish is strewn all around submerged in the water, and just as he's thinking about ignoring the mess of newspapers, potato and vegetable peelings and egg shells his mother reads his mind and as the rain starts to come down so heavy that he can almost not hear her she reminds him,

"Look at that bloody mess Eric, them bloody cats 'ave been in t'bin again wait 'till I see her at number 12, pick it all up before you come in won't you love ?"

And cursing his luck at getting out of bed so early he stands in the pool of rainwater which covers his boot tops and seeps in to his bare feet through the laceholes, distracting his thoughts from the fact that his pyjama bottoms are also soaking up rainwater, he bends and scoops up clumps of sodden, stinking rubbish and replaces it back in the bin, one of those bloody cats from up the street is going to pay for this one day soon.

v Bramley (home) 10th Jan 1970

I’m a man,
Yes I am and I can’t help but love you so
I'm a Man - Chicago - #8 Jan 70


Quarter to six on a saturday morning in January is no time to be setting out for work, even less so when its bleedin freezing, damp and thick of fog, the young man pulls the lapels of his sheepskin coat closer to his chin and it makes no difference, the chilled damp air pervades everything and already he is regretting volunteering for this saturday morning overtime which meant that he couldn't have his usual skinfull down the Cardigan Arms last night and got called a big puff by the lads when he left them in the tap room at 10pm with another round fresh on the table.

Just for the hell of it he holds his arm out straight in front of him, stretches it as far as it will go. Yes, the voice inside of his head confirms, you can just see your hand in front of your face in this fog, but only just.

He hurries on down Lumley Road and onto The Village Street towards Burley Road, he is late, he knows he is late but he isn't going to run in this fog, a lad could easily run into a lamp post in this fog, George the Quality Controller at work did that once last year, denied it of course, said his black eye and busted nose was the result of a pub fight, but one of the typists at Woodheads had watched from a seat downstairs on a number four bus as he had run into a bus stop on Kirkstall Road, running after a bus that didn't stop for him, shaking his fist at the driver he was when SMACK he went right into the bus stop, the typist could hardly tell the tale for laughing later on in the canteen and when George the Quality Controller turned up the next day with his black eye and busted nose and tried to tell them all about the fight he'd been in they had all laughed for ten minutes or more, collective hysteria it was, the young man had had to take himself off to the bogs to break the spell and he counted himself lucky that he hadn't literally pissed himself laughing that day.

He won't make it to the clock for six, he knows that, he'll be quartered again by that old bastard in the timekeeping office, even though he's volunteered for this shift, but its time and a half on a saturday morning so why should he care, work six hours till dinnertime, get paid for nine, knock off at twelve then off to the Cardigan Arms for a session before picking up a bag of chips and a walk back up this very hill to watch the rugby this afternoon.

If its still on that is, its getting bloody thicker down here he tells himself, the fog always settles on Burley Road and further down the hill on Kirkstall Road especially as thats right on the river, if its still this thick this afty they'll call the rugby off and the young man hopes that they call it off in plenty of time for it to be broadcast on Radio Leeds so that he can stay in the Cardigan all afternoon and spend his time and a half earnings in the bookies next door.

His heavy steel capped work boots don't click and ring on the pavement this morning, everything is dulled by the fog, there is no traffic noise, nothing at all except the wrap around cold dampness seeping thorugh the young mans sheepskin into his dark blue working overalls beneath so that he'll be cold and wet all morning stood at his lathe and he'll be cold and wet in the pub and at the rugby ground all afternoon and he hopes that his mums got a good fire going in the grate when he eventually gets home because that will be the first chance he'll have all day at getting some warmth into his bones, he should have stayed in his pit this morning, wrapped up in the old eiderdown, this is bloody stupid volunteering for this, bloody stupid.

He's fifty yards away from the bus stop when he suddenly hears the roar of the bus engine behind him, close behind him, the gears grind and the engine note rises and whines as the bus driver changes down a gear, ready to stop at the bus stop if anyone is there but in this fog he can't see that far yet and so he starts braking just in case, and he passes the young man without noticing him and despite the young man calling out to the conductor stood on the rear platform to "wait for me you bastards" the conductor does not ring the bell and the driver does not spot anyone at the bus stop and so he accelerates away leaving the young man running behind still twenty yards away.

The bastards, the young man curses again, he'll definitely be late now, definitely be quartered, might even get sent home if he's more than half an hour late, bollacks, and for the umpteenth time this morning the young man questions himself as to what he is doing here at this time on a saturday morning when he could easily still be in bed.

He sets off walking down Kirkstall Road, its a good fifteen minute walk to Woodheads but theres no other option, the buses are only every twenty minutes at this time on a saturday morning, he doesn't wear a watch to work, he's seen the photos that the union rep circulated that time about what happens when watches and rings get caught up in lathes, so he won't know what the time is until he gets to the Burtons factory clock, assuming that he can see it through this bleedin fog which he swears is getting thicker and he does the arms length test again - there, can't see your hand in front of you now, what the hell is he doing here ?

Its ten past six when he gets to the works entrance and he's got his excuses ready for Wilkinson, the miserable bastard of a timekeeper that will be stodd next to the clocking-on clock waiting for him, probably holding his card out ready for him with a sarcastic look on his face and a sarcastic comment to match, it'll make Wilkinsons day this will, knocking quarter an hour of him at time and a half.

He opens the big wooden door into the factory and the swirling denseness of the fog which has dulled all external noise so far in the young mans morning is instantly replaced with a bedlam like cacophany of banging, clashing, hammering, screeching and wailing of steel plate as it is cut, beaten, heated and moulded into shapes as specified by the management, strange shapes, pieces of steel moulded into something that not even the machine operators could tell you what, just that they are part BS376328A/98E, 20 dozen required by end of shift, no tolorance other than that stated on specification and drawing, everything inspected by George and his cronies in QC.

Being inside the building is a mixed blessing, its nice to be out of the freezing fog and even though the factory is not yet warm, its dry, and the noise of productivity will at least prevent that miserable bastard Wilkinson from hearing the outside door open and close, now if he can only just sneak past the old bastards office door he might find that one of his mates has already clocked him on this morning.

Wilkinsons office is a wooden room just ten yards inside the building from the entrance door. Its half glazed so that the old bastard can see whats going on in the factory and also spot anyone trying to sneak in late or sneak out early, the young man has little or no chance of trying to avoid Wilkinsons eagle eyes as the clocking on clock is mounted on the outside wall of Wilkinsons office giving him the perfect view of any shirkers.

The young man steps silently up to the first window of Wilkinsons office, presses himself against the wooden wall and ever so slowly leans forward to peer through the window, if Wilkinson is in there he'll duck down and crawl along underneath the windows, get changed, start his lathe up and then come back in an hours time and tell Wilkinson he forgot to clock on, but to his suprise he doesn't see Wilkinson in there, and while he stands there pressed up against the glass, both hands cupped around his eyes to eliminate the glare from the overhead flourescent lights he jumps in fright as a hand taps him on the shoulder from behind.

"You looking for me Enright ?" and instantly the young man relaxes, its not Wilkinson behind him, but his mate Gordon doing a very poor impression of Wilkinsons miserable flat Yorkshire vowels.

"Yer daft bastard, ah nearly shit meself then" the young man turns to face his friend, "where is the miserable bastard anyway"
"Hasn't come yet, probably the fog, we're going to quarter him when he turns up"
"Thank christ for that, I missed me bus cos the bastards wouldn't stop for me, so did ah get clocked in then ?"
"Aye, I did your card with mine, you were five minutes early this morning"
"Cheers pal, I owe you one, going to 'Cardigan later"
"Aye if you're buying"
"Reet, best get started then before the bastard turns up eh ?"
"Your lathes running already"
"eeeh Gordy, you think of everything, what would ah do without you eh ?"

And the young men clap each other on the back and laugh as they walk down the length of the factory to the bank of lockers where the young man can leave his sheepskin coat and start the work that he started twenty minutes ago when he wasn't here - according to the company records anyway.

Its nearly twelve and Eric is ready to knock off and go to the Cardigan when Wilkinson the timekeeper approaches him from behind, clipboard and his time and motion stopwatch clutched in the crook of one arm. other hand thrust firmly in his brown overall pocket.

"Now then Enright"
"Aye up Mr Wilkinson"
"A little bird tells me that your lathe was running all by itself this morning"
"No, never Mr Wilkinson, why would it be doing that eh, thats daft that is"
"Aye lad, running all by itself for twenty minutes and not hide nor hair of you to be seen"
"I don't understand that Mr Wilkinson, no, thats not right, did your little bird tell you where I was ?"
"My little bird Enright, my little bird tells me that you rolled in at quarter past six, what do you think of that then eh ?"
"I think your little bird needs his eyes testing Mr Wilkinson, I was 'ere at five to six, 'ave a look at me card, its in the rack there"
"I've looked Enright, I've already looked, I think there was a bit of callyfudgery going on this morning don't you ?"
"I don't even know what that means Mr Wilkinson, see, I was here at five to, came in, started me lathe up and then I had to go to bogs, gippy tummy see, its a bug I think"
"Bollacks"
"No its true, I've had trots all morning"
"I don't believe you Enright, I'm quartering you, you know that ?"
"You can't quarter me for having shits Mr Wilkinson its not right"
"I can do whatever I like Enright, and I know for a fact that you were late this morning and you got someone to clock you in, you're lucky I don't give you your cards right here and now"
"Ah bloody didn't Mr Wilkinson, ah wor 'ere at five to, and I wor on t'crapper until twenty past, you can't quarter me for bog breaks, you know what union'll 'ave to say if you do"

Mention of the union stops Wilkinson in his tracks, so he changes tack,

"Well just don't let it happen again thats all, I've got my eye on you and your mates Enright, alright ? So what have you done since five to bloody six then eh ?"
"Don't forget I've had shits an all Mr Wilkinson, ah've hardly been off crapper all morning"
"Thing is Enright, you're here on time and a half this morning, time and a bloody half is what this company's been paying you to shit your load in our own toilets, and I bet you've used all the bog roll and all haven't you ?"
"Well, ah've got to wipe me arse Mr Wilkinson"
"Well I think you've a bloody nerve asking for time and a half for this morning you cheeky little bugger, I bet you've only put in an hour at best, and you're asking for six hours at time and a half ? You must be bloody joking lad"
"Not my fault Mr Wilkinson, its a bug see, in fact we thought you must 'ave it too seeing as you weren't here at six either"

Wilkinson stares long at hard at Eric and strolls slowly over to the steel mesh bin where the fruits of his labour have been placed for this morning, to his suprise there are more finished parts in there than he expected, truth is of course that Eric hasn't spent all morning in the toilets at all but has been working steadily since half past six, not breaking any records, not really producing one and a half times his normal rate, but working steadily never the less, the story of the stomach bug is a well known and well tested worker vs management ploy, something that Eric was taught by the older men on the shop floor when he was a first year apprentice - never raise their expectations, never let them think you can do the job quicker, and when Wilkinson has his stopwatch in his hand slow right down because if you do the job quicker than the rate that your workmates have already set then Wilkinson will apply it to them too, and you'll be right up shit creek then, your name will be mud.

The siren finally sounds for the end of the shift and Eric hits the stop knob on the control panel and before the lathe stops turning he's wiped the last of the machine oil off his hands on an old rag and he's turning to head for the lockers and onwards to the Cardigan Arms with Wilkinsons final words hanging in the air between them, "I'm watching you Enright, don't forget that"

And as Eric turns his back he answers with a "fuck off you twat" under his breath, the Cardigan is waiting, not a minute to lose and by the time they reach the factory door he and several of his workmates are running and the first man hits the door and bursts out into the yard and into....the fog again.

Bloody hell, its thicker now than what it was this morning.




Chapter 2 (continued)
v Bramley Sat 10th Jan 1970

He'll never love you, the way that I love you
'Cause if he did, no no, he wouldn't make you cry
Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye - Steam - #9 Jan 70

He takes his half finished pint and wanders to the back door of the Cardigan Arms, stands there are stares woefully out at the 20 yard square, opaque pocket of Burley that is visible through the fog, he's not sure whether its getting worse or not, one thing is for sure, its 2pm now and he and his mates need to make a decision - go to the match or stay in the Cardigan for the rest of the afternoon.

He'd rather go to the rugby this afternoon because he's spent most of the money he has with him, this morning's overtime was welcome but he won't get that until next week, after tax, and he only had enough in his account to cash a cheque for five pounds yesterday afternoon. His mother will wait for her board money though and he's just spent nearly two pounds in The Cardigan in the last two hours, the rest of the fiver is waiting at home for tonights trip into Leeds, bird hunting in Tiffany's, and he's hoping that three quid will be enough to catch himself a good one, one who won't let him pay for the taxi right the way to her front door then run inside and leave him on the doorstep without so much as a peck on the bloody cheek like that one did the last time, he had to walk home from Wortley that night as his last five bob had gone on the taxi fare.

"Is it clear yet Eric" Big Dave asks from the corridor behind him.
"Nah, just the same as it was this morning"
"What do you reckon"
"Reckon we should go Dave"
"What if its off ?"
"Go to the Oak"
"Aye, alright"
"Everyone else ready ?"
"Think so, are we going now ?"
"When I've finished me beer and bin to t'slabs, aye"

And after he's sunk the last of the beer out of his glass and he's visited the toilet Eric and his three friends leave the Cardigan Arms and make their way slowly up Burley Hill, constantly peering ahead at the grey wall of cloud that dances provocatively twenty to thirty yards in front of them and as they climb higher up the hill and closer to the ground they find that the thirty yards has become forty, then fifty and as they turn into the south stand car park behind the ground they are relieved to see that the floodlights are already lit and appear to be piercing through the cloudbase so that something like normal visibility is accomplished on the pitch.

Its damp, the clagging, clinging wetness that they have ploughed through and inhaled as they puffed and panted their way up the hill has settled deep into their lungs and in the warm humid air of the southstand bar, they and everyone else in there hack and cough their way through a pint of tepid Tetley bitter served by a tall swarthy barman known to Smiffy as "Peter" from the Kirkstall Forge finishing shop.

Peter is friendly enough and informs them that the game won't be played today in this fog and if it is then they won't see anything and the group are undecided as to whether to go up to The Oak or not, in the end its Smiffy who decides for them because he has had to pay to get in today, not having a season ticket like the others, and so they finish their beer, buy a programme from the spotty youth who stands outside the southstand bar and take up their places in front of Eddie Warings ladders in the middle of the southstand.

To their dismay the fog has come down again and they can't actually see all the way across the pitch, the floodlights do their best to pierce the gloom but offer little in the way of extra visibility, its a damp, dark and claustrophobic and a miserable way to spend a saturday afternoon.

And then amazingly, out of the gloom, they see a human form trotting towards them across the pitch and then another and Atkinson and Langley take up their positions on the wing in front of the southstand ready for the kickoff - they are the only two players visible to the small crowd in the stand on this ludicrous day for playing rugby league and as the game progresses they have to guess what is happening on other parts of the playing field by the muffled cries and occasional cheers from what they assume is the rest of the 4000 crowd in other parts of the stadium.

They find that walking up and down the length of the southstand in what they believe to be following the play of the ball will allow them occasional glimpses of the action and its only when they are at the far eastern end of the stand that they can view the scoreboard and although they only vaguely see one of the tries they retire to the southstand bar at half time with a score of 11-2 in Leeds' favour.

"Who's the subs lads ?" Kirkstall Forge Peter behind the bar asks.

Big Dave consults his programme,

"Eccles and Briggs" he informs the barman.
"Briggs ? Who's he ?"
"Dunno"

Someone else shouts from further down the bar that he scored a try whoever he is but no-one knows who he has substituted or why and the only other thing that the lads learn is that Atkinson has scored two tries and is on a hat trick for the second half, this knowledge is digested greedily by the inhabitants of the southstand bar

"Its a bloody farce is this" Smiffy comments.
"Agreed" Big Dave concurs
"We'd do better in t'Oak" Gordy mentions
"Good call Gordy, this beer is crap" Eric adds
"Oak then eh lads" Big Wayne decides
"Hang on lads" shouts Kirkstall Forge Peter from behind the bar, "I'm coming with you"

Its a short walk up St Michaels Lane to The Original Oak and they gather in the downstairs bowling green bar with four pints of bitter, sit around a small round table on small stools and stare out of the window as the evening darkness descends and the fog thickens for the night so that even the yellow floodlights on the bowling green can hardly penetrate the denseness.

"Christ its going to be thick tonight" Eric mutters
"We still going to town" asks Big Dave, incapable of making a decision on his own
"How the bloody hell are we going to get to town in this ?" asks Eric
"Ah know, its bad isn't it" murmurs Big Dave
"I'm off to Tiffany's, don't care what the weathers like" Gordy interupts
"D'you reckon buses'll be running ?" Wayne asks
"Aye, buses allus run"
"They didn't run when it snowed last year"
"Its not fucking snowing though is it yer daft bastard, its just fog"
"Its thick though, maybe they won't run, I don't think they'll run"

It suits Eric to have a night in the Cardigan again because he doesn't think the three quid that he's got stashed at home will last long in Tiffany's, not with a bird in tow it won't, if it was just the lads then maybe, but birds want fancy drinks, bloody expensive fancy drinks with umbrellas and bits of fruit in, three quid won't buy many umbrellas and fruit.

"Think I'll stop in t'Cardigan tonight" he informs the others.
"Aye me too" Big Dave must be skint too
"Yeah" Wayne concurs
"You miserable bastards" Gordy is upset "I'll go on me own then"
"You on a promise or summat ?"
"No but I'm not stopping in t'Cardigan again"
"You are aren't you"
"I'm bloody not"
"Is it that blond one from last week ?"
"No its bloody not"
"I'll bet"
"Its not"
"Yer too keen Gordy, she'll have her hands on yer wallet afor you know whats 'appened"
"Am not seeing a bird"
"Course not"
"Am not"
"No ah know you're not"
"But am bloody not"
"no ah no"
"Bastards"

"Downey's dad has that Hong Kong flu you know" Wayne offers as a change of topic, "He's right bad"
"Aye its bad they reckon"
"Aye, Downey says he's got narrow eyes now, its bad when your eyes go all slitty like"
"Is that how they tell ?"
"Aye, sure sign its Hong Kong flu, slitty eyes"
"Yeah I've heard that too"
"Ger-away, is that real ?" Gordy is the gullible one
"Yeah, ah've heard that too, starts off like a bad cold, then slitty eyes is next, its bad if he's gone that far"
"Bloody hell, I didn't know it got you like that"
"Oh aye, it can get worse than that an all"
"Ger-away"
"No Gordy it can, sometimes you start putting your hands in your sleeves like this..." and Wayne tucks his right hand inside the open left hand sleeve of his coat, and his left hand in his right sleeve, "...then you start tork rike dis, heroo engreesh, you wan chow mein"
"Fuck off"
"No, is true engreesh, Downey-dad is proper chinaman now, eat onry bamboo shoot"
"Fuck off you're having me on"

The three of them are in hysterics now, pulling their eyes into slits and putting on the Benny Hill chinaman impression from the TV, Gordy is still not sure though, the Hong Kong flu epedemic is on the news all the time now and its supposed to be really bad, maybe it really does turn you chinese ?

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.