Witherick and I: A story of exiled seaside folk in the mid 1990s
Chapter 1
So there I was, with the prospect of a dull evening stretching
before me. As an occasional VFTT contributor suffering a bad case
of writer's block I was desperately seeking inspiration. Then the
phone rang. A northern voice explained that thanks to VFTT he now
realised he wasn't the only Pool supporter exiled in Bedfordshire.
"Good Heavens," thought I, "somebody has been
reading my indulgent ramblings, and mistaken them for intelligent
prose! I must meet this person." And so it came to pass.
Before you could say Owen Oyston I was leaving my safe haven and
heading for the outer limits. Actually it was only four miles
away and called the Red Lion, but I'd never had the cause or
inclination to go there. Would the natives be friendly? Would
they understand that Billy Ayre's Tangerine Army was not some
sort of mean and menacing vigilante force? But how was I to be
recognised? In a flash it came to me. If I were to wear my 1950s
style replica shirt (away colours) there was just a chance I
would be conspicuous enough. Much to my relief the clientele in
the public bar did not resemble a Stanley Matthews convention.
Witherick, as he was curiously known, stepped forward and
introduced himself.
As true believers we immediately swore eternal hatred of Plastic Knob End and all things Milltown. We couldn't decide if the fact that we both came from Fleetwood was a good thing or not, but we did agree that it would be better for all concerned if Grant Leitch stayed there. Craig Madden always said it was a good career move. Witherick's tap room associates seemed amused. They'd never met two Pool supporters at the same time before, and we even appeared to be fairly sane. That said, our sanity was soon put to the test as we embarked on our first joint venture to a Coca Cola Cup replay at Peterborough on a horrible wet October evening. Pool always lose away from home, so why should this be any different? It wasn't. At least our part of the ground was covered. Witherick, with a more agricultural background seemed unconcerned by the rain and cold. I just shivered and mused on the fact that I was doing this voluntarily. Later, as we drove back Witherick waxed philosophical. "A man needs something constant in his life, I think Pool's away form will do for me."
Chapter 2
In episode 1, with a little help from VFTT, fate brought
Witherick and I together. We teamed up again to follow Pool on
another futile visit to the nation's capital. Griffin Park,
Brentford was as good a place as any to extend the seaside
aversion to victories in London. The pre-match excitement reached
fever pitch in the salubrious surroundings of Zorba's Kebab House
just round the corner from the ground. One of Witherick's
informants revealed that Pool had signed a central defender from
Man Utd on a month's loan. We pondered on the implications of
this as we munched through our deathburger and chips. At the time
Pool held a rather unconvincing position amongst the front
runners in Division 2, and I naively suggested that this star of
the Man Utd Central League side could be just what we needed.
Witherick almost choked. His body language indicated a different
viewpoint, evidently he'd seen Neil Whitworth play before. He
muttered something about having enough donkeys in the side
already.
Witherick began to complain of indigestion, so I suggested that a pint or two of London Pride would be just as good as any packet of Rennies he was thinking of buying. My companion was easily persuaded, and we finally found a friendly hostelry. By that I mean the only pub in the vicinity without a sign saying "No Away Supporters." The shrewd landlord was doing good business, both bars were packed with good natured Pool supporters. We had earlier purchased a copy of the local Fanzine. Much to Witherick's amusement it included a teamsheet reproduced from an early fifties Football Combination game, in which Brentford reserves fielded the wonderfully named striking partnership of Mycock and Balls.
And so to the main event. There was precious little to cheer on that grey and freezing afternoon. It was supposed to be an evenly matched contest between two teams of reasonable ability. Clearly one of the teams didn't realise this. Witherick soon decided that Lions v Christians was a more apt description. Unfortunately the Christians were in tangerine, or to be strictly accurate dark blue and light blue stripes, if you get my drift. Witherick had a theory that "roll over and die" was an oft used phrase in Billy Ayre's pre-match teamtalks. It certainly seemed plausible as most of the Pool players did just that.
Chapter 3
Once more Witherick and I ventured forth to the Capital this time
to see the Tangerine Tigers challenge the Bees of Barnet. On the
M1 Witherick's prominently displayed scarf had, as usual,
attracted its fair share of attention. On this occasion the
rudest gestures came from a coachload of Port Vale supporters who
were clearly convinced that we both indulged in a particular solo
activity in the privacy of our respective bathrooms.
Later, as we sat in the traffic on Barnet High Street, Witherick's bizarre thought processes surfaced again. "Did you know there was a famous battle here in 1471," he said. I confessed that my knowledge of long forgotten skirmishes was not what it should be, and politely suggested that it was not the sort of subject generally discussed on the terraces on a Saturday afternoon. As we passed through the turnstiles the only history that bothered me was the M25 factor. Witherick had pointed out that since the so called Road to Hell has been in existence, successive Pool sides have been put to the sword by all manner of London opponents. Not all these teams have been good, but no matter, we still come away pointless. "But today the curse will be lifted!" announced Witherick much to the surprise of a group of BASIL members standing nearby. Apparently he'd had a dream in which some mystical character spoke of seeing a band of young(ish) men dressed in orange running around in a triumphant manner. I told him to lay off the magic mushrooms.
Well dear reader, not surprisingly two teams from the wrong end of the table failed to produce a feast of football. Having said that, there were a number of items of interest along the way. Amongst Barnet's better known players were Carl Hoddle, who possessed the aspirations but not the skill of his more famous elder brother, and Terry Gibson, ex-Coventry, ex-Man Utd and ex-a few others, described by Witherick as "short arsed and short tempered." This seemed fair comment, particularly when Gibson was inevitably shown the yellow card for arguing once too often.
The most remarkable thing about the whole afternoon though was the result. We entered the 89th minute and Witherick screamed "Bamber, your past it!" The man they call Zico, and owner of the worst haircut in the Endsleigh League, set off on what is popularly known as a mazy dribble and, strange but true, before our very eyes left three statuesque defenders swishing at fresh air, before delivering the perfect cross for a grateful Andy Watson. Our heroes had huffed and puffed their way to an unlikely victory. Witherick's Mystic Meg had been right.
Chapter 4
One Winter's day in 1994 Rupert Murdoch decided that the Pool v
Knob End cup tie would grace his airwaves. This left me with two
problems, firstly, would a terrestrial viewer like myself be able
to persuade some sympathetic acquaintance with a Sky subscription
to tape it for me? Secondly, how would I get through the next day
at work without some spoilsport letting slip the result? My
prayers were unexpectedly answered when Witherick announced he
intended to embrace the technology, and take advantage of a
special offer at one of those out of town electrical superstores.
The dish was duly installed and thoroughly roadtested with some
lengthy sessions of Eurosport. I have to say that once the
novelty had worn off Witherick decided he was not impressed by
the feast of entertainment served up by our continental cousins.
"Why are the Belgians always crap? It's Jeux Sans Frontiers
all over again!" You didn't have to be a genius to work out
where Witherick stood on European integration.
"We'll introduce him to the big match atmosphere," said Witherick with a grin as his young nephew arrived for the evening. He was at an impressionable age, I hoped he wouldn't be disillusioned. The broadcast was scheduled to last four hours, quite how Andy Gray and co. were going to fill this length of time had us intrigued. Imagination and original thought do not come easily to TV producers where Pool are concerned, the so called 'Matthews Final' is about their limit. Sure that was a glorious part of the club history but it is in grave danger of becoming a cliché. It was no surprise to see Tom Finney representing the PNE viewpoint, but in the tangerine corner (sharp intake of breath) was Alan Ball. "Who's that with the squeaky voice?" Witherick's nephew innocently enquired. "That's a drowning man," said Witherick with a prophetic eye on Bally's future career. His managerial success has been practically zilch, it was our misfortune that he chose Bloomfield Road as the startpoint on his personal road to nowhere.
When the respective managers were interviewed Sam Allardyce looked like a spiv from some 1940s B movie, and John Beck had a deranged gleam in his eye. He was doubtless planning some fiendish psychological ploy to demoralise our brave lads, like stealing the teapot or writing rude words on the dressing room door. Witherick and I got a bit jumpy when expert summariser Andy Gray began speculating on the possibility of his old Everton team mate Kevin Sheedy playing. "Sheedy's talents evaporated the minute he pocketed his signing on fee," was the cynical Witherick retort.
Finally the pre match verbal jousting was over, it had gone on so long we had almost forgotten that a football match was supposed to be taking place. Unfortunately in the heat of battle Lee Martin lost his head and committed one of the seven deadly sins of goalkeeping, he changed his mind. He who hesitated was certainly lost in this case. Did The Clash write "Should I stay or should I go?" for Lee Martin? Whilst he dithered over a long ball hoofed from midfield, a Milltown reject nipped in to poach the only goal of a game. Once Tony Ellis had hit the post when well placed we knew it was not our night. In truth it was not an impressive performance. "Outfought by Beck's Stormtroopers," groaned Witherick. "It's only a game," chirped Witherick's nephew. He's got a lot to learn.