Nick Szczepanik - Pulp Football

First published by Pitch Publishing, 2016

Pitch Publishing

A2 Yeoman Gate

Yeoman Way

Durrington

BN13 3QZ

www.pitchpublishing.co.uk

Nick Szczepanik, 2016

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A CIP catalogue record is available for this book from the British Library

Print ISBN 978-1-78531-202-1
eBook ISBN 978-1-78531-260-1

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A S a football writer for a number of national newspapers and magazines, and as a fan, Ive been lucky enough to witness many of the events described in this book first-hand: the Northern Ireland arrests, David James trying out with the Miami Dolphins, five penalties in one match, the highest-scoring game in Premier League history.

But you cant be everywhere at once, and not everything makes it into the papers. So Ive shamelessly picked the brains and memories of many good friends among Her Majestys sporting press too many to mention them all.

However, particular thanks go to Phil Shaw, the compiler of the magnificently thorough Book of Football Quotations and a man with a rich store of footballing memories. He can even remember when Leeds United were a force to be reckoned with. Ditto Richard Whitehead, who fell out of love with football and concentrated on supporting Aston Villa instead.

Thanks too for clarifications and information to Chris Davies, John Ley, David Anderson, Vikki Orvice, Roger Titford and James Reid. And the chapter on stadiums owes a tremendous debt to Simon Inglis various books on football grounds and their history.

Football. Fucking football. Imagine not being into it. Those poor, poor half-alive bastards.

Danny Baker on Twitter

W HEN director Quentin Tarantino was looking for a title for a movie that mixed slapstick comedy, sex and drug-fuelled violence, Pulp Fiction was a perfect fit. The pulp magazines of the mid-20th century were so-called because of the cheap paper they were printed on, and the content was not exactly highbrow. The stories were mostly sensational, ranging from science fiction and monster yarns to tales of hard-boiled gunplay and lurid murders.

What has this got to do with football, you ask? Youll find all those elements and more in this book too. The club chairman who saw a UFO, the dinosaur that appeared at a fans wedding, the director threatened at gunpoint, the murder discovered when Blackburn rebuilt their main stand.

Football is the most popular sport in the world. And therefore, as far as we know, in the entire universe. We love the beautiful goals, the sublime passes, the telepathic teamwork, the brave defending, the unbelievable saves. We appreciate the effort, the athleticism, the never-say-die spirit. We applaud the tactical acumen of a great manager, the vision of a farsighted chairman, even the wisdom of a referee who applies the advantage law intelligently and allows us to enjoy a moment of magic several seconds later as a result.

None of these appear in this book. This is the pulp end of the game the pratfalls, the bloopers, the moments of downright farce. The punch-ups between teammates and the nights out that ended in the courts.

Football is a game of eleven players, but also umpteen subs and several frustrated reserves. And they, and the managers, coaches, administrators and officials are all human. They make mistakes. Spectacular ones. And thats before you include the fans, the agents, even the mascots, the builders who erect stadiums and the visually-impaired people who design away kits.

They all contribute to the rich kaleidoscope of modern football. With so many moving parts, how can things not go spectacularly, entertainingly, wrong?

Because football is part of the entertainment industry. At its best it can rival Shakespeare in its drama, intensity and revelation of character. And it can be the base comedy of custard pies and wheels falling off. This book looks at what might be termed the farce side.

Its the mad moments you remember. You probably cant recall who scored in Sheffield Wednesdays match against Arsenal in September 1998 and neither can I without looking it up. But no one forgets Paolo Di Canio pushing the ref over, and his curious, stumbling fall to the Hillsborough turf.

I cant call to mind the season, the result of the game in question or anything else, but the picture is clear in my mind of Brighton forward Kit Napier running half the length of the field with toilet roll streaming behind him after a load of it had caught in his studs. Football is fun, or should be.

And British football is football at its distilled best. We invented it. We almost ruined it with hooliganism, the English disease. But then the Premier League and Sky Sports invented it all over again. Or so they will tell you.

It is surely no accident that comedians including Norman Wisdom and Eric Morecambe have been directors of football clubs. And as many fans will tell you, there are still plenty of jokers among players, managers and referees.

If you are a billionaire who cant think of anything new to do with your money, you used to buy an expensive painting, then stick it in a bank vault and never look at it. Nowadays you buy a football club, watch it from the directors box every week and give yourself extra pleasure by sacking a few managers and changing the kit from blue to red.

Meanwhile we, the fans and all football writers are fans, however it may appear either laugh or cry. With any luck, these stories will at least cause a wry smile or two.

The order of chapters was chosen in time-honoured fashion, with numbered balls being shaken up in a velvet bag then pulled at random out of a glass bowl. If nothing else, this book respects British football tradition.

Wembley is the cathedral of football.

Pel

Maine Road is the Theatre of Base Comedy.

Stuart Hall

T HERES nothing like being there in person when someone scores a crazy own goal or the referee gets the ball in the nuts. And it helps if youve got a good view from a safe and comfortable seat and have been able to get to the stadium without too much trouble. A decent pie and a cup of tea too if possible.

If the game is entertaining and your team wins, you probably wont have time to consider that the stadium youre in could have been the site of a murder, cursed by a witch, that an international footballer has fallen through the roof above your head or that someone has had to paint a gaudy mural in one of the dressing rooms to improve the feng shui.

First you have to get there, and that is not always as straightforward as it could be, especially by public transport. For every Carrow Road, a pleasant stroll along the River Wensum from Norwich Station, there is an Anfield, reachable only on crowded buses or by expensive taxi. And getting back to Lime Street after the final whistle is even worse.