Mike Ward - Gullhanger - Or How I Learned To Love Brighton & Hove Albion

GULLHANGER

Or How I Learned to Love Brighton and Hove Albion

Mike Ward

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Copyright (c) 2011 by Mike Ward

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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Acknowledgments

A lot of people have helped make this book happen, even if many of them cant possibly realise it. This is my thank-you bit:

FOR ALL-ROUND ENCOURAGEMENT: Alison Barrow, Jane Middleton, Andy Super Brighton Factman Garth, Jo Morrow, Claire Morrow, Fergus Kelly, Nikki Murfitt, Tim Curran, Paul Cheston, Kathryn Spencer, Simon Spinks, Mel Whitehouse, Veronica Clark, Hugh Whittow, Richard Leifer, Dawn Neesom, Irvine Hunter, Brian Dunlea, Andy Griffin, Stephen and Denise Taylor, Dominik Diamond and his wee brother Michael, and, obviously, Mum and Dad.

FOR INSPIRATION: everyone at Brighton and Hove Albion, in particular Dick Knight, Martin Perry, Bob Booker, Paul Camillin and, needless to say, all the players. Also: Paul Samrah, Adrian Newnham, Tim Carder, Liz Costa, Sarah Watts, Matthew James, John Cowen and the rest of the FFA team, plus Micky Adams, Cyril Edwards, Ian Hart, Andrew Hawes, Paul Hayward, Bennett Dean, Paul Hazelwood, Simon Levenson, Terry Garoghan, Liz Fleet, Nicky Keig-Shevlin and, OK, Peter Taylor.

FOR THEIR BELIEF: Peter Hill, Phil Walker, Richard Stott, Katy Bravery and Bill Campbell.

FOR THE SOUNDTRACK TO A SEASON: Paul Weller, Billy Bragg, the Electric Soft Parade and Attilas ever-inspired matchday selections.

FOR THEIR LOVE AND INFINITE PATIENCE: Julie and Em.

And never forgetting Charlie Morrow.

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... but you find out life isnt like that ... When Youre Young The Jam

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Sneaking In MONDAY 23 JULY

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The ticket-office woman flashed me a wary half-smile. A split second later, she was making this strange, low-level grunting sound that Im not sure I know how to spell. Something like urrggggh, I suppose. Possibly with a couple of extra Gs.

Call me naive, but it wasnt quite the reaction Id expected. Had I dipped into my trouser pocket and whipped out a rasher of fluffy bacon, or flicked open my wallet to reveal a topless snapshot of Ann Widdecombes slightly less attractive sister, then fair enough. But all Id said was, Id like a season ticket for block B, please.

So why the unspellable grunt?

Well, I think we can rule out shock. Since Brighton and Hove Albion finished last season as Division Three champions the clubs first honour in 36 years, unless you count signing a sponsorship deal with Fatboy Slims record label, or hiring Des Lynam to narrate their videos, or getting namechecked by Terry Wogan on Aunties Sporting Bloomers the poor soul must have processed God knows how many of these things.

So maybe it was the block B bit. Perhaps, in my ignorance, Id requested a seat in a section of the ground notorious for black magic and half-time ritual goat-sacrifices, or directly above a fracture in the Earths crust.

Or maybe and this seemed the most likely explanation shed simply got me sussed. Maybe shed taken one look and thought, Here we go, another lousy bandwagon-jumper.

In which case, shed have been spot-on. Thats exactly what I became this afternoon, shortly before 1 p.m., for the sum of 380, charged to my NatWest Visa card. Probably the most despised of all football-supporting types: the glory-hunter. The sort who ignores his local club through all the rough times such as, in my case, a few years back when the Albion were 90 minutes away from plunging out of the League altogether. The sort who blanks them completely when their very existence is under threat, as I did for two years or was it three? when they were left to share a stadium 75 miles away, in Gillingham, following the demolition of their famous Goldstone Ground. The type who waits until the club is back in its home town and doing rather well again and the goals are flying in, and the points are piling up, and an Albion car-sticker would no longer single you out as a sad case before scuttling shamelessly, louse-like, out of the woodwork. The type who has only ever ambled along to a measly handful of the clubs matches in the 15 years hes lived in the city and these so long ago that he couldnt even begin to put a date on them, let alone recall the opposition. In short, a bit of a git.

Yep, Im afraid thats me. And if its that transparently obvious, then I may as well be wearing my own personalised T-shirt Glory-Hunter: Please Knee In Goolies when I start turning up at the actual games.

So at least let me explain why Im doing this forking out all that money, disrupting my Saturday routine (plus a fair few evenings) well into next spring, risking being singled out as a slappable phoney. Because the point is, this isnt really about Brighton and Hove Albion. Not as such. It isnt even about football. Not specifically.

What its really about is caring. Or, to be precise, finding out if I still know how to care. About anything.

Im serious.

I dont mean caring in that low-key, gently-ticking-over kind of sense about my family, my friends, my job, regularly changing my underwear etc. Obviously I care about them. Lots. Especially the underwear bit. But thats the routine, taken-for-granted type of caring. What Im talking about here is something altogether different: a passionate, irrational caring that doesnt even begin to stand up to common-sense scrutiny. The sort that gets you worked up about stuff when youve no logical, grown-up excuse for doing so. The sort which, to the more sceptical outsider, might suggest youre a bit of a half-wit. The fun sort, which we allow to burn out or, almost worse, fizzle as middle age creeps up on us.

Ah, middle age. To be honest, Ive never entirely understood what that means. How can you possibly know when youve hit the mid-point of your life unless you can say for certain when its scheduled to end? But by the loose definition which most people seem happy to go by too old to be young, too young to be old I suppose I have to cut the crap and accept that Ive reached it. Indeed, by some peoples definition I probably hit it years ago. Sure, Im still some way short of the stage where Id consider investing in one of those funny baths with the door on the side; but Ive also edged well clear of the age bracket where I could order a watermelon-flavoured Bacardi Breezer without suspecting that I looked like an utter twonk.

Im 41, for Gods sake.

Forty-flipping-one. Blimey.

Believe me, turning 41 is a lot worse than turning 40. When you turn 40, youve been gearing up to it for months, possibly even planning a big party where you and your peers can compare bellies and bald patches, especially if youre male. People buy you profoundly amusing cards, hilariously hinting at imminent senility or death, or comedy mugs daubed with rib-tickling slogans such as Old Fart. All of which helps you to cope. OK, you get quietly depressed about it, but if youre anything like me youve been so busy assuring everyone its going to be just another day that youve more or less ended up believing that.

Forty-one, on the other hand, is a bugger. Not just because it seems to arrive only about a fortnight after youve turned 40, but also because its a clinical reminder that your ageing process hasnt suddenly ground to a halt. Its daft, but a part of me expected to be allowed a couple of years to get used to the idea of being 40 before having to face the next step. And yet it didnt turn out that way. Odd, that.