SIX - THE ECSTASY AND THE AGONY

Tuesday, the 13th of September 1966, it was just over a month since England had raised the World Cup, football fever was rife and Nobby Nobson had been duly infected.  After school, and during the weekends, he would be kicking a ball in the garden, sometimes with his Dad, sometimes with a few local friends, one of whom was Terry Thompson, who lived 4 doors away, was of the same age and was in the same class at the new school.  Occasionally his emotionally-challenged cousin Larry would join in but being 3 years older he was rather rough, cumbersome and kicked the ball too hard when Nobby or Terry were forced into goal-keeping duties.  Today was a school day; the first 2 lessons had been struggled through although Miss Tweed did have a screeching fit during the maths lesson which was interrupted by a persistently farting Roger Grimes, a robust boy with a big appetite and a talent for passing wind on request.  After the dinner-break it was time for the P. E. lesson, a lesson that would see a small ball kicking tournament take place between 4 teams with the final taking place on the following Thursday.

 

At 1pm, after much hustle and bustle in the claustrophobically rank smelling changing rooms, with one or two arses still smarting from a few well-aimed towel flicks,  4 tribes of 7 were marched out onto the awaiting football pitches with Mr Liddell at the head and his part-time assistant Mr Flank at the rear.  The teams had been picked the week before and given names of local sides.  Mr Liddell was using this contest to expose his refereeing prowess, to discover any hidden talent and desire and wheedle out any 'on the pitch' ineptitude.  Our Nobby was Vice-Captain of the Wincheston Reds, the team lined up as thus:- No 1 Goalkeeper - Arthur Bent, No 2 Defender - Colin Crisp, No 3 - Defender - Willy Wafer, No 4 - Midfield - William Staines, No 5 Midfield - Charlie Bateman, No 6 - Attacker - Terry Thompson, No 7 - Attacker - Nobby Nobson.  The draw had been made and after Cudley Tigers had brushed aside Farmley Dons in a 6 - 1 spectacle it was now up to the Wincheston Reds to face Crikeshire Utd for a place in the final.  The format was 15 minutes each way on a 5 -a-side pitch with a draw being decided by penalty kicks.  There were many keen faces looking to impress, Wincheston Reds were adorned with cherry coloured bibs, Crikeshire's were black and white striped.  Mr Liddell looked on as both teams took up positions, the two captains (Staines for Wincheston and a lanky lad known as Geoff Flair for Utd) shook hands (all very formal don't you know) and the whistle was blown.

 

The early play was fairly balanced; Bent in between the sticks was called on to make an unorthodox save with his buttocks after the aforementioned flatulent fellow Grimes sent forth a howitzer from his tubby legs. It scared the utter shit out of the timid keeper who fearfully turned his back on the ball and let his fortune-kissed rear save the day.  The loose ball was mopped up by Crisp who, with a blur of legs, ran the full length of the pitch and fired about 20 feet over the bar.  The air was filled with mumbled descriptions of the mad foray with 'greedy bastard' the most accurate and frequent.  Tactics were found wanting, there were 14 players on the pitch, 12 of these all ran in an inane group chasing the globe, individually striving to make a mark on the game.  Faces became purple, brows moist, the first half ended with a lot of huffing and puffing and no breakthrough.

The second 15 minute spell saw the fitter players take command and space begin to develop.  Staines for the Reds started to rule the roost and make fools of players less adept and those less willing to get stuck in.  One tricky soaked moment saw the said player weave through a group of 3 befuddled players and place the ball into the bottom corner for a 1 goal lead.  From the immediate kick off the same player picked out a peach of a pass that saw Terry Thompson brush home with the tip of his toe to double the lead.  All the while Nobson was running himself into the ground trying to get a piece of the action.  With 3 minutes left on the clock the Reds looked to have secured victory but 2 quick strikes from Utd's Flair levelled matters and made the last dying seconds a real testing time.  Panic set in, desperation soon followed; fear was also hot on the emotional trail.  The ball went this way and that when a freak deflection off the left breast of Mr Liddell saw the ball drop to Nobson's feet who now had the chance to dash and deliver.  The globe was taken, the head went down and the legs galloped until an advancing goalkeeper came and the ball was deftly chipped into the awaiting mesh.   The victory was had and the whistle blew seconds later, it seems our young Nobby was a hero for a day, the beaming smile on his face was a joy to behold, he was mobbed by his comrades - it felt mighty good and Nobby almost began to cry.  Alas during this terse account I forgot to mention that the keeper for Crikeshire Utd was little John O-Reilly, younger brother of the school bully, Knuckles.  The day may have ended with smiles but the morrow ended with a black eye, a torn shirt and a real understanding of how delicate one's bollocks really are. Revenge would be had, it would be a long time coming, first there was a final to consider.

FIVE - INTO THE THICK OF IT

The first couple of terms of Nobby's institutionalised educational procedure were, in the main, pointless and soul destroying although some misdirected noodles who had had the cerebral stuffing knocked out of them already may have deemed them as 'character building'. Sucking on the sour sap of schooling was a tiresome and, at times, horrific regime that left our central character somewhat 'fed up'.  The morning prayers led by the sickly Reverend Ennui, the laborious mathematics lessons taught by the tightly tucked in and pertinently proper Miss Tweed, the reading lessons with the soporific Mr Tome and the history and geography affairs thrown in by the unorthodox and sweating Mr Fawkes all confounded many underdeveloped heads whilst all the while, separating the willing wheat from the mentally challenged chaff.  To add to the torment the mornings were broken by a playtime break and a bottle of puke inducing milk, the middle of the day saw a variation on a single shitty theme as savoury slop followed by sweetened slop was served via fat-handed and intolerant dinner ladies.  The afternoon saw another break that one usually used to avoid the stalking presence of the school bully 'Knuckles O'Reilly' and his two cohorts, Shit's Magoo and Pimpled Pete. 

At all times, during these arduous days, the headmaster roamed at will, a large sweating globule of a man with a fiery face and temper to match.  Many a skull had felt the ire of the clenched fist, many a backside had been warmed by the open palm, many a hand had been frazzled by the swishing and correcting cane.  Mr Spleen took no nonsense and no prisoners - it was a cruel icing on a somewhat crappy cake of circumstance that Nobby found himself forced to eat over and over again.

Despite the dread, the prolonged agony and the clock-hindering monotony, a salvation was always glinting from around the corner, a ray of hope was always held onto by those fortunate enough to be physically adept and willing to embrace the great outdoors.  The P.E. lessons saved many a soul from certain insanity and twice weekly, Nobby and his classmates, were allowed to burn up the tension, blow away the cobwebs and mentally run riot.  The girls were taken by the nimble and upright Miss Plush and rotated through a routine of gymnastics, stretching, free-movement, ballet, netball and hockey whilst the boys were led by Mr Liddell and put through their paces via football, football, football, cross-country (because the local authorities insisted) and more football.  You see, Mr Liddell was a fan of the great British game, he fancied himself as a real star of the hoofing sport and as he always said, 'if it wasn't for the war - who knows'.  Despite not making a career out of the game teaching was a way to live out his dream and an opportunity to contribute to the next generation of footballing greats.  In ten years however Mr Liddell had only uncovered one half decent player whose career ended after an incident in a car park with a kinky referee and a roll of Sellotape.  One promising goalkeeper had been found and went on to play in the first round of the FA Cup before packing the game up and opening a brothel in Batley.  Mr Liddell’s eye though was not dulled, it was still as keen as ever and with the latest batch of new-starters getting into their stride he had his peepers on one or two possibilities - one of these, you may not be surprised to hear was Nobby Nobson of JR1. 

It was during the introductory lesson back in early September that Mr Liddell remembered seeing Nobby for the first time, that thick cut basin mop, the wide eyed innocence and somewhat robust carcass looked odd to say the least and whilst setting up the class of 28 into 4 teams of 7 he decided to make Nobby vice-captain of the side he designated as Wincheston Reds.  The other teams in this opening trial were named after other local sides namely Cudley Tigers, Farmley Dons and Crikeshire Utd.  Nobby was elated by his important role, miffed by the fact he wasn't the leader of the Cudley Tigers but, after 3 games he had bigger things on his little mind and had got his first taste of the highs and lows of football.  All will be revealed in the next instalment folks where I hope to keep your ball of intrigue inflated!  Stay pitchside people!

FOUR - SCHOOL DAZE

Nobby had been awoken early by an abrasive clanking clock, dragged downstairs and roughly dressed in an outfit he remembered trying on a few months back in a rather stuffy old shop, where lavender-scented women tut-tutted and his mother pushed and shoved him with great critical deliberation.  Brown plastic sandals, grey knee length socks, ball hugging black shorts, grey shirt and jumper and a sickly-orange tie all contributed to a feeling of unease and stomach-fluttering uncertainty.  Crammed into a stiff, seemingly all-consuming Duffel-Coat, a satchel was placed over his shoulder and a flat cap put upon his mop of hair - this was one odd day for Nobby that was for sure.  Apparently he was going to a place called 'school', his Dad was to be his escort as mum was still in bed nursing a sore titty after a recent stay in The Royal Bremner Hospital.  It was a very strange morning indeed and as he was given one last brush down, donated a Club Biscuit for a midday snack it was with doom-laden worry Nobby was marched the 1.4 miles to a place that would be his second home for the next 5+ years.

St Dominant's Infant and Junior School was an imposing place, the building made of cold, unemotional brick and adorned with black, glassy eyes that saw all and judged all.  Within the iron-fenced playground many parents stood waiting, each one clutching the hand of their pale-faced, wary looking offspring, all seemingly cloned and dressed in similar attire.  At the end of the open-tarmac covered grounds lay two shining black doors, doors that loomed large, doors that seemed to hold many answers to many questions.  Nobby pondered the situation, the guts were fluttering, the legs a trifle unsteady, the mouth dry and in need of one of mum's early morning cuppas he was so used to waking up to.

As Nobby drifted off into a reverie of tea-bag fumes and snuggle bed comic reading the escapism was shattered by the discord of a clanging bell.  The doors swung outward as the ears were crudely jarred; an official looking couple made their authoritarian entrance and stood each side of the ominous orifice. At a signal from one of them the parents and children moved forward with focus and disappeared two by two into the awaiting abyss.

Within the confines of the gluttonous maw great fuss ensued in a reverberating chamber that emanated a smell of harsh bleach, sour milk and unwashed feet.  Kids were pushed here and there, jackets and bags removed and hung on a line-of pegs, one of which was labeled Nobby Nobson JR1.  Nobby's coat and bag were duly suspended; he was unceremoniously propelled by his Dad's eager mitts into a growing queue of bewildered kids, given a quick pat on the head with a rather hurried and unconvincing, 'good luck son'.

Eventually 5 rows of children were formed; the parents were gathered at the rear of the room with the 2 officials at the front, now joined by several others.  A few kids found the whole scenario too much, several began to cry, one made a dash for freedom but was quickly apprehended by a hand waiting in the wings, another stood trembling whilst a slow trickle ran down his bare legs, socks and shoes and formed a rather reeking puddle on the floor.  Nobby was now discovering what 'nerves' where, a strange sensation that wasn't too pleasant and which was to make many decisive appearances throughout these embryonic years. With minimalistic statements the shaking and quaking strips of sprouts were guided in 5 different directions, at the head of Nobby's line was a squinting woman known as Miss Phipps.  As our quaking lad marched forth he turned his head to see his Dad give a nervous wave, it was at this point he had a rather warm sensation down below and for some reason his feet felt a trifle moist.

The rest of the day was a blur but Nobby found himself walking home sucking a Penny Arrow, wearing a different pair of duds that imprisoned the old undercarriage with great spite and of a mindset that the ordeal was only a 1 day horror-show and that was indeed that.   Oh what joy it is to be innocent and a little bit stupid! 

THREE - GROWING PAINS

Time flies, aeroplanes crash - our young 'erbert under the spotlight was growing up fast.  At one year Nobby got his first tooth, sported a mop of thick black hair and had a disturbing trait to neglect all his toys and be quite happy chasing a paper ball all over the lime green and chocolate oil cloth found covering the living room floor of Nobson Towers.  At two he reluctantly abandoned the breast, weighed a good 2 stone 3 pounds and was a keen daily devourer of 3 bottles of Bisto Gravy, 7 jars of Clapps Chicken Flavoured Baby Food and 1 bowl of Nesco Ice Cream.  He still had an obsession with all things round and knocked lumps out of his dad's now balding head when he found him snoozing after a good old fashioned Sunday dinner.   When Nobby's third birthday came he was referred to as a 'Bonny Lad', he used to love sucking on an uncooked lump of Chiver's Jelly and was seen roaming around the house, usually clad in a Mr Ed T-Shirt, a pair of Pinky and Perky shorts (no reference to his testicles intended) and a pair of blue, hand knitted booties.  His hair had grown at a rate of knots, his mum Hilda attempted to take up the role of in-house, budget barber and used the trifle bowl to shape the hirsute barnet - alas Nobby looked like a right twat!

On the day of Nobby's 3rd birthday, on the 4th of May 1964, a small family gathering had been arranged to celebrate the occasion.  Nobby's one-eyed Uncle George came and gave Nobby a toy tool kit, Auntie Edna and her hunchback husband brought a toy truck with building blocks and their introverted son kindly left his bedroom for the first time in 6 months and donated a King Kong colouring book with wax crayons.  Alas Nobby had no grandparents as they were killed in the 2nd World War.  Mum's parents were blown to bits whilst purchasing some Saturday night fish and chips at Greasy Lens in Wycombe and his Dad's entire family disappeared within deepest Borneo whilst on an expedition looking for the mythical 3 Nutted Wildman.

On the day under the dubious spotlight, the proud parents made a Bird's Trifle but the candles placed in the creamy topping sank without trace as the consistency was more akin to dishwater rather than something thick and edible.  William did manage to fish out one candle with his delving arse-scratching fingers but was given a dig in the ribs and a stern look and abandoned the other 2 waxy structures with a sheepish smile.  The damaged delicacy was served, 'Happy Birthday' rung out as the radio was lowered and 'Don't Throw Your Love Away' by The Searchers was posted into the background.  Now it was time for the present from Mum and Dad.  Nobby sat all agog, the occasion was getting overwhelming but the nerve held and his chubby fingers reached out for the proffered prezzie.  Receiving with wide-eyed anticipation and primitive understanding his chubby digits went to rapid work and the papery flesh of the neatly wrapped package was torn asunder.  It may come as no surprise to all reading this that the contents of the parcel was a Cudley Tigers baby football kit (complete with green flashed boots) and a deflated leather football that only needed inflating to bring weeks of chaos and a life of great joy.  Within minutes of opening his present Nobby was stripped bare and duly dressed in his kit, Dad went to his shed and beneath his home brew manuals and the odd, rather questionable magazine, found his bicycle pump.   The ball was engorged with air and given to our young budding sports star.  Carefully forced into a pose with hands on hips and one foot on the ball, photographs were taken.  When the mini-photo shoot was done mum picked up the ball and held it out for Nobby to hoof.  The plea to perform was understood, Nobby advanced and swung a chubby shank, the ball stayed untouched, but Mrs Nobson's left knocker didn't half take a belting and the merry air suddenly took on a more sombre tone.

The party ended with obscenities flying, a tanned arse for our tit-kicking 'erbert and a falling out between the relatives.   As a result of this accident Mrs Nobson had to have her left nipple removed 2 years later, the operation took place 2 weeks before Nobby started school - now that was an interesting time to say the least.

TWO - THE SQUIRMING YEARS

6 months had passed since Nobby Nobson had graced the unpredictable stage of the world, it had been a trying time for the parents, patience was wearing thin, the initial novelty had packed its bags long ago, buggered off to a seaside resort and was replaced by the problematical figure of frustration.  Mrs Nobson was in a state - her hair was perpetually unkempt, her fingers were darkly stained due to her increasing tobacco reliance and her bluing nipples permanently throbbed whilst hanging in depressive lethargy from her bloated and blue veined mammaries.  Her rear and legs constantly ached, her shoulders sagged and the only pleasure she now got from life was the late-night 10 minute cuppa and a budget roll-up stood on the back door step thinking of less flustered days - she was pretty sure family life shouldn't be like this. 

Mr Nobson however was faring well, he was up with the lark 5 days a week, out to work before his son began hollering for tit-based nutrients and back home for an hour in the evening for a quick bite to eat before he popped down the local pub, namely the The Sow and Scrotum.  It was in this haven he indulged in the working man's art of talking bollocks, playing darts and offering bigoted opinions on the footballing world.  Would Brian Clough's quiff get any bigger and would he add to his Sunderland goal scoring tally?  Would Blackpool's Jimmy Armfield make the latest England line-up and forget about worshipping Satan?   Would Don Howe maintain his consistency in the rear ranks of West Brom and avoid the humbling realms of baldness before the age of 30?  It was all up for debate whilst pints of Watney's Red Barrel lubed the larynx and many a bonse was scratched with contemplative care.   On Saturdays our studious shirker watched Cudley Tigers compete in the Midlands East Division 2, had a few jars after the match that more often than not resulted in a late night and a foul-mouthed cussing from his rankled lady as he staggered through the door whilst both pie-eyed and incapable down below.

During the month of an inclement November it was on one of those weekend night's a momentous occasion occurred.  Billy Nobson arrived home tiddly, he needed a widdly and so, after negotiating the front door with its key-hole problems and with pants partly lowered, the stairway was mastered and the comfort of the khazi was duly found.  The leakage was had, but due to a wave of nausea the thought of pulling up the trousers was not an option so, with trollies descended and ill-fitting underpants leaving one teste exposed, our alcho-hero made his way to the bedroom.  On faux tiptoes the darkened room of slumbering promise was entered with bated breath, Billy’s best drinking sports jacket was flung to the toy-strewn floor with loose change and keys flying this way and that, his shirt was ripped off to the pinging escort of popping buttons and the rasping of tearing underarms - this was a stumbling silhouette to behold.  Breathless, our befuddled sot reached out uncertain digits and, with an inane snigger escaping his chapped lips, he found the secure edge of the hard-worked mattress.  A big heave, a sigh of relief and a complete collapse onto the awaiting springs of sweet sleep inducing safety, goodbye oh swirling, sickening world, hello to the land of 'Z's'.  The realm of drunken dreams was expected, but all promise was blown away by the yells of a woken baby, a baby needing the comfort of his mum's snoozing warmth after another heavy night of tummy trouble, a baby once away with the fairies in the mysterious unknown world of soporific Heaven, now in the wide awake bog-lands of hungry Hell.  It was a shame that the peregrination into slumbering pastures of perfection was smashed wide apart - shit does indeed happen and has no respect for age whatsoever.

 And so, as pisspot carcass fell upon the tiny tot, an impish reacting leg shot out and caught something oval, hairy and dangling from a rather sweaty area of Mr Nobson's framework.  Chaos ensued, Mrs Nobson screamed sweet merry Hell as she bolted upright in bed with bloodshot eyes agog. The squashed sprog tore the air a new arse and turned an unholy shade of crimson and a hopping and agonised Billy Nobson clutched his groin, cradling his bruised-to-be conker and damning the Gods of Justice to a life of eternal toil.  On the positive side though, tonight was the night that Nobby Nobson kicked his first ball, it was the start of a long and wayward journey - watch this space!

ONE - ENTER YOUNG NOBSON

4 May 1961.  The Royal Bremner Hospital in Wincheston was being battered by an unruly storm.  The rain came down in spiteful spears, the wind blew like a demonic fart bursting from the buttocks of Hell and the chill in the air cut into the flesh with relished venom.   And yet, atop the external tumult an agonising scream rent the air from the 4th floor of Maternity Ward 10 accompanied by language not even fit for the lugs of ye olde Beelzebub himself.  Within the stated room, that was quickly steaming up despite the opened windows, a scene of unruly embarrassment was taking place, especially for one Hilda Nobson of 223 Fairfax Grove, Cudley.  Being held prostate with maternal smock raised and legs held wide, a brace of trainee midwives tugged at the spongy bloody structure of a new born head that was vulgarly bursting from Mrs Nobson's rather tender and somewhat grotesque private quarters.  Striving with all their might to pull a fully-developed baby into the big wide world  the midwives took hold, tugged, lost grip in the glutinous mush and fell base over apex into the onlooking eyes of the rather ruffled Dr Flange (an irritable customer indeed with a perversion for all things 'gynaecological' - it isn't a good combination).  Several times this event occurred, each time the midwives were left with ruddy, perspiring faces and great fistfuls of dark, matted pubic air and of course, general gunk.

'Tis no good' stated the rather perturbed Doc, 'we must go for the full on ear grip and, to put it quite blatantly - pull like buggery'.

With a resurgence of hope, a quick wipe of the hands and a look of steeled determination the two tuggers took up their positions and grabbed a lug apiece.  They looked at the doctor for the countdown, all the while Mrs Nobson tried to squirm into an agony free position and ease the uncomfortable lump from 'down below'.  An occasional spasm from the sprog brought more wrenching hollers, the baby was getting restless, time was now of the essence.

'And after 3', issued the rather wound-up Doctor, ' 1 and 2 and 3 - pull, pull, pull ladies, give it all you have got girls'.

Meanwhile...

In Waiting Room 4, a Mr William Nobson the 3rd was on his 4th untipped Woodbine of the hour, had already become cuticle-redundant and had developed a facial spasm of the most distressed order.  With each holler the twitch became worse, with every minute that passed our waiting father-to-be seemed to visibly lose weight and stature.   At 5ft 3 inches these were dangerous times indeed but the creator of the cacophonous calamity above his noggin was not one to crumble easily and as he puffed and paced and squeezed his sphincter he stood firm and awaited some good, relieving  news.  For 2 hours he hung around in an anxious stupor as the inhuman oral expulsion grew in intensity and whilst the Old Spice underarm deodorant he had applied that morning grew less and less effective as the furrows in the brow and the clouds of noxious tobacco smoke became and more more noticeable.

Suddenly, and in fact quite ominously, a silence came, the storm outside had abated, the horror-show up above had seemingly died a death - Mr Nobson caught his breath with fag in mouth, stood quite still for several minutes before the cigarette burnt down and singed his puckered lips.  A spit of the dimp, a somewhat mild expletive given to the circumstances, a stamped foot and then a cry - a cry of a new borne babe, a cry of fresh life, a cry from the seeded creation of the proud father to be.  Mr Nobson stood upright, his chest swelled and when the nurse arrived to congratulate him on the birth of his baby boy, he duly wept like a good un' - ooh the big daft sod.