TEN - OH I DO LIKE TO BE BESIDE THE SEASIDE

As a special treat for doing well in his first term at school, and scoring the winning goal in his year’s mini-football tournament, Nobby Nobson’s parents, Hilda and William, were both agreed that a late day trip to the seaside would be a welcome treat for their young starlet.  Oh and what better place to go than to Ye Olde Blackpool Town for a day of showers, second-rate food, scandalously tacky indulgence and hopefully, some fun.  It was Saturday October the 22nd, the train set to run from Wincheston Train Station was the 8.04am direct, so it was an early start for all, including Nobby's best friend Tommy Thompson who had stopped overnight and was an invited guest.  With corned beef butties, a flask of tea and a pack of Strawberry Ruffles for the outward journey the family caught the local bus to the train station, boarded the rail-bound vehicle at 8.03am prompt and set off on their journey in perfect time.  The trip took just over an hour and was without incident although Nobby's dad did have trouble flushing a somewhat stubborn turd down the stuttering latrine perhaps due to its high content of Watney's Special Mild that he had consumed the night before.  This excrement based conundrum was soon put to one side though as the first sighting of the famous tower brought stomach-tingling excitement to all.  Nobby and Tommy had heard so much about this holidaying Mecca, to say they were getting a little worked up would be an understatement and even the fumes from the nearby rattling karsi failed to douse their positivity.

 

The party of 4 disembarked at 9.20am, checked the return timetable and after William had had to have another bowel movement, all set off to the sea front for a day of relaxed frivolity.  The weather was bracing, the wind whipped across the North Sea and brought cocktailed essences of salty invigoration to the ruffled day-trippers. The first port of call was a local cafe known as the Sunnyside Up.  The treats were on Dad who splashed the cash and bought all a full-English fry-up and Banana Milkshake.  The food swam in grease, the milkshake was thicker than the sperm of an elephant and the aromas all around could be deemed as quite polluting to an unbiased hooter, but to a family on holiday, they smelt almost exotic.  After settling the bill, and the adults had smoked a relax-inducing No 6, it was back out to the front where a kaleidoscope of colours burst from open shop fronts, early morning trams in the shape of boats and rockets ground their way over the sand-blown roadways and the crowds started to swell in the hope of a cameo appearance from the sun.  

 

The morning was a blur if the truth be told, in one shop, in another, Dad had to place a few bets and after a short wait it was more shops, more Tit Doorbells, more looking at suggestive postcards and more wondering what to spend one's day trip money on.  Rubber King Kongs, Kiss Me Quick Hats, Pop Guns, Bagatelles, windows laden with toy cars, model kits and of course, dirty playing cards, a packet of which Dad tried to purchase on the sly but was exposed when he dropped the unsealed box and the Ace of Clubs fell free and brought several 'oooh's and 'aaahs' from some day-tripping old dears. 

 

The slot machines were paid a visit of course with the magnetic hypnotising draw of the Penny Falls inescapable as large pennies and shillings hung precariously over a prize-giving precipice almost demanding that the player risked just one more go.  As cash trickled away so did time, dinner was a joy - a tray of chips soaked in vinegary grease, salted to the extreme with a liberal squirt of ketchup and a fair portion of cod on top.  All was consumed on a bench over looking the sands whilst the squawking gulls flocked and hoped to grab a spare morsel or two.  A pedaling ice-cream man shouted about his frozen wares, the sea foamed and gave off a memorable essence never to be forgotten and the day was still very much on the up.  Alas the afternoon's events would soon change the exhilaration into something akin to bewilderment and what is known as a 'rude awakening' - be prepared people, Part 11 will satisfy your curiosity and hopefully drama-loving desires.

NINE - HERO EXPOSED

We were in the final minute of the mini-cup final at St Dominant's Infant and Junior School - it currently stood at Wincheston Reds 1 v 1 Cudley Tigers.  The game had been put in suspended animation by my dabbling fingers when Thompson and Nobson were chasing down a long ball forward with only a pesky defender to deal with and an advancing goalkeeper to beat.  As we take the plunge back into the drama we see that legs galloped, the keeper was a fraction of a second too late on the scene and the attacking Thompson did enough to touch the ball away from the gloved guardian’s grasping hands and put the ball into Nobson’s path.  We were 10 yards away from the gaping net, the defending Giles Mix for the Tigers was on the heels of our wannabe hero, the next touch would be crucial (please feel free to take a breather). 

 

As the ball was now within shooting range Nobson prepared to strike.  Mix, out of desperation, reached out and got a firm hold on the waist of the attack-minded player’s lower garments and, as Nobson swung his shank and put his full lunging weight behind the ball, a great tearing sound was heard and both shorts and underpants were torn clean off as the sphere was propelled goalward.   The net bulged, Nobson was delighted and, caught up in the joys of the winning goal, failed to notice his meat and two veg were dangling for all the world to see.  He ran to his comrades with his hands above his head, he saw his fellow teammates take a look and run in the opposite direction and on two sides of the pitch two sets of supporters shouted, screamed and smirked with fingers pointing at something very, very untoward but very, very amusing.  Suddenly realisation dawned.

 

With much fluster Nobson was covered by Mr Liddell’s quickly removed tracksuit top and led away.  Young Nobby was in a turmoil of emotions but after quickly being given a pair of replacement shorts he made his way back out to many jeers, wolf-whistles and one or two giggles.  A small ceremony was had whereupon the Wincheston Reds, led by William Staines, were given a certificate of merit and a cheap Aluminium cup that Mr Liddell kept in his sweat and dust stinking storeroom.  Man of the Match went to Flair due to external political reasons and no mention was made of the winning goal and the unexpected nudity involved.  As a treat for all Mrs Liddell had made some sticky buns and home-made jelly which were given out in the centre circle whereupon everyone sat down, indulged and had a good old natter about the game, the gonads and the forthcoming school team selections.  

 

Like any outdoor activity in the climes of Great Britain it was eventually ruined by an unruly downpour and all and sundry had to dash like mad back indoors for a quick change and home.  The wind whipped up, the skies darkened, no one would have realised that only minutes before the desolate playing area was covered with many joyous, incredulous and downright shocked faces, all alive with laughter for one reason or another.  The only clue was a pair of torn cherry red shorts left blowing around a goal mouth, shorts that had been worn with pride, torn off with defensive desire, but shorts nonetheless of a boy destined for great things and...as it happens...a short spell of infamy over the coming weeks.

EIGHT - MATCH DAY

The ball began to roll at 1pm prompt on Thursday the 15th of September.  The Wincheston Reds were up against the Cudley Tigers in a mini-final held at St Dominant's Infant and Junior School, bigged up as a game to be remembered by the sport's teacher Mr Liddell and supported by Mr Tomes' reading class (who were designated as 'Reds' supporters) and the mathematics class as ran by Miss Tweed (who were up for the 'Tigers').  The sun was shining, there was an early autumnal chill in the air, as the globe graced the grass 12 pairs of legs chased with unruly passion whilst at the opposite ends of the pitch 2 green clad nippers stood between their chosen sticks and keenly watched matters unwind.

The teams were as thus:- Wincheston Reds (Cherry Red Bibs) - 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.  Cudley Tigers (Pale Lemon Bibs, Black Stripes) - No 1 Goalkeeper - Ted Barnett, No 2 Defender - James Potter, No 3 Defender - Giles Mix, No 4 Midfield - George Shaftsbury, No 5 Midfield - Hector Blythe, No 6 Attacker - Colin Crinkle, No 7 Attacker - Geoff Flair.

 

For those of you with a decent memory and a sharp eye, you may remember that Cudley's Flair was the Captain of Crikeshire Utd who Wincheston beat in the last round.  The fact that his father is on the Board of Governors, his mother has a size 38DD chest and buttocks to match, and Mr Liddell is a sucker for a pretty disgrace, may have seen to it that the original No 7 (Chunks O' Shapley) was paid to give up his place with a deluge of Penny Arrows and Fruit Salad Chews.  Shapley, like any other boy with a sweet tooth and an idling constitution, was only too happy to fall into the shadows and gain weight, besides he thought football was rather silly and preferred the true man’s game of 'Ping Pong' - well it does take all sorts.

 

And to the match...

 

The initial action saw the Reds bumble the ball around with something akin to organised precision although I am sure those who wrote the text-books would disagree.  Potter for the Tigers was an awkward customer in their rear ranks and whenever the reds advanced he duly stood his ground and always destroyed any rising potential.  His teammate Mix was a long-legged companion and if a squabble of shanks fought for the ball, 9 times of out 10, one of his milky white pins would be seen to dip in and prod the ball to safety.  As The Tigers absorbed their opponents became frustrated and the quite delicate Willy Wafer, although laden with speed, was unable to make ground and looked on the brink of tears.  Eventually the first breakthough was had, it went to the wasp coloured team who soaked up another onslaught and then broke via a wild clearance from Potter who somehow found Crinkle.  Crinkle, a grubby fellow with a focused streak collected, turned and took three strides before scuffing the ball through the legs of Bent who, in truth, shouldn't have been picking his nose and should have been concentrating on the game instead.  The class of Miss Tweed made sweet merry Hell, shouting with gusto whilst Bent, with snot encrusted fingers, picked the ball out of the net and booted back to the centre circle where Nobson and Thompson took up the reins.

 

Straight from the kick-off the 2 Reds’ attackers worked with speed, kept things simple and after a brace of one-twos Thompson shot for goal and hit the post only to see Bateman steam in and grab the equaliser - the game was back to all square and the half-ended perfectly balanced.  The class of Mr Tome paid back their opposing fans with uproar although the celebrations were marred when Jonty Squires flicked a V-sign and was duly knuckled on the bonse and told to take a trip to the headmaster’s office.

 

After half an orange each and a swig of Adam's Ale the two teams recommenced where they left off with the touchline support now raised to a new level.  Things were nip and tuck, like a game of tennis between Ken Rosewall and Arthur Ashe the ball went incessantly back and forth.  At one point Clusternuts O-Toole of Class 1FA pulled a muscle in his neck trying to keep up with the darn ball whilst Mary Bell's cross eyes were more than a little sore after the first 30 minutes of action.  10 minutes went by, 20 followed suit, the final ten jumped on the ticking bandwagon and looked to be happy contributing nothing in the way of chances.  A hoof here, a long ball there, a mad dash for one side, a counter by the other, with the last minutes winding down there was little to choose between the sides.  Suddenly, out of the dull dabblings and huff and puff fiasco, Staines for the Reds walloped one forward from the midfield that saw the goalkeeper come to collect.  Thompson and Nobson chased down with sheer desperation, Mix for the Tigers was between both attackers and keeping pace - the ball was there to be had, 2 sets of legs advanced, 1 set rushed back to save the day, was this the moment when the game would be won, was this a time when a hero would be made...yes, I am keeping you on tenterhooks, space is of the essence and I have duly ran out of my allotted share...see you next time when all will be revealed.

SEVEN - BLACK EYES, FOOTBALL HIGHS

Well what a week, Nobby had scored the winning goal in a semi-final game that was built up into something more prestigious than it was by the ever-puffing Mr Liddell. The next day Nobby had felt the wrath of Knuckles O'Reilly who, having seen his younger brother beaten in goal by our young protégé, had dished out sweet unruly revenge using his ape-man intelligence and similarly primitive fists and size 7 feet.  It was a horrible occurrence, one that saw Nobby's best mate Terry Thompson leap to his aide but only end up with two missing front teeth and a broken nose to join Nobby's personal injury list.

Thursday arrived, the day of the final, Nobby had placed his bruised and throbbing conkers in a cotton-wool lined sock that was tucked into his underpants and created a bulge many a 70's porn star would have been proud of.  His eye had been attended to by his mum Hilda the night before with a leftover rasher of bacon, obviously lacking the healing properties of a fine rump steak.  Nobby's dad tut-tutted and set about teaching his son the basics of the Marquis of Queensbury rules which ended with dad’s swinging fist knocking the family fishbowl flying and the fish, Eusebio, into the blazing open fire – like I say, what a week!

After morning register with Ms Phipps and a detention given to Martha Walls for wearing an ‘I love Dave Dee Dozy Beaky Mick & Tich’ badge and chewing gum (tut, tut), the first lesson of the day was History, led by the sweating pedant that was Mr Fawkes.  Today the lesson discussed the Great Fire of London, mentioned a place called Pudding Lane which duly led to Mr Fawkes digressing and talking about the dangers of playing with matches and the joys of Spotted Dick and Custard.  All the while, as the teacher verbally instructed and wandered, Nobby's stomach fluttered and his mind pondered.  The cause of these cranial peregrinations, the ensuing Football Final that would see himself and his teammates go under the guise of the Wincheston Reds and pit their wits against fellow classmates who were gathered as the Cudley Tigers.  Tactics were tossed around the muddled mind, positional play was considered and who to mark given due time.  Should he play high up on the pitch or should he....'thwack' - the reverie was shattered, a ringing in the ears ensued, a board duster fell to the floor after leaving Nobby's crust, Mr Fawkes looked none to pleased - a D-merit was given and the lesson seen out under a heavy cloud.

Eventually History was appropriately put in the past (albeit the 'immediate') and Nobby and his team mates were striding out of the changing rooms onto the nearby pitch to indulge in the biggest moment of our young ball kicking erbert's life.  Instead of 15 minutes each way like the semi's, Mr Liddell insisted each half was now 30 minutes, with 10 minutes for half-time and a tactical talk given by his tall and rangy assistant Mr Flank.  To add to the occasion Mr Liddell had persuaded the headteacher to allow Mr Tome and Miss Tweed to let their classes out to support the game and assist in raising the general atmosphere.  Mr Tome was quite ruffled by this and felt it diluted his authority, Miss Tweed squeaked with delight and put on an extra layer of make-up and made several cardboard signs for the kids to hold up - 'Roar Tigers Roar', 'Up The Reds', 'Mr Liddell for England' etc. one would think she had a crush on Mr Liddell (watch this space).

As the two teams lined up and formally shook hands the onlookers were encouraged to holler their support. Shit's Magoo offered up a few lewd comments but after a clip around the ear sheepishly joined in with the more acceptable banter.  The delicate Jane Howitt however had to be led away in a flood of tears after the noise had become too much and her National Health Hearing Aid had gone haywire.  At 1pm on the dot the game got underway, as I am now out of textual space you will have to read the next installment to see what transpires - I humbly apologise for the crease in your buttocks due to spending so much time on the edge of your seat – the wait will be worth it (he says hopefully)!