Issue 11: Where's your caravan?

A stiff test of parenting skills is knowing what do when it’s raining and you’re sitting in a seaside caravan. We go away every August Bank Holiday and it always rains on Saturday, even though those lazy-get BBC weather presenters forecast otherwise. Instead of practising with hairbrushes in front of the mirror, dreaming of becoming the next Wogan or Parky, Carol Kirkwood et al should read the manual of the £15m weather supercomputer and figure out how the damned thing works. 

This year, we abandoned our usual retreat on Dungeness’ nuclear coast and decided we’d give Great Yarmouth a crack of the whip, following favourable reviews from my usually unimpressed brother. Alas, the Saturday weather curse followed us into East Anglia, but by lucky hap, when we checked in at Haven Wild Duck Caravan Holiday Park, I'd lunged at the leaflet display. A series of colourful pamphlets offered wet-weather refuge.

In East Anglia, animal worlds and safari adventures abound, but elephantine entrance fees means there’ll be no big cats or ungulates for us in this six-week holiday. It’d be cheaper to book a taxi to Africa. One of the leaflets looked most enticing – the East Anglia Transport Museum near Lowestoft. With its collection of half-cab buses, trolleybuses and trams, this would be a place that my two kids would no doubt love, but they haven’t been with us for this trip. I'm with the wife and her two kids, whose appreciation of transport only goes as far as Transformers.

Apart from ants in the kitchen and the defective guard on the gas fire, this year’s caravan, situated five miles south of Great Yarmouth, is more plush and better kitted out than most homes. I could have done with a couple of pieces of ice in my gin and tonic in the evenings, but that’s a small gripe. You can see why gypsies aren’t keen to move into houses. All children would rather live in a caravan than a house. The door’s always open, so they’re getting a taste of pre-1980 Britain, where you could run in any direction you wanted and not fear too many murdering strangers or internet paedo rings.

In the early Eighties, my younger brother used to tell me that strangers, who invariably drove vehicles made by British Leyland, carried garden canes in their car boot. Rather than an interest in nomadic gardening practises, my brother would explain, with some joy, that the canes were for “shoving up your a***”. This is when he was eight. As a public-information exercise, it proved a powerful tool on our estate.

He was very good at off-the-wall character sketches, was our kid, especially touch-feely family members, weaklings and our stepfather, who used to shout a great deal. He would mimic our stepfather like a mynah bird. When we had the house to ourselves, which was a lot of the time, my brother would stand at the bottom of the stairs and bawl as loudly as he could, “Ehhhhh! What do you think you're doing? What do you think you are, bloody radged?” Radged was a term localised to the railway plant works, meaning “simple”. He’d then thump upstairs, slam open the bedroom door, and proceed to give me and my sister an enraged good hiding. The good hiding was an improvised bolt-on for comedy effect; smacks were rare in our house. Our kid would also do a superb sketch in which our stepfather would playfully change a light bulb while tap-dancing. It was Vic Reeves entertainment five years before Big Night Out ever reached Channel 4. We didn't really need the telly on.

I expect my brother would be very good at building sandcastles, but I’m the master. Me, the wife and her two boys lead the world in sand-forged construction. We’ve become a very tight unit and, through years of practise, are able to build extremely complex islands in a short space of time. Typically, our sandcastles will feature a moat, several bridges, dominant castellated towers (with flags), roads, substantial sea wall, intricate tunnels and stone/shell trim. We could show Balfour Beatty or Clancydocwra a thing or two about effective urban planning. If I knew how, I’d wire up miniature street lighting.

Our latest projects, while staying in the caravan, have been typically avant-garde. For the first time ever there was a curved tunnel on one of the moats, while a road passage ducked beneath an entire island – it was a bit like the one in the Alps that has so many crashes and blazes. We’re also adept at three-way tunnels, and have been known to construct the odd viaduct. There’s very little in life that’s more exciting than building a fortress settlement when the tide is rushing in. It’s a vision of London’s future. The first extended wave will be effectively repelled by the sea wall, but you know that doom is close at hand. We have people gathering to witness the destruction of our St Michael’s Mounts. The sea eventually surrounds our islands, then engulfs the streets. All those hours of crafting reduced to soft slop-dob. I have to say, the quality of sand around Great Yarmouth is among the finest we’ve ever worked with.

I’ve never been a fan of 2p gambling games at seafront amusement arcades but if it’s raining, I can see that £5 thrown away in one of these mesmerising grottos of flashing lights and mirrors shouldn’t be knocked. Holiday time works in much the same way as a taxi’s meter. It charges by the minute, and an amusement arcade is just as cost effective as buying four ice creams and a couple of coffees. I’m not one for gambling, mind. I've only bet on the gee-gees twice, and that was at an actual racecourse. Mug’s game. However, once a year, we allow ourselves the thrill of hearing small coins crashing from a copper overhang, especially if there's drizzle and sea har. The wife becomes very focused on the 2p games. We won quite a few prizes during our gambling hour, including two tin soldiers, a "gold" bar and a one-eyed soft toy from Despicable Me.

Can fantasy football be described as gambling? I’ve been playing the original Pro Fantasy League since 2005 and now see it as an intrinsic part of my existence. I support my own fantasy football team more than I do any league side. I’m happy for Manchester United to run away with the Premier League title every season, but the reality is, if I’ve got a Manchester City striker in my squad of 15 overpaid poodles, I want him to score. In Pro Fantasy League, you play in a division of like-minded souls and hold an auction at the beginning of the season to determine who owns individual players. By the time the season kicks off, only one person will own, say, Rooney or Lampard. Added to this, your division of pals’ teams is interlinked with the rest of the country, so in January you’ll enter a nationwide cup or, if you did well in the previous season, a “European” competition. 

There are around 10,000 people playing Pro Fantasy League, and there’s a list of the top 100 players on the site. I once led the country for two weeks, a halcyon fortnight in 2007 where I could do no wrong. I’ve done little right from that point on. I didn’t even win the title in my own league of ten mates that season. Last May, I finished bottom of my division, putting too much emphasis on a Manchester United strike partnership that featured the usually net-clobbering Rooney, who’d decided his interests would be better suited on Fulham Road SW6, and Welbeck, who scored once in the entire season. Interestingly, now that I don’t own him, Welbeck netted twice in Man Utd’s opening game against Swansea. I wanted to kick the telly off the shelf.

Choosing a name for my fantasy football team takes on huge importance during the summer. Former titles have included Baldwin’s Casuals, Wimbledon Miners Welfare, MyPie 47 and VVV-Vimto, to name a few. This season I’ve opted for Rubbish Rovers. As usual, it works on two levels. Having grown up in Doncaster, I naturally started visiting my local club from 1980 onwards, and by the time I was in my 20s had become something of a regular. This was back when Donny were in the bottom division or the Conference. One of the most frequently uttered sentences I’d hear at Doncaster matches was, “Oh, that’s rubbish Rovers, absolute rubbish.” Back at the old Belle Vue ground on the opening day of one season, I timed how long it was before I heard “That’s rubbish Rovers!” and it was 30 seconds. Half a minute into a fresh season and the crowd were on the side’s back! As I finished bottom of my fantasy football league last season, it seemed apt to name my side Rubbish Rovers. Next season it’s going to be Ujpest Dozy.

I hope to finish mid-table. I’ve proven goalscorers in Fellaini, Cazorla, Ba and Aguero, but they’ve done bugger all so far. It comes to something when you’re looking at the crash-helmeted Chelsea keeper Petr Cech to provide the bulk of your season’s haul. I was watching Match Of The Day with the wife the other night. We usually catch the first game then drift to bed – the kids make us too tired. Last weekend, we commented on how slick the opening titles were, although she thinks the MOTD logo looks like a pair of metal underpants. Around ten years ago, I wrote a big story for a men’s mag about Match Of The Day. I had to interview Walker’s Gary Lineker, housewife’s choice Alan Hansen and Albert Sewell, who’d been the programme’s statistician since 1968. It was a feature that largely wrote itself, but the one difficult aspect was tracing Barry Stoller, who, in 1970, penned the Match Of The Day theme music. He proved spectacularly elusive.

After a month, I managed to track him down to Australia – by the sound of it, he’d moved to the other side of the world to escape the Match Of The Day theme. “My career was so much more than that,” he emailed, sounding somewhat agitated. “It’s because of this that I don’t want to be involved with your story.” I explained the excitement that the MOTD theme conveyed, how it had lit up Saturday evenings for generations of football enthusiasts, how it had bonded grandads, dads and sons, how it stood as a piece of music every bit as thrusting and evocative as a Bowie or Hendrix composition. He was having none of it. I’m led to believe that Grange Calvely, the writer of Roobarb, emigrated Down Under to escape incessant enquiries about his cult wobbly cartoon.

Maybe in ten years time, I’ll have to jump on a Qantas space rocket and hide out at Ayers Rock or Erinsborough to dodge lunatic interest about the humble beginning of Morning Warship. “I don’t want to talk about Morning Warship any more," I'll whine. "It was closed down in 2017, I lived at Moscow Airport for a year, then I took refuge in the Honduran embassy, and yes I'm pleased it has maintained cult status and eventually led to Peter Hook re-joining New Order – but nobody ever wants to discuss my fantasy football team, my DJing or the incredible sandcastles I’ve built. There's so much more to me than that blog!”

I suppose we’d better start packing. Checkout at Wild Duck is 10am prompt. After a final promenade along the beach, the Skylark leaves for London at midday. It’s blazing sunshine outside – always is when we’re leaving. My limbs ache from long jump, excessive spade use and skimming stones. These are all good strains to have. I think we’ll be back to Great Yarmouth next year. 

Issue 10: European culture

Lee Gale is away. Well, he’s been clocking up the miles, travelling between Budapest and Doncaster, Europe’s two great capitals of culture. I realised this week precisely why I loathe international travel and it’s more to do with airports and airlines rather than the countries themselves. Flying gets worse. The days of rawnging over three seats and sitting down in peace for your in-flight meal like a lord – Jack Lord, possibly, in a James Bond film – are already golden images of a past era. Nowadays, you’re lucky if you can sit next to the person you’re travelling with. When you fly with Wizz, the Hungarian carrier, the 1997 Nicolas Cage film Con Air looks like a promotional feature for business class. At airports, parking’s £85 for four days. Eighty-five pounds!

“Did you check in online?”

“No, I thought I’d cock it up – I wanted you, the experts, to do it for me. The flight’s £330, so I reckon I’ve paid for the privilege.”

“We’ll have to charge you £20.”

“What, £20 for clicking a button?”

“Why did you not check-in online before you left, sir?”

“Check-in online… I don’t actually know what that means. You check-in at the airport, surely. What if I was involved in a motorway pile-up on the way in?”

“Huh! Highly unlikely.”

Everyone at airports is in a state of confusion and panic, like there’s been an earthquake. You shuffle down queues, pay some money, get pointed to other queues, pay more money – these are spot fines for not logging on to the airline’s website – and you spend hours and hours being processed and numbered. You do at Luton anyway. No wonder we almost missed the flight.

Much as I appreciate Budapest and the Hungarians, getting there is a major headache, but as this was a work trip – I was covering the Sziget music festival – I didn’t have much choice. I suppose I could drive to Central Europe, but the road system in Budapest is completely alien and I’m sure I’d end up driving in the wrong direction on a busy stretch of highway, causing deaths, and then I’d be in prison for ten years. But when you factor in the industrialised mayhem of Luton, where you feel like a fish finger in a Findus plant, it’s a close call to make.

In its favour, you can get from London to Sziget quicker than it takes to travel from London to Glastonbury. I’ll not go into detail about the weekend right now because I’ve spent every spare moment of the last seven days writing about it. You can see it here: http://www.gq-magazine.co.uk/comment/articles/2013-08/21/sziget-festival-2013-review.

Having found a new appreciation for Franz Ferdinand – I really like the new single, “Right Action”, and they were the stand-out group at Sziget ­– once back on familiar territory at Luton David Pleat International, I tried the new ePassport gate and realised that once you’d gone through the rigmarole of having your passport scanned, and your eyes scanned, and your hands scanned, and your shoes scanned, and your arse scanned, and your DNA scanned, and your soul scanned, you’re moving more slowly than the people queueing with old passports. So much for technology! I think I managed to convince the Sziget organisers to make an approach for New Order in 2014, so I’ll no doubt be heading to Budapest again next August. Next time, I’ll pay more for fast-track, longer legroom and preferential seating – anything to beat the system. And this is what they want you to do, to pay extra for every aspect of the flight. This is the same trick the banks were pulling with payment protection in the Nineties.

From Luton, I had two days in London then drove the kids up to Doncaster to see how real people live. Although Donny has its detractors down South, my two lads think this much-maligned district is like Disneyland, but better, because rather than losing money at every turn, people are pushing cash into your hands. They’ve learnt that Doncaster is a money-spinner. Pensioners can’t give ackers away quickly enough.

People that live in Doncaster refer to its central-business district, ie: shops, as “Town”. It’s not a bad town centre, although all the women look like Mutha from Viz. The recent addition of fairground rides on its streets has certainly hit the right note with the boys. They think that Town and Doncaster are different places but somehow twinned, the Castor and Pollux of northern industrial settlements, almost identical, but apparently Town just edges out Doncaster in terms of fun. I’m not sure how they weigh one up against the other. I used to think Spurs and Tottenham were different sides – when you’re seven, you’re still unravelling the complexities of the universe. “Right then, shall we go to Town or Doncaster this morning?” “TOWN!”

When we visit the North, we stay on the floor of my 90-year-old nana’s pensioner bungalow. It’s like sheltered camping for us. There isn’t really anywhere else for us to stay and she’s overjoyed to spend time with us. The arrival of the lads, age six and seven, creates much excitement among my nana’s group of wartime survivors. My two don’t realise how lucky they are to know a great-grandparent so well. People say Nana’s slowing up a bit and getting more forgetful, but she runs rings round most women 30 years her junior. She still goes to Town to get her shopping once week (or gets the bus to Doncaster if she wants slightly less fun).

Last Friday, having a glass of wine and discussing family matters from the late 19^th century onwards, Nana told me that she hadn’t long left but had enjoyed her life and wouldn’t change anything other than she wished my grandad hadn’t died when he was 57. Nana never re-married; you don’t when you’ve been truly in love. She still cries when she mentions him. Nana then asked if I’d do a reading at her funeral. I said I would and that it was something that I’d also been thinking about, but I didn’t want to start writing the passage until the deadline (literally) was approaching – after all, I’m a professional writer. It’s unusual discussing the funeral of somebody you love who’s still alive. I’m convinced she’ll be getting a letter from the Queen in 2022; the wartime diet worked wonders for Nana’s generation. One of the funniest things I ever read was in NME in 1999. The Fall’s Mark E Smith was asked what song he’d like played at his own funeral and he replied, “I’ll just get the organist to hold down the note of F.”

You may have frowned with some confusion in the opening paragraph of MW Issue 10, when you read the word “rawnging”. You won’t find it in the dictionary. It isn’t there. I think it’s a Manchester term – it’s the act of lazily sprawling, usually over furniture, especially a settee, often with your shoes on. Just to recap - we're a Manchester/Doncaster mix of a family. “Give over rawnging on the bloody settee.” Another term I’m very fond of is “monk on”, which is localised to Doncaster. It refers to the condition of being in a bad mood for no apparent reason. “What’s up with you, have you got monk on?”

Accusing somebody of having monk on only deepens the condition. It’s a state that can last for hours. It’s a morose ailment, usually associated with boredom, and tends to strike in the late morning or early afternoon. I’ve never suffered from monk on, but have certainly dated women with terminal cases, to the point where their mouth turns down permanently, a bit like that rabbit Miffy. The wife says that the north-west London word for monk on is “greuse”. “Are you in a greuse?” they’ll ask. “No, I’m not in a greuse!” will come the angry response… meaning they are in a greuse! Sufferers never admit to having monk on or a greuse. It’s a diluted, short-term depression, but asking somebody if they have monk on leads to a deep-seated gloom – their face turns grey, eyes become watery and they look like they want to kill you. It’s great to see.

I don’t get monk on, although the cost of the school holidays is certainly pulling at the corners of my mouth. It’s costing me a bomb. Remaining true to my part-Yorkshire heritage, I keep an eye on every penny that’s spent by noting figures into a red Silvine cashbook. There’ll have to be some seriously boring weekends in the run-up to Christmas if we’re going to balance the books. But if you’re a parent with boys and looking for something to do before that glorious Monday in September, the following places are highly recommended…

1.     Crich Tramway Village, Crich, Derbyshire: Stroll through a Twenties town and take a 1926 Blackpool tram along a mile of track. We went on a Thursday and it wasn’t overly full, although there were a lot of fat tourists and some of them didn’t like children very much, tutting at the slightest misdemeanour. Apart from that, my two felt truly alive here. I may have to take them to Blackpool. tramway.co.uk

2.     Skate King’s Cross, King’s Cross, London: This is a pop-up roller-skating park, not particularly big, but big enough to realise you are rubbish at roller skating, and haven’t improved since you last tried in 1984. Kids either instantly understand skating or get monk on, crawling around on all fours, shaking their head, saying they want to go home. Afterwards, let the kids cool off in the 1,000 fountains outside the nearby Granary Building. kingscross.co.uk/skate

3.     The View From The Shard, London Bridge, London: For two adults and four kids, this is over £100, Premier League money, but the 40-mile view is spectacular. However, kids get bored after just seven minutes at the Shard and are much happier running around at Coram’s Fields children’s playground near Russell Square tube. theviewfromtheshard.com

4.     National Railway Museum, York: It’s massive, and as much fun for dads as sons. The major problem is that boys get so excited that they naturally feel the urge to dash from locomotive to locomotive. Now, these engines have got very, very hard buffers, roughly at head height to a five- or six-year-old. Maybe visit when they’re ten. nrm.org.uk

5.     Imperial War Museum Duxford, Cambridgeshire: Again, huge – there’s much ground to cover, and you can even take a flight in a de Havilland Dragon Rapide from the Thirties if you’ve got birthday money to burn. I think it costs £35 per person to get airborne. You have to be careful at Duxford, though. My two got so giddy the last time we visited that when we were in the Battle of Britain hangar, my eldest, for some stupid reason, pushed a display cabinet with his hands, showing off, which then rocked as far back as it could without actually toppling over, then rocked forward, and continued this back-and-forth motion for an agonising 10-15 seconds, while furious World War II veterans looked on. By the time the cabinet was static, the memorabilia, model aeroplanes and artwork within looked like it had been strafed by a Messerschmitt Bf 109. We left instantly. iwm.org.uk

My final word this week concerns perceived Yorkshire tightness. It’s a male disease – most Yorkshire women can’t get the tenners out of the mattress quickly enough. A few years ago, my friend’s mam and dad went on holiday to Egypt. While nosing round a bazaar, the dad – a shopkeeper – thought he might forge a great deal on a new rug. The bartering between the Egyptian carpet salesman and Arkwright-type Yorkshire shopkeeper continued for a good two hours and by the end, a compromise had almost been reached. The Egyptian market trader was probably at the stage of making no profit at all, worn down, but at the point of sale, the Doncaster dad said, “I’ll tell you what, son, I’ll leave it for now,” and promptly walked off. Incensed, the Egyptian leapt into the air with his fist waving and shouted, “TIGHT YORKSHIRE B******!” I enjoy the fact that Yorkshire penny-pinching is so well known, even in Africa. 

Issue 9: Give over and lie down

When it comes to animals in the workplace, I don’t have a problem as long as you’re a farmer, a cowboy or a butcher, otherwise leave the poor bloody things at home. Where I work, swathes of the staff are upper crust and, having rarely heard the word “no”, they’ve developed a laissez-faire attitude to pets at the desk. At any one time, you’ll find dogs lying by the printer, dogs nosing through bins or dogs nudging your arm with their cold nose while you’re trying to eat a sandwich (or, as is my style, eating salad with a plastic teaspoon). On the odd occasion that a dog isn’t in the office, people are looking at JPEGs of dogs on their screens, discovering comedy dogs on YouTube or discussing the dogs they saw on other floors of our building a few days/weeks/years ago. It’s like a syndrome.

I’ve actually worked out why dogs have overrun the workplace – they give an opportunity to down tools and do anything except the job you’re being paid to do. For many metrosexual men, a hound is a baring of one’s soul – “I’m sensitive, ladies!” – when actually, it’s more of an Alan Partridge-type “let’s talk about meeee” ploy. Dogs provide a subject matter, a pristine opportunity to crack up a conversation with a dollybird whose bra straps are on show.

I don’t know what my grandad would have made of it all. In his day, dogs carried strict second-class status, but today’s dogs are lords. Dogs were different prior to 1980, more grown up, more sensible. Modern dogs never stop being puppies. I suppose hounds have always mirrored their owners, and people had a lot more on their minds in the Seventies. My grandad’s dog was Sheba, an Alsatian/Labrador cross. Sheba didn’t like children; dogs rarely did back then. I developed an unhealthy taste for dog biscuits when I was about four, and an approach towards Sheba’s bowl was always greeted with an “Rrrrrrrrr, rrrrrrrrrrrrr, rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.” Sheba never snapped, but she was a bit like an old-bat teacher nearing retirement age. You knew you could only take pranks so far.

At my nana and grandads, the biggest crime a dog could commit was to whine. With my grandad, you had three strikes and you were – literally – out. The first whimper would be met with a fierce, “Give over.” The second cry would bring a furious, “Give over, and lie down!” If Sheba was bonkers enough to take her pleading further, she’d be grabbed by the collar and dragged, claws scraping, into the garden, whereupon she’d be “fastened up” in the “hut” – a black-painted, windowless cube made out of corrugated metal panels. It was quite Burma 1943 in its design. Sheba would remain under lock and key for anything up to four hours, whether it was snow, rain or shine. She’d also be fastened up when my nana was hoovering, which could sometimes be twice a day. In summer, moulting was another misdemeanour.

Apart from the frequent visits to the hut’s dark heart, Sheba would never be far from my grandad’s side. Grandad would only ever be seen by the hearth with a poker in his hand or out in the garden digging soil. I don’t think I ever saw him upstairs. Despite the fact that my grandad could easily have chinned a Nile crocodile or torn a poltergeist in two (and probably locked them in the hut), my nana says he was devastated when Sheba’s back legs finally gave way and the immobile dog had to be put down – or “destroyed”, as was the parlance of the day. When I heard that Sheba had been destroyed, I had images of the aged, bad-tempered creature being blown to bloody rags by a rattling war tank.

My mate’s grandad was a gamekeeper and kept numerous Alsatians. Out of the pack that lived in his kennels, only one was allowed into the house. For some reason, the dog – Gemma – had become fiercely protective of my mate’s nana, a fact that my pal’s lorry driving uncle enjoyed testing. Uncle Stuart would arrive, entice Gemma into the front garden, quickly shut the door and then pretend to give his mother an almighty beating by the front window. From the lawn, Gemma would watch with absolute disbelief as her kindly owner was thumped, slapped, shook and shouted at. “You don’t bloody learn, do you?” Uncle Stuart would blast. “I’ve had enough of you, ENOUGGGGHHH!” The dog would go crackers. Great entertainment. 

People don’t train dogs any more. Barbara Woodhouse was the end of the line. To train a dog properly, you had to take a few days off work, disappear into the countryside, repeatedly wallop the dog in woodland until all fight had left its body, then you’d return home with a pet that would sit, stand, beg, jump through flaming hoops and obey every order instantly. Around 1990, we became too lazy and passive to teach dogs basic rules of behaviour. It could explain the problem we now have with sharks on leads.

We had a fantastic Labrador called Whiskey. He was destroyed around the time of the Madchester movement, an era when my brother would pull his paisley Y-fronts as far up his pigeon chest as was possible, bound like a drunk towards our younger sister, and sing “Hal-lel-lujaaaah,” mimmicking Shaun Ryder. I think it proved too stressful for the dog – his nerves couldn’t stand it any longer. My sister would run off screaming and my brother would follow her like a zombie, still singing. Before Whiskey popped his paws in 1989, my mam, perhaps a little prematurely, ordered his replacement – another Labrador, called Benjaman (sic). Mam’s not a speller.  These two yellow animals were stark evidence that dogs were rapidly transforming from respectable pillars of society into cumbersome, greedy teddy bears with learning difficulties.

The characters of Whiskey and Benji were so dissimilar that it was like having Steve Ovett and Gazza in the same room. Whiskey was distinguished and statesmanlike, although he had some curious traits. He was a tough dog, and had many brawls with Alsatians, Dobermans and Rottweilers down the years, but he was frightened to death of field mice and for some reason he couldn’t look you in the eye. Benji, on the other hand, was like a clumsy child.

Me and our kid would take the dogs on long walks into the Doncaster outback, even when Whiskey had slowed to the pace of a Chelsea pensioner. Our kid used to get very vexed on these walks. Whiskey would approach a sapling to p*** his underpowered trickle down its stem, then Benji would appear like a Barnes Wallis bomb and absolutely banjax the near-disabled Whiskey. Benji would then hurtle off like a small van in a bank job with our kid sprinting after him, swinging the lead, shouting, “Get here!” Benji felt the leather of the lead a few times across his rump and the odd kick with a DM. Benji was so thick that sometimes when he went to p*** on a lamp-post, s*** would fall out of his arse. This would annoy my brother too.

This morning, I finished Danny Baker’s autobiography Going To Sea In A Sieve. I like the good-time banter of his radio show. It’s full of ideas. I particularly enjoyed his tales of being on a European tour with Ian Dury And The Blockheads in 1978, when Baker was writing for NME, specifically bits about Dury’s valet and minder, Fred “Spider” Rowe – “a real-deal hardnut”, as Baker describes him. During one tourbus conversation about the growing problem of mad dogs attacking people, Spider jumped in: “You make me die, you f***in’ hippies, straight you do. No such thing as a mad dog. It’s a myth. Thing is with a dog, if it comes at ya, you grab the nearest stick or newspaper or anything you can hold by both ends, even your keys. Then, just as it leaps at ya, you hold it out. A dog will always grab the middle of the stick, see. And as he does, you bring your knee up – bang! – on to its mouth and, because it’s open and weak, it’ll shatter its jaw like your old nan’s f***in’ glass fruit bowl. So don't talk to me about mad dogs, because it’s not a problem.”

I also liked how he dealt with a sozzled fan in Holland who’d outstayed his welcome:

Spider: “Sorry to interrupt, friend, but can I ask your name?”

Drunk: “My name is Andreas, what’s it to you?”

Spider: “Do you mind if I call you Superman?”

Drunk: “Why?”

Spider: “Because in about 30 seconds you’ll be flying straight out that f***in’ window. OK?”

I’m a sucker for a stylish hardcase. I don’t think Spider would have had need of a canine companion – he had too much going on. Perhaps the pinnacle of my experience with workplace fleabags came earlier this year when I was stood by the printer in the hallway. As I collected flapping pieces of A3 paper, a dog approached and whined. “Give over and lie down,” I growled, on autopilot. Just then, a female member of staff walked through a nearby door and said, “Helloooo!” I thought: “That’s friendly!” and in the traditional Northern way, I raised my eyebrows, smiled at 15 percent and replied, “Alright.” “Oh, I didn’t mean you,” she said, “I was talking to the dog.” I felt as flattened as Whiskey after a bouncing Benji bound-through. I quickly realised that my place in the office pecking order was lower than a lurcher. I may start eating dog biscuits at my desk with a plastic teaspoon to try and raise my status.

Issue 8: We need to talk about toilets

There’s something decidedly not nice about the male toilets in Marks & Spencer on London’s Oxford Street. It isn’t the fact that they’re grotty, it’s more to do with the clientele, who tend to be men of advancing years who, it seems, are suffering from tropical stomach ailments or amoebic dysentery. You should hear the noise. “Rrrrrrrr.” “Ahhhhh.” “Uggggghhh.” “No!” “Pleeeaaase!” And it’s every time! You feel like you’re in British Borneo during the Indonesia-Malaysia conflict of 1962-66. The smell’s not fantastic either. I think the grandads who use M&S’ facilities actually make a special journey, as part of their daily routine, so they don’t have to scrub the pan clean in their own homes. I’ll bet their wives are dead. John Lewis up the road is very similar in this respect. I don’t have a solution to this problem, I’m merely flagging it up.

Me and my brother used to play “paras” when we were kids. This involved dressing in camouflaged or muted shades, finding a rifle-shaped stick, venturing to the Women’s Institute hut near our school, hiding in long grass and mowing down church-going women in cold blood as they departed for home, carrying their knitting. The last time we played paras, I distinctly recall that I was wearing brown cords. Waiting for the WI door to open, I decided to get a better aiming position and shifted sidewards. In doing so, I was soon enveloped by a most terrible stench.

Like the coward of the county, I deserted my post, leaping into enemy view so I could investigate what the caustic pong was. There, in the grooves of my brown cords, another similarly toned material had attached itself, effectively smoothing out the fabric. It was a dirty booby trap. A nauseous time bomb. Corporal Gale – our kid – leapt out of the grass wondering if I’d taken leave of my senses, telling me he was now in a position to seize power of the entire unit. “Come here,” I said, “I want to give you a big hug.” Before he could bayonet me, I grabbed hold of him and pretty soon the pair of us were covered in dog muck. He found this unusually funny, but my view at the time must have been a problem shared was a problem halved, and we ran back home to get changed.

In the bathroom, we stepped out of our foul-smelling fatigues and left the battle-ravaged remains at the foot of the sink. We swiftly found alternative strides and stampeded downstairs, without washing our hands, to pour some icing sugar onto two plates, which we’d then lick in front of the television. Three licks in and we caught the sound of Mam retching upstairs. “Bwurr-bwurr-bwurr.” Then she called out – almost at screaming point – “GET UP HERE, YOU DIRTY PIGS!!!” We pretty much court martialled ourselves on that occasion. Alas, this tawdry tale is far from unique.

I’m often asked if I’ve ever sat in tramp’s urine, and the answer to that is an emphatic “yes”. It was Wednesday, 13 August 2003, at 12.55pm, and I was hungry. Many of my acquaintances are familiar with the basic outline of this grim episode, but there has been so much wagging of tongues, idle hearsay and unnecessary fabrication, that I feel I ought to set the record straight.

Summer 2003 was very, very hot. Even worse than this year. The previous Sunday – 9 August 2003 – was a fire-blast afternoon, when the temperature in South London weighed in at a hefty 37 degrees. It’s ridiculous for this country. I mentioned at the time that if it was equally hot the following day, I was going to kill myself. Thankfully, the screaming apex of indescribable heat was reached that Sunday, and my life spared. By “tramp’s-p*** Wednesday”, it was a more manageable 27 degrees.

In midweek, I used to meet up with former colleagues of the defunct VOX magazine at the Fifties-era New Piccadilly Café on Denman Street. Formica tables. Staff steeped in European football knowledge. Reliable fare. All this kept us returning each week until it closed in 2007. For the record, I always ordered cheese omelette and chips – fabulous stodge. The owner, Lorenzo, hadn’t taken had a day off since 1957, but regrettably informed us that he could no longer afford the spiralling rent. We were devastated. I brought my London-disliking younger brother – the paras’ veteran – to the Piccadilly one Saturday afternoon and after he’d eaten his fill, having been treated like royalty by top waiter Mario, he admitted, “It’s alright this place.” The café has since been erased to make room for air-conditioned offices or a little hotel. I forget which.

So I was heading down to the “Picc” on Wednesday dinnertime, but I was carrying an injury from Monday night’s eleven-a-side football match. I played in goal a lot at this point due to faltering stamina. I was on the p*** a lot. During the match, I’d made a typically scrambling save but managed to clank my head on the goalpost, whereupon I entered a two-day psychedelic trip. I couldn’t form thoughts, my vision was a sparkly kaleidoscope and I spent hours and hours asleep on the floor like a tired dog. Concussion. I quite enjoyed the peace, actually.  

As I was still a bit of a dreamy delight from the head injury, I decided to forego a 25-minute stroll to the café and instead caught the Bakerloo Line. All good so far! Got on the train and hey, look, a free seat, even though a lot of people are standing! I dutifully checked for pregnant women, then settled in like Mother Hen for a six-minute journey in relative comfort. These were the old Tube trains with sprung seats. People would regularly nod off on these upholstered relics because you’d sink back and be rocked to gentle kip, ending up at Elephantiasis & Castle. Not that sleep was an option on this journey.

I was getting my book out of my bag, probably a tome on heritage football hooliganism, when I realised in an instant that my backside wasn’t just wet, it was sopped through to the skin. I could tell it wasn’t rainwater or spilt elderflower cordial – the aroma was too strong and sweet for that. It smelt like Special Brew, but worse. The damaged synapses in my football-injured brain quickly fixed themselves and I added up the sums. Wet bottom + Special Brew-plus pong = tramp’s p***. I now faced a dilemma. Did I admit my predicament to the carriage and have them fall about in hysterics like the birds on Roobarb, or keep quiet and sit it out. I decided it would be best to register a complaint – someone must have known that the seat was soaked. It was as if an alcoholic blue whale had blasted out lager through its blowhole.

I leapt to my feet and looked at the faces of my fellow passengers. A man opposite seemed genuinely entertained by what was unfolding, and for a time, obviously fighting the urge to squeal with joy, he looked like he was urinating on his own seat. To him, life was an ongoing series of s***s’n’giggles. Now he could add p*** to the mix. I said, “You knew that seat was wet, but you let me sit in it?” He didn’t respond. “I bet you’d have let a child sit in that, or a 90-year-old nana, because that’s the level your humour works on.” He replied, “Norvern mankey.” Actually, he didn’t, but I wish he had. I’d reached a personal low. I egressed at Piccadilly Circus.

There was no question of omelette and chips by this point. I had to find clean, dry clothing, because the aroma was so intense. In Gap, I grabbed a three-pack of undercrackers as efficiently as the queue allowed, and then pace-strolled up Regent Street in search of emergency jeans. Browsing was off the agenda. I developed a guerrilla-shopping technique – straight in, check price, straight out, and no conversation can be entered into. Even in 2003, denim had drifted into the three-figure price bracket. My rule then, as it is now, is pay no more than £70 for leg coverings, but in London, even slacks made out of carrier bags set you back £120.

By the time I’d reached Oxford Circus, I was walking like a baby in a wet nappy. Then, out of nowhere, a Levi’s sale shop presented itself. I said: “Thank Christ.” Once past the shop’s threshold, I wasted no time, snapping up a pair of 501s for £65 – a Pyrrhic victory because 501s are an awful fit for my footballer’s thighs. They naturally corkscrew below the knee so the seams ends up central on my shins. The shop assistant removed the tags while I was standing at the till. I placed the sodden items in a carrier bag and stuffed them in the first bin I could find. Of course, my lads-mag work colleagues thought this was a hoot, and word quickly spread via email to the female/gay staff on the interiors magazine next door, and from there to the cycling titles, the accounts department, the CEO, and inevitably to our rival magazine companies. All in all, a really productive day.

Following my recent experiences at Marks & Spencer, I came up with the idea of running a sister site to Tripadvisor, whereby members of the public can give reviews of the toilets they’ve visited. Trapadvisor! It could make millions. I’m afraid M&S scores a lowly “1”, although I think London’s high-street shops should embark on a fact-finding mission to the Ceredigion coast in Wales if they want to learn the art of toilet management. You don’t just want to spend a penny in these immaculately maintained s***houses, you want to invest in them. The more I see of Wales, the more I think it’s a fantastic place. They’ve obviously realised that civic pride starts, literally, at the bottom and works it way upwards. We could learn a lot from Welsh toilets. If Wales can keep its restaurants serving food after 9pm and open its shops on Sunday, they’ll be a force to be reckoned with.

Issue 7: The green, green grass of home

I don’t like abroad. It’s too far away, the driving is treacherous and it’s too hot. Every possible pleasure you can experience is here, in Britain, on your doorstep – you’ve just got to get up and shape yourself. Beaches? We’re an island nation, we’re surrounded by sand. Hills? Have a trek through Snowdonia if you want life-affirming views. Wildlife? Have a shufti out of the window. We’ve got robins – the friendliest birds on the planet. They’re not afraid of humans and seem to be offering themselves up as the next logical candidate for domestication. You wouldn’t get an ostrich doing that, or a rhea.

Usually, when I’ve travelled abroad, I feel a sense of relief arriving back in Blighty. I like the order, the culture and the fact that our roads have defined edges. Apart from the odd housing estate in London, Belfast and Manchester, you can walk through UK’s thoroughfares largely unmolested. I’ve never understood this rabid desire to see the world. “Finding yourself”? You’re not going to do that backpacking in Burma. You’ve already found yourself – you live in your head. There isn’t a secret, dynamic you about to reveal themselves in Peru, Ecuador or Papua New Guinea. Be satisfied with who you are and what you’ve got. And if you must travel, to satisfy your internal hippy, keep the tales to yourself! We’re not interested hearing about lost Inca cities. They became lost for a reason. It’s because they’re boring and people wanted to forget about them.

I’ve always been satisfied taking holidays in Britain, but often, the people I’ve been with have insisted on booking flights to far-flung locations, where we’d stew in 40-degree temperatures and fall out with each other. It was as if the more miles the airliner clocked up, the more exotic the stay ought to be, but then you’d end up in a sweltering bar chatting to couples from Brighton or Leeds about lines of business. What used to annoy me was that the people I’d travel with would have an obsession of trying to find the locals’ hidden, not-in-the-guide-books, good-time hangouts. You’re taking your life in your hands wandering into a tropical shack, waiting for some steaming voodoo concoction to be poured into a cracked glass when you’d just asked for a lime and soda with a straw.

“I want the real experience,” I’d be told, “like a carnival atmosphere.” It’s never going to happen! For a start, the locals are living a subsistence level of hardship, and when you stride into their rotting booze shed, next to a banana plantation, the last thing they want to do on a Friday night is discuss your traffic problems on the South Circular or who your favourite DJ is.

The worst holiday I ever had was on the Caribbean paradise of St Lucia. Even with suntan lotion on, my legs burnt. I think the spray method was in its infancy back then. Maybe I didn’t rub it in properly. I had to wear jeans for four days. Most of the resorts in St Lucia are enclosed holiday prisons of excess. The walls are there to keep the locals out and the holidaymakers (and their cash) in. It’s a very crooked state of affairs, and you can see why the surrounding poor get so browned off. You’re living on an island idyll, where money from tourism could sort out so much grief, then you’ve got the holiday equivalent of Tescos buying up your beach and building ten-foot walls. Even so, on St Lucia, the locals did little to garner any sympathy from me, luxuriating in their hatred of Europeans. I can understand their anger – I get the root causes – but don’t invite somebody onto your premises and treat them like a rattlesnake.

I was in St Lucia for a week; it seemed to last months. Instead of staying at one of the high-class Sandals, it was decided beforehand that we’d share our holiday pennies with the community. The hotel was a 30-minute stroll from the beach, ie: a bus journey away. It wasn’t cheap, but the prostitutes who used the hotel must have sorted out special rates. What hits you about St Lucia is that everybody is trying to rip you off all of the time. You can see why rum is such a big hit in these parts. You need to down two stiff fingers before leaving the front door, because men walk around with machetes in much the same way that we might carry a newspaper in the UK. It’s a chastening experience having a 6’3” man approach with a meat cleaver in his hand, with his eyes rolling round the back of his head because he’s so off his face, asking if you’ll buy the coconut shell in his hand that he’s crudely hacked into the shape of a bird.

In the ludicrous heat, you’d traipse to the beach bar to grab a frosty beer and the barman would say, “$23.” You’d have to argue the toss on every single transaction. I went for the $18 fish option in our prostitute-friendly hotel restaurant one evening, expecting delicately cooked snapper, and had a plate of kippers with tinned veg clattered on the table in front of me. “I don’t feel comfortable paying £12 for kippers!” I argued. “You’re from a rich country, you can afford it!” the waitress shrieked. When she’d calmed down, I said, “Can we get two beers?” “$40.”

I counted the hours until the flight back. An Air France Concorde crashed in Paris while I was in the middle of that long, long week, so the upcoming homeward journey became fraught with fire-engulfed nerves. The few Brits who were staying at our hotel looked haunted. We’d have secret discussions about how awful the place was. Some of the poor buggers had paid for two weeks. You’d get a bus to town, which was more like a long van with windows, and all the pasengers would be asking you to pay their fare. You’d reply, “Sorry.” Then you’d face six or seven death threats, with everyone on the bus flashing machetes, even the driver.

With a day to go, and weary of the constant harassment, we paid to lounge in one of the Sandals holiday prisons. Once inside the protective hub, I headed dutifully to the bar and ordered two beers. “$30.” Everyone was at it, even staff in the plush beach resorts! I reported the barman. As far as I was concerned, he could sling his machete.

Apologies if you’ve just booked your honeymoon in the Caribbean. At least if you’re heading to St Lucia, you’ll be getting a break from the endless drone of British radio DJs. I’d certainly like a fortnight away from Gideon Coe and Mary Anne Hobbs at the moment. I’ve just seen on Google that “Gidz” went to Coventry University and used to be on Why Don’t You?. A child star! Why Don’t You? was one of only two kids TV programmes that were unwatchable because they were so dull. The other was Jackanory. Ooh, controversial! I’d rather be ploughing through maths homework than listen to Bernard Cribbins reading a long story.

I don’t mind 6Music. I love Marc Riley and Mark Radcliiffe, as you’d expect, but Gideon Coe is a first-generation Nick Grimshaw. Obviously, if you’re called Gideon, doors will be flung open for you in London, in case you’re the son of a Lord. “Are you related to Seb?” As I’m writing this, Gideon’s just come on the radio, with that stupid background music. By my radio, I have a writing pad, and on this, I write down tracks that I need to further investigate. I’ve never written anything down while Gideon’s Coe’s been on the radio.

Mary Anne Hobbs wants gobbing. She’s emerged out of nowhere on 6Music and, to my horror, I’ve discovered she’s filling in for Shaun Keaveny – who I’m not overly fond of either – on the breakfast slot. She speaks like a Seventies drip – probably still goes backpacking. “I feel really privileged that BBC Radio is allowing me to delve into the history of electronic music,” she’ll drawl, “to play the most amazing, most fantastic electronic music in the history of mankind, and that this amazing genre of music is at last getting the attention it deserves, through me, and I was at the Latitude Festival at the weekend, and Gideon Coe and I DJ’ed from 11pm till 4am, and we were so privileged to witness our own success, and it was so packed, and I’m from Lancashire, and everything was so amazing that they had to create a moshpit for us, because everyone loved us and everyone was going wild, cos we work for BBC radio, and I loved me, and Gids loved me, and Gids was spectacular, and Sandals in St Lucia loved us and have booked us up for the entire winter, then we’re going travelling in Vietnam,” etc.

I quite like Norway and Greece, and Hungary’s OK too. In fact, me and the wife are going to Budapest quite soon, covering the Sziget festival for work. Franz Ferdinand are playing. Hopefully it won’t be as roasting as London is at the moment, which is like being on Mercury, but it’ll no doubt be hovering around 37 degrees. I keep having visions of a black Labrador attempting to read the BBC London weather forecast, standing in for the boozy Wendy Hurrell, and all the dog can do is go, “Heheheheheheheheheh,” with its big tongue sticking out of its mouth, because it’s too hot. I was up at 3am ironing the other night with the sweat running off me in rivers. I couldn't sleep! No wonder I’m daydreaming about weather Labradors. Right, I’ve got some freelance work to finish off about autumn/winter high-street trends. Just looking at a heavy coat makes me feel exhausted. No wonder Italy and Spain can never lift themselves out of economic uncertainty. How can you do anything in the heat?

Issue 6: The loneliness of the football close season

In mid-July, I find that I’m pining for football, although since having nippers, football’s all-encompassing hold over me is no longer what it was. With kids comes a shift in priorities. I now disagree with Bill Shankly’s epic quote about football being more important than life and death, although I accept that it’s able to produce strong emotional responses. But then again, so do cancelled trains on First Capital Connect or the decidedly crooked practice of online “passport-checking” services, who masquerade as a bona fide government website and then charge you £34 for filling in a form on your behalf.

When I was a kid, Final Score’s last results of the season chewed my insides. I felt bereft. The following day, the People newspaper would clatter through our letterbox and in the sports pages you’d find the forecasts for the following weekend’s Australian football fixtures. Aussie pools. You’d get such scintillating two-pointers as Wooloomooloo v Brisbane, North Dandenong v Doncaster (there was a Down Under version) and Ayers Rock v The Sullivans. I had visions of a demarcated rectangle of orange soil, screaming-bright sunlight, temperatures of 103°, kangaroos hopping past corner flags, snakes wrapped round the upright and eleven spectators drinking tinnies. Our school kickabouts were bigger deals!

I was never bored in the ensuing six-weeks holiday. There was too much to do. I busied myself with key pastimes. I’d embark on long bike rides on my trusty Grifter through miles of woodland; construct and play with 1:72 model aeroplanes; take my toy cars for a full-day backyard safari; organise football matches on the school fields that the headmaster had strictly forbidden us to play on; and write out my own World Cup competitions on paper.

The latter would be an ongoing tournament that could last anything up to a month in duration, starting at the qualifying stages and leading right up to the tournament finals. In fact, and I’m ashamed to say it, I think I staged my last boredom-beating World Cup when I’d turned 16 – this is before I’d discovered the joys of literature, and I didn’t stick a chance with local birds back then. All of the lasses my age were sexually active with Vauxhall Cavalier Convertible-owning men who were 23 years old. If the police investigated all these cases of under-age nookie, I reckon half of Doncaster’s male population around the age of 50 would end up with a Stuart Hall-type sentence.

My World Cup competitions were fixture marathons, usually scrawled on the back of reams of unwanted wallpaper. The choice of venue would be chosen from the index of an aged Sixties atlas at random. I closed my eyes and pointed at the page. I remember Northern Rhodesia were once handed the golden chalice, but after consulting with my dad, I had to snatch the tournament back as the nation no longer existed, and I didn’t really want my prestigious tournament held in Africa anyway – it would be too hot, like the Aussie league. One time – and I wasn’t happy about it – the lucky recipient ended up being Mongolia, who had to rapidly piece together an infrastructure of football stadia and motorways to meet my FIFA requirements.

I loved my made-up tournaments. At school, I used to get butterflies in my tummy because I knew I’d be returning to a packed fixture list that coming evening. I’d grind through group stages two matches at a time and work out the table accordingly, so the story of the World Cup would gradually unfold. England never won the damned thing. We usually went out in the quarter-finals; they made a semi-final once. Got knocked out by the cheats of Argentina. Despite the lack of success with the home nations, I soon realised that I had an unacceptable bias towards them, meaning all but Wales would usually find themselves lining up against the likes of Brazil, West Germany and those shirt-ripping scoundrels Italy in the finals proper. In the end, I had to devise a system to police myself, because I could no longer rely on my impartiality.

As an avid collector of Panini sticker books, the answer was literally in front of my eyes. Each World Cup or European Championship sticker album would contain records of international matches played during the previous four years. I’d also started collecting The News Of The World Football Annuals, and pretty soon, I had a comprehensive list of internationals that had been played since 1976. To offset my warped favouritism, I started using real results, where possible, to determine the outcome of my matches. This created a few upsets – all of a sudden, the might of West Germany could slip up at Malta, just like in real life, and elements of chance suddenly entered the fray. I’ve got to admit, it made the whole process even more exciting.

By the mid-Eighties, I suspected I was the only person in Yorkshire, possibly the entire universe, who’d have the patience for such a time-consuming endeavour. I’d write until my hands hurt. Although I believed I was ploughing a lonely furrow, the truth is, I was a Johnny-come-lately to fictional football competitions, a fact I learnt with much shock when, in 2002, I interviewed sports commentator Jonathan Pearce, the Young Turk of Channel 5’s football coverage.

During a lively exchange of football opinions and anecdotes, Pearce revealed that he was well versed in staging his own World Cup competitions, all the way from qualifying to the Final. Incredibly, Pearce’s vice was not biro but Subbuteo. At five minutes a match, Pearce’s World Cups must have lasted considerably longer than my simple results service. My tournaments merely required cursory glances through international records to determine a score. Pearce would’ve played out his games flick by flick, shot by shot.

During the Q&A, Pearce stated that one of his favourite childhood moments was when England and Scotland reached a Subbuteo World Cup Final, and in an animated state, he excitedly re-lived the staggering 7-6 (after extra time) encounter. When I told Pearce of my own paper-and-pen competitions, his mouth dropped in astonishment. “Listen, I think we’re both unusual in this respect,” he admitted. “Good times, though,” I said. “Absolutely,” Pearce boomed. We departed with a firm handshake.

In the yawning chasm of the close season, I tend to read a football tome to keep me going. The trouble is, there’s very little decent sports literature out there, but I’ve recently come across a cracking sports writer called Duncan Hamilton. In the Seventies and Eighties, when I was scribbling out my World Cups, Hamilton was a sports reporter on the Nottingham Evening Post and would, each week, meet Brian Clough to gain a quote or two.

In 2008’s Provided You Don’t Kiss Me: 20 Years With Brian Clough, Hamilton catalogues Nottingham Forest’s double European Cup triumphs and the manager’s subsequent fall into sozzled ineffectiveness. For me, it’s one of the most illustrative biographies ever written. The book is as much about Hamilton learning his journalistic trade as Clough’s brash methods and reads all the better for it. The words glide like a George Best dash down the wing; every paragraph has been crafted. I’m now reading Hamilton’s latest title, The Footballer Who Could Fly, a silky review of football’s leading figures, featuring the likes of Jackie Milburn, Bill Shankly, Clough and Sir Bobby Charlton. It’s fantastic, a joy to read, and I welcome every train journey so I can get back to Hamilton’s peerless descriptions of bygone greats. Last week, it made me want to interview Charlton, but when I asked in my office, the sports editor replied, “You’re going to hate this, but I went up to Manchester and interviewed ‘Our Bub’ last week, in the centre circle of Old Trafford. Lee, are you crying now?”

My own footballing superhero was Kevin Keegan, the England captain, the wearer of that all-important No.7 jersey. I never wanted a poodle perm like King Kev – I wasn’t mad – but his attitude to the game impressed me mightily. I think I wanted my hair to resemble West Germany’s Bernd Schuster at this point; I was well into the way the Germans plied their robotic football around 1980, and Keegan’s move to Hamburg fitted perfectly with my emerging Teutonic football style in the school playground. Like Keegan, I was brought up in Doncaster and I followed his ensuing nomadic career with avid interest. When KK dropped a division to play for Newcastle United, I thought he’d lost the plot, and sensed – rightly – that his England career was in its twilight.

I loved Keegan’s unbending captain’s approach, but I only ever saw him play once. When I was 12 and already dreaming of taking over England’s No.7 shirt, I used to travel around the North and Midlands with an FA linesman called Mr Topham. I never found out his first name. He drove a decrepit Triumph Toledo, and hanging from the interior mirror was an air freshener that was a naked green imp in a state of extreme sexual arousal. I didn’t agree with that at all, but lived with it because I was getting free match tickets and a chauffeur service.

In November 1983, Mr Topham invited me to watch Newcastle United v Fulham at St James’ Park. Keegan had been captain at Toon since August 1982, after joining from Southampton for £100,000, a staggering purchase at the time, especially as Keegan was wanted by 20 clubs. I suppose the equivalent would be Steven Gerrard signing for Blackpool today. I was desperate to get Keegan’s autograph. Before the match, in the bowels of the stadium, I was introduced to some of the team. I recall David McCreery, Chris Waddle, Peter Beardsley and there, centre of the melee, Keegan, Captain Fantastic. My impending trip to St James' Park had created a vortex of jealous interest at my new secondary school, and rather foolishly, I’d started taking orders for Keegan autographs, even from girls. By the time matchday had arrived, I realised that I’d need to ask for ten separate signatures – a bit of a tall order. I approached Keegan with my heart pounding…

Lee: “Hello, Kevin, I'm from Doncaster!”

Kevin: “You’re from Donny, wow! Is Armthorpe still there?”

Lee: “Phhh! I think so! Can I have your autograph?” 

Kevin: “Yes, give me your pen. Eh, what colour’s this?”

Lee: “It’s red. It’s all I could find when I left home this morning.”

Kevin: “It’s not a popular colour round here, you know.”

Lee: “You did play for Liverpool, though – I thought you might like it.”

Kevin: “That’s true – well give it here.”

Lee: “Can I have ten autographs?”

Kevin: “Ten?!! Well, look, come back after the game, and if we win, I'll give you them all.” 

I had to accept this frail offer, but instantly realised I’d made a world-class cock-up, a cock-up that Mr Topham’s air freshener would have been proud of. During the match, I sat next to Liverpool manager Bob Paisley and was given a private commentary on how the match was shaping, but his accent was so strong that I could barely understand a word he was saying. In fact, when he introduced himself as “Bob Peersley”, I replied, somewhat confused: “Oh… you look a lot like Bob Paisley, the Liverpool manager.” He laughed like a wartime toilet, and it was only during the first half that I realised his 1890s Durham accent had caught me out, and he was indeed the Liverpool boss. As for shiny-tete Mr Topham, his energetic rabbit-like dashes down the touchline had caught the attention of the home massive. “Gan an, ya bald-heddad bunneeeeee!” they roared.

At the 90th minute, Fulham led 2-1, but Keegan grabbed hold of the match by its breeches, and by the final whistle, Toon had overpowered the Cottagers through sheer force of will and won 3-2. The victory meant I could still leave Tyneside with a full loaf. I made my way like an electric charge to the corridor by the changing rooms and stood patiently by a white-painted, scuffed wall. As jubilant Geordies dissipated, my ebb reached the relegation zone – he’d obviously beaten me to the changing room and I’d muffed it! But wait a moment, what’s this? Out of a mob of flat caps and brown raincoats, an excited throng of bipedal zebras, sponsored by Newcastle Brown Ale, approached, jumping, dancing and singing. Such was the jubilation of King Kev and his vertically striped cohorts that they rushed straight past me and before I could shout, the changing room door had slammed shut.

I think the tears were trickling down my cheek before the door had even closed. I wanted his signature like nothing else on the planet. Keegan had had my pen in his hand, and I still managed to mess it up! What I must have looked like in that hallway, I can only imagine, but a policewoman approached. I thought she was concerned at first, but then she asked how I’d managed to slip through security to gain entrance to the Newcastle United inner sanctum. Only by getting a grip of my senses was I able to tell Juliet Bravo that I was the personal guest of the linesman, the bald bunny. She quickly made up her mind that I was a confidence trickster and attempted to eject me into the black of the Newcastle night, where I’d have to sleep under a pile of Pink Uns until the boat came in. Thankfully Topham arrived like the shopkeeper in Mr Benn, otherwise I’d still be walking down the A1 today. It was a long, long drive back to Yorkshire. Mr Topham chuckled at my sob story and bought us fish and chips in Newton Aycliffe.

Back in Doncaster, I forged Keegan’s signature for my school pals – I can still conjure a passable Keegan scrawl to this day. What angered me most was that my peers didn’t really care if I’d managed to get the England captain’s autograph or not and lobbed the strips of paper in their Puma and Patrick bags. They were more interested in mischief or how expensive their trainers were. Seeing my anguish, family members sprung into action and very soon I had a huge, colourful poster of Keegan in an England kit with the message “To Lee, Best wishes, Kevin Keegan” in permanent marker. In the Seventies, Keegan was the best footballer in the world. Today, it would be almost impossible to secure the signature of Lionel Messi, but back when I was composing my own World Cup competitions, I wouldn’t have wanted anything from an Argentinian, because they were bloody cheats and foulers.

Morning Warship Issue 5: A summer reminder

The Poles over the back have got a dog called Tony. To offset this, I’m thinking of re-naming our cat Zbigniew. The Palmers Green Poles are zealous worshippers of that big shining thing in the sky. They own a white, £67,000 BMW 6 Series Convertible in order to catch all the sun’s rays on their drives to the sklep. When the temperature edges over 19 degrees, the Poles’ back garden becomes a Central European version of the DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince “Summertime” video. Their conversations are so shrill that I feel like a superhero with enhanced hearing – only I can’t understand a word other than “TONY!” Tony, God love him, barks and barks all day. He’s a fighting dog, fashionably illegal and will happily yap just to pass an hour.

The Pole’s intriguing blend of Gdansk techno and Wroclaw pop-reggae team up tantalisingly with the stereo of my English next-door neighbour. In the daytime, he’s as free as a dicky bird. I think he’s a barman. His musical taste is as wide as Poland’s borders, but all his tracks have to be played loudly, whether it’s The Kinks, Creedence Clearwater Revival or Ghostface Killah. An overlooked musical genius in the Jools Holland mould, he tinkles the ivories every hour, on the hour, replete with full-power vocals, always with his windows open at their maximum 90-degree gape. Ah, the joys of summer. I’m working at home today – well, I should be, but I’m writing this. Twenty-six degrees and the back door is fastened shut. At least the double-glazing acts as an effective sound muffler. However, it’s not easy to breathe in here.

I’ve got my shorts on today. That’s alright cos I’m at home, not the office. You should never wear shorts to work unless you’re a footballer – I thought you knew this already? – yet in summer, London’s offices transform into Rio-style poolside parties. Spring’s first shafts of sunlight release Havaianas flip-flops and skater shorts from hibernation. In a way, we were lucky this year to have had an extended winter. Those obscene extremes of cold and shiver-me-timbers Arctic blasts meant offices were free from hairy legs until 7 May – my wedding day, which was the first warm day of the year. But Britain’s ongoing Brazilification is back on track now. With the mercury rising, we’re dancing the samba.

Earlier today, I passed through London’s Soho and found that 98 per cent of male workers are clad in shorts. With all that hair, it’s Movember for the legs! Most of Soho’s media stock look like “Will”, that Mr Puniverse who was Chris Evans’ lackey. These days, wiry white legs and bulging Neanderthal toes are permanent fixtures in the office until 30 October. Women, meanwhile, wear bras and pants beneath perfectly see-through dresses. Most men revert to their Carry On base instincts at such sights, booming, “The girls, Sid, the girls,” like demented Bernard Bresslaws. Bras are for the bedroom! We’re walking through an endless lingerie section of Kay’s catalogue! The basic slips that women wear barely deflect the fierce yellow of the sun. They’re going home in the evening with sunburn even though they think they’ve been covered up. I don’t think I saw the clasp of a bra until I was 16… you can see one every 16 yards now.

The thing is with flip-flops is that they lead to full-on barefootedness in the workplace. What happens is, myriad sets of sweating monkey feet clasp hold of table legs between big toe and the next toe along, spreading advanced forms of canker and gym-derived infection. There comes a time where you have to make a stand against germ warfare. Some of you already know my drill. We should treat the barefooted in much the same way that the Royal Navy dealt with the threat of U-boats in the Battle of the Atlantic. Mine the channels!

I found the most effective weapon against bare feet to be the drawing pin. Simply sprinkle a couple by the printer and then drop a pin every few yards. You’ll be amazed at their effectiveness. Just wait for an explosive scream and then try to maintain a straight face. Stricken vessels will naturally hop to a seat to inspect the damage, thinking they’re the most wronged individuals on the planet. They’ll see that a small hole has appeared in their calloused pads, a circle that quickly fills with their own homo neanderthalensis blood. Oh, he’ll shout and swear alright, but the next day he’ll be wearing heavy jeans and boots. In British offices, you should wear long trousers with appropriate shoes and socks. Where do you think you are lad, double-games?

Regardless of seasons, once you reach 40, all the clothes in your wardrobe suddenly feel like they’re from Mothercare’s toddler range. No matter how many times you flick through your logo-adorned shirts and polos, they no longer represent who you are or what you believe in. At first, you think you must be sliding down the same slope as Reginald Perrin prior to his mental meltdown, because all your clothes look comical and absurd. It’s like all your outfits have been designed for hanging out at the youthy.

If you’re from the North, like what I am, instinct tells you to wear your shirt hanging out, ie: not tucked in, because that’s how Bernard Sumner of Electronic wore his shirt on the Philippines-shot “Get The Message” video in May 1990. Clinging doggedly to the past, and with few sartorial options available, a few days after turning 40, I went into work with a shirt flapping around my backside, convincing myself that I wore my garment in such a manner purely for socio-cultural reasons – I was Northern, working class, remained a Factory Records idealist and I didn’t want to look like a Hooray Henry with my shirt tucked into hipster jeans. But I felt scruffy, like a bin man, like Eddie Yates.

I’ve met Sumner a couple of times in the last few years, and I have to say, I’ve never seen him with a shirt hanging out, not that I’m basing my entire wardrobe around his fashion teachings or owt. In fact, he seems to wear a lot of Adidas and Superdry, which is not my thing at all. When I turned 40, I had a ruck with fashion. I stopped wearing shirts completely because I didn’t know what to do with them. Our office at work is as hot as Haiti all year round, due to perpetually shivering women (cold hearts!), so you can’t wear long sleeves anyway – it’s like being locked in a car in Port-au-Prince with all the windows wound up. And regular polo shirts, like Lacoste and Fred Perry, seem too casual. My solution was knitted T-shirts; I was partial to a knitted Gio-Goi T-shirt around 1990-91, so I’m maintaining a link, of sorts. I get my versions from H&M, Banana Republic and Zara, all for under £30 a pop.

The days of splashing out £70 on a Lacoste are in the past. A polo shirt lasts for three months before it loses its shape, so it makes sense to pay modest prices. Also, when I turned 40, the thought of wearing a logo suddenly seemed vulgar and uncultured. And to think, 15 years ago, I’d have been stomping around lower-league football grounds in Stone Island, which I now consider the most vile fashion statement in the history of mankind. What a pile of s*** that label is. I once paid £120 for a Stone Island cagoule and it wasn’t even showerproof. It went translucent in drizzle and even struggled with fog moisture.

One of the major fashion transformations for a man in his 40s is a new-found love of proper trousers, the sort your grandad wore all his life. I refuse to pay over £50 for a pair of jeans as it is. I’ve become reliant on Uniqlo’s range of casual-fit denim. I’ve also noticed that lots of jeans brands have started scrimping on their arse coverage due, I assume, to yoot’s predilection for revealing the brand of their undercrackers. I don’t want to look like a bloody builder or rapper! Trousers have become the practical option, and the best leg coverings I’ve found in recent times have been at Banana Republic. Tony Wilson’s favourite label! Soft and comfortable, I hope mine last forever. The trouble with trousers is that they have baggier pockets than jeans, and this can lead to disastrous consequences.

Having DJ’ed at a Central London location the other Friday, I got on a night bus, with my trousers on, obviously, sat down and settled in for the journey. The ride seemed to last 40 seconds… I was drunk. I got off and as I put the key in the front door, I realised that my pocket was empty. My phone was travelling, without a valid ticket, towards Enfield. My baggy pocket had released its bounty and my no-nonsense Nokia phone, my constant companion since 2008, that had sent something in the region of 25,000 texts and never taken a photograph, because it had no camera, was gone. With a screeching hangover, head ringing with pain, the following day I had to call Vodafone to explain my loss. It proved a fortuitous cock-up because I was rewarded with a free phone and a reduced monthly bill. Even so, proper trousers demand respect. You need to keep your hands in your pockets more.

I’m often asked if I’ve ever had any fashion faux-pas in my stylish existence, and apart from the Stone Island debacle, my only outre purchase was a pair of white jeans in 1995. They were great, actually. White jeans are a young man’s game, but in ’95 I was young and single. So I bought the white jeans and wore them on a sweltering Tuesday, which was also the day that the music and football titles at IPC Magazines played football at dinnertime. It was 32 degrees, and I had pure water leaking from my armpits and forehead, such were the conditions. An hour of full exercise and I was as thirsty as a dog, so I jogged back to my office and downed a litre of Evian in little over ten seconds, then kept slurping to rehydrate. With my white jeans atop my sweltering legs, I was asked to run an errand as my junior position implied. Twenty minutes in, my arse turned into a crop spray. Without going into too many details, I had to bin my boxer shorts and remained in an IPC toilet for 30 minutes as my body expelled as much from my bowels as it could shift. I had plans that night; I soon wouldn’t.

It was a diabolical afternoon. I had acute diarrhoea and was wearing Daz-white denim. Inevitably, the strain started to show and a copper line developed around my Winnersh Triangle. I abandoned the evening’s meet-up and planned my homeward journey. I knew I was embarking on an embarrassing escapade, where schoolgirls and attractive women would crease up with laughter as their eyes spied my zebra’s rear. I sat wherever possible, stood against walls other times, then ran up Wimbledon hill to get indoors. I washed the jeans twice but the stains remained stubborn. In fashion, some things are not meant to be. The jeans were quickly disposed of.

When I was in Banana Republic the other day, buying some proper trousers, there were a few pairs of white jeans in the sale section, so I tried some on for old time’s sake. For a start, the legs were too tight. Anyone who came of age during the Madchester era can’t bear unyielding material against their skin. I thought I looked terrible in them – the wife wanted me to buy them. I knew that if I bought white jeans, at some point I’d be bent double in some godforsaken toilet feeling like I was the Space Shuttle on take-off. And I’d have left the burn marks! Having just seen a photograph of an albino zebra, that was the look I was rocking on that fateful Tuesday in 1995. Right, I’d better get on with some real work. And I need to feed Zbigniew.