1 – Brilliant Disguise – Easily Distracted
As a young lad I always enjoyed the power of the written word and loved writing short stories as an outlet for a somewhat vivid imagination albeit possibly the early signs of a decidedly limited attention span that somehow school could not quite compensate for. The fields stretching out through the windows often caught my attention far easier than most of the teachers. These early ramblings, which in later life developed into all too regular rants, would generally be highly embellished “reviews” of various school sporting events and the occasional school disco if there was anybody I needed to lampoon which generally there was in abundant supply. In the main it was football because only people with a death wish risked playing school cricket so bad were the pitches at Hanson Upper School and invariably I had a blinder most games mainly due to the blatant bias of the author describing the latest ‘B’ team football match with the slow lad in midfield dazzling with his touch and creativity. So it was that an early leaning towards fantasy was displayed for all to see carefully skimming over a school football career languishing permanently in the B team till Sixth Form when promotion was only because we only had one team.
Although I liked writing I obviously did not care much for reading as I opted out of English Literature and so my sole exposure to English was English Language taught at O Level by Miss Geldart. For two years I sat there in class with a huge crush on my teacher, known to me as Sue in my very own adolescent dream world and for a while even the view through the windows was forgotten apart from when the Fifth Form girls were playing hockey. Although I gazed at her from the back of the class for two years – not far to travel to the corner for misdemeanours – this culminated in a modest Grade B pass which was early evidence of the ability to just do enough to get by. The fact that I passed at all is a huge reflection on her teaching prowess and unending patience rather than my hard work, dedication and love of the subject. There was, however, an undeniable surge of pride whenever one of my stories was read out in class. For a while I wrote about a character I invented based on a rabbit with magical powers. If only I had been more technically minded and invented the real thing – there again another early pointer – practical I was not and someday we were definitely not going to be millionaires.
Cricket
Like all good teachers Miss Geldart must have had some positive influence on me if only that my modest academic progress suggested she was highly experienced in dealing with adolescent retards and possessed the patience of a Saint. In recent years my stream of letters to the likes of the local press and the Cricketer magazine alike has been the source of merriment with friends and family. So, encouraged mercilessly by the lot of them I decided why not have one big rant and get it all over and done with not suspecting that at the time of rewriting this I would have completed three. In fulfilling a lifetime’s ambition and writing my first book I decided to follow the lead of the great authors and write about something think I know a bit about. Consequently, it will be no surprise to those that have suffered me the longest and have forked out for this drivel – all in a good cause I might add – that at the heart of this book is Bolton Villas Cricket Club, where, it may appear I was born. Not in a manger I hasten to add, more likely the score hut with a pair of knickers on my head, a steaming hangover and discovered not by three wise men but more likely by an irate groundsman.
All my life I have continued writing short stories, often at somebody else’s expense and, occasionally, for a wider benefit but it’s not been without it is dangers. The title for this book pays homage to a regular publication called Critics’ Corner that we produced as young lads at the club to raise a few quid to keep the coffers from drying up but, quite honestly, our scarcely hidden agenda was to lampoon as many people as we could get away with through the power of print. In that respect, very little has changed apart from that my co-author, Big Phil Smith, eventually fled in fear to Florida deeming alligators less threatening than some of the mums we offended. The title was borrowed from that infamous row of green plastic seats at the cricket ground we all love where a collection of old, retired and generally downright grumpy ex-cricketers sit and pass judgement on all most Saturday afternoons each summer as we go into battle watched by former “greats” of the game.
Although we selected our targets carefully unfortunately our attention to one particular subject of regular abuse many years ago caused his mother to collar me mid-wicket one evening, quite roughly around the throat, and suggest that enough was enough if I ever harboured future ambitions of breeding. In truth I didn’t but nor did I fancy a kick in the nuts from a very aggressive mother suffering from an overdose of maternal protectiveness. It was time for my co-contributor and me to put that wonky typewriter to rest. And so it came to pass that Critics’ Corner was dead and Rupert Murdoch was free to dominate the world media. We had had a good run for our money but I have to point out here that in no way did it fund Big Phil’s escape to Florida and Critics’ Corner never stooped as low as phone hacking…it was the Seventies after all.
The Boss
You may spot another common theme running through the book with each chapter borrowing the title of a Bruce Springsteen song thus reflecting my other real passion in life – the music of The Boss – and paying homage to him. It seems ironic that when I was studying for my O-levels my brother John would torment me with Springsteen’s early stuff because as a then fan of Duran Duran and Spandau Ballet it seemed excruciating. You may have guessed by now that my teenage years were confused to say the least. Throughout the book I have liberally sprinkled song titles and if Bruce has a problem then I’m happy to nip over to New Jersey to discuss. I owe my conversion to a chance hearing of “Brilliant Disguise” from the epic Tunnel of Love album released in 1987 and from that day on I was hooked and the New Romantic inspired frilly shirts and dodgy haircuts were consigned to a bad memory.
Unfortunately the dodgy haircuts did not quite go away as for a long time most of us youngsters had our hair done on the cheap by Sue Shackleton, wife of local hero, Brent. Sue worked at Rackhams, part of the House of Fraser group that had a flagship store in Bradford so she should have been good and if you view some old photos in the clubhouse she was as long as we all had the same cut. We could never afford to go to Rackhams so it was either Milton of Wrose village where my dad went and his “bowl cut” or a discounted cut by Sue. Rackhams is now a Costa Coffee and Bet Fred – a sad sign of the times for “My Hometown”. So whilst it may have been easier to get girls via New Romantic wailings it wasn’t worth the price of dressing like a poor man’s Adam Ant sporting one of Sue’s latest designer cuts especially as you were likely to get pummelled in medieval Bradford. And to this day Tunnel of Love remains my favourite album of all time.
This book isn’t intended to be autobiographical, but it’s inevitable that at certain points it may seem so if I am to approach the odd subject with the honesty it deserves. Bear with me when I occasionally slip into the odd rant or two as I slip towards stair lifts, grey Farahs, lumpy shoes, incontinence and dementia. And may I say to all of you that are included here I have tried to be generous, to those I have missed lucky you and that no offence was ever intended. In the end if the money raised keeps a few more kids active and able to learn and enjoy a great game like cricket then that is testimony enough to the legacy of long afternoons gazing at Miss Geldart.
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