The road to Easy Street goes through the sewer.
John Madden
I’ve been given a video nasty by my Dad; it tells the story of when Villas 1st Xl were filmed at home for the very first time. Unfortunately, we suffered severe stage fright and what followed was a day none of us ever wanted to see again.
It was Saturday September 4th, 1982 and the film begins in a bizarre fashion. Film-maker – Billy Stockdale – opens with an image of the old painted sign on the club gates to a Chas & Dave tune! Half a dozen of us are pushing and pulling the old roller up and down the wicket – John Lee, Rick Lawrence, Brent Shackleton, Phil Smith, Allan Stockdale and myself – whilst in the foreground Mick Smith (with hair) knocks up with Mick Adams (also with hair).
Old Charlie Dalton strolls across the pitch as Billy checks his sound and vision. Adams, our opening bowler, lobs the ball gently to Smith whilst drawing on a fag before nonchalantly stamping it out on the ragged outfield. No laps around the outfield, football games or catching drills in sight.
“Don’t sling that ball at me!” says Billy from behind the camera, taking a break from his day job as a plumber as technical support arrives in the form of skipper Dave Tattersall, more interested in the camera than a team talk.
“Is that pointing right?” chirps Billy “It’s not on is it?” he asks as the camera rolls seemingly of it’s own accord.
In the background there is what would become the Webster’s house, up for sale by long gone local agents Ashworths. The ground itself is barely recognisable, surrounded by rickety old white fences with the scorehut located at the opposite end to now, a small wooden box amongst scrub land, speckled with weeds. The old garage is open with the club’s meagre equipment stored inside.
“I’ve got a three hour cassette in” says Billy unaware yet of the irony of that comment “It’s our gaffers!”
Paul “Thommo” Thompson, sadly lost to us a few years ago, glides past on those long legs, the only sign of any warm-up of sorts as both captain and star player remain fixated on the camera.
“Is it recording now?” asks Brent to which Billy mutters negatively. “Well t’tapes going round!” adds Brent to Billy’s ongoing confusion as various players stroll across the outfield.
“Well I aven’t pressed t’trigger!” protests Billy some way into his three hour tape by now but way off a new life on Hollywood.
Phil Smith, a lumbering figure with newly bleached hair, comes into view as Nick Gibson actually breaks into a trot of sorts; he was never what one might describe an athlete. A young tea lady carries a pot across to the old wooden hut for we will surely need refreshing in a few hours. In stark contrast to today, young boys play on the outfield and spectators eagerly gather.
The boundary is a scattered collection of white planks arranged haphazardly and the outline of one practice lane is just about visible from the late summer worn grass. We are batting first so players saunter off as Gibson and Tattersall stroll out to “good luck lads!” from the inimitable Adams doubtless with another fag lit up.
“When you’ve got glasses on you can’t get near enough!” protests Billy “It’s as clear as a bell though but I’m not going to start moving it around following the ball to the boundary!” Little did Billy know how prophetic those words would be.
Oxenhope, the opposition, open the bowling with star man Paul Ellison, the local butcher, fast and nasty, roaring down the hill a powerful, slingy action that could break a cow’s neck. From the other end the canny and unmistakable figure of Ian “Jacko” Jackson, later to play for Villas in the Over 50s many years later.
The wind whistles across the ground on a cloudy day as Gibson faces, a sightscreen missing a few planks like a dodgy set of dentures in the background. A maiden over, no sign of the horrors to come. Nobody is in a rush as a small plane can be heard in the background, an ice cream wagon chimes in the distance, four leg-byes are gifted and the score is rolling. Jacko has a gully, leg-gully and short-leg as Tattersall pads away several deliveries.
“Where’s Peter bloody West?” asks the unique gravelly voice of Charlie Dalton starting the first of his numerous laps of the ground, bedecked in his brown suit, Capstan Full Strength no doubt in hand.
The normally free scoring Gibson tucks Ellison away to get off the mark after ten balls. Wicket! Ellison pins Tattersall on the pads and the umpire’s finger flies up; 5-1. Perhaps a young Horace Hartley? In comes Stockdale, son of the cameraman. Uncharacteristically, the normally studious batter tries a few expansive drives but to no avail. The camera shakes in disapproval and all is quiet behind the lens.
By this time Gibson had added a couple more singles – wicket! Stockdale is pinned by Ellison to unsympathetic background comments from the cameraman not edited out.
“I don’t know why ‘e dun’t bloomin attack it!” says the cameraman, never having held a bat in his life, as his son wanders off disconsolate.
The score is now 7-2 and Ellison is charging down the hill smelling blood as the tall figure of Lawrence arrives at the crease, a crouched stance, a wild drive aimed at only his second ball, small wonder sons Joe and Sam play as they now do. Gibson finds another gap on the legside, developing a rather ugly pitch map as Jacko trundles reliably up the small slope, trademark home-made knitted sweater hugging his recognisable rotund frame.
Wicket! Lawrence aims a Caribbean cover drive and is caught…at midwicket. The camera pans to the scoreboard showing 8-3 and some 35 overs left for we played 40 overs back then…most days. Jacko wanders back to fine leg as Shackleton arrives with Gibson to face Ellison again.
Wicket! It’s 8-4 as the normally reliable Gibson chips Ellison into the legside and stomps off faster than he’s moved all day; maybe sniffing Victoria Sponge? The camera finds the scorebox again as if disbelievingly.
Mick Smith walks in…not for long…keep walking son! Wicket!…out bowled first ball by Ellison – 8-5.
“I got that shot” cries Billy “he’ll be sick about that one when he watches it!” There would be no future on TMS for Billy and Richie Benaud was safe.
By now the sun is out but there is no rush for sun block from the West Bradford visitors. Again the camera pans the ground, almost searching for help or inspiration as in comes John “Leapy” Lee, encircled by fielders.
It’s Shackleton to face Jacko for his first ball; if ever a man could dig us out out of this hole with a counter-attacking innings of substance surely this is the man. The Viv Richards swagger is there, a confident muscular twirl of the bat, wisps of blond hair still clinging on. Jacko rolls up the hill, the bat is flayed, up goes the ball and it’s wicket! 8-6.
“Wish I adn’t ave come” says Billy as a young yours truly saunters in. Ellison has me in his sights, which is more than can be said for Billy who has clearly given up the ghost as I get off the mark confidently; 9-6. Next over I play the same shot off Jacko only straight down square leg’s throat – wicket! – as Leapy hurls his bat down; 9-7.
The cameraman picks out his son sat in the distance in Critics’ Corner, propped up against the old white seating we’d constructed from recovered asbestos laden slabs a few years previously; we await our fate. Attached to the lens he is unable to go deal out the usual bollocking associated with any score under fifty.
Spectators are still coming in as Thommo’s familiar languid walk to the wicket belies the crisis on All Alone Road. Jacko can clearly sense an early start to beers although rumour had it he always had a few before a game. He probably thought we’d had a few too on this day.
A young kid’s voice can be heard “all you’ll ‘ave are wickets!”
It’s 11-7 as the camera finds a disconsolate skipper being consoled by senior player Lawrence. Barbara Lee comes into the ground pushing a pram on the old cinder track as Janice Haigh greets her with the bad news from the middle; hubbie could be home soon. Thommo gets a single then her love drives a four to wild cheers as the score races to 16-7.
“Well played John!” shrieks Barbara, newly born Andrew asleep in the pram, oblivious to the vagaries of a game he would one day play.
Wicket! Thommo holes out and it’s 17-8 with Mick Adams – minus the fag – promoted to number ten. We really were stuffed! Adams takes guard…then walks off – wicket! – castled second ball by Jacko.
We are unbelievably 17-9 and a long night looms as Phil Smith walks out to the middle sporting his new Kajagoogoo hairstyle. An inside edge and he was away; two more for Leapy and we’ve reached 20 as a voice in the distance is heard.
“‘Ey Billy take that bloody camera away!”
Ellison to Smith is no contest – wicket!. We are all out for the lowest score I can recall and, as tea is taken, Rick immortalises himself invited by Billy to the camera, fixated on the score.
“You can take it off that! Ee it’s just like bloody telly isn’t it. Bloody ‘ell it’s colour too. It’s not rolling is it? Oh hell I’m on now! Can you wipe that bit off?”
Footnote
There would be better days ahead, as there always are, such is sport. The year after the new clubhouse opened on the patch of waste ground signalling signs of better times and the end of the old garage before it fell down.
The remaining years of the 1980s would prove to be the most successful in the club’s history with trophies and cup final appearances at all levels.
If at first you don’t succeed…
Leave a Reply