Their yellow and red halves and distinctive perfumed smell brings back one memory for me, good work stamps delivered by Mr Broadhurst.
Mr Broadhurst was a wonderful headteacher at my primary
school in Chadderton a small historic town in Oldham, Lancashire. An archetypal head, his presence in a
classroom commanded respect and however itchy the carpet tiles were you sat in
silence whilst he delivered whatever news he needed to. I never knew how old he was. To an 8 year old boy I had two real guides to
the age of adults my Dad and my grandparents.
To me Mr Broadhurst was an age somewhere in between which by deduction
now would put him older than 34 and younger than 66. Not exactly narrow, but you know what I
mean. He always wore a suit, though I do
remember the odd occasion when he was jacket-less with sleeves rolled up,
mainly school sports day when the slightly musky smelling hessian sacks were
taken out of the PE cupboard (a store room with a beige crinkly ‘concertina’
door) and taken to the playing field for the sack race. Mr Broadhurst had a Theo Paphitis style
hairline and a friendly, but stern face.
I only remember one occasion when I ended up at the Headmasters office,
but for the life of me I can’t remember why.
I’d like to think it was on account of something brilliant I’d done, but
I know it wasn’t. After all when you’d
done something good there was a system hard wired into the school
processes. It was quickly learnt by
every pupil from the day you walked through the green-painted iron gates and
involved Pear Drops!
Having run my own Sweet Shop I can confirm to all of you
that these were what are known as ‘Northern’ Pear Drops. Obviously being northern and eight years old
I knew them only as Pear Drops, and coming from a family where sweets really
were a treat I had very little other contact with them. You’ll know the sweets I mean, a
fantastically perfumed smell, kind of sweet and so distinctive. They had one red side and one yellow side
magically stuck together in the shape of a conference pear. For those of you still interested, ‘Southern’
Pear Drops are slightly smaller and instead of having a red half and a yellow
half, they tend to come in a mix of red sweets and yellow sweets. To me these aren’t Pear Drops. I’ve seen the biggest Pear Drop in the world
at Oswaldtwistle Mills in Accrington and it has a red half and a yellow half,
now that is a Pear Drop!Each time I get a whiff of that lovely sweet smell it is linked to happiness, success and red ink.
The reason for this was purely down to Mr Broadhurst and the ‘Good Work’ stamp. Distant memory prevents me from being sure as to how often Mr Broadhurst would leave his office and venture into the 8 classrooms, 3 kg jar of Pear Drops under his arm but I’m sure it was once a week, a Friday in fact. Working away in our exercise books each week, adding, learning our times-tables, spelling, story writing we’d hand the books over to our teacher after every exercise and hope with each delivery we’d see a tick (in red ink). If we’d managed to impress by some unknown force that had elevated our scribes to Einstein-like levels there’d be an even more glorious sight...two ticks! Two ticks, our pass to rewards beyond our wildest dreams. It was our very own Golden Ticket, granting us an audience with our very own Willy Wonka with none of the songs and a lot less hair than Gene Wilder (still the best Wonka). Two ticks meant the classroom visit by Mr Broadhurst that Friday was going to involve you.
You had performed so well that you, and
hopefully a couple of others, (you don’t want to look like a swot) had the
pleasure of lining up to present your exercise book to receive both a Pear Drop
and a ‘Good Work’ stamp in your book.
You’d cracked it, a friendly ‘well done’ from Mr Broadhurst unregistered
as the senses were overtaken by the hard boiled, sugar coated reward that you
popped straight into your mouth so as not to risk dropping on the triumphant
walk back to your desk; admired by all around you (ok so maybe just ignored
because they didn’t get a sweet).
I’m
pretty sure it was my parents and their emphasis on academic achievement that
meant I generally performed well at school, but I’m not ruling out that it may
just have been that addictive combination of sugar and glory that drove me on
for the next 10 years. Like a dog
belonging to Pavlov I still feel the need to write my times tables accurately
in an exercise book whenever I scent a Pear Drop.
It was against this background of academic achievement and
sugar rushes that I discovered the one love in my life that has remained
constant since those heady days in 1986.
It was August 1986, just before term started at Christ Church,
Chadderton that my dad made a decision that I’ve come to love him and loathe
him for in equal measure ever since. He
won’t take offence at that, after all he’s a football fan, he knows where I’m
coming from.
1986 will hold significance for most football fans, after
all it is a World Cup year. One of those
summers that every football fan in the country avoids organising any social
event for June on the basis that this may just be the year England finally get
their act together. People in the bubble
that is top football these days miss this significance. They miss the fact that many of us fans will
have gone through several arguments, much heartache and having to make excuses
to cousin Stacey as to why you will have to duck out of the wedding 3 hours
early in order to watch another 0-0 draw against the might of a pumped up
Tunisia. Travelling 3000 miles to Qatar
or wherever pales into insignificance against the hours of stress we’ve
undertaken just to tune in to see 11 prima-donas feeling a bit bothered because they’ve not been allowed
to spend 36 consecutive hours playing the latest console game.
The days of 1986 were slightly different though, especially
when you were 8.
Fans of a certain age
and older will remember the days when wall to wall coverage of the beautiful
game were merely a spark in an Australian media-magnates eye. Football knowledge was something to be proud
of.
Certain key (if ultimately useless) facts were passed
down from football encyclopaedia to Shoot or Match magazine. Manchester United used to be Newton Heath,
Arsenal’s Highbury ground had the Marble Hall, the FA Cup winners from 1977 to
1986 were... .
I’d learnt what the
offside trap was from my dad and watching him play on a Saturday morning on the
muddy playing fields around Oldham, and the glorious annuals, magazines and
Skills, Tricks and Tactics books with distinctive illustrations. There weren’t countless ex-footballer lining
up with every clichéd sound-bite about zonal marking, tactical naivety or
pressing game. We learnt what we did
through the occasional sneaky Match of the Day viewing, books and word of
mouth.
As for branding and marketing, these were things that Coca-Cola and
Amstrad did. Football teams sold advertising boards at the ground and
sponsorship on shirts – that was it.
There weren’t endless column inches and TV stories on the
World Cup football design and how it was tested. It was just the ball and you kicked it.
Generally as a boy
under the age of 11 the only footballs we got to play with were Mitre size 4
pimples (not their real name). These
were the footballs that are the stuff of nightmares still for many 30 somethings. Anyone reading this who had the pleasure of
playing a game with these balls will know exactly what I mean. Especially those that ever had the pleasure
of playing on a cold, wet day and being approximately 2 yards away from the lad
with the hardest shot on the opposition.
The feel of ball hitting sub-zero temperature exposed thigh was bad
enough, but the distinctive red ball-shaped slap mark it left in said area came
with free pimple imprints and if you got it right, the Mitre logo tattooed in
broken skin was lasting.
By the summer of 1986 I’d reached 8 years old and my
interest in football had begun. I’d
played it for hours for many years before then, I’d read about it, but I this
was far more interesting than anything viewing of it. I still maintain that 8 years old (possibly
7) is the healthy age for any young child to begin their football journey. For one thing you can remember stuff after
the age of 7. Before that age I have
flashes of memories, but these are always fleeting. By the age of 7 I had timelines and a
curiosity to discover more about this most enthralling of games. By the summer
of 1986 I also had another essential tool in the armoury of any aspiring
football follower, a Panini sticker album.
But more on that later.
I’d watched the 1986 FA Cup final between Liverpool and
Everton and for some reason felt disappointed Everton had lost. That was the final when an Ian Rush shot
knocked down the camera as it hit the back of the net. I don’t know why I felt anything about this
game, my family have no connection with either club, but I think it must have
been an instinctive feel for the team in blue.
Well that and my mum’s love of Gary Lineker’s thighs which she continues
to mention to this day. I think I wanted
Gary to be on the winning team just for my mum’s benefit.The mind of a football fan is one that is puzzling for many non-followers. Whatever team we support we generally share some key memories, things that qualify the real football fans from those ‘fashionable followers’. These are:
- The First FA Cup final you watched (all day coverage!)
- The First World Cup you watched (and supported a team at)
- The First game you went to (and were old enough to remember it)
