Archive for category Book
A gentleman by the name of Lloyd Thompson is writing a book about football clubs that have moved grounds, and fans’ reflections on their old and new homes: “Football’s Leaving Home”. Having a bit of a thing for Saltergate, I threw my hat into the ring. Lloyd appears to have taken pity on me and says that the following entry will be included in the book (apart from the hyperlinks; they don’t tend to work well on the printed page). Hurray!
Chesterfield FC left Saltergate nearly four years ago now, and I still catch myself thinking or saying ‘Saltergate’ when talking about home games, rather than ‘the B2net’ or ‘the ProAct’ (two names in less than four years…).
My first time at Saltergate was 1988-ish with my Dad (of course), to see us play Doncaster Rovers. I can’t be certain of the facts, but my memory tells me we either lost 1-0 or drew 1-1. I’m almost entirely certain however that Rovers’ Lee Turnbull, later to play for us, was booked (I refuse to verify or refute these memories on the internet; that’s not the point). That first match was spent in the wooden seats of the centre stand, the best stand, even (or especially) including the redeveloped Compton Street side, with its fresh concrete and blue plastic seats of the early 2000s.
Over the years, my Dad and I spent time in each of the three home sections. In fact we spent a good number of years making a half-time migration from the Compton Street side to the Kop, or vice versa depending on which way we were kicking. For one match we had to make a pre-match migration from the centre stand to the Kop: we were playing promotion rivals Carlisle and all the centre stands tickets had gone before we got there, so we managed to get into the Kop. Several of those who couldn’t get in ended up watching a 21-game unbeaten run come to an end from the roof of the church behind the away end.
For the last few years at Saltergate we were back in the centre stand, with the added security of season tickets, my Dad in seat M26 and me in M25. This gave us a halfway line view of the dug-outs, the Kop’s inflatable spire, and a hole in the corrugated iron roof above our heads which was there for a very, very long time. An electronic clock was installed on the facing Compton Street side, which was a real step forward. It meant that frequent, desperate checks of the wrist watch became a thing of the past… until it stopped working and was left unrepaired, when they started up again. This felt somehow fitting, given that Saltergate was the last league ground in the country to get floodlights (my Dad occasionally mentions 1960s 3:00 Tuesday afternoon kick-offs) – and they were second-hand ones at that.
One of the relative luxuries of the centre stand were the indoor, covered, moderately hygienic toilets. By contrast, the Kop’s toilets were legendary: an open-air, brick-walled facility which consisted of pissing into a narrow trough on the floor and trying not to walk in it at any point.
Our spot in the centre stand also meant we were near whichever poor scouts were sent to watch the teams, or (less likely) individual players. We did occasionally pick up some interesting asides. My favourite was the assessment of our midfielder Steve Gaughan as “very pedestrian”. Right on cue, a minute later he burst forward from midfield, outpaced the defence and scored.
Speaking of individual players, I loved a huge number of the Town players I saw at Saltergate. Some particular favourites were Billy Mercer (England’s number 1), Tony Lormor (ooh ooh), Steve Blatherwick (the very definition of a centre half), and Jack Lester (outrageously talented for the fourth division, and an uncanny winner of penalties).
My most vivid memories of Saltergate are from that seat in the centre stand: the ludicrous, odds-defying win over Luton to stay up on the last day of 2004/05; that 5-2 win over Mansfield; the time a young Kevin Davies performed a sliding tackle out on the touchline and took out the teenage lad carrying boxes of pies round the edge of the pitch. Another favourite memory is of the FA Cup quarter-final win over Wrexham and Chris Beaumont’s lob which took us to the semi-final against Middlesbrough. For no particular reason, I’m suddenly reminded of shocking refereeing performances: Andy D’Urso in the Auto Windscreens Shield against Hereford, and Darren Deadman in the league against Southend, take a bow.
The last-ever match at Saltergate, against Bournemouth, obviously deserves a mention. At 1-1 and with little or no time left, the ball fell to the less-than-reliable shooting boot of Derek Niven, who was not only the longest-serving player at the club but had also recovered from cancer to resume his place in midfield. One swing of his right boot later, we had our dream ending and the inevitable pitch invasion – which featured a 20-yard dash from the disabled enclosure onto the pitch by a lad in a wheelchair. His carer eventually caught up with him, and directed him back off the pitch, giving him a clip round the ear for his troubles.
At the end of the game everyone ended up on the pitch, and it was a physical wrench to leave. I was doubly devastated when I discovered that the photos and videos I had painstakingly shot from my seat, to record that special perspective for posterity, had somehow failed to save to the camera. As such I often look to the film ‘The Damned United’ to catch a glimpse of Saltergate. Filmed in the mid-2000s, they needed a location to recreate Derby’s Baseball Ground in the mid-1970s. Naturally Saltergate fitted the bill, and even needed a lick of paint to bring it up to scratch. So while the film shows Brian Clough discussing the finer points of football ownership and management with Sam Longson, or Leeds kicking lumps out of Derby, I’m straining to soak up every last shot of the ground.
Although it was only stone and steel, Saltergate became a huge part of my life. As an out-of-towner, I’ve been quite insulated from the trauma of it being pulled down to build new houses. I’ve just made the mistake of looking for it on Google Maps; it’s not there any more and that’s just plain wrong.
We undoubtedly have a more modern, more professional, and more ‘fit for purpose’ football ground. We’re embracing the need to ensure a healthy income outside match days, with weddings and music concerts. But I’ll never love the new ground the way I loved (and still love) Saltergate, with its wooden seats, flaky PA system, and, just occasionally, its ability to be the greatest place in the world.
We’ll always sing “Flying high up in the sky, We’ll keep the blue flag flying high, From Saltergate to Wembley, We’ll keep the blue flag flying high”, because deep inside, that’s what we’ll always being doing.
To mark the centennial anniversary of Bram Stoker’s death, a contemporary review of you-know-what, from the Manchester Guardian:
La Peste by Albert Camus (1947)
Set in the Algerian town of Oran in “194.”, Camus’ novel tells a story of a plague-infested town cut off from the outside world, and of individuals separated from loved ones. Aside from the specific circumstances of the individual characters (a doctor trying to treat, if not cure, the ill; a journalist separated from his wife in Paris; a ne’er-do-well profiting from circumstances by channelling in contraband), the story is simple and constrained: the plague arrives, thousands die, it ends; we never leave Oran, and never experience the feelings of those outside the town.
The story of the fight against the plague stands up in its own right, yet it serves easily, and skilfully, as a metaphor – for morality, for the human condition, and for occupied France in the Second World War.
The war metaphor can be clearly seen: the sense of imprisonment, both physical and mental, hangs heavily over the book, with the gates of Oran firmly closed and an ever-present sense of isolation and exile. In this town ‘occupied’ by the plague, the main protagonists respond by forming small, organised medical teams to resist the plague’s spread by helping the sick and improving sanitary conditions elsewhere. As for morality, we’re told that Oran is an ugly town, full of money-focused and fundamentally dull people, built with its back to the sea, ignoring its open expanses – as if, through its rejection of life, it were somehow inviting the plague to attack. Furthermore, as the plague takes hold, attendance at mass soars; later it becomes more an act of superstition and fear than belief, if it is attended at all.
I prefer the reading of the novel as a consideration of the human condition – let’s not stray towards the term existentialism, not because I don’t really know what I’m talking about (though I don’t), but because Camus reportedly distanced himself from the movement: “No, I am not an existentialist” (though with ambiguous statements like that, who knows what he was really up to?).
In effect, the plague comes and goes for no apparent reason; the local administration is ineffective (their optimism and pessimism are equally inconsequential); neither individuals nor organisations have any meaningful sense of control over the plague’s spread, while the successful recovery or painful death of its sufferers are a product of chance alone. Despite the futility of inconclusive serums and the realisation that the plague takes its victims indiscriminately, a curious kind of emancipation arises, the sense of efforts to take action being worthy in their own right, regardless of their outcome. Deep, yet emotionally restrained, friendships are forged on the back of these efforts, and our protagonists set aside their personal suffering to work for the collective good – the doctor whose wife was sent away to the Swiss mountains to recover from illness just before the plague struck, the exiled Parisian journalist who renounces his intentions to have himself smuggled out of the town in order to stay and help, the frustrated writer who divides his many sleepless hours between torturing himself over the opening sentence of a never-to-be-finished novel and recording the statistics of the plague.
In a strange way, optimism abounds in this novel – optimism in the shape of man’s willingness to continue to fight, to resist in the face of attack from a faceless, inhuman enemy. In an apparently capricious world, exerting this will elevates the characters above their daily horrors, into some sort of meaning. Appropriately enough, there is no firm conclusion to the book after the plague disappears, no trite, easy end. Instead we are left with a rather chilling (not to say lengthy) warning:
“Car il savait ce que cette foule en joie ignorait, et qu’on peut lire dans les livres, que le bacille de la peste ne meurt ni ne disparaît jamais, qu’il peut rester pendant des dizaines d’années endormi dans le meubles et le linge, qu’il attend patiemment dans les chambres, les caves, les malles, les mouchoirs et les paperasses, et que, peut-être, le jour viendrait où, pour le malheur et l’enseignement des hommes, la peste réveillerait ses rats les enverrait mourir dans une cité heureuse”
“For he knew what this joyous crowd did not, and what can be read in books, that the germ of the plague never dies nor disappears, that it can remain asleep for tens of years in furniture and sheets, that it waits patiently in bedrooms, cellars, trunks, handkerchiefs and paperwork, and that, perhaps, the day would come when, for man’s misfortune and learning, the plague would wake its rats and send them to die in a happy neighbourhood”
I must have bought hundreds of these little A5-ish sized comics over the years. I was always, and remain, fond of the artwork’s impression of movement, if not the writing – even at a tender age I knew no footballer would hear, acknowledge, and mentally respond to an individual cry from the crowd while in the process of launching an effort on goal. But still, they had to make the narrative work somehow.
I love the premise of this storyline: up-and-coming Divison 1 (in the days before Sky Sports invented football, this was) footballer goes off the rails a bit and is sent to an aspiring non-league team in a harsh mining community to be taught a lesson. While there he causes ructions with his Big Time Charlie attitude and is, somewhat unfairly, held morally accountable for a terrible mine collapse (shades of Germinal there. Or is that just me?) which results in the death of some of the team, before rallying his more illustrious contacts to the cause and single-handedly seeing the team to promotion to the football league, and completely restoring his reputation.
A couple of years on, and I must have moved on the permanent toy advert that was Transformers. 30p for the comic and a terrific Panini Transformers sticker album? Bargain! Of course, the real killer was in the ongoing purchase of stickers. How could I have been so blind? How??
I’d never have believed you if you’d told me the word “freakin'” was used in 1986, much less that I’d been aware of it.
Recently rediscovered at my Grandma’s house, and in residence there since 20th October 1984 (approximately)
I like the swaps section, where Gareth Williams of Weston-Super-Mare is offering Darth Vader in return for, um, himself
The caption competition, meanwhile, is crying out for an entry where they both say “I think you may have got yourself typecast here”
That’s all folks. We made it through to the other side. Give yourselves a pat on the back.
An Englishman’s home is his castle, and his front lawn is his Hanging Garden of Babylon..
..and he’s nothing if not tolerant and polite.