The pile of logs in front of me was rapidly diminishing as I turned it into kindling. ‘WAGS!’ I shouted, and down came the axe again. ‘Bloody, bloody WAGS!’, and another thundering blow sent chippings everywhere. ‘Ferraris!’ ‘Penalty shoot-outs!’ ‘All hype and no do!’ And with each incantation the blows came raining down, but still I felt no better. A group of small boys had gathered outside the garden to watch this pantomime, and started to mimic my words and actions. I booted the last remaining log across the garden, yelped and limped indoors.
I sat down and picked up a book. Gary Imlach’s My Father and Other Working Class Football Heroes tells the story of another era, which was the complete opposite of today’s footballing world. Through the story of his father Stewart, Gary Imlach paints a picture of a grim and oppressive climate. There was a fixed maximum wage. Summer pay was about two thirds of it. Contract negotiations were along the lines of take it or leave it. In 1955 the average footballer’s wage was £11 per week, against £8 for a factory worker. Even in those days it was not much money.
What is now almost unbelievable is the power which a club wielded over a player. The club held the player’s registration. If a club decided to sell a player there was little that he could do about it if he wanted to carry on playing. The club was under no obligation to deal with the registration. It could decide not to employ the player, but also to keep the registration. The result was the end of that man’s playing career. The club often provided housing which it could demand back at short notice. A footballer who fell out with his club could therefore be both homeless and jobless.
The inequality of the bargaining position for wages was not very different from that of many other working men employed in small businesses in the years after the end of World War II. The footballers at that time did not have a powerful trades union to allow collective bargaining, but they earned more than the average wage and also admiration and respect from their communities. Playing football was more enjoyable than other working class jobs available, and the situation was generally accepted with a cheerful stoicism.
As I calmed down I began to wonder what it was I really wanted out of football. The treatment of the Stewart Imlach generation was gut-wrenchingly awful. Certainly the present over-commercialised state of the game is better than that.
Nobody can deny that the Premier League has an enormous amount to offer. The football played by the young Arsenal team is breathtaking in its skill and adventure. The skill shown by Cristiano Ronaldo is as amazing as anything that has ever been seen on a football field. I know that most, if not all, Premier League clubs do good work in their communities, and yet it simply does not feel right.
The Wimbledon FC move to become MK Dons offended the instinctive belief of most fans that a football club is part of the community in which it is based. In the early days, when the men of Accrington played the men of Nottingham, it meant just that. The club and its players were all local. Bit by bit that has changed, but the more it changes the further it gets from what many fans would see as real football. When Roman Abramovich sinks hundreds of millions of pounds into Chelsea, is this really still the same club as the Chelsea of the 1970s when the players were so closely identified with the area and its pubs, or even the club as it was immediately before that investment? What happens to football as a sporting contest when the disparity of resources comes, not from the number of spectators attracted to the ground, but from the millions and squillions attracted from Russia, America or Iceland? Can the importance of the fan survive intact when a club’s real money comes from television revenue and staggering capital investment, and when the cost of taking two children to a home match is prohibitive?
The answer in all cases is ‘of course not’. Something new has been created. The Premier League sees its future development as a global brand and not a collection of teams playing for their towns or cities. In part it is wonderful and amazing, and in part utterly dismaying. For one thing, it has become predictable. At the beginning of the season the winners can be confidently forecast from a group of four, and the likelihood remains that those clubs will fill the first four places in the League and that the FA Cup will be won by Arsenal, Chelsea, Liverpool or Manchester United. It has been that way for sixteen out of the last seventeen years. Occasionally the FA Cup, as in 2008, proves the exception but in part that is down to the tendency of the big four to treat the competition less seriously.
By July 2007 I was heartily sick of the circus surrounding our top-level football. Against that background the dismal performance of the national team in Europe, following the limp exit from the last World Cup, just opened up a yawning chasm between the hype and the achievement. I wanted no more of it. I wanted to read about West Ham recreating its glory days, and not the wealth of its Icelandic owners. I wanted to see wonderful play on the pitch, and not hear endless stories of shopping exploits. I was worried that the financial excesses of the top flight of football were not just part of a game played between consenting adults in private, but were infecting football as a whole.
Football fans, like everyone else, are great supporters of the double standard. Whilst railing against the Premier League, as a Norwich City supporter I constantly hope that they will shortly get back there. If a Columbian drug-dealing cartel wished to invest the odd spare billion in the Canaries, all common sense would depart. I would welcome them with open arms, and two or three seasons later would be backing the takeover bid by the North Korean Secret Police’s pension fund.
It was time for me to leave my seat at Carrow Road to broader buttocks than my own for a few months, and to travel the land in search of real football and real fans. The real fan is the long-suffering soul who supports the club that fate has thrust upon him. From that first moment in the school playground when asked if he likes Manchester United or Liverpool, and earns scorn and derision by plumping for Rochdale, the hard road of the real fan is laid out before him. There will be no FA Cups or ventures into Europe. The club will be beset by fears of insolvency and relegation. Our fan may move to London or to Lerwick, but always the most important result will be Rochdale or Morecambe or whatever that first club was.
The real football for which I longed is the passionate game which is fully connected to the lives of its fans. The club should look to its season ticket holders, and the money that it can generate in its community, as its source of income. If there are outside shareholders then they should be local businessmen: football fans first and investors second. The club should be active in its community, and in that way earn the loyalty of the season ticket holders of the future. The players should earn plenty, but at a level which makes them prosperous citizens with money for life after football and not superstars whose wealth is so far beyond the understanding and experience of the fans that it alienates them.
Where is such a Utopia to be found? My decision was to look at the level of the Football League furthest from the excesses of the top of the Premier League, Coca Cola League 2. The heart of football would be found as far from its head as possible. In the cash-strapped clubs of the lowest division of the Football League I intended to remind myself of what real football and real fans were about. I would seek out the people who refused to let Accrington Stanley die long after the world had attended its funeral. I would drink beers with the supporters of luckless Lincoln City who had supported it all their lives from the old Midland League to its present status in the Coca-Cola League, and had endured the disappointment of five consecutive play-off defeats. My new club would be every club in that League. I would travel from Barnet to Morecambe and Brentford to Bury, sampling life as a supporter of each. I would consume a mountain of pies and an ocean of ale, and would return to my seat at Carrow Road with bodily health undermined but with the footballing batteries fully charged.

The second half started with the Brentford Bees swarming all over Barnet. Four minutes into the half Charlie Ide was felled in the box and the ten men of Brentford had a penalty. Kevin O’Connor made no mistake. Terry Butcher danced on the edge of the pitch. Paul Fairclough scribbled busily and removed his jacket. The Brentford supporters were a hive of activity, leaping, shouting and singing, and the Wendy House fell silent.
Barnet were a goal down but still a man up, and were determined to make that superiority count. Both teams started to play good passing football. Only ten minutes after the Brentford goal, Barnet attacked down the right and Jason Puncheon, who had continued to torment the Brentford defence, lashed in a shot of such ferocity that the keeper never even moved. One-all, and with that extra man the momentum seemed to have swung in favour of the away team.
Terry Butcher waved and beckoned and gestured on the touchline. Paul Fairclough penned another note. The Wendy House was in uproar, and the stewards gathered to tell the supporters to behave (or bee hive?…). A grim foreboding fell upon the home supporters.
You would not expect a team managed by Terry Butcher to lack fight and determination, and Brentford came right back into the game with attack after attack on the Barnet goal. Just before the hour mark Brentford’s Charlie Ide was stretchered off. Terry Butcher called Ryan Peters onto the pitch as substitute. Peters emerged into the sunlight wearing a quite astonishing pair of boots. They were Ferrari red and seemed to be made of patent leather. They sparkled in the late summer sun. The whole ground fell silent at the sight of them until the lady sitting behind me said ‘He’s either very brave or very stupid’.
Terry Butcher’s move was most astute. He clearly applied the knowledge of how he as a defender would have reacted to the provocation. Barnet defender Stevland Angus was unable to resist the challenge, and within three minutes of the substitution scythed down Ryan Peters, dancing slippers and all, in the penalty box. A straight red card for Angus, the card matching the offending boots which, with their owner, were still prostrate on the floor. Both sides were now down to ten men, and Brentford had a penalty.
Up stepped Kevin O’Connor for the second time. Barnet goalkeeper Lee Harrison guessed right and went left, saving the shot low down by the post. He was unable to hold onto it and Brentford’s John Mousinho was first onto it and scored from the rebound. The home crowd was on its feet. Terry Butcher jumped and hugged assistant manager Andy Scott in celebration. Paul Fairclough was in the technical area, writing pad a thing of the past, animated, gesturing and shouting instructions. The crowd of 4,774, although little more than a third of the stadium’s capacity, exploded with noise. The atmosphere was magnificent. It was end-to-end stuff, right to the whistle. Good chances were created by both teams, and the pace of the game never faltered.
At the finish Terry Butcher was straight out onto the pitch, congratulating his captain John Mackie for his leadership and the younger members of the team for the effort. The crowd stayed and clapped the two teams off the pitch, with very few leaving early.
Outside, the supporters of both sides mingled with no hint of trouble. At the station a small group of Brentford youths turned up to see off the departing Barnet fans. The opposing groups of supporters stood on opposite platforms. Light abuse was exchanged, mainly about which were the real Bees. Nothing was concluded on the subject, and the police presence reduced itself by half when one officer went home for his tea.

The night grew colder and as I put on my second fleece Peter Jackson took off his suit jacket and stood outside the dugout, hands on hips, looking like an accountant whose figures were not adding up.
Chester won a corner on the right and Lincoln’s Lee Beevers, who had been holding the home defence together, was taken off in pain nursing a dislocated shoulder. His replacement Danny Hone came on for his debut, adding a fourth entry to the list of fathers and sons who have played for Lincoln. Chester City manager Bobby Williamson was out of his dugout straightaway, instructing his players to exploit Danny’s inexperience. Peter Jackson was half way down the touchline giving instructions to his defence, until he was steered back by the fourth official who was beginning to look frayed around the edges.
While Danny N’Guessan was drawing gasps of amazement and frustration from manager and supporters alike, the real class act of the game was making his presence felt. Hamza Bencherif was beginning to make long marauding runs out of defence and into the Chester penalty area. As the half came to an end, and Peter Jackson’s patience was also running out, Danny N’Guessan took the ball down the right and from the midst of three Chester defenders sent a long cross whipping over the away penalty area and just inches over Steve Torpey’s head.
The half-time whistle went to the accompaniment of a burst of fireworks over the top of the Main Stand. I looked across the pitch at the Pukka Pies advertising board, but bravely resisted temptation.
The restart saw the midfield congested as the two teams fought for control. Peter Jackson, still in shirtsleeve order, powered off down the touchline pursued by the fourth official. A long ball saw Chester City’s Chris Holroyd chase into the penalty area. The ball went behind for a goal kick, or so it seemed, and the sides were positioning themselves for a restart when it became apparent that the referee was pointing to the penalty spot. The home team could not believe it. Chester could not believe their good luck. Up stepped Tony Dinning, goalkeeper Alan Marriott dived left in anticipation, and Dinning paused before lifting the ball over the prostrate keeper and into the net. Peter Jackson emerged to the left of the dugout and kicked the nearest advertising hoarding with impressive vigour.
The game opened up as Lincoln City threw more men forward. Hamza Bencherif was at the heart of attack and of defence. Danny N’Guessan, having presumably absorbed some constructive advice from his new manager, was playing with more discipline to his game and constantly threatening the away goal.
After twenty minutes Ben Wright equalises, but the goal is disallowed. The crowd’s disappointment turns to renewed barracking of Kevin Ellison. Peter Jackson’s forays out of his permitted area are longer and more frequent. The fourth official is not used to so much exercise, and as he returns the Wanderer to his area for the umpteenth time he gives him a good scolding. With timing born of self-preservation Peter Jackson turns away from the departing official and facing directly towards me growls ‘Bollocks’.
And bollocks just about sums up Lincoln City’s evening. Lincoln continued to have the better of the game. Lee Frecklington and Steve Torpey continued to play with their new-found form. Danny N’Guessan continued to play with thought as well as flair, winning the man of the match award, and the real star of the match remained Hamza Bencherif. Peter Jackson continued his surging runs out of his area, and fourth official Mark Brown panted after him wishing he could restrain him with a lead and harness like a toddler. The rough treatment was still handed out to Kevin Ellison, and he continued to thrive on it. The score remained at 1-0, giving Chester a fifth away victory and moving them to joint top of the League.
At the final whistle Peter Jackson was quickly onto the pitch, congratulating players from his team and from Chester alike as he moved towards the mouth of the players’ tunnel, where his words to the referee were likely to have been less than congratulatory. The crowd of 3,960 drifted away having paid in gate money approximately £40,000, or some two days’ earnings for John Terry or about three hours’ financial losses for Chelsea if the Minister’s figures are to be believed.
Peter Jackson’s post-match discussion with the referee led to him facing a charge under FA Rule E3 relating to abusive and insulting words. Perhaps he will follow the example of the Minister for Sport and claim that they were never meant as personal.

Another squall of rain whipped across the ground. At the back of the Car Wash Terrace was an advertising board showing a mob of kangaroos hopping across a sunny beach, oblivious to the soaking they were getting. In front of the North Stand seven very young cheer girls were shrinking down into their red tops, with hands almost too cold to hold onto their pom-poms. With ten minutes to go before kick-off the Shrimpettes swung into their routine. Their trainer and two even more diminutive apprentice Shrimpettes danced on the touchline to lead the troupe, and also to keep warm. The routine ended with the young ones rushing on and the enlarged group forming three pyramids which swayed precariously in the wind.
With five minutes to go the crowd joined Morecambe and Wise singing along to ‘Bring me sunshine, bring me smiles’, and the Shrimpettes sprinted up the pitch to do some more shivering as guards of honour to the players. The players ran on and a special cheer was given to Morecambe’s keeper, Joe Lewis, back after a severe head injury and sporting a rugby scrumcap. The Bury team jogged about while the home side went into a huddle to give themselves a few more seconds’ shelter from the biting wind.
Bury kicked off, persevering with their embarrassing starting formation of two players standing together on the left touchline as if preparing for a lineout. The ball was played back and then kicked high in the direction of the touchline two. Neither got within sniffing distance of it, and they quickly returned to their normal positions.
The home crowd in the North Stand cracked into their well-rehearsed song cycle, finishing with my granny’s personal favourite of ‘Who the fucking hell are you?’ to the tune of ‘Bread of Heaven’. The substantial contingent of Bury supporters in the Umbro Stand made no response, being entirely secure in their own identities. Joe Lewis threw his great frame fearlessly at the feet of Bury’s Glynn Hurst, while at the other end Damien Allen’s fierce drive was saved, juggled and eventually caught by Bury’s keeper Jim Provett.
During a brief stoppage Sammy McIlroy emerged from his dugout and issued a set of new instructions to his players. I have no idea what he said, but the effect was magical. Suddenly, on a bracing November afternoon, his team started to produce an exhibition of flowing and attacking football. It was as if Morecambe had morphed into San Paolo. With the drummer in the North Stand providing the samba beat, Morecambe full back Adam Yates sprinted down the wing, Michael Twiss joined in and the Bury penalty area was strafed with accurate crosses. When they ran into traffic, they pinged the ball over to the left wing and the mayhem continued on the other flank.
Bury had come to Morecambe on the back of a good run after a poor start to the season, and had lost just once in twelve games. Nevertheless they were shredded by the speed and flair of the Morecambe attacks. After eleven minutes Adam Yates made an overlapping run down the right. His cross was flicked on by David Artell, and the Shrimps’ skipper Jim Bentley volleyed home a sharp chance. The home crowd cheered and celebrated, not just the goal but also the creativity of the play that had led to it. A gloomy man behind muttered darkly that another goal was needed as Bury were sure to come back. It was true that Bury were dangerous on their few breakaway chances, but Morecambe keeper Joe Lewis was dominant in his area and immaculate in his handling.
After another fifteen minutes of total football by Morecambe the inevitable second goal came. Once again the attack came down the right side. This time the ball was played back to Michael Twiss. As he ran towards the Bury penalty area the home supporters shouted ‘Shoot!’. And he did, a left-footed rocket which flashed past Jim Provett before he could react to it. The gloomy man behind prophesied dire consequences and the need for several more goals to be safe, while the rest of us celebrated with gusto.
Bury had their keeper to thank that the game was not totally beyond them by half-time. He saved David Artell’s near-post flick, and reached high to the top left hand corner to tip Carl Baker’s curling shot over for a corner. It was not to be Carl’s lucky day. Bury’s Ben Futcher hit a long ball up field, only to find that the path up field was blocked by the Baker groin. Morecambe’s No.10 fell to the ground, clutching his nether regions in an ecstasy of pain. Every man in the Main Stand took an intake of breath and crossed his legs in empathy, and then giggled to relieve the tension. The trainer came on and applied a great jet of magic spray to the place where magic spray should never go. Carl’s eyes opened as wide as saucers and he got up and limped away, anything to avoid another jet of that reviving application.
For Morecambe it was fiesta football again. Left back Danny Adams was getting in on the act, powering down the wing and making overlaps with Jon Newby. Somehow, Bury held out for the rest of the half. When the whistle went to end it the relief was etched on the faces of the Bury team and management and the home team received a standing ovation.
In his comments after the game Sammy McIlroy described the performance of his team in the first half as the best 45 minutes of football he had ever seen at this level. In my view it was a performance which would have been a credit to any Championship side. How is it that such wonderful over-performance can be conjured out of Morecambe’s team without a single Ferrari to their names, and yet such dismal dross is continually served up by our superstars at international level?