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A
Tale Of Bitter Fathers, Footballing Bigamy & David Kelly |
17th January 2005
By
Jody Jamieson
As a lot of people who frequent this site from time to time know,
my football loyalties don't only cover the lads in black and white.
Being from Scotland obviously I love the national team (even if supporting
them has now become a chore rather than a hobby) but when it comes
to club football it's not only my beloved Newcastle United who warm
the cockles of my heart.
Yes. I'm a football bigamist. A footballing two timer. A football
love rat.
It's trendy up here to 'follow an English team' as most people have
a team who they have a soft spot for. I know a guy who takes a fleeting
interest in West Ham due to having lived in London for a year of his
life. I know another guy who likes Blackburn because Kenny Dalglish
became boss, and hell, I know a fellow supporter of the Mags who follows
them because he likes the strip. If you asked any of them who is their
team they'll not struggle to say that their team in Scotland, be it
Hibernian, Hearts or whoever are their love.
I however have a bad case of split loyalty. And I can't even choose
the one with the biggest tits here. Well I could, but if Freddie Shepherd
ever became a reason to choose one over the other then I'd be seriously
worried.
But do I want to choose one over the other? Do I hell.
My team up here in the land of haggis eaters and men in skirts (you
lot and your stereotypes) is Aberdeen. My old man grew up following
the Dons all over Scotland and Europe, and was quick to brainwash
me before I developed the art to think for myself. He's seen things
watching the Reds I can only wish that I witnessed. Watching the tapes
is great, but nothing quite beats being there.
For his sins he follows Manchester bloody United in Engerlandshire.
Although I can forgive him as it's because of what Alex Ferguson did
at Pittodrie. I'll let him off, even if I think he's committed a heinous
crime of treacherous proportions.
He first took me to watch Aberdeen in December 1989 to watch a rather
feisty 2-2 draw with Motherwell. I'd been conscious of football but
never really knew a lot about what was going on. I didn't even know
what English football was at the time. It sounded rubbish to me.
My earliest memory of English football is the FA Cup Final of 1990.
I watched Manchester United and Crystal Palace serve up a tasty 3-3
draw. Watching my Dad cringing every time his goalkeeping hero Jim
Leighton made an arse of himself and watching Ian Wright burst onto
the scene. I was right though. English football was rubbish.
And so I continued to ignore English football and treat it with the
contempt it deserved. "To hell with it. Aberdeen could wipe the floor
with them anyway...." I thought to myself.
Then early in 1991 the unthinkable happened. My Dad moved to England.
I took it very personally and assumed he didn't like us anymore. Which
wasn't strictly true. He just didn't like my mother anymore. They'd
been apart for a good 18 months but we always sat down to watch football,
and quite often he'd take me to watch Aberdeen. Be it away to Hearts,
or away to Dunfermline or wherever he took me there. I was an Aberdeen
fan, and more importantly, no-one else mattered.
So eventually when I realised my Dad still liked me I decided to go
down to see him in England. He came up one weekend and gave me a lift
down. He lived in Chester-le-Street. We stayed for a couple of nights.
I heard the daft men with their daft accents. I liked them all, but
wondered why they said words like 'howay' and 'alreet'. I was a suspicious
child and always imagined these people were just weird and should
be avoided. I was right. England was rubbish.
Then just after New Year in 1992 my Dad said he was moving. I thought
he meant he was coming home. He was moving closer to home, but not
by much. He was moving to Newcastle. Or more accurately Sunnyside.
I hated England. It was silly and it had taken away my Dad.
But one thing about Newcastle that always fascinated me was the lack
of originality. No-one had their own sense of fashion.
'Dad why are they all wearing the same black and white shirt?'
'It's their football team son. Newcastle United.'
'Are they good?'
'Nah, they're rubbish.'
'Could Aberdeen beat them?'
'Course they could. Nae bother at all.'
He thought he'd managed to escape it. 'Young foolish children and
their wandering minds! Ha! Little turmite.' He might have thought
if he was posh. However he wasn't and more likely thought 'Shut up
you stupid bastard, and you're not getting a shirt either.'
'Can I have one of those shirts Da........'
Before I knew it I had a shirt. But it wasn't black or white. It was
yellow and green. The bastard. I think he was trying to teach me a
lesson. Dirty bastard. But still I asked and received. Cheeky bastard!!!
I noticed myself not only not dreading going to England. I was looking
forward to it. I was worried. I convinced myself that Newcastle wasn't
really in England. The accents were funny instead of weird. Being
in England was an enjoyable experience now, and I'd certainly jumped
on the local fashion bandwagon. Even if it was I was dressed like
a canary, I was a Magpie inside. Then one Saturday my Dad got the
reaction he was dreading.
'Dad? Were Newcastle playing today?'
'They were, aye, but they got beat.'
'Shit.'
I think it was the first time my Dad heard me swear. I was nearly
8 though. Surely it was going to happen sooner of later. But I don't
think the swearing thing was bothering him. I think he was scared.
Scared of where his sons loyalties were lying. After all his die-hard
Aberdeen supporting Don just uttered his very first swear word in
front of his father all because some English team had lost.
He quickly tried to fix it and took me to Tynecastle the next weekend
to watch Aberdeen steam roller Hearts 4-0. 'Nae bother' he must have
thought. 'That'll cleanse the little bugger.'
'What was the Newcastle score Dad?'
I thought to myself that maybe, just maybe I'd completely missed what
came out of my own mouth. Perhaps I'd accidentally called him fat,
or pointed out that bald patch he was trying to keep discreetly covered.
Ach well, either way he wasn't pleased.
I noticed myself loving going down to England. The accents were great,
and Micky Quinn was my new hero. Micky Quinn could have been Hitler
as far as I was concerned. But he was God. What did he look like?
Who knows. Where did he play? No idea. Why was he my God. Well he
scored at the weekend so I had a new hero.
Then one day my Dad had a bit of a surprise for me. I never saw it
coming, but I was excited. I only knew one players name but it didn't
matter. I was going to the match.
The date was April 25 1992..........
I'd never heard of Portsmouth. But my Dad told me that they played
in blue and were better than Newcastle. My heart sank. Then he explained
something to me that made it all clear in my mind.
'Son, Newcastle are going to be relegated today if they don't win.
And they'll probably not be around anymore if that happens. The club
are going to close down if they lose.'
'Why's that Dad?'
'Because they're rubbish.'
The bastard!!!! It had all became clear. He wasn't taking me to watch
this new team in the fear that I was going to ditch both his and my
beloved Dons. He was taking me to watch the last rites of the team.
What would happen to Micky Quinn? Would people start wearing grey
instead of black and white? Naturally he was taking me as a treat,
but I 'knew' the real reason.
There was a buzz. I'd seen the people walking around with the black
and white shirts before looking cheery, perhaps with a partner or
a child. Perhaps with shopping too. But this was different. I knew
enough about a match day to know how exciting it was, but this was
different. Everyone seemed nervous. Everyone seemed agitated. But
most of all, when I entered St James' Park for the very first time
in my life, everyone seemed ready for war.
People screamed and cheered louder than I'd ever heard before. I was
starting to realise that my Dad was right. Newcastle were rubbish.
Portsmouth were rubbish too. I was in for a long afternoon.
First half passed by. People were scared. People were worried. People
weren't happy. Me? I was underwhelmed. I think the only person inside
the ground who was happy (apart from those bloody Mackems in the Portsmouth
end) was my Dad. He saw how bored I was. Then I asked the question
that my Dad had wanted to hear all afternoon.
'What's the Aberdeen score?' 'We're winning.'
I wasn't bothered though. To hell with it. I was miserable. In 45
minutes my brief stint as a Newcastle fan was going to end. It was
fun while it lasted but they were going to lose. I knew it. Everyone
knew it, but my Dad knew it. I'm sure by then he was getting behind
Newcastle as I was at the point of no return.
Kick-off for the second half. A cheer breaks out. A cheer of belief.
A cheer that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I start
to get excited. I remember why I came here! 'COME ON NEWCASTLE!'
We went round to the Leazes End. That's where the noise was coming
from so that's where I wanted to be. I sat on the advertising boards
at the front, almost dwarfing my Dad who was way down there in the
stand.
But I was enjoying myself. I wanted Newcastle to win so much. Maybe
partly to show my smug bloody father, but partly because I was enjoying
myself. I loved the noise. I did wonder to myself how so many people
can get so excited about a team that was so rubbish, but that made
me love it even more!! I was like a kid on a sugar high!
And then it happened...... David Kelly scored. And the place absolutely
erupted. Fans from the South East corner running around the corner
flag. The people who looked so miserable less than an hour ago were
on the floor, on the pitch, in the air. After a brief venture onto
the pitch I got shy and turned back but I was elated. Finally I saw
what I wanted from my old man. He was happy. I knew it all along!
The full time whistle blew. Everyone was delighted. My Dad was hugging
everyone is sight. It took me a few years to realise why everyone
was calling me and him Jock, but they were all delighted so I'll let
them off. While I sat on the advertising boards and watched an outpouring
of relief and joy bellow out I knew I'd seen something special. I'd
just watched a team come back from the brink. Face death in the face
and show strength. Little did I know that 3 years later I'd be standing
in Tynecastle watching Aberdeen do the exact same thing and survive,
but that's a different story for a different day.
Conga's on the street, grown men crying, everyone singing songs. It
was like a carnival.
No, it was like heaven.
25th of April 1992 is remembered by many people for the same reasons.
But we all have our own memories of that glorious day. We seem to
have forgotten how important that day was. We'll draw with Everton
and have a moan and a whinge. When in truth we shouldn't complain
and moan. We should think back to David Kelly smashing the ball past
Alan Knight, giving us all the opportunity to sit in St James' Park
and watch the team we love in the Premiership.
Twelve and a half years on I still follow both clubs with a strong
passion. I try and balance the two, and never do a great job, but
one thing is for sure. I love both clubs and faced with the choice,
I don't think I could do it.
We've been playing Premiership football for a decade now and there's
so many reasons why we're still here. 7-1 vs Leicester, money, Alan
Shearer. And we've had some great times since. Craig Bellamy in Feyenoord,
Shearer's hat-trick in the 4-3 against Leicester. Phillipe Albert
scoring THAT goal.
For anyone who was there when David Kelly scored at the Gallowgate
End when it looked like we'd never score, just remember that everything
that has happened in the last 12 ½ years has been made possible by
him. Without that goal there would be no club.
Next time any of us think about having a moan about a poor performance
or a poor result, think back to when it was 0-0 that day. Now THAT
was something to complain about......
So yes, I've been to the brink with both the clubs I love. I've been
sitting in the stadium 10 minutes from the bitter end and stared the
ultimate footballing punishment in the face. And came back both times.
Why do I do this to myself I wonder? Fuck knows but I love it.
So yes. I'm a football bigamist. A footballing two timer. A football
love rat.
And because of moments like that? I wouldn't have it any other way......
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