I’d scraped through my first year at university, but I couldn’t apply myself, and the next two years saw me gradually collapse. Two years of nominal jobs, unemployment and depression followed – but I found work in 1992 and made a career of it (I do data stuff). I went to endless matches, Lincoln and Newcastle, usually on the supporters coach if away. Over a hundred matches in one season.
In the Conference season, if I was in Newcastle, I would scour TV shops for Lincoln’s score on my way home (near Byker), but I didn’t need to; loads of people knew I followed Lincoln and I’d be told the score and offered congrats or commiserations without having to ask. And I was there at home to Wycombe, the first moment that I felt I could really savour and feel that it was mine. Graham Bressington was my favourite player, he seemed to enjoy the game with a bit of passion and a bit of arrogance. I always felt confident when he was playing and he’d occasionally exchange a couple of words with us at a throw in, which I loved.
I also learned from observing how we treated Shane Nicholson, a young defender just starting out. He was constantly harangued by our fans to put in more tackles, and told he was rubbish. I later learned from people who coach that he was doing exactly what he should be doing. I don’t know how young players cope when their own fans are constantly berating them for doing what their own manager has trained them to do, and telling them how useless they are. I’d often be in the Stags Head lounge after matches (before it was knocked through) and I could see old men gleefully explain how bad the team was and how poor the players were; Perhaps some people need to slag off the team to make themselves feel superior.
I was around for the inflatables craze; Man City (not a dominant club in those days) started it with yellow bananas, but others followed, and I had an inflatable stegosaurus. I think it was football reclaiming itself; fans showing that they were there for a positive experience and shaking off the hooliganism image of the past. I usually stood on the West Bank with Gary Welbourn, a school friend, and that’s where I was for Hillsborough. It was in the days before mobile phones, but I always had a little radio to check what was going on, and it was a surreal and ghoulish experience, finding myself relaying the ongoing tragedy across the terraces.
I was at Lincoln v Blackpool on 2 May 1992 and watched “the fight”. Blackpool were hoping for the last promotion spot and a big crowd was anticipated. I passed the corner between the Railway End and the West Bank, but the queues were long, and I found a shorter one much further down the terrace. As I arrived on the West Bank terrace it rapidly become clear that the segregation was laughable. The last quarter had always been separated off by a strong metal fence for away supporters, but Blackpool had been allocated half the terrace. There was no separation of turnstiles, and the Lincoln/Blackpool boundary was shown by a thin piece of orange tape strung from the back to the front of the terrace. This solitary bit of tape, the only barrier between the anticipated angry hordes of Lincoln and Blackpool, was already blowing around limply on the ground, the fans were mixed, and there was no apparent stewarding. When the fight broke out, it was a few Blackpool fans from the properly fenced off corner who dashed across to strut in front of Lincoln fans at the far end of what is now the Stacey West. They seemed more like Morris Dancers than thugs, and it all seemed like “handbags” from where I was standing. By now, all the Blackpool and Lincoln fans in the main West Bank were happily chatting away with each other and discussing the match, “the fight” and the season quite amiably.
They seemed more like Morris Dancers than thugs, and it all seemed like “handbags” from where I was standing.
My mother knitted me a scarf in about 1990. It’s woollen and four layers thick, with arty uneven Lincoln colours and badges. It’s like a sleeve so you can turn it inside out and it’s the equivalent for Newcastle on the inside. It’s been a conversation starter with football fans on many awaydays by train, but it’s getting a bit fragile these days.
I enjoyed Lincoln’s promotion in ‘98, but I was in the middle of moving to Chester for work. A couple of years later I was on my way down to Reading for a work promotion. I married in 2002 and by the middle of 2006 we had three children under two years old, with a mix of autism, ADHD and general feistiness in there. I’d always wanted to be a dad, and I knew where my priorities were, so the play-off years more or less passed me by, even though I still made it to a small handful of Lincoln matches every year. We were keen to move back to Lincoln, but the right job never came up, or I didn’t get the ones that did, and we settled in a lovely market town in Oxfordshire. I do a lot of acting and singing and it’s painful when a production clashes with a match within striking distance.
Two of my children aren’t into football, but my eldest still feels connected to the place she was christened. I offered Oxford, but she’s never been interested in any club except Lincoln. I went to watch Oxford v Lincoln shortly after getting married. It was a cold day and when Lincoln scored, my wedding ring slipped off my finger and rolled down all the steps. I managed to retrieve it, but it did seem in some way symbolic that I needed to remember that I was committed to Lincoln as well as my wife.
I’d been ramping up my match count as my children matured, and I’ve seen plenty of the dodgy dives we ended up playing in (wasn’t at Carshalton away though). After the Cowleys arrived, Evie and I were at Eastleigh and at Forest Green plus a couple of others in the league. I was there against Altrincham in round 1, but rehearsals and a sixteen-show pantomime run in January (think I may have been dame that year) prevented me getting close to Brighton or Ipswich. Actors know how to keep a secret and I watched later on the telly, as live.
My wedding ring slipped off my finger and rolled down all the steps. I managed to retrieve it, but it did seem in some way symbolic that I needed to remember that I was committed to Lincoln as well as my wife
My Ipswich experience was different to anyone else’s I suspect. No one at the theatre had given a hint of the result, and my family including my Dad who was visiting had all watched it live on TV. They went to bed and let me imagine I was there. Everyone knows the tension of that match, but the ending was different for me. I knew how long the recording was, and I knew it wasn’t long enough for there to be extra time. When Ipswich got that late free kick, I didn’t fear a goal was coming; I knew a goal was coming. And when it turned into a Lincoln break instead, I didn’t hope we were going to pull off another miracle, I actually knew it. It was a dreamlike few seconds, watching something play out, as if live, having the ecstasy untainted by fear or doubt.
I watched the 2021 play-off final on holiday in Suffolk. The crowdless season has been awful, for finances, for atmospheres and for players and fans but it’s had a guilty pleasure for me. For once, my experience is the same as everyone else’s. I’ve seen as much as the Season Ticket holders, and as those who go to most away games. I’ve seen almost every match on iFollow or Sky, and my opinions, for once, feel as valid as anyone else’s. I felt sad but proud after the Play off final because these are still the good times, but I did feel that I’d gone back to being a second-class supporter.
I’d missed the Emirates, and the Wembley cup final too, through family commitments. But I did wangle tickets for me and Evie to Burnley in the cup run. It was a six-hour journey there and I kept on trying to lower her expectations. And you’ll know I did finally get my revenge on Burnley; It was very very cold. And it was delicious.
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