40 years ago today, Lincoln City lost 4-1 at home to the worst team in the Football League; their manager apologised, and I decided this was how I wanted to spend my life.
October 5th is my Imps birthday. Other people might trace their devotion to a cup upset, a promotion or being lifted onto someone’s shoulders to watch a winning goal. Mine began with a bonfire, some inappropriate language and a punishment which has now lasted four decades.
I was seven, newly obsessed with football after Mexico ’86, and desperate for Dad to take me to a proper match. He went to Lincoln, as had his dad, and I wanted in. What happened on the pitch was almost secondary to joining something that already belonged to our family.
Dad, however, had another idea. On Saturday, October 4th, we set off with Mum and my little brother Paul for what was apparently a family day out, but it included plans for us to watch Nottingham Forest against Manchester United. Mum and Paul could go shopping while we went to the City Ground.
It was a reasonable attempt to introduce his eldest to football. The newspaper report records a crowd of 34,828 watching Garry Birtles put Forest ahead before Bryan Robson equalised. Plenty of noise, famous players and two clubs a child watching television would recognise. Dad had clearly given this some thought.
Unfortunately for him, Newark Air Museum was on the way. Paul spotted a plane, enthusiasm for shopping evaporated, and we were offered a choice. I voted for the aircraft as well, partly because I’d discovered we weren’t going to Sincil Bank. I’d seen our ground across South Park when we dropped Dad off the season before and wanted to go there. Forest could keep their famous players.
The following morning, back at Chambers Woods, Dad had been burning things behind the house. It wasn’t a hobby, he was getting rid of garden waste. Paul, our friend Daniel Blackburn and I were outside in Wellington boots and Parka coats, poking about near the dying fire. A fence separated us from Dad, which I mistook for soundproofing.
I announced that the embers were “pissing hot”. It wasn’t particularly accomplished swearing, even by a seven-year-old’s standards, but Dad heard and reported it to Mum. We were supposed to be visiting my Aunty June that afternoon, and Mum decided she wasn’t taking a child who spoke like that. I could stay with Dad instead.
That scuppered his plans, which involved his Dad and watching Lincoln City against Hartlepool United. As punishments go, being taken somewhere I’d spent months begging to visit lacked bite, although anyone who endured the rest of that season might argue Mum knew exactly what she was doing.
Reading the newspapers now, the afternoon was supposed to offer encouragement. City had beaten Orient 2-0 on the Tuesday, and George Kerr believed attitudes and commitment were improving. Hartlepool, meanwhile, were bottom, without a league win that season, and had just lost 5-0 at home to Crewe.
That defeat had cost Billy Horner his job, leaving John Bird in temporary charge. The Echo’s preview noted Hartlepool had won only twice in their previous 26 matches. Kerr expressed sympathy for Horner, but made his expectations for Sunday clear.
“It is a bad time for Hartlepool and the law of averages says they have to win a game sometime, but it won’t be on Sunday!”
You can almost hear 40 years of Lincoln supporters drawing breath at that one. There are things you simply don’t say before playing a struggling side, although I hadn’t yet acquired the experience required to recognise them.
There was also a new signing to inspect. Aidan Murphy, a 19-year-old midfielder from Manchester United, had arrived on a month’s loan, with Kerr interested in a permanent deal if things worked out. He had captained United’s youth side and represented England at schoolboy and youth level.
The manager needed reinforcements after the departures of Phil Turner and Neil Redfearn, with Peter Daniel having requested a transfer. Murphy offered pedigree and potential, and Kerr was still discussing the prospect of promotion with a young team. The optimism looks painfully misplaced now, but it was there in print before kick-off.
None of that registered with me. What I remember is heading under the railway bridge and climbing the concrete steps into the Clanford End, seeing the pitch appear. Television hadn’t prepared me for being inside a ground, with the players close enough to hear and a whole afternoon unfolding in front of us.
There were only 2,101 people there, but I’d never been among so many adults who all wanted the same thing – can you imagine how passionate I’d be if we’d gone to watch Forest! I stood in my smoky Parka with my chin against the wall near Lee Butler’s goal, the advertising boards obscuring my view. It didn’t occur to me that this was anything less than magnificent.
Sincil Bank itself was in an awkward phase. A report published two days later showed the officials being driven from their makeshift changing rooms in the gym to the pitch. With the St Andrews Stand demolished, the club had arranged the lift to get them safely past supporters. It was an unusual arrival, but all of this was new to me.
Dad bought me a programme, which was generous considering I was supposedly being punished, and those who watch us on YouTube can see a reproduction framed behind me, with pictures of me and Dad (I do have the original still). Gary Lund became an immediate fascination, particularly when he crashed into the hoardings close enough for me to smell the Deep Heat. These weren’t distant figures on a screen. They were right there.
My memories of the actual football are much less reliable than those of the ground. Thankfully, Shaun Custis’s report supplies the detail, and it doesn’t suggest I’d stumbled upon an unlucky defeat. Hartlepool had already hit the bar, forced Butler into a save with his legs and had an effort cleared off the line before we scored.
Tony Simmons put City ahead after ten minutes, finishing from close range following Kilmore’s flick. Even that came against the run of play, and Hartlepool equalised after 25 minutes when Gary Strodder diverted a shot from Hogan into the top corner. Butler, according to the report, had the original effort covered.
At half-time, I had a programme to study and a new collection of names to learn. The experienced supporters around me presumably had rather more pressing concerns, having watched a side supposedly there for the taking cause us problems throughout the opening half. Chris Ashton played ‘I Wanna Know What Love Is’ by Foreigner, as he seemed to every encounter.
Things got considerably worse after the break. Gollogly volleyed Hartlepool ahead in the 50th minute, Nigel Walker added a third after 64, and Gollogly completed the scoring at the death. Murphy struggled to influence the game, while Walker repeatedly troubled a defence which had little protection from midfield.
Kerr’s response was printed beneath an enormous “SORRY!” headline. Having criticised supporters for staying away in midweek, he now had to apologise to those who had turned up.
“There’s nothing I can say to make amends to the people who came to support us.”
He offered no excuses and said he would probably agree with any criticism supporters wished to make. There was a cup return against Charlton to prepare for, with City already 3-1 down, but Sunday’s performance had demolished the optimism of the preview. One afternoon, two completely different experiences: Kerr was mortified, and I was hooked.
Everyone around me had been swearing, which seemed a particularly good feature of my punishment. On the way home, Dad bought my silence with sweets so Mum wouldn’t hear about his contribution. I’d watched football, acquired a programme and been rewarded for keeping quiet. I couldn’t see much wrong with the arrangement and have continued to swear profusely ever since, in case someone wishes to further reward me.
By my second match, just before Christmas, Lund was scoring a hat-trick in a 4-0 win against Swansea. I left trying to recreate a goalkeeper’s dive and landed in dog muck near South Park. Following Lincoln was already providing memorable afternoons, even if my parents were doing rather more cleaning than they’d anticipated.
Forty years later, I can trace so much back to that Sunday: the programmes, the ruined weekends, the writing, and time spent with Dad which I wouldn’t exchange for anything. Hartlepool gave us a hiding, but I came home wanting to go again. Of those 2,101 people, I used to think I must have been the extra one, because I hadn’t intended to be there, but I have been ever since.
I’m glad I was. All it took was one badly chosen word beside a bonfire, and somehow I ended up with a club, a career and forty years of memories. Mum wanted to teach me a lesson about swearing. I suspect the lesson I actually learned was rather different.
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