Bittersweet Moither

You wake up and it’s there..

All the connotations, the mathematical equations, if we win and they lose, if we draw and they lose, if we lose and they win..whose playing? whose rested? did we stay over? who are Stockport playing again? Is it on the telly? Who are Halifax playing? Who are Solihull playing? I’ll listen to the club commentary and watch the Stockport game on my phone.. Blissful end of season moither.

Go for a walk early doors that’ll help the nerves. Clean the bathroom that’ll take your mind off it for a bit. Make tomorrow’s buttys that’s a good way to kill a bit of time.. The clocks ticking, I’ve had five coffee’s and it’s not even midday…
I wasn’t going to go and then I was ,and then I decided not to, now here I am in tatters, no use to anyone.. May as well have got out of the way and just gone instead of being a pain in the arse round the house. I sometimes derive a perverse pleasure from listening to the Town on the radio mind. Hearing it and having it described to you is odd, the ambiguity in what’s being said.. And often a scream or a ‘oooooh’ can be misconstrued or the commentator has made a mistake. Of course it’s convoluted, it’s a medium to relay information about a sport that people watch. The clocks ticking…

Bank holidays are supposed to be relaxing, but I’ve never been so wound up. If i’d gone I’d be ok i think, because i’d be there wouldn’t i, i’d be able to help, i’d be able to scream,

and send positive telepathic vibes to the lads. Cool head, man on, give it, stay, give it, I’m just as useless as Phil Neal in that Graham Taylor documentary. I panic like everyone else, and moan like everyone else. The players know what they’re doing, they’ve got a game plan, their professional sports people for goodness sake, they don’t need some wally telling them to ‘give it’ or that they ‘should be hitting the target from there’.
We’d be better off if we’d just settled for the play offs and not been so brilliant for god’s sake, typical Wrexham, we couldn’t just be ok, we had to be awesome and end up being right there at the end of the season when it really matters. The clock is ticking…

I change rooms and head into the comfort of the front room, phone fully charged, headphones at the ready, I’m hoping this room’s serene sensory qualities will calm me and therefore calm the players.

A point on the road. Keep going.

If I’m feeling nervous today how are they feeling? I wonder if Luke Young has a ritual? A Lot of players do don’t they?.. Ben Tozer will of course dry his towels out ready, Super Paul Mullin probably meditates and invokes the Gods of genius, while Big Ollie weight lifts a couple of youth team players. Some of the lads might even read the programme and be reading this now thinking how weird it is that there’s a piece in the programme about them reading the

programme while they are sat in the changing room reading the programme.

Dear lads
I love you and would like to say a huge diolch on behalf of the peoples paddock for a wonderful rollercoaster of a season. You’re the collective apple of my eye.Now I’m going to have a lie down.
Just please get those 3 points.

Yours in love and anxiety
Ry.

Zaragoza.

‘We have made the mighty humble, we have made the mountains crumble’…

I woke up from a dream on Bradley Road. Dad knew the way, He knows this town like the back of his hand. I was lucky, a couple of generations away from what my Grandad endured. Ern was a Collier until his accident, and then the dust took him. Pneumoconiosis. Families had to fight for compensation.

The Floodlights sing,the Floodlights sing and they sing to me..the turning of the turnstile

’Fearless in Devotion’!!

My head was full of pictures of the Town. Dad told me about Rensenbrink and Melia, masters of the game, magicians, the chosen ones who could turn a game, and produce the unexpected.The crowds spill from the pavement by the Art College, this is where the road was always closed and tonight is no exception. We’d beaten FC Zurrieq 7 nil on aggregate to reach the second round and the Gods of European Football were surely smiling on us as we escaped the first leg of our tie against Real Zaragoza unscathed.

I woke up from a dream on the Mold Road. ‘Stand aside the Reds are Coming’! The music of the terrace and the turnstiles turning..

The smell of onions, beer, cigarette smoke,the sound of the tannoy, shouting, swearing and excitement. A splash of colour in post industrial Wrecsam. Our friends from Aragon…Zaragoza.
All our heavy industries are gone, the Thatcher years decimated this area along with many other working class Towns and Cities. What did they leave us? What we made we made ourselves, what is left is ours, and always will be.

‘Here they come the Mighty Champions’!
In my imagination i see flashes of red and white, Dixie smashing a half volley into a gaping goal, the net bulging, the crowd shocked, the Reds on the Rampage.My first stamping ground was Plas Madoc, we left when i was still a nipper, my Dads family was disparate, unlike our Mams lot who are inextricably bound and fierce. People move away, they leave.

I spent most of my adult life trying to get back here.

The Floodlights wake me from my dream, singing into the Gogledd Sky, singing to me. ‘We are here to see your glory’.

We moved away.The old man joined the Prison Service, his first posting in Abertawe (Swansea) and we left, he joined the Prison Service and we left our estate and moved into quarters. Of course, the year we left Wrexham was the most successful season in Wrexham FCs history, we won the old 3rd Division by a canter, smashing Rotherham 7v1 at Cae ras (The Racecourse) to seal the title with a handful of games left. Bill Shankly, who haunted Cae ras that season said ‘Wrexham are the best side ever to be promoted from the 3rd Division’.

‘Stand aside the Reds are coming’!

The turnstiles turning…the classified results, the joys of ritual, the comfort of repetition, the opiate of the masses…

This evening is seared in my memory, so full of life and language, colour, emotion, a place where folk congregate and in these secular times a place where the community comes together is few and far between. The Holy Ground..Y Cae ras.

Throughout the late 70s and 80s the establishment sought to separate working people from one another, they deemed the Unions and working class solidarity too powerful and therefore a threat to national security. First the Miners were dealt with at Orgreave and the rot set in from there. The Government set out to destroy the infrastructure and belief system of Socialist working people.

From the Levellers and Diggers through to Peterloo, Tonypandy Orgreave, Hillsborough and Grenfell. Working class life and culture attacked by the system.

The music of the terrace, your Sambas and your flares, the joys of ritual, the classified result, the turnstiles turning…

‘Marching like a Mighty Army’! The crowd is seamless, we stream into the turnstiles, the click and grunt, the clatter, the chat, into the ground and onto the terrace.The Floodlights boom like a methodist preacher, hold us rapt, the old man regales me with tales of his heroes, of Ken Barnes, Wyn the leap, Billy Ashcroft, Dave Smallman and leans in to whisper about the Busby babes and our biggest ever crowd, how the club issued vouchers to fans who attended a reserve game at Winsford and nearly 20000 turned up!

Jacko give us a song!

The voices feel familiar, the rhythm of the crowd. We find our perch a tidy spec and Dad strikes up a conversation with the old lad nearby, quizzing him for information, is such and such still carrying a knock?, did so and so play last week?, finding his feet, getting grounded, feeling things out, up to speed, in the moment, the absolutely visceral and cerebral experience of being present in mind, body and spirit.

The classified result, the joys of ritual,the music of the terrace.

The rust on the crash barrier, the dark slime on the floor of the bogs round the back of the kop,the pigeon loft, your programme in your arse pocket.
Eventually we moved closer to Wrexham,first to Shrewsbury, then to the border where our Mams from. Belonging is something you only consider as an adult, in hindsight this period galvanised me and my sense of myself. Closer to the shrine..Wrexham fans here! Lads in school

followed the Town. I was 15 and about to start going to the match with my mates. The stars aligned.Psycho! Psycho! You’ve still got to be in for your tea, the sheeping giant,the comfort of repetition.

‘History only tells a story’…not long until kick off, the players are out
‘We are here to see your glory’

We drew 2v2 on the night with Zaragoza going through on the away goal rule, the dye was cast with me, (as if there was ever any doubt) just like i had arms and legs i followed Wrexham, just as night goes into day i watch the Town through good and bad times, two sides of the same coin, no matter what was to come it didn’t matter, this was my place, this was home.

‘WREXHAM IS THE NAME’.

Two in the Long Pull, One in the Feathers, one in the Jockey..the turning of the turnstile, the turning of the turnstile…

In a Subdued Crowd After a Mediocre Game.

Pockets of synopsis punctuate the dark
90 minutes of drivel has rendered us underwhelmed

Supposition and counsel warm the brooding blood
But most have switched off Speechless at the sheer banality of it all

Radars have kicked in, heads are down
And they’re weaving through the crowd
Home already in their head,debating a bath or supper

It wasn’t bad enough to be annoyed really
It was neither here nor there
A no man’s land if you like,
If only we were cack enough to despair

I feel the early stirrings of a sulk
Approaching Maesgwyn Road
Even the floodlights seem indifferent

The journey home will now be time for preparation
While other results confirm the worst
And we drop out of the playoffs
Forever the bridesmaids
I’m arranging a robust defence for next years season ticket

But now in this purgatory of bodies
Like mourners leaving the crematorium
We absolve ourselves together
In the ancient cultural act of moaning

Nothing Doing…

Finally the box room at our gaff is mine. My own little ‘office’ to write and think. Here I will sculpt sentences and be inspired.

Young Joseph flew the nest a while back and territorial negotiations began immediately. It was like Versaille and Yalta, there were protracted discussions, with solicitors letters going back and forth, but eventually common sense prevailed and contracts were signed with work commencing a few months ago. The space is now mine, and will be used to create my masterpiece….or it will be used for looking at Football programmes from the 1980s. We’ll see how it goes.

When the tricky stuff started my contribution was purely supervisory and supportive due to a long term injury called ‘uselessness’. I made drinks and did the snappin, while Lysh did all the painting, put together the new furniture and project managed the entire business like the legend she is. This has of course left me in serious arrears, which i worked out means i’ll be washing the pots until late September 2048.

I’ve been looking forward to this moment for such a long time. Having a place where I can stretch out among my things and indulge myself, metaphorically gorge on all the bits I’ve collected down the years. Everyone knows that you can be inspired via a kind of osmosis, in this case my hope is that being surrounded by my Football related paraphernalia will motivate and light the fuse.

It has taken me a few weeks to get my Footy programmes sorted into anything approaching sensible, and my collection of books nearer to a semblance of order. Rather than anything daft like alphabetised , I’ve gone for something between the size of the book and whether or not I’ve read it, to decide where it goes on the shelf…or in proximity to my desk. If I like the cover that trumps everything.I’m sure Waterstones will adopt something similar.

Today I’ve spent a good chunk of the day tidying and carefully putting things in places that are sure to inspire me. I’ve got a bit of old crash barrier (proper rusty, its lovely), a bit of kop concrete, some old Daily Post posters from various cup runs, a ruck of old programmes, books and zines, one massive Wrexham AFC finger, and an Orgreave truth and justice poster. All this will of course elicit the correct response of the creative floodgates flying open, and the laptop going into a meltdown because I’ve hammered it into submission. This is where the magic happens.

Four hours, four brews and a packet of milk chocolate digestives later and nothing has happened. I’m looking at things, I’m reading a programme from 1982, I’m nosing out of the window, I’m playing with my massive Wrexham finger, I’m having a lovely time and generally accomplishing nothing.This shouldn’t be happening. I’m enjoying myself too much.
Surely the crash barrier as a totem and symbol of Football subculture, Wrexham, and all that constitutes will

encourage the juices to flow, but no, nothing… I start to panic and do the worst thing possible. I have a little snooze. In times of crisis i like to have a kip, i think it’s my way of coping with adversity. Anyway, when i wake up i look at my phone and realise i’ve been in my new ‘office’ for nearly 5 hours with nothing to show for it. This isn’t good, i’m going to have to go back in the kitchen or i’ll have nothing for Friday.

Wembley on the Estate.

When we had the numbers for teams
The goal would be the width of the street
And it was all guns blazing, victory or death
Our dreaming faces emulating heroes
Sometimes you had to fetch the ball
From up the road, or over the hedge
Moaning as you went
Or If you booted it into someone’s garden
Thinking you were Glen Hodle
Then you had to knock on
The kerb and beyond was out
So throw ins were deadly serious
And the streetlights were floodlights
Until Mams shouted up on the tannoy
“I won’t call you again” but they always did
And that was you, subbed off
Tea and a bath
Still listening to the shouts and clacks outside
And your team struggling with a rush keeper
Trying to hold onto that 36 v 32 lead
You imagine your mate taking his time getting the ball From under next doors Ford Cortina
TIme wasting before it was trendy
Waiting for someones elses Mam in a tabard
To come to the pavement
Tapping an imaginary watch
Sending us to Wembley
Until tomorrow.

Celt of the Paddock.

Having grown up on the kop in the late 80s and early 90s, I was lucky enough to be around Ian ‘Jacko’ Roberts, and learnt early on the importance of characters like him that led the singing, and got everyone else going. Jacko would boom something out and we would invariably follow him. He was our leader Jacko, what a lad.
Among the Paddock Partisans this season, we have a little gem. A six year old kid called Celt Ernie Heard.

This season has been incredible in many ways, it’s seen a great many changes, for the most part positive and life at Y Cae ras has been enriched with a feel good factor returning for the first time in a long time. As the older heads settled in earlier this season at the back of the Peoples Paddock, a new presence in our midst was noticeable.. A small, noisy, enthusiastic bundle of CPD Wrecsam daftness.

This little lad sings his head off at matches, replete with Wrecsam bobble, Wrecsam scarf (one of his Dads old tops from the 80s) and the lung capacity of a male voice choir baritone. He kicks every ball and sings every song. My favourite part of Celts singing is that he requires zero involvement from anyone else, he has no need whatsoever for any affirmation from his peers or comrades around him, he just steams in like Joey Jones, always for the love and never the glory, and will happily sing on his own for minutes on end. Rum lad.

Celt Ernie Heard is an example to us all, his dedication is total, he commits himself completely and is so full of

wonder about the game, that you can’t help but feel that fresh faced vigour rub off on you. Even as a cynical old lag, to be in close proximity to Celt is a joy, because you see it all again, through the innocent eyes of a little lad who loves his Football club and loves being at the match with his brother Dewi and Mam and Dad.

But hangfire, what a crew young Celt has with him, Dad Craig, Mam Liz, Aunty Claire, Aunty Katie, Nain (Wendy) Taido (Steve) and his cousins Emlyn and Annabelle, and of course not forgetting another top lad of the Paddock and the beginning of the Paddock Ultras Dewi Heard, Celts brother. All regulars on the Paddock of Death!

Celt first attracted my attention earlier this season when i clocked him singing the words (on his own mind) to The Declan Swans belter ‘Always Sunny in Wrexham’. As the sun shone on the righteous in the Paddock, i looked round and we smiled at this little man teaching us all a lesson in passion and desire, and i thought of my pal Scoot who wrote ‘Always Sunny’ and how delighted he’d be to know that a young kid was singing his song at the match.

It is truly magic, to not only see young Celt loving his footy, but that this lad is at the Holy ground Y Cae ras surrounded by his family, in the heart of the community, both old and young, joined together in love and solidarity.

We are on the cusp of great things,and Celt Heard will see it all, in his Dads old Wrexham shirt from 1989, things like these are priceless.

Celt Heard, a Wrexham Soul, remember the name, and what a great name it is.

Go on Celt lad, Jacko would be proud.

The Incredible Sulk.

My neighbours must have been wondering why on earth I was so upset last Saturday evening, after I was seen in the backyard physically assaulting our boxes of recycling.

Having secured the 3 points in what has been described as a ‘once in a lifetime’ game,you’d think i’d be landed, doing the hokey cokey round the garden,high fiving all and sundry and being generally cock a hoop rather than leathering the cardboard and plastics round the side of the gaff.
Having missed about 3 home games in the last decade I was gutted to miss the game last Tuesday after coming down with Covid, and when I was still testing positive on Friday I knew I’d be missing the Dover game. I flounced round the house like a big girl’s blouse for about half an hour, huffing and puffing, eventually settling into a long sulk. Once common sense was restored, I resolved to make the best of a bad situation and consume my body weight in biscuits, while listening to the match from the republic of our sofa. It goes without saying that I’m glad we won, but couldn’t we have won 1 nil? Win by all means, but in a prosaic manner like we have for ages, rather than the trending on twitter type of victory or death 3 points.

I knew something like this would happen, after all the 1 nils, and struggling to sort our home form out, you just know when a team starts to click there’s going to be an avalanche of goals at some stage. What I didn’t expect was our normally austere back line to have a day off in the same game.

It sounded incredible on the radio, Mark Griffiths at one point screaming `this isn’t Football, its war!!’ I imagined tanks crashing through the Mold Road gates, away fans hurling grenades into the tech end, and players diving into paddock for cover. Pals were texting me, telling me I was missing a treat. I launched my phone across the front room and cursed my luck, decided not to listen anymore, then 30 seconds later I was hooked again, biting my nails and pacing the kitchen.

Considering the goal drought at the Cae ras for the last 250 years it is to be expected that on the one weekend when i’m unable to attend we win by 6 (six) goals to 5 (five ffs). Games have been consistently barren at LL11, where we’ve struggled to win throw-ins for long spells. Our form on the road has been bob on, with (A) forays more often than not bearing some rum fruit. Here at the holy ground it’s been patchy at best, a handful of 1 nil wins as exciting as it’s got. It’s fair to say we’ve been grinding out the 3 points at home for a while. It’s been workmanlike if you like.
See normally those big scoring games are karma aren’t they, your cosmic compensation.That’s the pay off isn’t it? That’s how it works. You sit through years of rubbish and your eventual reward is a sackful of goals, loads of drama and a proper go at the league. That’s the payback for years of dedication and beleaguered belief, season after season of dashed hopes are healed with sparkling home performances and the enjoyment of humdingers like the Dover game. It’s like the Gods take pity and intervene for you, after enduring the abject all your adult life.

It’s the kind of thing that keeps you ticking over. Even if it all goes wrong afterwards and you have to endure another 100 years of mediocrity, you were there for the 6v5 and you’ll never forget it, you’ll probably tell the Grandkids about it.

Only problem was I wasnt there was I? It’s your worst nightmare as a fan. They’ll be carrying my casket into the crem and lads will be nudging each other saying “you know he missed the Dover game dont you”..

I’m happy we won, honest I am, chuffed like, delighted, over the moon…wanders off mumbling to himself ….ecstatic, never been so happy, beside myself, buzzing …disappears round the side of the house to kick seven bells out of the recycling.
Friggin euphoric.

Delirium and Benylin

Last Saturday I was in a pretty bewildered state, riddled with the lurgy, lying on the sofa, consuming vast amounts of lemsip,benylin and netflix. I had a piece to write for Tuesday’s game and the Bromley game geared up on my mobile .As ever I put my trust in comrade Mark Griffiths to steer me through the 90 minutes, knowing that I would be either delirious or kipping for most of it. I had a nice set up in the front room, just me, our cat Winnie and my Yorkie bar for half time.

Some of the great works of art have been created while the protagonists were in an ‘altered state’. One of the great Romantic poets Samuel Taylor Coleridge was an early Rock star in many ways, and would compose verse while expanding his mind in an opium induced haze. He famously couldnt finish his epic poem Kublai Khan after a bloke from Porlock selling insurance knocked on his door and he lost his thread. Old Sam was of course off his rocker on the hard stuff, which isn’t quite the same as Lemsip.

Luckily I had a strong idea I could tweak and use for my column in the last programme, so I was free to nod off and intermittently follow the Towns progress down while drifting in and out of consciousness. I had the strangest dream when I fell asleep. I dreamt that i was at the match but i was wearing a kilt of some description and carrying a big old shield and a dagger. I think I might have been a Celtic warrior of some sort, obviously not very innocuous down at Hayes lane on a sunny Saturday afternoon. I’m surprised the Police hadn’t stopped me for ‘a chat’ on the way into the ground. All seemed to be well and passing off without

incident considering my apparel, and massive knife, when I noticed a commotion near the pie stand, so I went to investigate. When I got there I could see that Deryn Brace and Wayne Phillips were in dispute over the last Yorkie and things were about to turn ugly. The only thing for it was for me to seize the offending Yorkie causing the aggro between these two legends. When I had it in my hand I realised that I had the perfect tool to solve the problem and keep the peace. I withdrew my dagger and held it above my head like He Man when he said by the power of grayskull, and then I noticed that everything had gone very quiet but a little dot had appeared on my chest . It was suddenly dark and I could see a helicopter with a powerful light above me. I heard a distinct voice from the shadows bellowing out “Jonesy put down your massive dagger you idiot”. It was a terrifying version of Mike Lake with the head of a cat and the body of, well, Mike Lake (in full Wrexham kit from 1992/3 by the way). As soon as I realised who the cat/human hybrid was I woke up, still delirious with the flu and associated medication.

My Yorkie was intact, and Winnie was at the patio window doing her best weird noises to shout at the birds outside.

Mike Lake’s cat head had saved the day.

We The Votadini

So there we are, pilgrims safely delivered, the car sat like a buddha near Belle vue park. After a few days downpour the black railings brood and glisten, the trees bend and shudder. The adidas touch tarmac, all shiny and new, two days old and ready to be baptised.

And the red turnstiles wait in the dreaming dark.

Eyes aglow on Bradley Road, moving by the Lager munitions, a metropolis of little lights, now a hymn to industrial repose, the damp Welsh night touches our skin, past songlines of red ruabon brick, a measured anthology that moves us to the ancient Cae ras.

Conjecture with the vendor on the corner of Crispin lane.

Pushing those turnstiles into the future, this is Christmas on concrete, where it rains in heaven, maelor metal and crash barriers sparkling in ethereal beauty. The crowd breathing together, clouds of cold escaping over the tech end into the implicit bilingual darkness, scorched by fulminating floodlights.

And there we are beyond the red turnstile ,galvanised by memory and faith,this archive of acumen, this terrace of solemn wonder.

We the Votadini

Standing in the bright cold again.

To Be Frank..

I’ve finally had to announce my retirement from the heady world of middle aged men kicking each other. There was a fortnight in 1989 when I had some ability, but for over 30 years I’ve been a poor man’s Mal Donaghy, and that’s being kind.

Since late last summer I’ve been a martyr. I got a knock on the 3G pitch in Mold, that reduced me to the role of a bit part player,spending more time moaning than playing. I don’t like to talk about it, but I think the pain is definitely comparable with childbirth. Basically when I walk any distance I get shooting pains in my right foot.You may snigger at the back, but imagine this scenario, every stroll you sit out because you have to rest your gammy foot, you have to eat a twix. Over a period of 16 weeks, that’s at least 80 twixes. Suffice to say, I’ve put on a bit of timber while waiting for the physio to pull his finger out. The wife has now retired me from the working man’s ballet and my plethora of Celtic FC shirts from the world of fat blokes playing 5 a side.

After what seemed like an eternity, I was eventually seen by a bloke who prodded my sore appendage, came up with an idea, and before the Kings Lynn game I had to pop to the physio to collect my insoles. I haven’t got a clue what’s going on, but I’m doing as I’m told. Again, I can only compare this pain to physically bringing a child into the world. I had visions of having to wear some kind of built up shoe, but it turns out that insoles should correct the issue, and that eating twixes is totally unrelated to my injury and I

could have just not eaten so many.Why didn’t someone say?

After my appointment, i made my way back home, and limped like a hero up Maesgwyn Road wondering whether the Town would go on a run after Saturdays systematic dismantling of Aldershot, or whether normal service would resume, and i would be in for an arduous 90 minutes of screaming at the officials. While all this important nonsense was going on in my brain I walked past the Turf, remembering that Frank Worthington had recently passed away, and I once saw him on the ale pre match, safely ensconced in the doorway of the Turf. This was a particularly poignant memory, because not only was it the only time I ever saw him, it was one of the few occasions Dad was off on a Saturday and we could get to a game from the Salop hinterlands.

Me and the old lad were strutting down Mold Road, when he nudged me and said ‘there’s Frank Worthington there’. I turned around and there he was, nursing a drink , smoking a fat cigar, and looking like he’d just stepped out of a dodgy east end gangster flick. His hair was an Elvis style quiff, and he had a little pencil moustache, with a few days stubble , suggesting either he hadn’t been home, or didnt have a home to go to. I could almost smell the old spice. He looked slightly dishevelled, but nonchalant, with a deep Des O Connor tan. He was effortlessly cool, even if there was more than a touch of the northern del boy about him. Crucially, 99% of my opinion of Frank was based on what I had gleaned from TV, and the clips of him scoring some

incredible goals. In other words I was in awe of the man, and stared at him as we wound our way through the pre match crowd.

Frank’s nephew Gary was playing for Wrecsam back then, so Frank was in Town supporting family. I wonder if he watched the match from the Turf balcony? Undisputably the location of choice for any discerning Wrecsam fan back in the day. In the 80s I would often glance across from the Kop, and enviously watch the chosen few having a pint and watching the match from the best seats in the ground. It struck me as the height of luxury to be able to watch the match from the pub. I would happily sacrifice a limb to go back in time and sit on a stool on the Turf balcony,with a pint of Wrecsam lager in my hand, watching Mark Sertori booting a young striker up and down the park.

So now I’ve got my insoles I’ll be looking to regain my fitness quietly, and ease off the twixes. This time next season I’ll be skipping up Maesgwyn road instead of huffing and puffing like an asthmatic bulldog mastiff. The cut and thrust of footy is a thing of the past for me now, but I still have my memories, a couple of stunning clearances, and a treasured free kick that landed on the roof of home bargains.

The Frank Worthingtons of this world though, there the ones who can light up an evening for the punters, they can turn a game in a second with a touch of magic, turn on a sixpence and pick out a pass, nutmeg a fullback, or have the craic with the crowd. They were a different breed back

then, that era produced a generation of showmen. We had our very own flair player in Bobby Shinton, he was cut from the same cloth, like a matador on the ball. That special quality to entertain is a rare commodity these days, because the game is so quick and everything seems so professional.

What must it have been like to know that you held a crowd in the palm of your hand.
Thanks Frankie Worthington, rest in peace lad.