The Legend of Percy Street

Ron Manager - The Fast Show

Many moons ago, just as the Earth was reaching the end of it’s cooling down period, I was ushered forth into this world. They were simple times, which was just as well as I was a simple kid. Now where I was ‘brung up’ there was only one game, footy! Except for two weeks during the Summer when Wimbledon was on and  aspiring Björn Borgs and Virginia Wades took to the local school tennis courts.

Games would last until either everyone got bored and went to play footy or your Mam shouted for you to come in for your tea/dinner/bath/bedtime. Of course there was always a shortage of real tennis balls or ‘tennis’ers’ as they were known so the more inventive among us would find substitutes. Cans were ungainly and tended to cut the catgut to shreds. Stones or ‘cogs’ (a wus hoyin’ cogs an a split ees heed!) were excellent for distance but, again, didn’t do the catgut any good.

We would even resort to using a football but this played havoc with your backhand and your wrists. The result was usually that the tennis racquets were rendered useless well before the end of the two weeks and we would have resorted back to the trusty game of ’footy’.

Now the ‘footy’ could take place just about anywhere. We lived in a Victorian terrace in an upstairs flat so we were blessed with a back yard which was usually for practicing or playing ‘Three Pots In’ where you took shots at the goal and the first one to get three goals was goalie. Needless to say no one ever wanted to be goalie so there was never a great deal of effort went into making saves. For just kicking the ball back and forth there was the back lane. Now this was fine unless you chose to play on the most sacred of days ‘washing day!!’ Woe betide any kid who belted a ball against those lines of laundry. Many a skelp on the bum was administered to he (or she, we did let them play if the numbers were short :-D ) who dared to commit such a crime. For a more substantial game there was a spot on Crawford street where it met with St Mary’s Terrace where the house had no windows in its wall and where some rescourceful kid had painted a goalmouth, the other goal was the opening to what was called ‘the Black Path’. This ran up the side (and still does, I think) of St Aidens School and the gas works up to Howdon station. The disadvantage was that the goals were, as near as damn it, at 90 degrees to each other so we basically played football around a corner.

There was always the agony of the ‘choosing of the teams’. Each captain would chose his team one by one from those present. Their opinion on your ability would decide whether you were choses quickly or you were reluctantly accepted with a shrug of the shoulders and a sigh of disappointment. One thing that would call a premature halt to the game was anyone doing a ‘blastie’ (nee blasties mind!) which would smack off the wall and would bring the occupant out of the house and sending us on our merry way with a coulerful word (or two) and a few hand/finger gestures.

For a full blown game we ventured either into the school yard at St Aidens or onto the sports field. The school yard was fine but we would always be on the lookout for either Mr Flynn the Janny or the Priests, or one in particular. There was an old Priest who, on spotting us, would rush up and utter a few not so holy phrases at our rapidly disappearing forms. There was a young Priest there who would join in the game! He wasn’t bad but I think his dress hampered his mobility :-D Playing on the school field nullified the threat of the swearing Priest but it brought us into direct conflict with Mr Flynn and his Moggie Minor. Because of the size of the sports field we could spot him quickly and make our escape without any problem but then he took to chasing us in his ‘Moggie Minor’. We’d see the car bouncing it’s way across the field and we’d leg it in different directions. He’d have stood more chance of catching us on foot.

Now there was one among us who was a superior player. Well he was superior at everything to be honest. Cowboys and Indians, Japs and Commandos and footy. He was brilliant, he would run circles round us. We would have been around 5 to 8 years old at the time, Chris was 16 or thereabouts! I’ll always remember the image of him standing at the bottom of our back stairs in the camoflage garb of a commando, cammed up and machine gun in hand asking my Mam if I was coming out to play! He was a great lad. I met him some 20 odd years later. I went to the front window of the guardroom at RAF Marham and there he was, this time in an RAF uniform. He recognised me straight away and said “Bloody hell man, coming out for a kick about!” Great lad.

Anyhoo, the big game could take place between teams varying in size from 5 or 6 a side up to 15+ a side depending on how many mates turned up. There was no ref, never a need for one because every kid on the field was ‘ref’. Over zealous challenges would be met with ‘hack, hack, free kick/penalty!’ Which usually met with a chorus of expletives from the opposition. There was no offside so there was always one or several who were known as ‘goal moochers’ (myself included, it was my speciality) these were basically lazy beggars who made up for what they lacked in skill with an abundance of patience and the ability to stand nearer the goal line than even the keeper. At the approach of the ball they would move slightly one way then the other then, as the ball came towards them, they would stick out a boot and hope that they got something on it and direct it into the goal. This was where this usually sedentary individual would take off across the pitch in a celebration that would have put Charlie George to shame (look him up :-D ) this was usually done without one word of congratulations from team mates who, like the opposition, would be uttering the words ‘*£$*** moocher!’

Then there was playing footy at school. If you were good enough you could be picked for the school team. Mind you the most active member of my middle school football team was the ‘keeper as scorelines of 15-0 and the likes were not uncommon. I think they ended up sitting him in the back of the net to save wear and tear on his knees and back :-D I was never picked, which just shows the level I reached as a kid! I did, however, get picked for my House Football team for Sports Day. I was in Green house and I think the main reason I got picked was because my Mam, on learning of my inclusion in the team, bought me a green top, green shorts and green socks. I blended into the football pitch! I spent most of my time lending out my top, shorts and socks to other members of the team so they could tell who was in Green House. We, thanks to my strip, won the tournament that year and the Sports Day over all but from there on in my career in football took a downturn and I appeared only a few more times in anger, the last time was when I played for my section in the RAF and nearly broke my ankle. I wasn’t even involved with play and I merely went over on my ankle. I crawled off the pitch and into retirement.

Happy days :-)