Cod Almighty | Article

by Alistair Wilkinson

21 April 2008

'The football scrapheap' is a much-used, but not over-used, concept. I have disposed of my eldest. His attempts to follow the black and white path to paternal approval have been woeful. Fortunately he has a baby brother upon whom I can project my hopes and dreams. Littlun's already keen, rolling that ball like a pro while he crawls as fast as he can. I'll have to forgive him using his hands for now; he just won't kick it, no matter how much I shout.

I am, of course, joking. George is still in line for a good long bout of conditioning, but the playing of football has stopped due to him breaking his leg.

Did I go in too hard in training? Possibly...

Disposable. It's a horrible word for a horrible game. Football is a horrible game. Fans, players, owners and the media are all putting the 'buggers' into 'fickle'.

How many players come and go? How many fans decide to show? And behind the scenes, how much do we really know? Sorry, didn't mean to slip into rhyme, but, speaking of which, how often do I pen a line? When do I spare the time?

The crowd gets quieter every season, the noise now reserved for rancour rather than applause: the referee, the 'diver', the small chance of a fight either between players or fans. That smidgen of aggression and antipathy is clung to warmly. From violence, racism and homophobia to concern over franchise football, we all need something other than the eleven before us.

It is Cod Almighty's policy not to accept racist material; quite right too. But I bet I could get derogatory comments about chavs through the censorship - in fact I have in the past. Football seems to have always been at the forefront of derision, and the liberal-minded are no exceptions. The level of acceptance for the lambasting of the white working class and the hoodie seems to me to be unacceptable. And if there's a football strip beneath that hoodie? Now there's a double whammy to the liberal-minded gent trying to raise his boys the right way: young lad with a baseball cap and a knocked-off black and amber shirt; he's probably stitched a hood to it. Mindless hatred this way!

My brother, and the brainwashees' uncle, is a Liverpool fan. I can only assume that the flashy red outfits have turned his head because he's never been to Liverpool. Anyway, this devotion to the Premier ne'er-do-wells has led to a hatred of the red half of Manchester. And it is just that: hatred. Why?

I'm not any kind of champion; my multiculturalism when growing up was Floella Benjamin. I have an aversion to Hull City that means that their current success is like a hole in my heart. We all need to grow up and a football fan seems to take that bit longer than most. The term 'if ever' could so easily be slipped in here.

Still, this is the path I've chosen, and George's broken leg has meant that I can sit him in front of the TV with eyes held open Clockwork Orange style. Here's a blow-by-blow account of my attempt to get him to watch the Auto Windscreens final:

2 minutes

First call for Charlie and Lola. I'm tempted to comply as he is eventually won over by the boozy footage of the Rat and Parrot.

10 minutes

The game finally kicks off. The quality of the footage is awful. He can tell. Nogan shoots just wide. "Goal!" shouts George. He suggests we go outside and "kick!" when I explain that it wasn't.

12 minutes

He's had enough, and he's gone. He has this curious way of shuffling on his bum with his red pot held high in the air. It's like a giant wagging finger, tut-tutting at me and the television screen. I carry on and watch alone.

30 minutes

He's back. "Goal!" No, not yet. Can I fast forward it? Would that be cheating?

37 minutes

"Goal!" We do a dance but then the telly's off and it's time for play-doh.

Of course, wanting someone to want something is widdling in the wind, but if you're gonna do it anyway then you might as well aim high. There are moments and more to be treasured: the people I've sat with for years and I don't even know their names; getting relegated with Brighton, and the two sets of fans on the pitch and applauding each other; Craig Hignett getting a standing ovation from all sides of Blundell Park even though he wouldn't sign for us; the Charlton fans who insisted that four beaten and dejected Town fans be unclamped first. And if I were to ever wish the years away, I would make my boys that bit older so that they could remember Macca handing over the captain's armband to Bennett.