Cod Almighty | Article
by Dave Smith
5 January 2004
Those fleeting brushes with someone vaguely famous we've all had them. 80s uber-cow Nina Myskow once waltzed past me at Larnaca airport. Waiting for a bus in the middle of Leeds the last thing I expected was Paul Whitehouse walking past. Terrorvision have pushed-in ahead of me at a Bradford pub. Fame, fame, fatal fame.
And then there are the times when you have had a close unexpected encounter with someone linked with Grimsby Town Football Club. No, not those times you bumped into Tony Gallimore down the Pier. Or you worked at Nisa and your boss was Dudley Ramsden. No, no, none of that. They're all predictable circumstances. We want tales of the unexpected. Chance meetings.
I started going to BP in 1978 and what a time that was! Two promotions, long cup runs and whipping Yorkie teams (as well as Norman Hunter) week in, week out.
I spent my first few seasons stood outside the tunnel during warm-up, getting autographs from my heroes on my copy of The Mariner. The deal was that if my dad paid me in, I would buy my own copy of the programme. Drinkell, Cumming, Waters, Kev Moore, Crombie and - yes! - Tony Ford all put their monickers on my read for the week. Batchy just used to tell you to eff off and see him after the game - completely tongue-in-cheek, of course.
Tony Ford - a god! So cool! He was like John Shaft in black and white stripes and boy could he run - like shit off a stick, as they say. As well as that, time has proved that Tony was a model pro and well deserves the records and accolades he now holds.
To the present day - well, 2000 anyway - and that spotty, ginger-haired fat lad with a biro and a crumpled Mariner is still a Mariners fanatic but has grown into the being the manager of a large retail 'megastore' in Ull (well, missionary work took me there in the first place).
The arrangement I had with my boss was work Sunday and get Saturday off. I needed about a nanosecond to think about that one. The prospect of watching my heroes on Saturday and bashing a till with a thick head on a Sunday was too strong to resist.
One Sunday, having worked on a till and translated the local savages all morning, I look up to find in front of me none other than Tony Ford. I 'rung through and bagged up' his CDs, not giving away my secret past. Then, as he signed his credit card slip, I could hold back no more, blurting out: "I've got that signature on about 75 Mariners at home!"
Ford said: "Would you like it now?" Soft lad (ie. me) replied: "No mate, but all the best anyway."
Tony went away smiling, probably looking forward to listening to his purchases in his Capri (well, whatever the equivalent is now - Merc or something?) and I got straight on the phone to my better half, bellowing down the phone: "Effing hell! I've just served Tony Ford!"
She replied: "Which band is he in then?"