Feline groovy

Cod Almighty | Article

by Alistair Wilkinson

16 September 2003

We're all so desperate to believe that Blundell Park is surrounded and constricted by some sort of hoodoo, tightening its grip 'til all chance of success is wiped from the hallowed turf. At times you'd be forgiven for thinking that Town's only chance of glory lies in the wearing of the correct pair of underpants, given the stories of superstition flying around before, during and after any given match.

So do you believe in the hoodoo? I can't help it – I do. Maybe dabble in a little voodoo? If you stick a pin in a doll of our latest conquerors' star player, do you think it would help? If so, read on. 

I'm sure many of us have had that lucky pair of pants, those socks we're reluctant to wash or a particular seat that we really have to sit in. Perhaps you have a pre-match ritual, a drink in a certain pub, spotting the same fans on the way, always taking the same route, and so on. 

A friend and I had to have to have a few in Lloyds, and then had to travel on the 45 bus, and finally had to see a particular Town-supporting family. This particular 'never fails' charm came crashing down in the '96-97 season, after achieving all of the above before a certain 4-0 victory over Southend. 

Isn't it great when the superstitions actually work for a while – and that sequence of good results is all down to you and your foible? Or when an old friend comes along and we win – "You can come again" is the cheery comment made in the afterglow of victory. If we lose after an irregular visit it is of course: "You're not coming next week, you bloody Jonah." In fact if we have a poor run and one person sees all these games and no other, they become a Pontoon pariah; dubious glances are cast and grumblings can be heard. 

I've had many of these foibles: pants, socks and buses; even wearing a tie under the collar of my Town top (it made us beat Fulham in the play-offs). Although I had to stop that when I sobered up. I did look a tit. 

The season before last it was season tickets. My girlfriend Emma and I sit next to each other and I look after both tickets. Upon approaching the turnstile I would produce our passes; one week I got hers and she got mine and we won. The victory was of course accredited to this slight mix-up, and for the rest of the season the same little swap took place. We survived. Our great escape had nothing to do with Grovesie's tactics or Andy Todd; it was all down to our ticket swap. 

Last season we had no such idiosyncrasy to fall back on. Apart from me cheating with the tickets, arranging them in my pocket so we were certain to get each others', that is. And so Town's relegation was not down to the players, management or board, but to us. That fickle mistress Fate knows when you cheat. 

This year, though, we have a sure-fire winner, I reckon we're off all the way on this one. It needs no dirty pants either. Cats are to be Town's saviours. 

Way back in '95-96 I got my first cat. It was black and white and its name was Town. A timid creature full of nervous energy, much like the Town team of the day, ruled as it was by Brian Laws and his "obedience through fear" policy. In '95-96 we survived. 

Several years later Emma moved in and immediately suggested getting a cat. I was hesitant; Town had run away six months or so after moving in. This had left me a little bitter toward our feline friends and also nervous that maybe I couldn't cut it as a cat fosterer. However, we did, of course, get another cat. 

Jerry arrived in the April of the 2000-01 season, a grand old patriarch overseeing his domain. Or a fat lazy furry thing that enjoyed destroying things when the mood took him – old cats do bite. The Mariners stayed up again. Emma was soon pestering for another addition to our little family. "What of the cost?" I bemoaned. "Balls to the cost!" came the reply. 

Drusilla entered our happy home in the November of the 2001-02 season, an evil little thing determined to break everything, cause as much trouble as possible and make Jerry's life hell. She has succeeded. In 2001-02 Town survived. Emma now craved a kitten. "We really do have enough cats," I said and this time I held firm. 

The season of 2002-03, then, did not see the arrival of a new cat. As far as I was concerned, two was plenty. Town were relegated. Was this my fault? Would the extra cat have helped? "I think a kitten would be ace," begged Emma. 

August of this season, and we heard the patter of tiny claws. Emma had her wish and do Town now have their boon? Going on the track record, yes they do. Faith is here, a furry ball of uncontained energy. We cannot control this little rogue slayer; she is the Alan Pouton of cats. Drusilla is refusing to get along with our newest and cutest. The three-cat team for now lacks harmony, but rest assured we are taking measures to rectify this. 

At the time of writing Town have just lost to Hartlepool by the ridiculous score of 8-1. During the game poor little Faith was ill. Her bum was as solid as the Town defence, leaking little pools of brown scurrility everywhere and anywhere. Like Davison I managed to limit the damage, catching her at times and guiding her to the correct receptacle. As with Town, though, there was just too much. Obviously for this to work we need a fully fit Faith, perhaps worming powder for her, and maybe Ford and Crane as well. 

Freak scorelines aside, we are in position for a successful season. We have our new cat; perhaps she needs a lucky nappy, but she is here. Jubilation is just round the corner. We can't fail: trust me, all we need is a little Faith.