Chapter detailing Newcastle 8-0 Sheff Wed

Chapter 5

September was no better. Sure, we remained unbeaten in the League Cup, registering a draw at Stoke before beating them at Hillsborough 3-1, but the league form was even worse. Three games and three defeats in the league saw us remain at the bottom of the league with only one point. How can this be WORSE than what had come before? I hear you ask. Well, September witnessed possibly THE worst performance I have ever seen from a Wednesday side.   On Sunday 19^th September, 1999 Wednesday travelled up to St. James’ Park to play Newcastle who were only three points better off than The Owls. This match has surely gone down in folklore, both in Sheffield and Newcastle, as the day two teams went into battle for honour, pride and self-respect and only one came out with any credit.

By now I had already travelled to three of the four away games prior to our journey north. The football had been poor but we now faced a team with a worse defence than ours and residing only one place above us in the league. I awoke on Sunday morning relishing a trip to the home of the greatest fans on earth (copyright every idiot that knows nothing about football). Quite apart from the fact that pre-Keegan the Geordies frequently attracted less than 15000 to games, I have never gone along with this view that ‘numbers equals greatness’. Certainly numbers equal volume but that doesn’t make them the best fans in the world, nor even in the north east (this honour easily going to Sunderland in my view). Teams like Torquay will always attract thousands less than Newcastle but I would say that Torquay’s fans would be more deserving of the accolade of best fans. And let’s be honest, nothing can compete with the dedication, volume and barmy-ness of Wednesday’s travelling army – a fact recognised by nearly every club we visited in the nationwide league.

Anyway, as well as the ‘Replica Army’ there was also the prospect of visiting a ground that is top notch. However, as I was to find out, it wasn’t quite up to scratch when we visited. More of that later. The most enticing thing though was the fact that we now had a great chance to gain our first victory of the season. Newcastle were bad, with the recently sacked Gullit effectively doing a carbon-copy job of that being undertaken by Wilson at Wednesday. A decent team systematically shredded of every ounce of competence, endeavour and bravery. This was it, a first win of the season, a first victory for me at St Jimmys’, off the bottom of the table and onwards and upwards. How wrong could I have been?

My brother Ian accompanied me to the game and we set off at 11.30am for a 3 o’clock kick off. Now that may seem slightly early but I knew it would take about 2 hours to get to Newcastle and that would give me plenty of time to do a bit of fanzine selling and then nip into the game. This was when the first sign that things weren’t going to run smoothly reared its head. As we sailed up the A1 in my crappy, burgundy F-registered Fiesta something suddenly blew. With steam rising from the rear wheel it was evident a tyre had given way. To add to the situation I had a jack that I had no idea how to use; the nearest phone was some way off AND the spare was as bald as Jim Smith. After myself and Ian had tried the jack every which way but loose (well actually every which way but the correct way) I trudged off to the phone, seriously pissed off, as I was sure this would render me incapable of witnessing a fine victory against a ghastly Newcastle side! With hindsight it would probably have been better had that lovely Fiesta of mine managed to stop me (in fairness to the car it did have one more fantastic attempt at stopping me from travelling to any more away games but more of that later.)

Anyway upon my return from the phone I informed Ian that Mr Hammond senior was on his way to swap cars so we could fly on up to Newcastle and he’d change the tyre and take the ‘shit-heap’ home. No sooner had I told Ian this than the bloody rozzers pulled up. They had actually had a report of someone needlessly stopped on the hard shoulder and had come to check it out! Once I’d explained the situation regarding the flat and that my dad was on his way they enquired as to why I couldn’t just swap the tyre myself and be on my way. The sly, sarcastic piss-taking those two coppers gave me as they showed me how to use the jack (very simple when you know how but even now I couldn’t begin to explain it to you) was quite unacceptable and not a little embarrassing. If you’ve owned an F-reg Fiesta you’ll probably know what I’m on about, and I dare say you’re thinking ‘thick sod, how easy does he want it?’ Well I’m sorry but I really couldn’t make head nor tail of it. I was so flustered in fact that it took me several seconds to realise what the coppers were smirking at when I informed them that I had never come across a jack like that before. “What you do in your own time is your business sir.” Smirked the laughing policeman, I KID YOU NOT! I felt like a woman as these two blokes ripped the piss out of my lack of motoring knowledge. Bastard Wednesday had so much to answer for that season.

Anyway the coppers changed my wheel for me. This was a bonus in that it enabled me to evade getting covered in oil, though it was a bit dicey when PC Smirk pulled Jim Smith out of the boot and didn’t know whether to laugh or caution me as the light bounced off the shiny surface that would very soon be tanking along the tarmac at 80 miles an hour. I was so sure he was going to refuse to fit it and book me for having such an inadequate spare. However, I think he realised that my day was already so far round the u-bend that he took pity on me and let me off. The mirth my Wednesday fanzines in the boot had caused him further enhanced his certainty that I was both mad and unfortunate and for perhaps the only time in my life I was glad we were shit. As fate so often decrees, just as the police were packing my burst tyre into the boot things got worse when my dad showed up. He proceeded to take the slash also as he had a jolly good laugh with the rozzers at my expense. I tell you if I was a woman I would never get behind the wheel of a car if this is how they feel every time they are involved in a smash or visit a garage, it’s just too humiliating.

Anyway I took the reins as it were in the Nova that my dad had fetched and set off at a fair rate. As I relaxed in the seat and thanked the Lord that I may now actually get to the game I realised with horror that I’d left all the fanzines, money bags and float in my Fiesta. Then I realised that it didn’t matter because there was no way I was going to get there in time anyway. So, a burst tyre; coppers taking the slash; almost nicked for having a bald spare tyre; my dad joining the slash taking; fanzines left in the wrong car and now I was going to be late for the game. If this had happened watching any other team you’d think ‘coincidence, nothing more’. However, when put into the context of travelling to watch Wednesday you just can’t help but think that someone somewhere was trying to stop me going or at the very least make me think very hard about it.

By the end of the game I began to wish that I had thought just that little bit harder about attending the game. This was the pivotal moment of that disastrous season as far as many fans are concerned. This was the day that the lack of desire, fight, pride and respect on the part of the players finally showed its full extent. Basically there was none. Even such gallant triers as Booth and Pressman more closely resembled money grabbing bastards who couldn’t be bothered to fight for the Wednesday cause. In fairness to Pressman he became obviously dispirited as goal after goal flew past him as his defence became more and more colander like. This doesn’t explain nor condone the ease with which the ball beat the goalkeeper though – he could have at least made an effort to save.

You might think that when a team loses 8-0 to the side that is bottom of the league that there couldn’t possibly be one moment that remains in the mind above all others but there is, and the shear amateurish nature of it is what makes it the crowning glory of this match for me. It may surprise you to learn that said incident occurred with the score at 0-0 and only a few minutes into the match but there you go. Booth put the ball into the Newcastle net and went wild. He celebrated like a man who’d dropped his soap in the shower and discovered he had a piece of string attached to his wrist – it was a delirious mixture of happiness and relief! He wheeled away and began to make a crazed, weaving run towards the 800 or so Owls fans stood motionless in the uncovered corner of St James’ Park. THAT’S RIGHT! MOTIONLESS FANS! How can this be when Boothy-boy has knocked in the opening goal? Well, he was so far offside it was embarrassing. I didn’t know whether to cry or simply try to hide under my seat. Booth was the only man within 18 yards of the Newcastle goal – save the goalkeeper – when he received the ball and it was obvious to everyone in the stadium that he was offside – everyone except Boothy-boy himself who blasted the ball into the empty net after battling with…well no one because the Geordie keeper had stopped the moment the ball landed at Booth’s feet. As he spun away to celebrate even his team mates looked embarrassed. It was such a bad moment. This made Sheffield Wednesday and its footballers look bigger idiots than any eight nil score line could. The only saving grace was that only those in the ground had been witness to Booth’s abhorrent lack of skill, ability and tactical awareness.

Anyway, from there on in it was just a catalogue of horrendous mistakes and awful football from the men of Sheffield. The Geordies, as seems standard for any game in which their ‘awesome’ fans are involved, only sang when they were winning (and in fairness this was for the entire match almost). They took the piss and we gave it back. That at 8-0 down we began to belt out ‘Wednesday til I die’ was remarkable but nothing more than you’d expect from the real, best fans in the country. What was even more remarkable was that the Geordies, who had previously been giving us some real stick, stood up and applauded us without a hint of irony or piss taking. They too had suffered their fair share of inglorious defeats in the eighties and appreciated the effort we were putting in as the rain lashed down on us in our UNCOVERED £25 seats!

As I made my way back to the car after the game (alone as my brother had met up with university friends to have a night on the town) I was accosted by a geriatric Newcastle fan who wondered where it had all gone wrong for The Wednesday. I told him I didn’t really know but I was certain that we were so bad that we wouldn’t have won if we’d been 2 goals up with a minute to go (how was I to know that these words would come back to haunt me later in the season?)

I was scathing about the performance in my next editorial, saying:

It seems that some of our players have decided that fighting for their own pride and that of our football club is something that is beneath them. The abysmal performance at St. James’ Park was the perfect example (of this). Never in all my time watching football have I seen a team so completely devoid of fight and determination.

What is interesting, looking back, is that whilst I must have known that Wilson needed to take a large amount of the blame I was reluctant to lay it at his door (in the fanzine at least). I stated that the players should take most of the blame and that it was clear that the board, and Dave Richards in particular, clearly had no intention of doing anything to help Wilson. This stand point perplexes me a little. I know that I was most disappointed with the team, and also that their shambolic display had to be, in some way, the fault of Wilson and his clearly useless man-management. However, I think I took some pride in my supportive stance for Wilson; something which now just looks sad and pathetic. No wonder some accused me of sucking up to him!

How any manager can oversee an 8-nil thrashing and still remain in a job beggars belief. Obviously Wilson should have been relieved of his duties straight after the debacle at St James’ park. That he wasn’t might well have been down the ineffectual leadership right at the top of the club. Or maybe they felt that with Wilson in charge, and with Carbone still lingering like a bad smell, the focus would be taken off them. We will never know for sure but the fact that Dave Richards inexplicably rose to be Chairman of the FA very soon after these events does suggest that at the very least he had other things on his mind and wasn’t really giving the Wednesday situation the attention it deserved.

More ramblings from an ex fanzine editor.

Chapter 4

How to make friends and influence people!

During the first few months of my editorship I managed to make several enemies amongst the readership. Now with hindsight I can say that this was due to my inexperience and youth. I have always been very self-opinionated and over the years have revelled in stirring up controversy and debate through my writings in various fanzines. Indeed, several years after Spitting Feathers ended I managed to win three consecutive awards in Out of the Blue. For three years running my regular column The Beat Goes On was voted the Worst Regular Feature in the fanzine. Upon winning it for the first time in 2004 I marked the occasion thus:

It is due in no small part to my amazing, limitless power and skill that you felt compelled to bestow an award upon my good self. Some may see the accolade of ‘Worst Regular Feature’ as something of a damning critique of my work…Those types of people are too weak and too stupid to see this award for what it really is: a whole-hearted endorsement of my thought-provoking and often ’right on the nail’ work.

I went on:

What articles over the last year got you riled enough to really care about what they said? Which writer’s name instantly popped in to your head (when thinking about) all the valuable contributors this fanzine has? Which person did you remember above all others? That’s right, ME!

12 months later I scooped the award for a second time. Again I accepted the award with panache and cutting brutality:

I no longer know whether to be flattered or dismayed at your bestowing on me for a second year the award for least favourite regular feature. In the past I have taken such an award as acknowledgement of the fact that I say what others daren’t. Now though I see it as a predictable and all too easily obtained trinket which near-sighted, terminally dull people dish out because they can’t handle the truth.

I further endeared myself to the readers with these words:

To have won this award once was pleasurable, especially as I wasn’t really trying to win it, but to win it a second time is beyond my wildest dreams.

I had of course by now been doing everything within my powers to ensure that I rubbed the readers up the wrong way and caused controversy, debate and reaction. That many people appreciated my alarmingly candid and very often spot-on observations became clear a year later (and was an immensely proud realisation for me). What was by now already evident though, was that many readers were too slow to realise that they had been had; that I was deliberately trying to wind them up and get a response. I finished my acceptance of my second award with these words:

Remember, the only thing worse than being thought about is not being thought about. Do you think about me? Of course you do, during those long close-seasons. Do I reciprocate? Don’t be daft!

By the time the following end of season poll rolled round I had announced my impending retirement from the fanzine game. This still didn’t stop my often acerbic, always thought-provoking words winning the Worst Regular Feature for a third consecutive year. The editor commented on my winning the award yet again:

Dan attracted comments like no other writer and what a sad loss he is to OoTB.

What was puzzling but very flattering was that in the end of season poll for 2006 I also scooped two other awards. Firstly readers voted me the clear winner in the What Would You Like to See More of? category. In addition, persuade Dan Hammond to return was the outright winner in the How Could We Improve OoTB? category.

It brought to an end a very enjoyable part of my time writing for fanzines: a time during which I had tried to generate reactions to my work and failed and then succeeded when I stopped trying. That I was able to crank up the intensity of my written offerings once I garnered the first negative reactions was a huge bonus to my attention-seeking self. I revelled in the debate I caused and the attention it brought. It is fair to say that at least 80 percent of what I wrote was designed to get a reaction. How different from my first few months as editor of Spitting Feathers!

It’s fair to say that I wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea when I took over the reins of Spitting Feathers. The 1999-2000 season began rather inauspiciously with a 2-1 home defeat to Liverpool with Benito Carbone – a huge Wednesday hero at the time – bagging the consolation goal for the Owls. The season had, as I’ve already mentioned elsewhere, promised so much and whilst a defeat to Liverpool wasn’t a disaster it left many feeling very deflated. Four days later, on the 11^th August, Wednesday travelled to Old Trafford, the home of the newly crowned European Champions, and were battered 4-0, turning in a performance that was as abject in terms of skill as it was effort and commitment from the Wednesday team. Three more games followed resulting in another two defeats against Tottenham and Derby at Hillsborough and a draw away at Bradford. In those first five games we gained one point and scored only three goals – although one of those three was an own goal scored by John Dreyer at Valley Parade. So, with five games gone only two goals had been registered by a Wednesday player: both scored by Benito Carbone.

Thus it was that on Saturday 28^th August Wednesday travelled down to the Dell to take on Southampton. For whatever reason, Danny Wilson decided to leave our best player on the bench.  Carbone naturally took the hump at this, after all he was the only Wednesday player who had looked anything like a Premier League player and here he was being left on the bench. Many thousands of Wednesdayites were equally astonished and angry with the decision but nothing could have prepared them for the news that greeted them as they arrived in Southampton: Carbone had thrown his toys out of the pram and stormed out, catching the first available transport back to Sheffield and leaving his ill-prepared team mates to battle for a first win of the season on their own. We lost of course, 2-nil.

The following Wednesday my regular piece appeared on Teletext’s Fanzone page and boy, did it cause me a lot of hassle. I’d had enough of Carbone’s sulking and laid into him big style saying that though Wilson was clearly mad for dropping him to the bench there was absolutely no justification for Carbone walking out on the team. Furthermore I said he’d let his team mates down and more importantly he’d let the fans down. In my mind the issue was as clear as day and I let everyone know what I thought: Benito Carbone should never, EVER, pull on a Sheffield Wednesday shirt again. He is a disgrace to the club, the fans and everyone who has ever paid to watch their team play. We would give our right arms to play for our club and here is this little weasel running off with his ball under his arm.

Well that was it. Very soon letters and emails started to arrive in my inbox letting me have what for.

In the September 1999 issue (number 52), my second as editor, there appeared a short letter from a gentleman calling himself Scunny Owl. Now before I go any further I must stress that later in the season I was to come face to face with Scunny Owl and although I may flatter myself slightly with the following assertion, I feel we developed a very cordial relationship; one that would last for several seasons as we met up before many games and discussed the pressing issues of the day. I mention this so as to offset any unkind words I may initially write about this contributor. I am after all recalling my thoughts and opinions on a man from a time when I had not met him nor he me. My first thought was: typical, someone too scared to use their own name. This was something that annoyed me for many years. Why couldn’t people have the courage and conviction of their own words and use their real name? It puzzled me for a long time.

His missive was entitled RE: Teletext 1-9-99 – So Beni should be sacked eh? The article read as follows:

In the summer you return to work from holiday to find two replacements ready to take your job. Unerringly they cost the same amount as you are valued by the club; a club which I might add don’t like spending money. You are still required to give 100% knowing full well you are surplus to requirements.

The two new boys start the season and are frighteningly ordinary; you are brought off the bench as second choice replacement striker after a twenty year old apprentice (Cresswell) and manage to score a goal. A first team place now for sure. Wrong! You are on the bench again while mediocrity reigns once more.

Then we go to Southampton, a team packed with world class players (I don’t think!) Our forward thinking and attack-minded manager wants you on the bench again in the faint hope (and those are Wilson’s words) that the game is still nil nil with twenty minutes to go and you can then go on and tear the opposition apart single-handedly. Obviously the other 11 players couldn’t do this before you came on because it’s still nil nil.

I think it’s time you got off your if-I-go-against-the-club-I-won’t-get-any-more-interviews high horse and opened your eyes to what is happening at our beloved club. Benito Carbone plays with pride and passion that is sadly lacking this season. If you bothered to listen to the crowd at Hillsborough you would know how much he is loved. WHY? Because he is one of us. HE CARES!

I was particularly interested in Scunny Owl’s assertion that I should listen to the crowd and realise just how adored Beni was. In some, tiny respect, he had a point: at least one other person felt the need to attack me regarding this issue, and again he failed to use his real name! This contributor went by the name of Barnsley Owl and again I must stress that I was to meet this particular person later in my tenure (although at the time he had no idea who I was) and eventually I think he realised that I was ok. Anyway, Barnsley Owl wrote an even longer letter in much the same vein: slagging me off for sucking up to the club and for criticising a player who was, in his view at least, beyond reproach. The full letter is too long to reproduce here verbatim but I include a few short snippets that give you a flavour:

What a load of crap you spout. Where do you come from? It shows what you get when you give a man’s job to a lad (I was 23!), a total load of crap. Come back Graham Lightfoot!…It is obvious you have no love for SWFC…You are so blind you cannot see that they (the board and manager) want Carbone out…Get off Carbone’s back…or be prepared to be in a minority…I accept you are entitled to your opinion but how many times do I have to read page 180 on Teletext and see you spouting to all that Carbone must be sacked? (I think I’d done it once but there you go, hyperbole rules when you know your point is weak!)…We listened to pillocks like you during the Di Canio episode.

Far be it from me to say that the sentiments in both these letters were wrong (but they were) I feel I must again pick up on the assertion that I needed to listen to the fans. Apparently they were all in love with Carbone and I was wrong. Interestingly though, in issue 52 of the fanzine, two contributors wrote gushing praise and support my stance regarding Carbone. And both of them provided their real names! Shows they had courage and belief in what they’d written. A gentleman named James Speed, who entitled all his articles Sir Says... had this to say:

The recent actions of our so-called superstar (Carbone) are beyond belief. Just who does he think he is? Refusing to go on the bench! He must go now!

No direct reference to myself or my musings from Teletext I grant you, but a direct mirroring of my own thoughts and words. Total agreement with my sentiments in anyone’s book. Another letter, entitled How right you are! appeared in the same issue. I won’t repeat it in its entirety but here are some small extracts to give you an idea:

I read your comments about Benito Carbone on Channel 4 Teletext and I couldn’t agree more with what you said. What Carbone did in walking out on the team was despicable and Danny Wilson was right to castigate him for his actions.

This was written by a gentleman named Tom Crawshaw. Support for my stance continued in the following issue, number 53, with two more contributors venting their frustration at Carbone. A Leon Rodziewicz had this to say:

Just read your article on Teletext…as far as I’m concerned the sooner Carbone goes the better although I would love to see him rot in the reserves.

A very disgusted and angry Chris Middleton made his feelings very clear:

I personally believe that an apology from Carbone is not sufficient. He has let down SWFC, its players and its fans in a way that no professional footballer should.

Now on a purely personal, points-scoring level this was all very satisfying for me because it showed clearly that the majority of the readers were definitely with me as far as the Carbone issue went. However, what it clearly demonstrated was that there was a split developing amongst the Wednesday faithful, one which could have proven very unsettling for the team had a nasty atmosphere begun to envelope the ground on a match day. Indeed there were some examples of the mixed feelings that were flowing around Hillsborough in the immediate aftermath of the Southampton game. On Saturday September 11^th Everton visited Hillsborough and left with an easy two nil victory. What was telling was the reaction to Carbone. A regular contributor, who went by the name of Pink Floyd (although his real name was well known to me he wrote under a pseudonym due to his close connections with me), captured the tension that was created amongst the faithful:

The little scummy Italian started on the bench and was rightly booed when he limbered up by the corner flag. This turned to a mixture of cheers and boos when he came on. This I just cannot understand. It perplexes me how people can cheer a man who blatantly can’t give a f**k, and is taking not only those who boo, but those who cheer, for a ride. What little pride and self-respect these people must have if they are prepared to accept being treated like shit.

As if to highlight even further the debate and disagreement that was rife amongst the fans, two regular contributors who penned a joint piece for each issue disagreed on what was to be done about our Italian ‘hero’:

Aardvark: Does anyone really have a logical reason for why they booed Carbone? I’m convinced he is the most gifted player at Hillsborough. Without him we will be amongst the Nationwide Division One also-rans.

Peak Owl: Face facts, the boy gave us the big f**k off treatment down at the Dell.

What they did both agree on was the point that the team didn’t need booing during a game; that should be saved for another time. This is a point I just do not agree with but that is for another time. What was evident was that the issue of Carbone’s actions down at The Dell had caused a large split amongst the fans, something that did occasionally lead to quite hostile emotions being expressed in the stands. If this was what was happening amongst the support what was it like within the squad? Several people now feel that the negativity this caused amongst the players may have further hindered what was already turning into a disastrous campaign.

On 23^rd October 1999 Andy Booth spoke at length about the Carbone issue and had this to say:

Good riddance to him (Carbone). His flashy skills and (his over-zealous need to) have the ball at his feet all the time (alienated him from many). I am relieved that the Italian bad apple has finally been jettisoned from Hillsborough.

Strong words indeed and they clearly show that there was some simmering resentment towards the Italian resulting from his actions at Southampton. If a usually quiet and mild-mannered person like Booth felt the need to air such views in a national newspaper (The Daily Mirror) one can only begin to imagine what some of the more hot-headed players had said in private to Carbone. Booth’s later claims, in the same article, that “there is no doom and gloom…Everyone is absolutely buzzing in training” seem to suggest that a huge, malignant cancer had been removed from the team and things would inevitably pick up. Unfortunately a run of only 1 win between said article and January 15^th 2000 suggests that Booth’s over-optimistic appraisal of the situation was a little of kilter.

Nevertheless, his comments do highlight a problem that was obviously causing ill-feeling amongst certain players and ill-feeling amongst a great proportion of the fanzine’s readership. It was strange that such an incident could have an almost identical effect on both the team and the fans. Whilst the football team was riddled with animosity and anger so was the fanzine. It got to the stage where good friends were debating, and disagreeing, on the Carbone issue for some time.Several years ago, well over 10 years since the incident, there was still a split amongst Wednesdayites about Carbone. His recent (at the time) appearance for the Wednesday Masters at Sheffield Arena prompted some on Wednesday forums to suggest he might be worth bringing in on trial and perhaps be given a one year, pay-as-you-play contract. One or two fans were still against this: (he) left us in the shoyt (sic) with his mardy arsedness (sic). However, it appears that over time he has been forgiven and many would welcome him back with open arms. Whether this is because they genuinely think he could a job or if it is more due to nostalgia and the fact that even a 39 year old who had his best years over ten years ago would still be infinitely more talented than most of the present squad is open to debate. Personally, whilst he would probably be as good as, if not better than, most of the present squad I couldn’t stomach his return. He was a decent player but his actual impact was very minimal. He did it when it didn’t matter. When the chips were down though he didn’t really have it.

Whether the incident at Southampton had any additional adverse effects on the season is, with hindsight, debatable. Once Carbone had gone things didn’t improve. What is for certain though is that the cracks and disagreements that were evident within the team were beginning to appear amongst the contributors to the fanzine and it helped to create quite a hostile atmosphere within the pages with a lot of back-biting going on.

Now I may have helped to create some of this animosity due to my very opinionated and outspoken beliefs that I expressed as editor. Due to my lack of experience in such a role I decided to forego being the neutral editor and nailed my colours firmly to the mast. In my editorial for issue 52 I stated that several people had questioned my attitude towards the club and suggested that I was sucking up to the club in order to not rock the boat and thus gain more access to current playing staff in the future. I made it clear that I had no intention to interview any more present day players. In any case, the accusation of ‘sucking up to’ the club was way off the mark, as the final part of my editorial for said issue made clear. In it I castigated the manager for his lack of decisive leadership; the players – Petter Rudi and Niclos Alexandersson in particular – who were “fulfilling no purpose whatsoever”; and the pathetic performances by our first team in general and the capitulation at Old Trafford in particular. My thoughts on this game are included in another chapter.

Anyway, Scunny Owl came looking for me after my comments on Teletext and he meant business. Luckily, on the day in question I had for some reason decided to move to an alternative spot to sell the fanzine. I think I was hoping that moving to where the club shop was situated might increase sales (it didn’t). As Trevor Braithwait – editor of the fanzine Out of the Blue – informed me when I returned to my usual spot with about 20 minutes to go until kickoff, he (Scunny Owl) looked about ‘ready to rip (my) head off’. He was a big fella with a skinhead and believe me if you didn’t know him you’d be very scared if he came looking for you intent on proving you wrong. Thankfully he missed me that day and by the time he eventually caught up with me he’d calmed down enough to have a reasonable conversation with me and I think I convinced him that I wasn’t a crawler who would do nothing to upset the establishment. As I’ve said, we spent some time before each game chatting about football both whilst I was still editor and when I’d packed it in and we’d congregate round Trevor as he peddled his wares.

Another of my controversial outbursts during my first season as editor revolved around our goalkeeper at the time, Pavel Srnicek. Now as anyone who knows me or has read my work over the last 13 years will know, I have a real issue with goalkeepers. My main bugbear is that most, if not all, of them are shite nowadays. All this flapping at crosses and punching shots away! What the f**k are they playing at? People blame the ball but I just don’t buy it. There hasn’t been a truly world class goalkeeper since the days of Neville Southall. Yes Peter Schmeichel was a very good goalkeeper but he played for the best club side in England – and Europe at one stage – so it was easy for him to look good. Never looked quite so commanding for Denmark did he (remember his wonderful displays at Euro 96!) Anyway, Srnicek was Danny Wilson’s favourite and he’d replaced crowd-favourite Kevin Pressman during the 1999-2000 season for reasons known only to the manager.  Srnicek was useless. He couldn’t dive; he couldn’t catch a ball; he couldn’t kick a ball; he couldn’t throw a ball. His command of his area and his presence within the box were non-existent and you could see panic spreading through the Wednesday defence whenever a ball came over in the air: they knew flapper would make a balls-up and most likely cost us a goal.

His performance against Leicester on 30^th October 1999 was the straw that broke the camel’s back as far as I was concerned. We lost the game 3-0 (this game is detailed in another chapter) and he was abysmal. Now I’d been moaning and chuntering to friends and family ever since Srnicek had been put in the first team. I’d never rated him when he was at Newcastle and couldn’t believe that Wilson was seriously of the opinion that the Czech buffoon was a better option than Pressman. Having sat inside Filbert Street and watched as Srnicek wandered around his goal like a blind footballer chasing a ball with no bell in it I’d had enough. My following editorial laid into him (although with hindsight I appear to have gone easy on him really):

Srnicek was ridiculed throughout most of the game, and not a moment too soon for me. The man is an absolute joke and has no talent whatsoever. For a long time people have said that Lee Briscoe is the worst player at the club but I cannot agree. (Srnicek) is a clown and is fast becoming the biggest joke around when Wednesday are in town. As well as costing us numerous points he is causing more and more uncertainty to creep into our defence with every game. Get shut Wilson before he…costs you your job!

Prior to this editorial I’d also vented my spleen on Teletext. Although sadly I have no record of what I actually wrote I know it must have been of a similar vein to the sentiments I expressed in the fanzine as I received several correspondences from a gentleman going by the name of E. Emmerson (more than likely not his really name). One in particular showed a man who was very agitated by what I had to say. All his letters were addressed directly to me so where the personal pronouns you and your are used they refer to me solely:

It must be really comforting for Sheffield Wednesday players to know they have your complete, unstinting support. I am not being serious of course but then surely no one takes your puerile little publication seriously. But when you pump out your venom at individual players on Teletext it becomes a different matter.

I have to say that at the time, and still to this day, I was amazed that a publication that was puerile and not to be taken seriously had caused such consternation for this fellow. He went on:

On Saturday, at Leeds, at whom did you scream abuse for the first 72 minutes? Until then the defence and keeper had kept a clean sheet. Was it Rudi or de Bilde? More likely Andy Booth, he is usually the one you pick on.

Now it was true that I had given Rudi, de Bilde and Booth grief and was of the unwavering opinion that all three were useless. As to the matter of Srnicek and the defence keeping a clean sheet for 72 minutes and therefore being above reproach, I shall deal with that issue shortly. The deluded idiot finished by saying:

If Pavel is so awful how come he is the keeper for the number two team in the world?

The use of this kind of rhetorical question at the end is all well and good if it actually backs up the point you are trying to make. If E. Emmerson had had anything resembling an intellect he would have known that it did not serve to emphasise his point, it did the exact opposite: it showed what a dearth of goalkeeping talent there was in the Czech Republic at the time.

 

Part of a young man’s journey into the fanzine editing world.

Chapter 2
Learning the ropes
Sadly I have no record of when I actually wrote to Graham offering my services or when I actually met up with him and began to learn the ropes. This is a real shame as I have detailed so much of my time working on the fanzine – dates of meetings, important events etc – and wish now that I had made more of a record of those first few months when I was shadowing Graham around, finding out all about the hard work that was involved in producing a fanzine.
In the editorial for issue 45 of Spitting Feathers Graham explained his reasons for retiring from the fanzine business. I’d always wondered what, exactly, was involved in producing a fanzine and, as I’ve already stated, I couldn’t begin to fathom how it all came together. Looking back at that editorial in which Graham announced he was leaving, the words of warning were there:
“Of course as you have probably realised, there is a lot more to it (editing a fanzine) than writing an editorial column every month…and perhaps an editorial team would find things easier. Twenty to thirty hours a week isn’t that much when shared…but it’s a struggle on your own.”
The amount of time taken up producing the fanzine was only the start of it, as I was soon to realise. Indeed, in his brief return to the fanzine world at the start of the 2000/01 season (a sole issue of Wednesday Half Day Closing) Graham highlighted the very things that would also cause me the least joy during my two years as editor. On page 27 of WHDC Graham explained his, albeit short, return by highlighting the things that had made him to decide to pack it in in the first place – things he would no longer be doing with his newest fanzine:
“The part I liked least about producing SF was the business side of it all – co-ordinating sellers on match days, delivering SF to various newsagents and bookshops, and invoicing them was something I had inherited from my days at A View From The East Bank and it takes a lot of your time up. I hated it.”
I too came to despise this part of the job and eventually cut much of it out of my routine. Whilst I have no recollection of my initial thoughts on the distribution of the fanzine and all the other jobs that went with getting the fanzine sorted, a comment I made in issue 61 (during my second season as editor), as part of a riposte to the accusation that I was running a sloppy operation and not doing my job correctly (said article was from a chap called Simon who wrote under the pseudonym Peak Owl) highlights the work involved:
“Along with working a forty hour week I spend a heck of a lot of time reading, editing, typing up and setting work into the fanzine. Added to this is my contact and co-ordination with our only cartoonist Pete McKee, as well as meeting the printer’s deadlines, visiting all the outlets that sell the fanzine, organising the sellers, dealing with the bank as regards deposits and payments both to them and the printer.”
Issue 61 was the second issue of season 2000/01 and clearly I was still making the long, time-consuming trips round the city of Sheffield on the Friday afternoons that I’d collected the fanzine from the printers. When Graham had first taken me round all the outlets that stocked the fanzine I was too preoccupied with thoughts of how payment was organised to really take note of the long, often tedious, journey through Friday afternoon traffic. Amongst the outlets that stocked the fanzine were Waterstone’s in Orchard Square; Baxter’s News at Crookes; D. Beaumont’s on Middlewood Road; Lees News inside Morrison’s at Darnall; Junction Road News at Hunter’s Bar: the WHSmith in the railway station. A journey that could easily take several hours depending on traffic and whether there was anyone to take delivery when I arrived at each outlet. Pretty soon I jettisoned Waterstones and the WHSmith in the station as they both took an extortionate percentage of the cover price each time a copy was sold (both took 50%) and it simply wasn’t worth my while selling the fanzine in those outlets. Yes, Waterstones could be relied upon to shift anywhere between 20 and 30 copies at the beginning of my editorship but giving them anything between £15-£20 for doing very little simply wasn’t acceptable. The WHSmith in the station sold very few copies and still took 50% so that too was curtailed. I found Waterstone’s quite an arrogant and unfriendly business and wasn’t sorry to cease dealing with them. They clearly felt that my little publication really wasn’t worth their time and seemed to treat the fanzine as a bit of a hindrance.
Anyway, I have vague recollections of travelling round the city of Sheffield one sunny Friday afternoon with Graham. I would no doubt have been aware of just how long the journey took – anyone who has ever tried to travel through Crookes or near Hunter’s Bar during a busy afternoon will know only too well how frustrating and time-consuming such a trip can be. However, I think the sheer scale of what I was undertaking – how to deal with large retail outlets, ensuring that invoicing and payment was correct, how to keep accurate records of the merchandise that each shop took, the need for proper receipts – that the tedium of the operation probably took a back seat. Once I became proficient at the distribution side of things, the long afternoons driving round Sheffield soon began to drive me mad. On top of this there was the cost of fuel. In itself, the journey may not have used extortionate amounts of fuel (although it was still something I hadn’t initially budgeted for) but the constant stopping and starting that the afternoon traffic necessitated meant that I used far more fuel than the mileage would have consumed on a more constant drive.
Graham was a great help and explained everything as we went along; making introductions to the various people I would be dealing with once the fanzine was mine. They were all friendly enough and they seemed a lot less frightening than I had imagined they would. For some reason I had built them all up to be hard-faced business folk who would look down on me and try to swindle me at every turn. Nothing could have been further from the truth (although, as I have already mentioned, Waterstone’s seemed to view the fanzine as more trouble than it was worth). Over the next two years I was to develop sound relationships with them all.
One thing that had intrigued me for many months, and especially since Graham told me he was happy for me to take over, was just how the fanzine went from electronic articles on a computer to a hard-copy that was suitable to read and sell. It seems simple and obvious now but at the time, to me at least, I couldn’t really fathom it. I simply couldn’t see massive print mills rolling out copy. I suppose, as I had never had any need to understand how these things worked, it was understandable that I was a little bit whet behind the ears. Visiting Martin Lacey at Juma on Wellington Street was intriguing to me, not only because I finally got to understand how the process worked but also because I saw so many other fanzines in the process of being printed. I loved fanzines and to see so many being ‘born’ in the same place – and in Sheffield at that – was great. Sadly I can’t recall many of the titles he printed but I’m pretty sure A Load of Bull was one of them and there were certainly publications for Liverpool dotted about. Little seems to be known about Martin Lacey now and searching the internet doesn’t bring up a great deal, which is a shame. Clearly though, he was a fairly big player in the fanzine business at one stage.
Something else that I hated about the ‘business’ side of the fanzine was the advertising. Now I had always believed that fanzines shouldn’t have had adverts in them but it was clear that they were a vital source of extra income – something that would become ever more important as time went on – and so I accepted that I had to at least maintain a similar income from advertising to that which Graham had enjoyed. Graham’s final issue of the fanzine carried four adverts. For my first issue I only had three adverts. This number altered as the seasons progressed but was never higher than four. Sometimes I had adverts from companies Graham had used in the past and sometimes there were new companies. Whatever, I always hated the issue of advertising. If they were established and regularly advertised in the fanzine then I disliked the fact that we had adverts at all. What was even worse was when I went out seeking new advertisers because we needed the money. The principle of the thing annoyed me but I was also no salesman. I’d never wanted to be a salesman and so when I had to enter shops and ask if they wished to pay to advertise in my fanzine I despised every minute of it. I’m amazed I got anyone to agree to pay me money for the privilege of putting a little advert for their business in the fanzine, but they did. I have absolutely no idea how much I charged the poor sods but I’d have loved to have known how much extra business those adverts gained for the small shops that agreed to advertise in Spitting Feathers. I bet it wasn’t much.
Anyway, horrible business issues aside, the process of actually producing a fanzine seemed fairy straight forward; set the fanzine on the PC, print it out, take the paper copy to Martin at Juma and they’d do the rest. In addition to this, all I had to do was stipulate any requirements for front and back covers and provide the photos and captions to bring my ideas to life. All very simple. Graham made it look so easy and from the discussions I had with him and Martin I was in no doubt that it would be a piece of cake. Events leading up to the release of my first issue were to prove me very wrong!
All the letters, articles, cartoons and a myriad other things had arrived in dribs and drabs over the summer as the deadline for my first issue got ever closer. The deadline had been set for “approximately 10 days before the first home game of the season” which, I had been assured, would give me plenty of time to get everything set and to the printer. However, in my inexperience, as soon as an article arrived I placed it into the fanzine template, filling up space as I went. All very organised, I thought. However, as the deadline approached, a whole raft of stuff dropped into my PO Box and I simply didn’t have enough space to fit a lot of it in, or if I did it was only by rearranged much of what I had already set in the template. I couldn’t just put the most recent stuff to one side as it contained work from many of the fanzine’s most prolific and talented writers. Thus I spent a lot of time rearranged all the articles and editing pieces of work so that they would fit into the space I had available. Many extra hours were needed and a lesson was learned: never set any articles/pictures/cartoons into the fanzine template until all the work is in. Others may disagree with this mantra but it was one I stuck by for the rest of my time as editor (bar one or two articles which were like clockwork in both content length and regularity). Something else that made the job just that little but more time-consuming in those early days was the fact that most of the articles were sent via old-fashioned mail. This meant that to be able to edit the work I either had to scan it (if I was lucky and the text was large enough for the rudimentary OCR software to recognise and convert to electronic type) or I had to type up the work myself. Either way it could sometimes be a very frustrating business. Some correspondents used the tiniest type imaginable and the OCR software simply could not recognise it and convert it to electronic copy and so I would spend large amounts of time converting it myself. In addition to having to type the work, I often had to decipher what they were actually trying to say as some of the work was less than grammatically correct. I shall mention no names on this score as they were all valuable contributors, without whom I would not have been able to produce the fanzine, but the standard of some of the articles was very poor – to the point where sometimes I virtually re-wrote the entire article (no one ever complained that I’d changed what they’d written though, so either they didn’t notice or they were happy for me to do it!) Reading this now it may be hard for many to believe that work was sent on paper but when you consider that my mum and dad didn’t get the internet put in at their home (where I was still residing at the time) until Monday 19th April 1999 you can perhaps see that the use of email wasn’t as pervasive as it was to become.
Anyway, I finally got the fanzine set how I wanted it and I began to print it out – all 54 pages of it. Now this may seem like nothing in these days of swift laser and in-jet printers but back in 1999 I was still using a dot-matrix printer. It took ages for the bloody fanzine to print and often the pages slipped whilst going through the printer so I had to re-print several of them. Finally, though, I had all the pages printed and ready to take to Juma. This was where the shit really hit the fan. Martin took one look at it and said something along the lines of the quality of printing not being anywhere near good enough to make printing plates from. The colours weren’t deep enough and the print was far too faint. There was no way he could make a fanzine from the terribly printed rubbish I had brought to him. I stood there, dumbfounded. I had no idea what I was going to do. There was simply no time for me to go and re-do it and even if there were, the result would be exactly the same. Thankfully, Martin came to my rescue. He told me that if I could bring the publication over on a floppy disk (yes, they were THE means of storing data back then) he would print the whole thing out on paper, using his laser printer, and make the prints from that. Thank God. I have no idea what I would have done had he not agreed to this. After a mad dash home to get the floppy disk with the fanzine on I rushed back to Juma and handed the disk to Martin. I can’t recall what was actually said, word for word, between us that day but I do still recall his exact words as I turned to leave: Dan, get a fucking decent printer!
But back to the last few issues of season 1998-99 when Graham was showing me the ropes. Looking back now at my first editorial in issue 49 I cringe somewhat at the fact that I signed off with the moniker Danno! I mean, how pathetic is that? Thankfully that particular nom de plume didn’t see the light of day again. I did try the old Two Ronnies finish (“it’s goodbye from me and it’s goodbye from him”) at some stage, I think as a reference to the fact that both me and Ian were supposed to be editing the fanzine. Again, this rubbish didn’t see the light of day after its first airing. What is clear from reading my two editorials from issues 49 and 50 is that I was very much finding my feet and didn’t want to write anything that may have been viewed as too controversial. Maybe this had something to do with the fact that I still felt it was Graham’s vessel and I didn’t want to upset anyone whilst he was still in charge. Mostly though, I think I was just very inexperienced and hadn’t really begun to develop my own style and personality. Certainly, during my first two editorials, there are far more examples of me sitting on the fence or agreeing with other writers than there ever would be once I was in sole charge. I don’t think this was a conscious decision at the time, just a natural order of things. Once I wasn’t likely to upset or offend Graham I automatically went about telling people what I thought. I finished the 1998-99 season in a somewhat downbeat mood, stating in issue 49’s editorial that:
“Both myself and my brother are very much leaning towards the unthinkable prospect of Wilson’s Wonders being relegated at the end of the season.”

Surprisingly though, I only had harsh words to say about Booth, Srnicek (no surprise) and Briscoe (ditto).  On these three players I simply stated:

“How any of these players could even be considered good enough for our reserves, let alone the first team, beggars belief.”
I had no hostility towards Wilson and was fully behind him as our manager (this was a stance I was to keep for the majority of the following season.) In issue 50’s editorial I was lamenting a problem that is still all too familiar some 15 years later:
“I find myself wondering how we are going to attract anyone to this club now. We have a chairman who (doesn’t) want to spend money (on players)…Sadly there appears to be no one who is rich and supports the Owls. It is this complete lack of interest (from) any prospective saviours…that leads me to believe it is going to be a very long time until we begin to see the rise of Sheffield Wednesday Football Club.”
And we were still in the Premier League at that stage! Nevertheless, I finished the final editorial of season 1998-99 dreaming of a successful future for the club:

“Where would we be without the close season? It allows us to begin dreaming once more.”
There isn’t a lot about that close season that really sticks in the mind as far as my preparations for the fanzine go. There were obviously little things that needed sorting, the kind of things that I hadn’t given any thought to when I was considering taking over the fanzine. Things like arranging a PO Box; setting up a business account at the bank; acquiring receipt books and invoice sheets; dealing with the mailing lists for subscribers. All these things needed my attention. Granted, some of it was simply a matter of Graham transferring records to me (in the case of the list of subscribers) but I still had the responsibility of ensuring that said subscribers received their copies of the fanzine on the day the issue was released. This was to become another journey that had to be made on the Friday that each new issue was collected from the printers. I prided myself on making sure that subscribers received their copies on the day that we started selling each new issue (sometimes the day before if I was really organised and had got the fanzine to the printers early).
Certainly my first close season as editor was a mixture of blind panic, whirlwind activity and moments of tranquil calm during which I really thought I was getting my act together. Yes, I made mistakes, as I have already touched upon, and I continued to make them throughout my two years as editor, but generally I thought all was going exceedingly well, all things considered.
I’ve already detailed the problems with the quality of the printing that my dot-matrix printer produced, and also the fact that Martin Lacey saved that first issue. However, looking back at that first issue now I can’t help but be a little disappointed by it. The column layout I chose was horrible – they were far too narrow and too much of the page was wasted. Some of the darker print was patchy – which is surprising considering Martin had used his own printer. Perhaps he used some of the pages I’d printed on my dot-matrix after all. The ‘Classified Ads’ section is all but empty and looks terrible and many of the photos I used look blocky and are often stretched too much. Generally, it looks like a poor imitation of the fanzine that Graham had entrusted to me. The writing inside was of the usual high standards, of course, but anyone looking at the aesthetic value of my first offering would wonder what the hell I’d been doing during that close season. I even hate the front cover (I was never a big fan of any of our full-colour covers) which has a sickly yellow tint to it. All in all, that first issue of season 1999-2000 was a huge disappointment for me (and most probably for a great many readers).
In many respects I suppose my first fanzine as sole editor simply mirrored our team. Both had such high hopes during the summer; both had a leader who clearly felt he was up to the task; both had lavished lots of money up front (Wednesday on new strikers, Spitting Feathers on glossy covers) and yet both, on that Saturday afternoon in August 1999, were immediately found wanting.

It could only happen to a Wednesdayite…musings of a fanzine editor.

It could only happen to a Wednesdayite

 Several games during the 1999/2000 season seemed to sum up the malaise that was engulfing Sheffield Wednesday Football Club and which were to make my job as editor of the fanzine even more difficult than it would ordinarily have been. The first away game I attended as editor was at Old Trafford. The Red Devils had, the previous season, claimed the title of Champions of Europe and boy did they ram this point home prior to their game with the Owls on 11 August 1999 – their first home game of the season. At the time the fanfare and fireworks simply seemed to justify the opinion most in football held as regards the money making machine that was (and still is) Manchester United.

My opinion of the Mancs had deteriorated further whilst outside the ground. I had only been in the fanzine game a short while but I had learned enough to know that there was camaraderie amongst those involved with fanzines; a shared understanding of the endeavour we had undertaken as fanzine editors, of the hard work and long hours we put into our publications, of the bond we shared as we stood in all weathers distributing the thoughts and feelings of the fans to the fans. I had already established many contacts with other fanzines and had swapped copies with the likes of The Gooner (Arsenal); My Eyes Have Seen the Glory (Tottenham); Red All Over the Land (Liverpool); A Kick Up the Rs (QPR). I either mailed them copies or swapped them outside the ground. Only the previous weekend I’d had a great chat with John Pearman of the Liverpool fanzine Red All Over the Land. He’d sought me out at Hillsborough to wish me luck, swap copies and chat about football in general and the opening game of the season in particular. It had been a really nice gesture and one that had made me feel very relaxed on such a hectic and at times stressful day.

 

What followed then at Old Trafford was both a shock (although I suppose it shouldn’t have been really) and the first of several disheartening experiences that awaited me during that first season as editor.

 

Wednesday August 11, 1999

Manchester United versus Sheffield Wednesday at Old Trafford

AKA Pathetic, half-hearted surrender in the Theatre of Cash

This was the day that Wednesday ventured across the Pennines to take on the newly crowned ‘Champions of Europe’ (and Christ did they make us all aware of that!) This was a game very few people expected us to win. Indeed, I think most probably expected to see our boys get a good hammering and the Mamchester United fans revelling in their title of best in the European game (record books state that at the time they were, but they weren’t really were they? They’d been outplayed for much of the Champions’ League Final by a far superior side in Bayern Munich and had got lucky in ‘Fergie-time’ with two very fortuitous goals. I accept now that any fan, even I, would have loved to have been in their position but the blinkered viewpoint around Old Trafford that night was infuriating. The PA system never tired of telling us they were the Champions of Europe but seemed very reluctant to add the fairly accurate title of ‘jammiest team in Europe’ as well.)

Much had been said about the arrogance and money-driven nature of Manchester United and their fans; their disdain for all things English when it comes to the national team; the fact that none of them come from Manchester (something I could vouch for after this game due to firsthand experience of being stuck behind them on the motorway going home!); the bias given them by referees (still, astonishingly, denied to this day. Why do football pundits think we are so stupid? We can all see the bias given towards Manchester United and to deny it just makes people look silly.); the moaning and whinging of players, manager and fans alike. However, upon arriving at Old Trafford for this game I could only marvel at the arrogant, self-obsessed, money-oriented, we’ll-look-after-ourselves-and-stuff-the-rest attitude that exuded from every pore of every being dressed in red, white and black.

 

As a new boy to all the fanzine editing/selling lark I had only limited experience to go on, but my experiences so far had highlighted the code already mentioned above, whereby sellers swapped copies with each other in a very comradely way. I assumed therefore that this was the ‘done thing’, not a written rule obviously but a good example of all fans working together and aiding each other. Not so at the Theatre of Cash. Both Red Issue: Voice of the Fans and Red News (I suspected that the need to use United’s colours in the titles of these publications was to aid many of their ‘once-a-season’ visitors who probably had no idea what colour Manchester United played in!) not only declined a copy of Spitting Feathers but also made it quite clear that they were not interested in reading rubbish about a team that was at best unimportant to them and the rest of the football world. In other words, no one mattered but Manchester United. Arrogant bastards.

To say that I was slightly thrown by Red Issue’s attitude is an understatement. I can quite categorically say that I have never, before or since, met such a smug, self-obsessed ignorant person as the guy whom I approached to have a chat with. Silly me you may say, for thinking that maybe their fanzine editors still liked to keep one ear to what was happening in the rest of football. Silly me for assuming that their fanzine editors felt some affinity to other supporters. Silly me for expecting these people to at least show some good-natured acceptance of their undoubted class (you know, good-natured banter, jovially taking the mickey perhaps, or showing genuine excitement at what they had achieved). I should have expected the f**k off, you don’t matter attitude from the most arrogant fans in the world.

Anyway, from here I moved onwards, round the back of the construction site (Old Traford, being as it was, extended yet again) towards the away entrance. It was here that I began to sell Spitting Feathers, wondering whether I would be told to move on by the stewards or police. Both groups saw me, saw what I was doing and allowed me to carry on. Indeed, only when the away crowd at the gate started to build slightly was I asked to move by a crowd-control officer. However, he simply asked, very politely, if I minded moving twenty feet up the concourse so as to clear a little space. This I did and carried on with my selling. As kickoff drew nearer sales picked up considerably and money began to roll in. It was at this point that some overweight Hitler came and asked, no ORDERED me to “shift” as there were no sales allowed on the concourse. WHAT? Not twenty minutes previously I had seen a crowd-control officer who knew exactly what I was doing and had simply asked me to move slightly to allow easy access to the turnstile. Now here was someone telling me I was breaking Man United rules and must stop. Was it perhaps to do with the fact that I was making money from fans, money that should have been filling their cash registers? The looks I received from Man United’s ever so gracious fans further added to my feelings of hatred towards these arrogant b******s. Basically I was a piece of shit on the ground around their magnificent stadium.

Once inside the ground we were subjected to a delayed kickoff in order for the BBC honours to be dished out to the players (one for Ryan Giggs’s solo effort against Arsenal in the FA Cup semi-final the previous season – BEST GOAL EVER SCORED according to a Man United fanzine! – plus several other arse-licking awards from the BBC). Who else in the entire world would be allowed to delay kickoff simply to give their players some “richly deserved” honours? When Wednesday played Blackburn in the semi-final of the League Cup several years later the police refused to delay kickoff even though thousands of Wednesday fans were stuck in traffic on the way over the Pennines! The safety and well-being of Sheffield Wednesday fans was not reason enough to delay kickoff of a very important fixture and yet here were the authorities allowing Man United to delay kickoff for no other reason than self-aggrandisement. The man on the Old Trafford PA system swept through our team as though it would poison the air if he allowed any Wednesday name to be dwelt on by the crowd. Ego seeps from every pore of Old Trafford. And people wonder why they are so despised as an entity!

The match, as we all know, was a non-starter for the Owls. For the first five minutes of so I actually thought we were going to put up a bit of a display, but sadly normality was soon restored and we got off lightly, losing only by 4 goals to nil. Whatever Sir Alex may have said (that we put up a good showing and the performance showed a lot of promise for the rest of the season!) and whatever Danny Wilson thought he believed at the time (that we did very well against a powerful and skilful side!) Wednesday were crap. On any scale we were appalling. That night we lacked passion, commitment, skill, endeavour, ideas, fluency, technique and attitude. It seemed that the players didn’t even practise passing to each other in training; nor, apparently, did they practise fighting for the ball or tackling the opposition (all failings that now afflict the England national team it would seem, following our shambolic performances in recent tournaments!) The very basic skills required to play football were missing from a woeful Wednesday team (a fact made even more obvious three days later against an abysmal Bradford team who would still manage to take a point from the Owls and make them look average for much of the game). One had to wonder what exactly the coaching staff did with the players during the week because it clearly had nothing to do with playing football! Manchester United never stepped out of bottom gear and yet still managed to murder our hapless heroes. As Danny Wilson said in the interview I conducted with him for the fanzine, you had to admire the Manchester United players as the work ethic those lads have is fantastic…it’s your effort and desire to win that pulls you through. There we had it, we were crap because we had no skill or talent, nor did we have any work ethic, effort or desire. Our players just didn’t care. They got paid no matter what so why should they bother? The fault for this had to lie at Wilson’s door. He had assembled a useless squad and ripped any vestige of pride for them. And he still managed to hang around until March 21, 2000 before finally getting the chop.

To top off a great evening my car was gridlocked inside a poorly organised car park just behind the main stand at Old Trafford. It was another example of the residents of Manchester grabbing as much money as possible from a situation and not thinking about the consequences. Really I shouldn’t have been surprised as money is all that matters to the vast majority at Old Trafford. Having said this, the ineptitude with which the cars were packed into the available space suggested that maybe the Wednesday management team and players had had something to do with the organisation. I’m sure Sir Alex and Danny would have claimed it showed promise but it was, sadly, just like our team…a joke!

When is it time to put up the Xmas decorations?

Ah, Christmas is almost upon us.  Well actually it’s still over 3 weeks away but that hasn’t stopped folk from trimming up their homes and getting into the Christmas spirit.  Christ(mas)! Some had their decorations up halfway through November.  But when is it acceptable to get up in the loft, locate those trimmings and deck the halls?

I’ve always operated under the assumption that the earlier people put up their decorations the lower the standard of living and level of intelligence in the surrounding area.  This may sound harsh (and I can hear the Guardian readers and their ilk gnashing their teeth in indignation at such a social slur) but think about it.  In the city you live in, in which areas do you first notice the twinkling of Christmas lights?  I bet it’s in the more deprived areas.  In Sheffield you’re guaranteed to see the decorations first in areas like The Manor, Wybourn, Gleadless Valley and Parson Cross to name just four.  Interestingly, as a side point, all of these areas are proudly prefixed with the definite article (‘the’) when residents refer to them: t’Manor; t’Wybourn; t’Valley; t’Cross.  Now, far be it from me to make sweeping generalisations but to my mind, if an area is proudly prefixed with ‘The’ by its residents (where no prefix exists in the area’s offical name), it’s more often than not a socially-deprived area. You never hear anyone say, “Oh, I’m from t’Dore” or, “Yeah, I live on t’Gleadless” do you?  Precisely.  Now I’m not saying that all the folk who reside in these ‘definite’ areas are stupid or thick or bad people.  That would be ludicrous.  I have good friends from all the areas I’ve already mentioned and many hold good jobs and are far more intelligent that I could ever hope to be.  You’ll not be surprised to know, however, that said people no longer reside in the areas of their childhood.

Anyway, back to my original question.  Most people would agree that any time before December 1st is way too soon to be decorating the house in preparation for the festive season.  My mum used to force my brother and I to endure TWO WHOLE WEEKS of December before she’d consider putting up the tree and decorations (but, then, she’s from Gleadless so a little bit of class and decorum is standard!).  Sure, it was agony waiting, and waiting, and waiting but we both understood that putting the things up too soon dampened their impact and ‘specialness’ by the time Christmas Day approached and, far from being a dazzlingly vibrant focus for the entire room, the tree and its bright lights and shining baubles were simply another ornament in the corner of the room.  By waiting that little bit longer to erect the tree, the magic of the decorations remained, even on Christmas Day.

Personally, now that we’re into December I’m happy to see any trees and decorations going up after December 4th.  Why that date? I hear you ask.  No reason.  I’ve just decided, as is my right seeing as this is my blog, to arbitrarily choose that date.  Of course, I can hear some screaming that December 24th is too soon to be putting the decorations up and that by December 26th they should be coming down.  To that I say Bah! Humbug!

Dave Jones finally goes!

When Gary Megson was unceremoniously dumped 20 months ago by Milan Manderic many Owls fans were distraught.  Megson was a lifelong owls fan; had played for the club during two spells and, as manager, had just led Wedneasday to a 1-0 victory at Hillsborough against Sheffield United.  Wednesday sat 3rd in the league and were well in contention for promotion.  Manderic claimed that a change was needed as results had, during the previous few weeks, been quite up and down and there was a feeling that the team’s progress may have been stagnating slightly.  By the end of the season it seemed that Manderic had been vindicated as Jones steered The Owls to 2nd spot and automatic promotion at the expense of bitter local rivals Sheffield United (who had, at one stage, enjoyed a large points advantage over Wednesday and had 2 games in hand).

Fast forward 18 months and it is clear to see that the appointment of Dave Jones was the wrong one.  Sure, Jones drove Wednesday to promotion but many felt that this was on the back of Megson’s hard work and the team spirit that Megson had developed. Once the momentum from the previous season’s promotion wore off (which it did very quickly the following season) things unravelled spectacularly.  Poor signing after poor signing followed and Dave Jones oversaw a dreadful run of results that saw Wednesday only avoid relegation on the final day of the season.  At Christmas 2012 he’d said that change wasn’t the right thing to do and all he needed was time to get things right.  By the following November he was still saying the same things.

For some reason Manderic, who had been quick to sack Megson after a run of 3 poor results, stuck with the morose, miserable, clueless Jones for 18 months before finally acting.  Any Owls fan with eyes could see from November 2012 onwards that Jones wasn’t up to the job.  Thankfully Jones has now gone.  With the Owls having recorded only 1 win in 17 games this season and now a full 6 points of safety, it remains to be seen whether there is still time for another man to turn things around.