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As we grew older, we progressed to other pursuits, though Guy Fawkes Night never lost its appeal. In the 1950's our favourite
way to spend a Saturday afternoon, after we grew out of the local fleapit, was for me, my sister Helen and my Dad to make
our way to Valley Parade, on the other side of Bradford, to cheer on our favourite soccer team, Bradford City. In England
soccer was always known as football, the implication being that this was the only ball game worthy of mention, in much the
same light that Aussie Rules sees itself. The fierce rivalry between Bradford City fans and Bradford Park Avenue's lame-brained
followers equalled anything generated by the West Coast Eagles and the Fremantle Dockers.
We'd get off the bus from Buttershaw in the town centre and saunter slowly up towards Manningham where Valley Parade,
the home ground of Bradford City, was situated. Not because it was steep and we were out of condition, but because there
was so much to marvel at on the way. On one corner near the top of Rawson market was a shop that had chickens on spits rotating,
wafting their delicious smell to our eager noses. This was long before the days of KFC et al, and chicken was an expensive
delicacy we had once a year at Christmas. Turkey was for the idle rich! We'd hang around this shop, just gazing at those
beautiful golden brown chickens, never realising that this almost unattainable treat would someday become one of the cheapest
meals going, even cheaper than our beloved fish & chips!
Reluctantly dragging ourselves away, we'd head for John Street Market to watch the stallholders flogging their wares.
One man in particular, who sold crockery, could have entertained us all afternoon with his showmanship. He'd chuck cups and
saucers around with gay abandon, and would end up with a full tea set or dinner set balanced on one arm while giving us all
the spiel.
"You'll think I'm mad and I probably am, but I'm not going to charge you ten quid for this beautiful set, I won't
even charge you five. Him up the road sells these for six quid, go and look if you don't believe me. I'm not even going
to charge you four! First six people up can have one set each for three quid, the bargain of a lifetime!" The huge
crowds surrounded him, agog to see him break something, but if he did, I never saw it. Other stallholders tried to emulate
him, but none had his gift of the gab, and only the prospect of seeing Bradford City defeating the opposition could tear us
away from such entertainment.
I'm not going to pretend that the match was an anticlimax after the trip, as we were such rabid fans that we'd stand there
wearing our big club scarves, coloured in amber and claret (why didn't they just call it gold and maroon?) that Mum knitted
for us, ankle deep in snow, in pouring rain, and in freezing fog so dense that we could only see our half of the field. Occasionally
the match was abandoned after a few minutes because of lack of visibility, though heavy rain just added to the fun. I'll
never forget the sight of the ball one wet day being placed for a penalty kick, then floating off down the pitch! The referee
came in for much abuse for calling a halt to such fun.
We always stood in the "Kop", directly behind the goalmouth, and along with a band of other regulars we screamed
ourselves hoarse, cheering on our team, captained in those days by Tom Flockett, and jeering at the rival supporters. Nobody
had heard of soccer violence back then, at least not in Bradford, so not so much as a thick ear was ever awarded.
Boxing Day soccer was special. We were still full of the Christmas spirit, and I guess hangovers were the norm among
the adults, but the atmosphere at the ground was electric, and completely unforgettable. At halftime, the flasks were opened
and the smell of coffee laced with spirits pervaded the entire ground, along with the Christmas oranges and cigars. You had
to be there!
The longest journeys I ever made were the homeward trips after our team lost, as I must admit (though in those days I
would have fiercely denied it) it all too frequently did. I guess that's why it was a third division side then, while Park
Avenue was fourth division, so beneath contempt!
Such was the fever for this great game that more so-called dental and medical appointments were made for times when the
matches were scheduled midweek than for the rest of the year. Many bosses must have suspected that grandmothers were often
dug up and re-interred, the only way to account for all the funerals that coincided with midweek away games! I still feel
a little guilt for telling my foreman Joe that I had a dental appointment for the same afternoon that Bradford City had a
fourth round match against Accrington Stanley. Joe was a rabid City fan, but was too honourable to take time off work.
It wasn't until many years later that I realised that Joe knew damn well where I was heading, and that he could have demanded
proof of my dental appointment. Joe, wherever you are now, bless you for your lenience, and I wish I had been able to thank
you at the time.
If City's Saturday afternoon away matches were too far away for us to travel to, we'd even go to watch their reserves
play on Saturday afternoons. A couple of times, during the summer break, two Bradford City players came to work at the big
bakery I was currently working at, and they were treated with all the proper awe that they deserved by one and all!
Another sporting must for us girls and Dad (he was a bad influence on us) were the weekly wrestling matches at the Alhambra
Theatre, and at St George's Hall.
Dad told us about when wrestling used to be held at Olympia Hall, in Thornton Road, where the seating was very steep,
and the pieman would walk around in front of the bottom row of seats, rather than climb up the steps. Dad at the top would
yell down, "One pork pie please", and send his money down from hand to hand, while the pie rose to him the same
way (very hygienic!). Then of course, he'd have to send the pie back down, with a request for "Sauce please!"
We were too smart to get a ringside seat, as the wrestlers were regularly chucked out at the spectators. We wouldn't
have put up with the shenanigans that passes for wrestling nowadays; we demanded (and got) skill, and at least the pretence
that it wasn't fixed. Big heavyweights weren't much in demand then, as we preferred the swifter action of the lighter fighters,
and the big bruisers who did little more than strut around looking ugly were a novelty. If the fights were delayed, the crowd
would chant "Wheel 'em in! Wheel 'em in!".
We were once treated to the sight of one of the "bad guys" tangling up his opponent in the corner of the ring,
then using the small referee as a battering ram. It was a cheap form of much loved entertainment that got a lot of aggro
out of our systems. Although we knew that Chief Billy Two Rivers wasn't a real Red Indian, and that the African chief Masambula
lived in the same council estate as we did, while they were in the ring, they were Gods, and we worshipped them. My particular
favourite was Geoff Portz, a heavyweight, one of the good guys, and a good clean fighter. Dad loved Les Kellett, a cocky
wrestler who clowned around a lot, and Dad said that his best gimmick was that he could really fight.
Successful as he was with soccer and wrestling, Dad couldn't interest any of his kids in his other loves, cricket and
Rugby League. Cricket we found to be almost as exciting as watching paint dry, and one visit to see Bradford Northern play
at Odsal Stadium showed us a dark side to Dad that we'd never suspected. I think it must have been a local derby as tensions
were high and the play was rough. At one point the players were fighting in lumps, and Dad was on the sidelines yelling out
things like "Give 'em some stick!" and "Never mind the ball, get on with the game!" We pretended not
to know him, and he could never talk us into going again, not until years later, when we went to Wembley Stadium for the Rugby
League Cup final, Bradford Northern v Featherstone Rovers. Forty years later I still have the ticket. We lost, but it was
magical sitting there in the grandstand of the famous stadium that we'd only ever seen on TV!
It's funny, but I don't remember Anne, David or Denis showing any interest in Dad's sports. Maybe they were too young
for spectator sports, though I do remember them joining in one game we played when television arrived on the scene.
We'd watch the horse racing on TV on the summer Saturday afternoons when there was no soccer to be had. Each of us would
pick a horse from the race, and plonk a shilling in the kitty. The person whose horse came in first won the kitty. With
about four or five races in an afternoon, we were in no danger of retiring on the proceeds, but a lot of family bonding went
on.
Dad also introduced us to the world of word games, and to shut us up, he'd give us a pencil and paper and a long word
like Constantinopal, and start us competing to see who could make up the most smaller words out of the big one. He stimulated
my taste for full-blooded cryptic crosswords, and to this day, ordinary crosswords bore me to tears.
He also adapted the old radio game of Twenty Questions for family use, though for our family, a Hundred Questions might
have been nearer the mark! Whoever was "It" had to pick an object, and tell the others whether the object was animal,
vegetable, mineral or abstract, then the others had to ask questions to discover what the object was, using only questions
calling for a yes or no answer.
Objects varied wildly, but two of the ones I remember best were "A hole in a doughnut" and "The hole in
the middle of a record", both Dad's choices. The games could go on for hours, and our house was full of conversations
like:
"You two, come and help with the washing up"
"Aw, do we have to? Dad, does it make a noise?"
"Yes, and help your Mum!"
"OK, OK, I'm helping. Is it a loud noise?"
Many years later I revived this game to occupy my grandkids on a long night journey by car, and they eventually guessed
that my "animal with abstract connections" object was Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Starship Enterprise.
Card games were our next delight provided by Dad, and it will come as no surprise to learn that it was Dad who taught
us that a Royal flush beats a full house, and that matches are the safest currency for gambling. He used to say his ambition
in life was a tour round a brewery, though he rarely drank, but I think a night at the Burswood Casino would have delighted
him, though he may have been disgusted at having to hand over money rather than matches to play blackjack.
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