JAMIE VARDY & THE STEELS LOSE TO MICK GODBER & THE BADGERS, 2008...

A Sunny September, A Stomping Stocksbridge, A Surly Scoundrel and A Man In Black

I was aware that the Cannon Park facilities were sparing but I wasn’t expecting such a fine grandstand… I was drawn to it instinctively, veering away from a likely Groundhopper who was mulling over the acquisition of a Retford scarf because he apparently ‘had to’. Fine. Then I noted the Hospitality Suite, a dull green hut…

RU? YEAH, I WAS...

Huts appear to be the stock buildings at non-league level, reminding me of the Primary School temporary but eventually permanent buildings of the 1970s and 1980s. There was a silo at Cannon Park too. Or a tank… Maybe it contained the secret diggings of an incumbent badger, or perhaps it was a costume for portly forward Mick Godber, appearing nightly as the ‘Tin Man’ in ‘The Wizard of Oz’ at the Retford Little Theatre…

MICK GODBER GETS TREATMENT ON THE SIDELINE...

I sat with my badger, The Bodging, to breathe in the northern Nottinghamshire air on a warm September afternoon, tractors and combine harvesters in full throttle and I mused on how England used to be before B&Q, Wilkinson’s and the closures of collieries. 

THE SUNNY SCENE AT CANNON PARK...

Both squads were warming up and Stockbridge Park Steels, including one JAMIE VARDY of course looked eager to prepare for the fray but Retford appeared to be less organised. Coach Neil Tooth was profane, if purposeful, leading the motley and cursing crew in a series of knee and heel lifts, followed by piggy-backs. Fortunately, robust brick shithouse striker Mick Godber was probably still straining to tie his bootlaces at this time and his unsuspecting colleagues were therefore not subjected to bulk cement landing heavily upon their slender frames. The Badgers had certainly created a great deal of noise and sputum during their warm-up, accompanied by the strained scraping sound like a snoring sow with sinusitis as the projectiles were loaded into throats for flobbing. 

MICK GODBER THE LEGEND COOLLY TAKES A DRINK AS CURRENT ENGLAND INTERNATIONAL JAMIE VARDY LOSES TO A BUNCH OF BADGERS...

Godber then jogged infield and found the lifting of heels and thighs just a little too demanding and simply, well, kind of ‘jogged’, I guess… Then he stopped completely and utilised his ‘assistant’ role to ‘discuss matters’, thereby avoiding the irritation of being physical and also the embarrassment of piggy-back partner demolition. Coach Tooth’s next direct and rather technical preparation was bellowed loudly and entitled: “Have a stretch and let’s get the fuckin’ balls out…” 

WAITING FOR BALLS OUT TIME...

I liked the random abject Union flag from Stocksbridge, the St George’s cross, yellow not red, with ‘Steels’ emblazoned across the horizontal band and some of their followers sat near me in the stand. The Bodging hid in my bag. I thought: “J’ai un blaireau dans mon sac.” (There is a badger in my bag, a phrase I have used in small shops in France which creates a little confusion…) 

FLAGGING UP THE STEELS...

LE BLAIREAU DANS MON SAC...

I am fairly certain that the Steels people were friends or relatives of Lovell and Sidebottom from the visitors’ line-up but I mused on the length and condition of Retford’s reserve goalkeeper’s hair, making him appear like he had just been led away from fixing the ballcock in someone’s lavatory, or was auditioning for the part of Shaggy in Scooby Doo’s new Gothic movie. He sported lank hair, long shorts, gloves like those giant hands waved by fans at an American basketball game and the facial expression of a Victorian hayforker.

There was a sign to the side of the stand, instructing people not to stand on the bank. Bank? This was a yard of tufted verge… And there was a gate. It was ajar… I wanted to enter the Secret Garden beyond. Was this the legendary Mr McGregor’s garden of Beatrix Potter fame? Intrigued, I had peered through, earlier; it was a wreck of weed and thorn, foliage and nettle, as far as I could ascertain: a veritable badger’s adventure playground… I had covered The Bodging’s eyes and felt comfortable that he was ‘dans mon sac’.

PETER RABBIT HAS JUST SLIPPED INTO MR MCGREGOR'S GARDEN...

WE WON'T GO IN THERE THOUGH...

And then he arrived. A bald Steels fan with a ‘Jeux Sans Frontieres’ giant’s head, a gaping mouth, an absence of neck and a souped up loudspeaker for a conversational tone. He sat next to a friend, who soon abandoned the newcomer to stand, yes, on the bank actually… 

My new neighbour spread his buttocks across two chairs and rolled cigarettes which were surprisingly not bothersome to me and he laughingly exclaimed to a young woman in polite discussions, “That’s you buggered then…” after learning of her pregnancy. That’s funny then, obviously…  As a gold bracelet shook on his right wrist, the creature began to boom his encouragement at the Stocksbridge players, like “Hoof it… That’ll do…” 

THE VERY FRIGHTENING MR SIMPKINS BREAKS A HIP BONE WITH A MERE SQUEEZE OF HIS FINGERS...

The tannoy system was vaguely reminiscent of the dulcet tones of a school’s summer fete compere, using a megaphone. We were told that after a fast reading of the personnel, he would repeat the teams more slowly, probably at Godber pace, just before kick-off, but in the meantime, they would be posted on the floor, outside the bar, no doubt to be closely scrutinised by an exiting crumpling drunkard. We also learned that Godber was sponsored by the Jellybeans Company. You just couldn’t make it up could you?

The bloke sitting next to me was in full voice by this time; “He’s a bleeding arsehole, isn’t he, that ref?” then aimed words at Coach Tooth: “Sit down you dumpling…” The Steels’ coach must have thought that bellowing was fair game and he screamed at his defence, “Keep the fuckin’ thing in play…”

After the break, my neighbour was still galloping down food, when a Retford defender blasted a clearance towards him, maybe having marked him out as a fine and possibly unmissable target and the player was duly admonished: “Mind my chips…” 

When Retford equalised, the Steels fan shook and yelled: “He had that much space, he could’ve pitched a tent…”

Retford’s female physio’ carried a red carrier bag to the dugout. I have no further comment. The Steels’ coach was nearly apoplectic by the midpoint of the second-half and turned towards the stand, took an almighty kick at the surrounding fence whilst lamenting, “Fuck me, PASS it…”

THE BANK...

Some youngsters, possibly ball-boys, were kicking a ball around behind an end wall and it had looped over onto the pitch a couple of times already but when Retford’s ‘keeper spotted their ball on the pitch, he raced left out of his goal and bladdered it into touch, nearly taking the head off a supporter, forcing his female partner, in charge of a pushchair to take similar evasive action. Power it lacked none. 

When Godber decided to take the Stocksbridge ‘keeper out of the game by basically falling on him, straight-jackets were needed by the Steels’ coaching staff and scuffles broke out between players as a couple of tackles became juicier and the referee, acting like he was cool on dope or something, just chatted to offenders, like good citizenship procedures in Primary Schools. The visitors replaced their goalkeeper with a novice, who had to acquire the limping first-choice’s jersey and Retford went for the kill. The injured custodian was applauded by the Steels fans but he ignored them, cursed, swore and began kicking something inside the dugout…

My neighbour was confident that Stocksbridge were going to win or draw, “I can feel it in me bones…” Godber failed to pass right, the ball bobbled at his feet, he kept trotting and slotted a lovely winning goal, just as five minutes of injury time began. Silence from my neighbour. The game was up. But the man in black had seen enough. The fan climbed over several seats to exit and I mused on his presence.

I reckon the chap sitting behind me was the referee’s assessor and he wore a black suit, plus dark glasses. When the referee reached the height of his charming ability to totally piss everybody off and abuse was darting at him from many directions, I turned to the guy and raised my eyebrows. He barely managed a wry smile. 

The Bodging stayed in his bag, although he nearly escaped into Sherwood Forest when I stopped to urinate on my return journey to Solihull. 

A YOUNG BODGING...

And his team of Badgers had won…