Post by gazz on Dec 3, 2013 12:38:56 GMT
Paul 'A' Williams or Paul 'R' Williams? Or to put it another way: Did Bobby Gould know his 'R's from his elbow?!
gazza007
Way back in our 1990/91 promotion season, rumours were rife that Big Willow was being watched by a number of 'big' clubs, and when Rochdale came to town, the big man impressed all those watching with a fantastic 20 yarder on the half-volley to send the crowd wild. After that game, West Brom offered us £250,000 for his signature, and off he went to fluff an end of season penalty which ultimately sent the Baggies down into the old Division Three, where we were ironically securing promotion to with our epic 5-0 hammering of Scunny.
There was a hell of a lot of talk around at that time that Bobby Gould actually thought he was signing our talented left-back Paul 'R' Williams, and couldn't get Big Willow out of the Hawthorns quick enough! A bizarre story I think you'll all agree, but one I which I am open to correction on.
If this was just a silly rumour then I will stand corrected, but this entry will still stand as a testament to the kind of baloney that ended up on the terraces in the pre-messageboard era. If however it WAS true, then good grief did Bobby Gould ask for everything he got or what?!
Pies , Pasties and Pints.
bringbacklenwhite
Do they still serve those wonderful Titterton's meat pies on Stockport Station ? The Friday night trip home to New Mills was incomplete without the warm juice trickling out of the air holes in the top and down your arm and into your glove as well as all over the train seat.
Sandy, Macca, Beefheart and I also enjoyed a fabulous pastie (each) at Fleetwood Town earlier this year. Shame about the result on the day. At least we don't have to play them next year.
Best pint must be Robinson's Mixed (Mason's Arms, New Mills). Bitter used to be a little too bitter for my teenage palate and the mild was a bit inspid - but together - pure nectar, particularly after a Sunday morning match for the Mason's in the Longdendale League.
Other nominations please. Football related.
Playing on Preston's Plastic Pitch
hatter in macc
22nd July 1990
It's surely almost every boy's dream to play on a Football League ground - and, just when I had reached an age where the dream for me was seemingly destined to remain a dream forever, I took a call, one summer's evening, from my best mate (with acknowledgements to Sandy for the line from earlier CHAOS tales, let's call him Alex - as that's his name):
Alex - "Doing anything next weekend?"
Macc - "Erm, I'm getting married - or had you forgotten, as my Best Man?! Ah...hang on, that's the weekend after...yeh, I'm free...probably for the last time in my life, haha!"
A - "Well, the thing is this, mate. My team's through to the final of that national companies knockout-competition I told you about. We're playing some lawyers from Birmingham, and they're gonna have some ringers in - so we better had as well...could really do with you up front. Oh, and it's only along the way at Preston - I can give you a lift."
Alex is the worst driver I have ever met in my life. And I vowed never to get in his car again after that time he ended up hurtling us to near-certain oblivion down a steep hill, while half on the pavement.
But, wait, where was that he said we would be playing?
M - "Preston?"
A - "Yeh...you know they've got a plastic pitch now?"
M - "So that's Preston? North? End?"
A - "Erm...well, obviously, yeh."
M - "I'm in."
Arriving at Deepdale the following Sunday, I could scarcely take in the fact that I was about to take my woefully-average game onto a professional stage. And, once in the changing-room among my team-mates, it dawned on me that I was quite possibly not really meant to be there at all. Alex excepted, there was not an accountant from his firm in sight. Rather, our side, it turned out, was packed with Northern Premier League regulars - Hyde and Mossley were especially well represented - and a smattering of players who had once been on the books of City, Leeds and Bolton.
Hell's Bells! This was, as near as dammit, a semi-pro outfit. I sought out Alex.
M (panicking) - "Mate, what am I doing here?!"
A (clearly embarrassed) - "Well, the thing is this...our ringers are rather stronger than theirs..."
M - "You don't say..."
A - "And we had to try and even things up a bit..."
M - "So, I'm a makeweight?!"
A - "Sorry, mate."
M - "Nah, 's'alright...that's how come you're playing as well, then?"
A - "Well, yeh, the Captain has actually to work for the firm...and no-one else does."
And so to the match - played over a full 90 minutes, the first 89 of which saw me hardly get a sniff of the ball, but plenty of batterings courtesy of brutish defenders who, in the genuinely good-natured way of Brummies, did at least apologise each time they sent me flying to the ground.
And then it came...my chance of match-winning glory.
With the scores level, and the clock ticking towards the end of normal time, our attacking left back from Mossley floated over the latest in a series of perfectly-placed, Sean Newton-esque, crosses. I had got nowhere near any of the earlier ones - and, to be fair, my complete lack of heading ability had always been something of a footballing joke...let alone any attempts to score with a header - but, somehow, I had momentarily shaken off my marker. I COULD GET THIS!
The cross arrived, at just above head-height. I leaped, craning my neck back, and then - in a way I had never done before - felt my forehead connect with the ball perfectly, and send it shooting goal-wards like the proverbial bullet...
...only to clatter against the upside of the bar and go out for a goal kick - which had no time to be taken before the final whistle was blown.
Oh, b*gg*er.
The match, following that, drifted to penalties. I wasn't allowed to take one. We lost, leaving me at least with the memory of the moment when I nearly won a cup with the last touch of a game on the big stage. Whatever kids and grandchildren I might have in the future, they would, without any question of doubt, never tire of the tale...which leads me to the other legacy of my afternoon's performance at Deepdale:
The artificial pitch had seen my legs cut to ribbons, and worse still, the underlying sand got into the wounds, to make for a painfully stinging week or so ahead...not to mention a less-than-pretty sight for my forthcoming nuptials. Without going into details, grains of that bl**dy sand were still making unwelcome and untimely appearances some considerable time after the honeymoon was well and truly over!
PARACHUTING
sandbachhatter
No, not a description of County’s descent through the leagues over recent years (I’d have used ‘plummet’ for Week P if that were my intention) but the actual past-time, if one can call it that, of launching yourself out of a plane from several thousands of feet. Some think of this activity as a sport (of sorts), so my little anecdote finds its way into CHAOS.
I think, by now, everyone is familiar with my mate who I lovingly refer to as ‘Tim’ because, well, that’s his name. Hopefully, you have also gained some impression of the frankly blasé and reckless approach he has to life. No single event depicts this greater than when he jumped out of a plane whilst holidaying in Cuba.
The background to the story is largely uneventful, but begins with Tim and one of his two holidaying mates tricking the third (who was terrified of heights) into thinking he’d been booked to do a sky-dive. To cut a long story short, the prank horrendously back-fired and it was in fact Tim who found himself preparing to be launched out of a plane.
Having gone through literally seconds of training in not-very-good English, Tim was shown to an aging Russian war plane which was so decrepit that the door would not shut properly and actually flew open shortly after take-off. By this point, the wind was such that it could not be closed and the entire ascent had to be completed with the door wide open.
Tim, being only slight, was the last to jump and since everyone taking part had to be matched to an instructor who would create a similar aggregate weight, Tim was paired with a Cuban giant who, by all accounts, resembled John Coffey from The Green Mile. Imagine a Kangaroo with a joey attached to its front, only in bright jumpsuits and with a backpack.
Anyway, following their freefall descent and shortly after the parachute had deployed, Tim became aware of a general feeling of unease with his instructor who, in fairness, did his level best to persuade Tim that nothing was wrong. It became apparent, however, that their ropes had become tangled, and it took the instructor a few moments to rectify this, during which time he was not paying particular attention to the rapidly approaching Cuban surface.
When he did eventually return his efforts to the small matter of landing, it was clear that they were not heading towards the landing strip they had originally departed from (and where everyone else had by now successfully touched-down) but had instead been blown off course towards a farmer’s field some distance away. Unable to get them sufficiently back on course (and no doubt grateful that they were still heading for grass and not a building or cliff face), the instructor successfully improvised a landing into said field.
It was at this point, relieved to be alive in all likelihood, that Tim became aware of a herd of bulls approaching them... as the large (did I mention it was bright red?) parachute slowly came down around them....
gazza007
Way back in our 1990/91 promotion season, rumours were rife that Big Willow was being watched by a number of 'big' clubs, and when Rochdale came to town, the big man impressed all those watching with a fantastic 20 yarder on the half-volley to send the crowd wild. After that game, West Brom offered us £250,000 for his signature, and off he went to fluff an end of season penalty which ultimately sent the Baggies down into the old Division Three, where we were ironically securing promotion to with our epic 5-0 hammering of Scunny.
There was a hell of a lot of talk around at that time that Bobby Gould actually thought he was signing our talented left-back Paul 'R' Williams, and couldn't get Big Willow out of the Hawthorns quick enough! A bizarre story I think you'll all agree, but one I which I am open to correction on.
If this was just a silly rumour then I will stand corrected, but this entry will still stand as a testament to the kind of baloney that ended up on the terraces in the pre-messageboard era. If however it WAS true, then good grief did Bobby Gould ask for everything he got or what?!
Pies , Pasties and Pints.
bringbacklenwhite
Do they still serve those wonderful Titterton's meat pies on Stockport Station ? The Friday night trip home to New Mills was incomplete without the warm juice trickling out of the air holes in the top and down your arm and into your glove as well as all over the train seat.
Sandy, Macca, Beefheart and I also enjoyed a fabulous pastie (each) at Fleetwood Town earlier this year. Shame about the result on the day. At least we don't have to play them next year.
Best pint must be Robinson's Mixed (Mason's Arms, New Mills). Bitter used to be a little too bitter for my teenage palate and the mild was a bit inspid - but together - pure nectar, particularly after a Sunday morning match for the Mason's in the Longdendale League.
Other nominations please. Football related.
Playing on Preston's Plastic Pitch
hatter in macc
22nd July 1990
It's surely almost every boy's dream to play on a Football League ground - and, just when I had reached an age where the dream for me was seemingly destined to remain a dream forever, I took a call, one summer's evening, from my best mate (with acknowledgements to Sandy for the line from earlier CHAOS tales, let's call him Alex - as that's his name):
Alex - "Doing anything next weekend?"
Macc - "Erm, I'm getting married - or had you forgotten, as my Best Man?! Ah...hang on, that's the weekend after...yeh, I'm free...probably for the last time in my life, haha!"
A - "Well, the thing is this, mate. My team's through to the final of that national companies knockout-competition I told you about. We're playing some lawyers from Birmingham, and they're gonna have some ringers in - so we better had as well...could really do with you up front. Oh, and it's only along the way at Preston - I can give you a lift."
Alex is the worst driver I have ever met in my life. And I vowed never to get in his car again after that time he ended up hurtling us to near-certain oblivion down a steep hill, while half on the pavement.
But, wait, where was that he said we would be playing?
M - "Preston?"
A - "Yeh...you know they've got a plastic pitch now?"
M - "So that's Preston? North? End?"
A - "Erm...well, obviously, yeh."
M - "I'm in."
Arriving at Deepdale the following Sunday, I could scarcely take in the fact that I was about to take my woefully-average game onto a professional stage. And, once in the changing-room among my team-mates, it dawned on me that I was quite possibly not really meant to be there at all. Alex excepted, there was not an accountant from his firm in sight. Rather, our side, it turned out, was packed with Northern Premier League regulars - Hyde and Mossley were especially well represented - and a smattering of players who had once been on the books of City, Leeds and Bolton.
Hell's Bells! This was, as near as dammit, a semi-pro outfit. I sought out Alex.
M (panicking) - "Mate, what am I doing here?!"
A (clearly embarrassed) - "Well, the thing is this...our ringers are rather stronger than theirs..."
M - "You don't say..."
A - "And we had to try and even things up a bit..."
M - "So, I'm a makeweight?!"
A - "Sorry, mate."
M - "Nah, 's'alright...that's how come you're playing as well, then?"
A - "Well, yeh, the Captain has actually to work for the firm...and no-one else does."
And so to the match - played over a full 90 minutes, the first 89 of which saw me hardly get a sniff of the ball, but plenty of batterings courtesy of brutish defenders who, in the genuinely good-natured way of Brummies, did at least apologise each time they sent me flying to the ground.
And then it came...my chance of match-winning glory.
With the scores level, and the clock ticking towards the end of normal time, our attacking left back from Mossley floated over the latest in a series of perfectly-placed, Sean Newton-esque, crosses. I had got nowhere near any of the earlier ones - and, to be fair, my complete lack of heading ability had always been something of a footballing joke...let alone any attempts to score with a header - but, somehow, I had momentarily shaken off my marker. I COULD GET THIS!
The cross arrived, at just above head-height. I leaped, craning my neck back, and then - in a way I had never done before - felt my forehead connect with the ball perfectly, and send it shooting goal-wards like the proverbial bullet...
...only to clatter against the upside of the bar and go out for a goal kick - which had no time to be taken before the final whistle was blown.
Oh, b*gg*er.
The match, following that, drifted to penalties. I wasn't allowed to take one. We lost, leaving me at least with the memory of the moment when I nearly won a cup with the last touch of a game on the big stage. Whatever kids and grandchildren I might have in the future, they would, without any question of doubt, never tire of the tale...which leads me to the other legacy of my afternoon's performance at Deepdale:
The artificial pitch had seen my legs cut to ribbons, and worse still, the underlying sand got into the wounds, to make for a painfully stinging week or so ahead...not to mention a less-than-pretty sight for my forthcoming nuptials. Without going into details, grains of that bl**dy sand were still making unwelcome and untimely appearances some considerable time after the honeymoon was well and truly over!
PARACHUTING
sandbachhatter
No, not a description of County’s descent through the leagues over recent years (I’d have used ‘plummet’ for Week P if that were my intention) but the actual past-time, if one can call it that, of launching yourself out of a plane from several thousands of feet. Some think of this activity as a sport (of sorts), so my little anecdote finds its way into CHAOS.
I think, by now, everyone is familiar with my mate who I lovingly refer to as ‘Tim’ because, well, that’s his name. Hopefully, you have also gained some impression of the frankly blasé and reckless approach he has to life. No single event depicts this greater than when he jumped out of a plane whilst holidaying in Cuba.
The background to the story is largely uneventful, but begins with Tim and one of his two holidaying mates tricking the third (who was terrified of heights) into thinking he’d been booked to do a sky-dive. To cut a long story short, the prank horrendously back-fired and it was in fact Tim who found himself preparing to be launched out of a plane.
Having gone through literally seconds of training in not-very-good English, Tim was shown to an aging Russian war plane which was so decrepit that the door would not shut properly and actually flew open shortly after take-off. By this point, the wind was such that it could not be closed and the entire ascent had to be completed with the door wide open.
Tim, being only slight, was the last to jump and since everyone taking part had to be matched to an instructor who would create a similar aggregate weight, Tim was paired with a Cuban giant who, by all accounts, resembled John Coffey from The Green Mile. Imagine a Kangaroo with a joey attached to its front, only in bright jumpsuits and with a backpack.
Anyway, following their freefall descent and shortly after the parachute had deployed, Tim became aware of a general feeling of unease with his instructor who, in fairness, did his level best to persuade Tim that nothing was wrong. It became apparent, however, that their ropes had become tangled, and it took the instructor a few moments to rectify this, during which time he was not paying particular attention to the rapidly approaching Cuban surface.
When he did eventually return his efforts to the small matter of landing, it was clear that they were not heading towards the landing strip they had originally departed from (and where everyone else had by now successfully touched-down) but had instead been blown off course towards a farmer’s field some distance away. Unable to get them sufficiently back on course (and no doubt grateful that they were still heading for grass and not a building or cliff face), the instructor successfully improvised a landing into said field.
It was at this point, relieved to be alive in all likelihood, that Tim became aware of a herd of bulls approaching them... as the large (did I mention it was bright red?) parachute slowly came down around them....