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Burnley, 1964

Wolves never won at Turf Moor in the 1960’s, a run that began with a fateful defeat in the 1959/60 season that would ultimately cost us a hat-trick of titles, and the first league and cup double of the 20th Century. Though Burnley had an excellent side in those days, under the inspired leadership of Harry Potts, few people realize the principle factor in their home successes was the one-in-three gradient that Turf Moor was built on.

Of course, it was not unusual back then for pitches to have inclines – it was considered by many to constitute an intrinsic part of the game, and could increase the cash-flow of struggling clubs in the winter months, when they would hire out their snow-covered venues for sledging. Nearby Silsden’s ground was so sloped that both goals were placed at the same end to create a more even game. But while relatively widespread, sloped pitches could create difficulties for teams used to playing on level surfaces, even the mightiest of the mighty like Stan Cullis’ Golden Gargantuans.

In previous seasons, Cullis had successfully deployed a “Mardy Kabandha”, switching to a “Rampant Indra” shape when attacking downhill.

In previous seasons, Cullis had successfully deployed a fairly typical “Mardy Kabandha” formation at Turf Moor, with all eleven players forming an arc around the goalmouth in the first half, and switching to a “Rampant Indra” shape when attacking downhill. Potts had since stymied that tactic by choosing to attack the Bee-Hole End second half when winning the toss, and Cullis had struggled to find an answer.

He’d tried the “Christian Burial Ground” shape: a rigid and narrow 3-2-3-2 with imaginary wingbacks; he’d experimented with “Tin O’Beef”, which was even more rigid, but used a creative midfielder with diminished responsibility to knit weaving runs through the banks of four which would “catch” the ball like a net (we lost that one 2-0). For the last ten minutes of one match he used an okey-cokey formation with no goalkeeper — all to no avail.

Turf Moor: the 1-in-3 gradient has been rebalanced in this image to save space on the internet.

On 24 November 1964 this prolonged tactical war would give rise to what coaches now know as the “hemi-semi umbilical F2” shape, but which Cullis called “Stubborn Betty”, allegedly after a cleaning lady past whom it was difficult to negotiate in the narrow corridors of the Waterloo Road Stand: one at the back plus the goalie, with seven players huddled around the ball at the corner flag on Ron Flowers’ side, stopping Burnley getting to it. Crawford and Le Flem were placed slightly higher up the field (about four feet), and instructed to crow at the Burnley players when their attempts to win the ball inevitably failed (not a natural role for the genial Ray Crawford, but one he performed very professionally, I thought).

We were unable to see the ball…

It worked rather well. So well, in fact, that during one spell we were unable to see the ball from our position in the Longside for thirteen straight minutes. Some people did leave early. A 1-1 draw was secured, which was a fairly decent return at Turf Moor in those days, and on the way out a rumour started that in a pub called the Star there was an Aleph where you could see every part of the universe, inside and out, at the same time, including yourself looking at the Aleph in the Star in Burnley. We headed instead to the Coach and Horses, where Dick Flint found a deep-fried beetle in his scratchings,

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Chelsea, 1969

Carnaby Street 1969; among the fab gear and the beautiful people, Dicky Toolan was looking down in the mouth.

“What’s up, mate?” I asked. Perenially unlucky in love, Dicky had recently split with a girl out of Chapel Ash name of Betty Bright, and, to help cheer him up, Nobby Clarke and I had forgone a pub-crawl in Leicester Square with the North Street lot plus some of the Subterraneans to indulge him with a bit of a fashion overhaul.

He hesitated. “I mean, it’s cool and everything,” he said, scratching at his unshaven cheek in the September sunshine, “but it’s just a bit too…,”

“Pricey?” asked Nobby.

Toolan shook his head, “No. I mean, yes, it is, but that’s not it. Look at that, for instance…” he said, pointing at a paisley-patterned Nehru jacket in shocking pink, “When would I ever wear that in Fighting Cocks?”

While he had a point, I couldn’t help thinking that if fitting in around Blakenhall was the object of the exercise he might as well have stuck to C & A. “There’s a new you somewhere round here,” I said, “just got to keep looking.”

This we did, with our suggestions being were more and more dolefully dismissed, and his becoming steadily less radical. I was about to suggest we call the whole thing off and find a pub when Dicky came to a sudden halt at the corner of Ganton Street.

“Now then,” he said, before a Georgian-barred bay window filled with antiquated evening-wear.

I glanced at Nobby, who rolled his eyes back at me.

“Here?” I asked.

A small bell tinkled assent as Toolan opened the door; behind the partitioned window display the shop was bereft of natural light, illuminated by a handful of candles – entering felt more archeology than retail therapy. I even thought I saw a rat scurry across the counter, but it appeared the other side of the counter atop the head of a tiny man, who darted straight into the back room. An excited mutter could be heard. “Master!” it said, “there are… people.”

“Do not call me that when we have visitors. Are they…?”

The muttering became inaudible. Toolan was eyeing up some silk imperials on a wall display.

There was refinement to this man but it was of an alien aesthetic. The details of his upbringing were appreciable but impenetrable, like ancient manuscript.

“Gentleman, you are wery welcome!” a deep, low voice came from the counter. A tall man with impressive sideburns introduced himself. “Lord Petru Szabo, at your service. This is Mosca, my famil…, my family member. Actually, we are not related. He is assistant.”

“Your sales assistant?” asked Nobby.

“Yes.”

“I like the cape you have in the window,” said Toolan.

“I like it also,” smiled Szabo. At the click of his fingers Mosca unlatched the small door to the window display and brought the cape to him. He held the garment in long, slender fingers with extraordinarily long nails. There was refinement to this man but it was of an alien aesthetic. The details of his upbringing were appreciable but impenetrable, like ancient manuscript.

“Would you give me fifteen pounds for it?” he asked.

“Fifteen quid?” gasped Toolan. Szabo gave a cool stare by way of response.

“It seems expensive,” I interjected.

“And square,” added Nobby. “There’s far fabber gear than this round here.”

Szabo’s expression turned to one of curiosity. “You are not from London,” and then, after briefly consulting with Mosca in a foreign tongue said, “Birmingham?”

Nobby shook his head. “We’re here to follow the Wolves.”

“Wolves, you say?”

“Ar.”

“Regent’s Park?”

“Chelsea.”

At this, Szabo and Mosca both became very agitated, jabbering excitedly in their other language. Eventually they composed themselves. “You are interested, gentlemen,” the taller man asked, “in the… supernatural?”

“Knocker is magic,” shrugged Nobby.

“Was magic, yer mean,” said Toolan.

“He’ll be back, I’m tellin’ yer.”

Szabo and Mosca resumed their secret dialogue, then Szabo said,

“Three pounds for the cape, and I will take you all for lunch.”

Having expressed his disgust for English cuisine, Szabo took us to the recently-opened Pizza Express on Wardour Street. I thought it was fab, but Toolan considered it “glorified cheese on toast.” The only beer on offer was bottled Double Diamond, and as soon as the meal ended we were keen for a decent pint, rather than the expensive wine Szabo was offering us. “We should head off,” I said.

“How are you travelling?”

“We sorted that out at Euston. Change at Charing Cross for the District Line.”

Szabo shook his head. “I have a better idea,” he said. As Mosca scuttled out of the restaurant, Szabo ordered a bottle of gin to take away, and ten minutes later we were climbing into a four-horse landau for a short hop to Leicester Square station.

“What is going on?” whispered Nobby to me as we stepped onto the escalator, behind (it so happened) Jack Dudley, “Tatter” Wollaston, and the rest of them, who were leaving the West End to continue their pub crawl in SW6.

“Mosca will be leawing us now,” said Szabo, “One of us should remain above ground.”

“Our next stop might well be our last,” he said darkly, as the guard told passengers to stand clear of the doors…

As we moved off west, Szabo began asking questions: when was the first time we saw the Wolves; had we ever been hurt following the Wolves; what precautions we took when following the Wolves at night, etc. It got pretty tedious, particularly as he never seemed very satisfied with our replies. When the train pulled into Knightsbridge, however, the questions stopped, and his mood changed.

“Our next stop might well be our last,” he said darkly, as the guard told passengers to stand clear of the doors, “Prepare yourselves, gentlemen.”

Two minutes later, a terrible metallic screech sliced the air and we were catapulted forwards. The train was at rest. I looked up from the floor and saw Szabo, a hungry look in his eyes, offering his hand to lift me. Back on my feet I looked around, confused. I felt weight to the air but no-one spoke. This was the tube after all.

The train’s engine shut off.

“So now it begins,” muttered Szabo, “Or wery soon, anyway. Give me a cigarette, Gonby.”

That was no way to cadge, but I had more on my mind than such qualms. What were we doing here, with a man we hardly knew on a route we hadn’t chosen? How had he known something would happen in this tunnel? Around him were cowboy hats, kaftans, more fur than a poacher’s kitchen, yet I found myself thinking “what kind of clarnet wears a cape?” I passed him a fag and my England’s Glory. He looked around the carriage with an arrogant air. “Poor fools have no idea,” he muttered, to no-one and everyone.

Now the lights went out. As Szabo took long draws on his cigarette his face was illuminated. Lost was all detail but for a calculation to the eyes. My heart beat firmly in my chest now, but all I could hear was my watch tick, tick.

Then it happened. First a crack of light appeared in the tunnel outside, and in less than a second the carriage was beseiged by bats. They banged against the windows, flew back, banged again. Like giant swarming insects they frenzied outside. Down the carriage a few of the young ‘uns started singing “You’ll Never Take The North Bank” but it did little to shake the blanket of nervous confusion. I smelt gin, and turned around; Szabo was dousing a seat, and then dropped his Woodbine onto it. It caught ablaze. The bats seemed to recede.

“Ha-ha! Begone, wermin of the night!”

The light in the tunnel now moved; it was a burning torch lighting a tall, shadowy figure in top hat and dark sideburns. Szabo was busy dousing another seat, mumbling to himself, “thinks he can defeat fire… should have ordered more garlic bread….”

“Mate,” said Toolan, “What on earth is going on?”

“All change. All change at Brompton Road. Mind the gap as you alight the train. The lifts are inactive; please use the stairs.”

Suddenly the driver’s cab door opened, and a balding figure in dark serge emerged, his face and neck covered in blood. I could see the front glass of the cab had been smashed. Unsteadily he made his way to where we stood and announced, “All change. All change at Brompton Road. Mind the gap as you alight the train. The lifts are inactive; please use the stairs.” The doors opened just as he collapsed to the floor; Toolan had to roll him over slightly to retrieve the shopping bag with his cape in it. The light had now disappeared from the tunnel, but Szabo was fashioning his own torch using his cane and cape, doused with the last of the gin. We all piled out onto a disused platform, and through the door from which the bats and shadowy figure had emerged. Behind us I could hear the guard shouting, “Jimmy, what’s going on?” With his makeshift torch held aloft, Szabo led the way into the bowels of the disused station.

“Wicious creatures,” he shouted, though we saw neither creatures nor humans in the torchlight, and then, more calmly, “use the handrails. Mind your step, ewerybody.”

It was a long climb but we eventually reached the foyer. This appeared to have been converted into office space at some time, perhaps the last war. There were footmarks in the dirt, not all human, and a rodent scent. Disgusting, in short, but Szabo seemed in no hurry to leave. He was heading towards a door marked “PRIVATE.” Toolan asked if we should follow.

I shook my head. “It’s gone half past one.”

As we emerged into the daylight we spotted Mosca’s landau double parked on the Brompton Road. “He’s in there,” I called, and the little man leapt from the box and scurried past us.

“Interesting chap,” I said.

“Both of them,” agreed Nobby.

“We’ll get the District Line back, eh?” suggested Jack Dudley, before suggesting the Bunch of Grapes.

It was a similar story at Stamford Bridge, in many ways, with all looking doomed after eighty minutes, before a Hugh Curran brace cancelled out goals from Dempsey and the tall, sideburned Peter Osgood, whose silhouette it may have been that we had seen in that abandoned station, for all any of us knew at that time.