They call them \u201cplastics\u201d these days, but they\u2019ve gone under many names over the years: glory-hunters, cup-hunters, May-wonders, one-season diehards, Match-of-the-Daydreamers, Ferguson Televisions, Fickle Prats, SW6000s, Revie\u2019s bitches, the Scouse-in-his-house, Arse an\u2019alls, the Double bubble, Half-day Wednesday, all the way back to Suddenerland and Hey! Preston. Back in the fifties, we were still calling them Bakelites, and Wolves, it must be said, had more than their fair share.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Now it never really mattered to me whether a chap had supported the Wolves for a day, a season, a decade or a lifetime. Neither did I care whether he was born within the sound of the bells of St Luke\u2019s, how he pronounced \u2018grey peas and bacon\u2019, or, for that matter, whether he could digest grey peas and bacon (though on that matter I do have one simple rule: if you can\u2019t digest it, don\u2019t bloody eat it<\/em>). True, as the last of the Stafford Road diehards trundled down Fox\u2019s Lane and up the Waterloo Road during the cup run of \u201849, it was natural to feel a certain resentment, but when it came to converts further afield, why not? Armchair fans could be generous hosts and helpful allies on tricky away days, and, let\u2019s face it, accent and dialect matter very little when you\u2019re all cheering an away goal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Eh yiw frum Wolv\u2019ramptin?\u2019 said a little voice as I alighted the train whose loco stood hyperventilating before it\u2019s next dash onwards.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Yes we are,\u2019 I said, lifting my trilby to the old lady in greeting. Jack Dudley and \u2018Chimdy\u2019 Potts joined me on the platform and followed suit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The woman turned to walk with us and the nasal voice recommenced. \u2018It\u2019s mah kneebour. A wunder if you can help meh?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Your neighbour?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Aye. He\u2019s mad on Wolves.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Since when?\u2019 asked Jack (who didn\u2019t quite share my spirit of inclusiveness).<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Ooh, years now. A good five years.\u2019 I didn\u2019t need to glance over at Jack to know that he\u2019d be rolling his eyes by now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018What\u2019s his problem?\u2019 I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Well, we don\u2019t have many Wolves fans around where we live: Pike Hill. There are some over a bit further west, oop bah cemetary. But they in\u2019t very, sociable like\u2026\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018What, does he want to join us for a drink?\u2019 I asked, looking for a pub as we stepped out of the station.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018He would. I know he would. It\u2019s just that\u2026\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018I\u2019ll buy him one.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Very kahnd, Ah\u2019m shooer. Nor. Problem is he warn\u2019t leave ows. Freed o\u2019 bein\u2019 bollied.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Bullied?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Since summer o\u2019 sixty. Warn\u2019t leave ows.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n We stopped short. Being pipped to the championship that year still held a vicious sting. A hat-trick of titles, it would have been, and the first double of the modern era. \u2018Took it hard, did he?\u2019 I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Aye. Warn\u2019t leave ows.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Lambs\u2019 kidneys fo\u2019 hotpot.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n We agreed to look in on him. There was plenty to see. Mrs Glover watched on with a kind of maternal pity as Norman tried to switch his weight from one enormous buttock to the other, on the three-seat sofa into which he had somehow been squeezed. \u2018Greengrocers don\u2019t deliver,\u2019 he said by way of explanation, \u2018Butcher does but it\u2019s all cheap cuts.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018You not working, Norm?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018No.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018What do you expect him to do, Gonby? Crush cars at the scrap yard?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018That\u2019s enough of that, Jack.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018I knoo ah\u2019ve put on a bi\u2019 o\u2019 wheat\u2026\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked at the mantle. It was a relief. Next to a carriage clock, the photo of a much thinner man wearing Norman\u2019s spectacles looked back at me. \u2018Is it just scratchings the butcher sends you\u2026?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Bit o\u2019 tripe. Lambs\u2019 kidneys fo\u2019 hotpot.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Can you still get through the front door?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Prob\u2019ly not. Don\u2019t reelly want teh.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Got any clothes?\u2019 he currently wore a king-size bed sheet tied around his neck like a barber\u2019s cape.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018No.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n The room fell silent. I thought about the pub.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018What d\u2019yer think?\u2019 said Mrs Glover, nervously. Norman shifted his wait towards her. Towards pretty much everything, in fact.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Well,\u2019 I said, lighting a Senior Service, \u2018I\u2019m no doctor, Mrs Glover, and I\u2019m a Wolves man through and through. I don\u2019t know what I should do without me babbies, and so what I\u2019m going to say, well, you need to understand it doesn\u2019t come out easily. It\u2019s no glib refrain, like the offhand remarks Harry Lumm uses to avoid buying a round.\u2019 (Jack and Chimdy hummed and nodded in recognition at this remark) \u2018For that reason, I think you should both listen, and listen carefully.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n A muffled sound came from toward the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Could you pull your stomach over towards the window, please, Norman? I think Mrs Glover is trying to say something.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n Norman heaved a stone of midriff up from the floor and over the arm of the couch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018You\u2019re pathetic, mate, to be honest….\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Very well, Mr Gonby,\u2019 said the less-obstructed Mrs Glover, \u2018That\u2019s all reet, Norman, in\u2019t it?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Yes,\u2019 said Norman, his eyes looking floorwards, their gaze obstructed by masses of fat loosely pertinent to his pectorals.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018I think he should stop supporting the Wolves,\u2019 I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Never!\u2019 said Norman, raising his blubbery arms with such force that Chimdy and Jack hugged their overcoats tight against the draught, \u2018I\u2019m Wolves thriu and thriu!\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018But what good\u2019s it doing you?\u2019 I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018It dun\u2019t matter! It\u2019s a passion! I can\u2019t control it!\u2019 his voice raised in volume and pitch, and his eyes pleading with me for recognition. I turned to Jack Dudley. He knew what he had to do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Lighting a cigarette, he surveyed the bedsheeted figure, \u2018You\u2019re pathetic, mate, to be honest,\u2019 he began, \u2018You have nothing at all to do with Wolverhampton Wanderers, or with Wolverhampton,\u2019 a gust of Senior Service accompanied these opening shots, like the rumour of an arson attack in some textile warehouse or paper mill. Or a fireworks warehouse. \u2018You\u2019ve never even stood on the South Bank, let alone gone where the real fans go. We talked more Wolves on the train in from Preston than you have in your lifetime. I\u2019ll bet you pronounce Trysull \u201cTry-sull\u201d and \u201cWhitmore Reans\u201d \u201cWhit-more Reans.\u201d You and your kind make me sick! They\u2019re called \u201cWolverhampton Wanderers\u201d for a reason! Their victories are our victories! Mine! Gonby\u2019s! Chimdy\u2019s! Not Dave from Shoreditch\u2019s! Not Klaus from D\u00fcsseldorf\u2019s! Not Madame Marie-Charlotte of the Dix-Huiti\u00e8me Arrondissement\u2019s! And not fat Norman from bloody Burnley\u2019s! One of these days you\u2019re going to have to get used to that — might as well be today. Yow ay welcome. I mean, what made you think you would be? I\u2019d rather watch the game with Gonby and Chimdy here, surrounded by Burnley fans, than fill an entire Bee Hole End with one-game-a-season diehards like you. Not that we\u2019d get anybody else on there, once we\u2019d shoved you in through the exit gates.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018But\u2026\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018I haven\u2019t finished yet,\u2019 snapped Jack, drawing deep on his cigarette, \u2018I work in a tyre factory. You ever been in one of them?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n Norm shook his head, still gazing downwards. I thought he might start to cry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018You know when you\u2019m a kid, and you walk into a shoe shop or a carpet shop, and you have to catch your breath because of the smell of rubber? It\u2019s like that, but a thousand times worse. First time you go in, you think everybody\u2019s keeping a secret. \u201cThey\u2019m playing a trick on me,\u201d you think, \u201cpretending they can breathe when it\u2019s obvious that nobody could possibly breathe in here.\u201d You think they\u2019ll open the doors in a minute and get some fresh air in there. But they don\u2019t. They never do. And when you finish your shift you look like a tyre \u2013 black everywhere, even under your clothes. I get through that every day thinking about the Wolves. I replay Saturday\u2019s game in my head, and imagine next Saturday\u2019s game. I remember the greatest goals I ever saw, the greatest passes, the greatest tackles. That\u2019s how I get through eight hours without going spare. And then, when I finish, I head straight to the pub and talk about the Wolves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018What do you think about? Norm? The colour of the shirts? How many letters are in the name? And who do you talk about it with? Mrs Glover here?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n He was crying now, plump tears finding deep valleys across the fat frown.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Ooh, I dun\u2019t mahnd him talking about futeball tiu meh\u2026\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Shut up, Mrs Glover — I’m not talking to you. Norm, you chose the Wolves because we were winning. What\u2019s the best Wolves can give you now? Confirmation? A reminder? You might have to wait, you know. It might take twenty years, or thirty, or forty. But when they win something for us, by which I mean: the people that actually support them<\/em>, they\u2019re giving us a once-in-a-lifetime gift. A moment of true joy. If I never get it again, I\u2019ll know I lived. That\u2019s something you\u2019ll never experience, and I pity you and the rest of your pathetic kind. Where are your parents?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018They\u2019re dead.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Well, they\u2019d be ashamed of you. Mrs Glover’s ashamed of you. Gonby\u2019s ashamed of you, and he doesn\u2019t even know you. I mean, even people who spend their lifetimes waiting, and who never win anything \u2013 Blues fans, Stoke fans, Walsall fans, Stafford Road fans \u2013 at least they had a dream worth having. You\u2019ve got nothing. You only chose us because we were champions; every year we\u2019re not champions is a year of failure for you. You failed, Norman. You failed at being unoriginal, — imagine that! To fail at jumping the queue, at swapping a lifetime\u2019s ambition for a smug grin on a Monday morning. How does it feel, Norm? How does it feel to sell your soul for small change, and then spend the small change on absolute crap?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n Norman didn\u2019t answer. The carriage clock next to the photograph of the happier, slimmer Norman, ticked, and the room fell still under its metronome.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018We\u2019d better be going,\u2019 I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018What time\u2019s kick-off?\u2019 asked Mrs Glover.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Ask Norman,\u2019 replied Jack, \u2018He\u2019s the Wolves fanatic, right Norm?\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mrs Glover saw us out, leading us down the stairs as Norman sniffled and sobbed behind us. It was a relief to reach the pavement, though the November air was bitter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Thank you ever so much boys,\u2019 said Mrs Glover, effusively, \u2018I really appreciate it.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018That\u2019s quite all right,\u2019 I replied, wrapping my scarf around my neck, \u2018I think you\u2019ll see a change in him over the next few weeks.\u2019<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018What was all that about?\u2019 asked Jack with a frown, once Mrs Glover had gone back inside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u2018Never mind,\u2019 I said, starting to walk, \u2018I think I saw a pub up here on the right.\u2019<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Back in those days, we were calling them ‘Bakelites”..<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":758,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-757","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/gonbys.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/757","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/gonbys.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/gonbys.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gonbys.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gonbys.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=757"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/gonbys.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/757\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gonbys.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/gonbys.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=757"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gonbys.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=757"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gonbys.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=757"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}