\u201cBloomin\u2019 heck, Natty! What brings you here!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was the first time I\u2019d seen Nathaniel \u2018Gypsy\u2019 Palmer since Wolves had left their old Dudley Road ground, never to return. In the days when football as we knew it, its rites and its rituals, were still being invented, Gypsy was somehow already a traditionalist. Though Molineux was closer to his home in Chapel Ash, he refused to follow the club there, and gave up what I\u2019d considered his true passion for philately. His eyeglasses had become noticeably thicker in the intervening years. Yet here he was in the Sandon, Anfield, sipping his mild ale as if it was the King\u2019s Arms in 1883.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cJust saying goodbye to the old place. You know they probably won\u2019t be here next year?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019d heard nothing of the sort. Anfield was synonymous with Everton, just as Fox\u2019s Lane was with Stafford Road. You got one, you got the other. Now, according to Gypsy, infighting at the top table of the club meant a new chapter in the salmon-shirted Scousers’ history was soon to open. And it was no surprise that that, and not the useless Stokey referee or Will Devey’s brave goal, was all he wanted to talk about.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAny idea where they\u2019ll be moving to?\u201d I asked, as Jack Dudley headed to the bar. It wasn\u2019t really his round, but Gypsy\u2019s abandoning of Wolves had always left a bitter taste in his mouth. Jack, at the end of the day, was a simple chap. Between loyalty and betrayal there was only desert, and the occasional homeless wanderer. Gypsy\u2019s nickname was borne entirely of his surname, but there was a resonance there that Jack could simply not resist. \u201cAny decent pubs nearby?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ve no idea, Gonby. All I know is I shan\u2019t be going there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI wish you would, Natty. You don\u2019t see it, mate, but it\u2019s just the same at the Molineux Grounds. This nostalgia of yours \u2013 I wish you\u2019d realize it doesn\u2019t matter. Sorry to say so, but it\u2019s nonsense.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo it isn\u2019t, Gonby. And I thought you of all people would understand that. Thank you Jack \u2013 a half will do just fine\u2026\u201d The Sandon was brimming now, and the returning pint glasses, as a consequence, were anything but. Gypsy took the only long draught left in his fresh glass and continued, \u201cWhat we do here, in the pub and at the football, is mark our time on this earth. If we don\u2019t have this, the meeting places and the schedules, the story that brings us together, what are we, but machines with muscles? Oh, you can have your church if you want it, but that\u2019s about the time after you\u2019ve gone, and I see little use in that. Our spiritual work consists of forgetting the time we\u2019re at work, lifting, twisting, bending and carrying, and remembering those moments when we are the agents of our lives. When you have children, God willing, they will follow you here \u2013 to the pub and to the ground \u2013 and one day you will leave them here and they will continue their journey into time, remembering you as they do it. The players will change, the manager will change\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSoon I hope!\u201d shouted Arthur Pilsbury from another table. Jack Addenbrooke already had his detractors\u2026.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFor all we know maybe the colours \u2018ll change an\u2019all. But the places shouldn\u2019t. These places ought to be our own. I don\u2019t want to walk past here in five years and see a house.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo-one\u2019s invisin\u2019 yez!\u201d shouted a local from the skittles table, to the third Scouse roar we\u2019d endured that afternoon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201c\u2026these are our cathedrals, Gonby. There\u2019s a reason why the Queen was crowned in Westminster Abbey, and not Darlington Street\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe main\u2019un bayin\u2019 her\u2019s not a Methodist!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201c\u2026an\u2019 I doubt Westminster Abbey smells of dog dirt and urine!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDudley Road is home, God damn it!\u201d shouted Gypsy, the anger in his voice in no way displacing the characteristic sadness. The metaphorical soapbox was splintering under his feet, but his words resonated with me, cutting through the cackles and apathy like a bugle playing the last post. I didn\u2019t miss Dudley Road, and I didn\u2019t expect to miss Anfield, even if these rumours of his proved to be true. But I did miss Gypsy. I missed his zeal, his moral depth. Like most of the pub, all I wanted, or thought I wanted, was a few laughs and a few goals every Saturday \u2013 I didn\u2019t look any further into it than that. But standing grimly in the lean-to on the Goldthorn Hill side, Natty Palmer had always appeared to be waiting for something more, and part of me used to hope each week that he\u2019d finally found it. Now as we played dominos in new inns or wandered through Peak District caves trying to find our way home from Preston, he would be sitting alone by his fire in Chapel Ash, tweezers in hand, pasting stamps into a scrapbook. Of course he\u2019d made a category error, confusing the venue with the event; we could all see that, on one level. But can the event truly be sacred, if the venue is ephemeral and profane? Once franked, those stamps of Gypsy\u2019s couldn\u2019t go anywhere; they had reached their destination. But his beloved Wolves were wanderers forever now, hanging their hats only for convenience. And no doubt Everton would be leaving behind some of his kind, too. Some people seem to be born to be memories, rather than people we remember. As we left the Sandon to begin our journey back to South Staffordshire, our goodbyes all felt final. And not only because Gypsy had travelled with the Newhampton Hang-Gliding Wolves, and the sun had long since set on Mow Cop.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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