Things to hold on to
Received anything nice in the post recently?
Last week I picked up a bundle from the mat with apprehension. Bills and notices including several brown envelopes, which rarely bring much joy.
But nestled neatly in this post was far more optimistic looking small parcel. A splash of colour. I figure any attractive looking post won’t usually be for me, but my name was handwritten on colourful packaging.
In the small parcel was a small book. And a letter, well a postcard, from a dear old friend. The book is ‘The Ice Warrior and other stories’ by an author named Robin Chambers.
Now I don’t think it’s a poor reflection of my friends and I that receiving such post isn’t a common occurrence! Who has the time or the inclination these days, to be so thoughtful, so kind, in this form? Running the gauntlet of Royal Mail can be off-putting – it was Jon’s second attempt to send the book to me, but after they failed to deliver it before Christmas, he sourced, bought and posted the book again.
When I last saw him in November, Jon had been kind enough to say my book Football Fables had stirred him, and even made him wonder if there was a genre in it. Such affirmation is vital fuel to writers. For a wordsmith (like me he is a veteran journalist, who lectures students too) to be so enthusiastic about your writing lifts the heart.
Those of you like Jon who have found my fables relatable would I’m sure appreciate receiving such a gift. This wasn’t what I intended to write this week, but as it’s so thoughtful, and so representative of my writing, I wanted to try and stir some nostalgia in you. For things. Things that are in physical form.
My fable Golden Eras is the one Jon best represents here, and I hope the title as wrongfooting as Johan Cruyff to his Swedish markers. It’s not just about nostalgia, it’s about refusing to be nostalgia-shamed, and about bringing things we love back. Things that disappeared without us ever tiring of them. Things being the operative word. Material things. In this case sporting.
The comic that dropped through the letter box on Saturday mornings. In my case Roy of the Rovers. These days, we’d be forced to wonder if Roy, Paco Diaz and Blackie Gray were always deployed in the right formation for Melchester Rovers, who would have improved their xGs (expected goals) with a deep block, but these were simpler times. It was the routine, the ritual, even the smell of Saturdays, the best day of the week.
Rothmans Football Annuals are given an honorary mention in Golden Eras, and if I’d had the room - or rather if my parents had the room - in their attic, I’d have held on to these precious books. As a child I studied them over and again. When I arrived in Fleet Street, the reporters would thumb through them (often falling apart from overuse) for our stats. These days we “Do A Google” (Copyright C4 sitcom Lee and Dean). Online searches are of course quick, easy, and about a fraction as satisfying. Bring back Encyclopaedia Britannica too!
If books weren’t so special I wouldn’t have had so many of you ask for my online fable to be in book form. Which was the main reason I was brave enough to do it. There’s nothing like a book and the feeling of being around them. (please see this short film on my return to childhood library after 40 years away).
I’m exactly the kind of person who collects football programmes. That I don’t is a quirk of spending so much time covering sports news I stopped reporting on actual matches, and didn’t have time to go to the games. I never re-established the routine. But if you have a programme collection, I bet it’s treasured, even if it takes a trip to the attic to find it.
New generations have thumbs the size of skittles from their gaming, and of course phone-use. But miss out on the joys of things like Subbuteo, another feature of Golden Eras. Is there more fun to be had arranging and flicking little figurines than dribbling past pixels with a joystick? Yes. How do I know this? Because I’m from the generation that had both in equal measure, albeit far less sophisticated computer games on out Commodore 64s and ZX Spectrums!
I can’t remember much about my early teenage computer gaming save for losing skin off my fingers from Daley Thompson’s decathlon, deploying an unbeatable method in Way of the Exploding Fist, and having a sudden random recent urge to play Paperboy and toss a newspaper across a street into a paper box.
But I remember like it was yesterday the Subbuteo tournaments with my friend Peter, including an entire 1980s World Cup in my bedroom where the Soviet Union shocked the Subbuteo world by storming into the final! And during the Italia ’90 World Cup we contested at Hayters Sports Agency Gerry Cox (now in charge 35 years later) beat allcomers with his Italy team, shouting “Schillaciiii” as he flicked another goal into the net of a hapless junior reporter colleague. And mainly I remember 1978. Opening that box. The Peru kit. The best kit in world sport, white with the distinctive red sash. Ten men and a goalkeeper. In their plastic compartments.
Footballs stickers too. The classic Panini albums. The little glimpse of silver from a badge, maybe even too, that made you feel like Charlie Bucket opening a Wonka bar. Strangely, it was a Birmingham City badge in a one-off felt-like material that stayed in my memory most. A true collector’s item, more precious even than the support of Tom Brady. (I’m kidding of course, the American takeover of English football clubs is, and will continue to be, one of the main subjects of The Sports Specialist).
Filling in sticker albums had a therapeutic, satisfying vibe. You don’t get that quiet feeling of joy from scrolling. Do people collect and cherish ‘streams’? No wonder many of us feel so nostalgic for actual ‘things’.
It’s not just football, not just sport, not just books. Music is the classic example of the beauty of ‘things’ in the world of streaming.
I’ve not returned properly to vinyl, because I listen to music on the move not as a background (we weren’t really a radio family and I’m not even big on music in the car). But the artwork and creativity of album, from the cover to the tracklist, or the choice of ‘b’ sides on singles, is something we remember so fondly (buying my favourite album on vinyl, the sublime Heaven or Las Vegas by the Cocteau Twins, is long overdue).
I mention this because of my intrigue of ‘things’ that elude the all-consuming streaming services. One of my favourite vinyls was an early 90s album called Boomerang by The Creatures (Siouxsie Sioux & Budgie from the Banshees). It can’t be streamed to my knowledge, nor is it even easy to access on YouTube. So it’s a favourite current example of something that is perfect as a physical thing, not a click and play.
Streaming Boomerang just wouldn’t do it full justice. There’s something disconcerting and thrilling about the weird cover, that is different, bold and exciting, and that’s part of the fun. I’ve never heard an album like it. Songs like Pluto Drive and Venus Sands make the album, and indeed The Creatures, feel otherworldly.
Who knows what house move led to this obscure work of art landing in a tip. I’m not a hoarder, but I bloody miss. It. That moment when the crackles are replaced by the electronic weird and wonderful sound of the intro to Pluto Drive just wouldn’t be the same without having removed the record from the sleeve first. Fair play to whoever has denied the rights to the streaming services. I like to think it was the magnificent Siouxsie herself, a woman who once chastised the public at a concert I was at in Camden for not sending the single ‘Say’ to number one in the charts. A perfect and formidable song in every aspect, it is proof that recognition of quality is not, and never will be, a fair business.
I’m not a film buff, far from it, but if I had a pound for everyone reminiscing about trips to Blockbusters over the past few years I’d be able to open my own nostalgia shop where Blockbusters used to be. Of course it could be a pain in the arse to nip to the High Street, and yes it’s easy to hit a couple of buttons from your sofa, but perusing video choices, physical cases, was part of a process we didn’t know we’d ever miss.
In 1984 I jumped on a bus for a 40-minute ride to Eltham High Street and bought Two Tribes by Frankie Goes to Hollywood, prior to being blown away by producer Trevor Horn’s absurdly good intro, one of the best pieces of production it’s possible to hear than has endured over four decades. There’s lots I’ve forgotten. But funny how I remmeebr that journey and others like it. Kudos to HMV’s owner for understanding the desire to hunter gather with your legs rather than your thumbs.
This is all a bit ironic for someone writing on an online subscription platform - but being nostalgic and appreciating the effect of real things on our senses is something that I am always keen to include in my work. It matters to me. Content cannot always be neatly packed in rows like Blockbusters, HMV and Subbuteo.
Returning to Jon’s lovely gesture. The Ice Warrior’s yellowing pages told stories I wasn’t expecting. From the cover, and bearing in mind my own stories, I thought this book would be all about football. In fact Robin Chamber’s 1976 book, is about the supernatural, something I don’t usually read. I can see why the stories had such a lasting effect on Jon and other young readers, taking the reader out of reality into disconcerting and bizarre places. Partly amusing but sometimes terrifying.
Receiving it has inspired me to post a book to someone else. And gives me an excuse to go hunting in an old bookshop. Perhaps the only thing to rival receiving a sudden gift like this, is to actually meet up. Jon and I have met mutual friends every last Friday in November for 30 years, in Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese pub in Fleet Street. It’s rare to do things like this, in a world where making plans is a bold strategy as we’re constantly scrambling to keep up.
No wonder these things inform so much of my writing, where sport is used simply to explore life. And in my fable Monblu, the quiet despair of our ‘scrolling and screentime’ existence led me to write about a man who throws his phone out of the window and rediscovers himself on a journey (through Scotland).
Thank you Jon. In these disconcerting times of streaming and screaming, little acts of kindness are something to hold on to.
Lee Wellings is an author, sports journalist and broadcaster for BBC, ITN, Sky News and other global media organisations. His book Football Fables is available now. New online fables and articles are available with a subscription to Substack, and a monthly fee is available should you want to try it first. Lee recommends the annual subscription which is less money per month (around £2).