I didn’t need Fulham to tell me that Christmas
was f***ed. I knew this already. With my daughter almost adult now, it was yet again a
case of going through the motions (pun intended). But was it my jaundiced eye or were so
many young families seeing things similarly? This thought came to me while in mid-shop.
(Ten presents in less than sixty minutes. A piece of piss.) Anyway, I had happened upon
the Bentalls’ Christmas teddies. There they were, all gorged with steroids, mouthing
off a dire collection of Christmas songs. I have to say that the lip synch techniques on
‘Winter Wonderland’ were in the Milli Vanilli league. But it was just part of
the usual crappy ritual. I think the kids, as much as their exhausted parents were almost
grateful to that low-life voter with a vodaphone who brought their lip service to an
abrupt end. For into their midst, he stumbled, full of festive intoxication, while
blasting into his mobile, "Don't call me a f***ing c***, you f***ing c***! No one
calls me a f***ing c***. Not even you, you f***ing c***!" This spectre of Christmas
Present certainly achieved something I’d failed to do, in creating a solitary space
in that jostling throng. Just as the teddies started into ‘White Christmas’, he
wheeled around on them, yelling, "F*** off!"
Christmas wasn’t always like this, though. Perhaps I
hadn’t been as battered by the hype as kids are today. Can I get any grouchier? Quite
probably. But when you’re young and mercenary, you’ll subscribe to the crap, if
it brings the right kind of rewards. When I was young, the right kind of reward was a good
indoor game. No, not those wretched board, or should I say bored, games like Monopoly or
Cluedo. I never took any pleasure in being the Rachman of the Old Kent Road. The games
which counted were the football and cricket table games. In fact, Christmas ratings
depended upon the quality of the game received. In good years, there was magnetic football
and Discbat cricket. In leaner years there was Cricket at Lords and Blow (if only it was!)
Football. Although in fairness, Cricket at Lords proved to be a hysterical hit at a
drunken party many years later. Imagine if you can a catapult bowler, with the proportions
of the Oval gasometer, delivering a small red ball at Exocet pace to an umbrella field of
Colin Cowdrey clones. Apart from the occasional stratospheric six, runs were usually hard
to come by, particularly when piss artists were at the crease.
But the game which made the biggest impact was Subbuteo. At first, I
greeted it cautiously. It was much more difficult to master than the other table games.
But it had real nets. The joy of pinging the rigging. Except the only way of pinging with
reliability was to place my forwards one inch from goal with no defender in sight. I had
to apply barn door principles to my target practice. After all, I had to satisfy my lust
for goal somehow. For in a real contest I had no chance.
Basically, it was their diet that was to blame. Those early Subbuteo
players were so emaciated, so two-dimensional. In truth, they looked as if they had just
completed work on the Burma Railway. There seemed to be some nutritional imbalance in
these games. My first Subbuteo team were obviously Third World relatives to the Cricket at
Lords’ gutbuckets. They could have all done with fat transplants, courtesy of the
corpulent Cowdreys. But I tried to give mine a good time. I would often line them up in
front of the tele, so that they could watch Laramie. They liked that.
As with all these table games, local leagues were quickly arranged.
But what made those early Subbuteo contests so engaging was the absence of the real thing.
For Subbuteo was my gift for Christmas 1962. On Boxing Day it snowed. The next day it
snowed some more. And so it went on, with the brown salt only pocking the increasing
accumulations. For almost three months there was no respite. The Arctic Tundra extended
its ice sheets to the Home Counties, putting football, and therefore life, on hold. For a
while I would watch the Pools Panel deliberate on Grandstand. Then, it was a spectator
sport, though it felt like a parlour game for nuclear survivors. In that frozen winter,
Subbuteo became a substitute for our addiction. A bit like Methadone, really.
We would try and tart the games up with simulated crowd noises. One
friend had taped some real ones on his Dad’s cumbersome Westminster. He added a few
of his own, too, like "You’re going to get your f***ing heads kicked in."
You see, he believed in creating an intimidating atmosphere for his home games. This was
fine until his mum once overheard. With one sweep of her arm, she cleared the pitch,
hissing that "She wasn’t going to have language like that in her house." I
think the FA and Football League should start employing mums if they’re really
serious about cleaning up the crowds’ chanting.
Mostly, games were taken in good part. That is, until Nige joined
the league. He acquired all the posh stuff. He was the first to have three-dimensional
players. He had the ball-raising chutes. And, of course, he was the first to have a
stadium, manager, trainer, hooligans, the touts, the groupies, the lot. Everybody hated
him for it. That would have been OK if all this opulence was just show. But he had the
ability to go with it. Just like bloody Man. U. While my donkeys brayed and hoofed to no
effect, he would play precisely through his midfield, carefully manoeuvring his forwards
into goalscoring positions. They rarely let him down, the bastard. The only thing that
hurt him was when I spilled some Ribena on his new pitch. For a further season his home
ground became Quentin Tarantino’s field of dreams.
He was no pushover, our Nige. He had committed all the rules to
memory, quickly scuppering my frequent but forlorn bursts at bullshit. Then, I would have
given anything to beat him. I even once tried to bully him into a game when he was
suffering from gastro-enteritis, thinking I could take advantage. Talk about shit or bust.
But it was to no avail. He just punished me harder for being a scumbag.
Many, many years later, I got my wish. Sure, we’d been up the
pub and yes we were adults. But that night I swear I was on fire. While his effete
midfielders ponced and fannied around in circles, I went straight for the jugular. OK it
was route-one stuff but that can be poetic, too. At least, it is when you’re 5-0 up.
The ironic thing is that when it was all over, I couldn’t care a toss. Call it
greater maturity if you like. I think it’s more to do with the perverse way that
things work out. When you really, really want something, it rarely happens for you (well,
that’s my pessimistic view). On the other hand, when it’s there lying in your
lap, you’re not so fussed anymore.
I know Subbuteo isn’t as popular as it once was. That’s
down to those dreadful computer games. (Luddite and grouchy. I know how to enter middle
age in style.) But I don’t want Klinsmann diving into my fantasies. The computer
games leave little for your imagination. It’s all defined for you, the players, the
crowd, the singing, the commentary. No, give me the power of the finger. So, if
there’s anybody out there, jaded by Christmas and Chris Waddle, a flicking good time
might be your remedy.
