Those of you who know me well may be
alarmed to know that, chronically short-sighted though I've been for years, only recently
have I taken to wearing glasses. That first game with them on was sensational. Imagine,
all the players had numbers on their backs. They didn't all look the same. Farrell
and Measham were indeed quite distinct, John Deary turned out to be cursed with a scouse
haircut and Steve Harper with a bad 'tache and Mike Conroy, sadly, was much much uglier
than one might have thought. As you can see, it was something of a mixed blessing even
then, and not everything came as a surprise; Paul Wilson was an ugly skinhead and
Pender was indeed an old donkey, as had long been suspected. You don't need that
many senses intact to spot some things, and in fact many of us are used to operating on
less than the full complement of faculties. Though we may be half incapacitated by alcohol
half the time, even full scale blindness would not disguise some of Parkinson's obvious
shortcomings. But what an advance for me it was from the days when the first Davis led
team of blond clones proved so difficult for this Longside squinter.
It took my brother some time to grow out of his previously essential
habit of describing to me every non John Francis goal. Now I could actually see the damn
thing hitting the back of the net. Of course, this being Burnley, they served up the treat
of an almost defeat at home to Bradford for my fully-sighted debut. Only a Slawson strike
(to be Reanyish for a moment) and a stoppage time McCarthy own goal - and it wasn't to be
the last time his path would cross our's - saved us that time. While we're on this
subject, does anyone know why we always do so well at Bradford only to mess it up at home?
Since then, of course, these glasses have looked on the whole spectrum of triumph and
despair, from the halcyon days of Plymouth and Wembley to that nightmarish string of
capitulations at Tranmere, Watford and Derby last term. Incidentally, it was between final
whistle and pitch invasion at Plymouth that we came across the most curious relic of that
day's excesses: a half-trampled pair of Eric Morecambe style glasses on the away end,
without the lenses. Someone must have had some explaining to do when they got home that
night. Naturally they were worn in the subsequent celebrations by our delirious editor,
who probably doesn't want to be reminded about kissing the penalty spot that night. For
all I know they were taken to Wembley as a token, and probably clutched for those last few
days before we finally got to full time.
I still sport the same pair I always have, which defies all
probability as they have played their part in my uniquely accident-prone approach to
celebrations. No really good game is complete, it seems, without at least a nasty fall. I
suppose that's the only way of celebrating a surely never to be repeated last gasp
Parkinson equaliser, and the severe bruising I sustained on that occasion was of a
sufficiently high standard to remind me of that goal for the next couple of weeks. Then
there is the old favourite, the taxi head bang, as perfected at Bournemouth, where I
didn't feel a thing. So many Sundays lead to the discovery of mysteriously torn articles
of clothing and Claret and yellow bruises for which one can provide no rational
explanation. Actually, I have a faint idea that the large centre chest bruise found the
morning after Peterborough may have had something to do with the post I walked into
immediately after the game. In mitigation I can only offer the fact that we were, it being
Halloween, wearing rather implausibly ugly masks (please send your jokes to the usual
address). The design of these masks is of course discriminatory in that you can't wear
your glasses over the top, as they would tend to fall off. The only way to stay the life
and soul of the party and still know where you're going is, therefore, to wear one's
glasses concealed beneath the horrible plastic visage. This is difficult, and even then
vision is substantially restricted, as the eyeholes and lenses only match very
imperfectly. Manufacturers please take note. And did we really have to cross so many roads
in Peterborough?
For the game I took the mask off. After clearing the by now
accustomed Lloydyesque hurdles of "why don't you take it off, oh you have done"
etc, I was free to watch the game. Everyone knows what happened next, and if you weren't
there, you should rue that missed opportunity for the rest of your life (note to editor:
will this pass as a match report?) Suffice to say here, thank you Swanno, in fact thanks
to all of the team, even the ones I don't like, but above all, special thanks to Mick
Halsall - whoever you are - for not realising that the Paul Shaw you played in midfield
was the same Paul Shaw who proved such a good striker for us last season.
After the first goal we went wild, but assumed, I suppose, that
normal service would soon be resumed and equality restored. Then came the second,
`Macca's' goal, although we couldn't see a thing from the terrace, where opinion as to the
scorer was divided between Parkinson and Hoyland. That's when things started to go wrong.
In the frenzy of our celebration the glasses slipped. I retrieved them in the nick of time
before they were mashed by some ruffian's boots, but then they slipped again. Luckily, my
inflated stomach doubles as a rather handy shelf and the glasses' progress stopped there.
The male-bonding melee ran its course, calm of a kind eventually broke out and I felt it
safe to reestablish my specs in their rightful place. Only to find them crushed, horribly
twisted, almost deformed...
The rest of the half was spent attempting to bend my sad spectacles
into a recognisable shape, or at least one that would fit a normal human face (the thought
of donating them to Mr Harper did cross my mind.) They probably fitted the mask better
now. During this remedial bending the left lens popped out, calling on a save of Beresford
(this season) proportions to stop the situation getting worse. The details of the game
were eluding me, and if at that stage we had scored a third the game might have been up
for the glasses. Thankfully, the element of fantasy in the evening was never going to
stretch that far, and with glasses eventually restored to something resembling
respectability I could eat pie and look upon a competent and professional
display characterised by teamwork. Truly, there was magic in the air that night.
So the moral of this, if there is one, is to take care when
celebrating those special moments, and to look out for your bespectacled brethren. Perhaps
the problem lies in the almost total absence of glasses-wearing role models in football.
Obviously players have to opt for contact lenses, although sometimes it seems they have
left them at home, and referees clearly struggle on manfully with no artificial assistance
at all. Yet even managers don't seem to wear them, although this must come in handy for
those 'I didn't see the incident' type excuses. I suspect personal vanity is to blame.
Leighton James, who had both talent and vanity in equal measure, would often wear glasses
as a disguise, I seem to recall from a seventies football annual feature. Apparently it
worked, and the young Leighton would often take a Friday night turn about town revelling
in the anonymity this simplest of devices conferred. The only four-eyed manager I can
think of is Graham Turnip. Oh dear, better make that ex-manager.
Well, you may see me from time to time offering them to referees in
a fit of cliched sarcasm - making a spectacle of myself, indeed - but for the most part
they serve me well. I often see that Mr McCluggage squinting gamely having left his at
home, vain man that he is, and many have been the times when had I not had mine we would
never have found that pub. He enjoys one advantage over me, I suppose, but if it comes to
that I can catch up: when we're playing badly, I can always take them off.
