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GREAT EXPECTATIONS 21-9-06
Calum Law
Six-foot-two, eyes of blue,
Stuart Boam is after you!
La-la-la-la, la-la-la, la-la.
In hindsight one can appreciate how remote were our chances. It was frankly fanciful in the extreme that the Boro skipper would be weighing out Cough Candy in his Mam and Dad's St Barnabas Road shop an hour before he was due to lead out the Reds to the invigorating bugle blast of March of the Champions.
Though in our heart of hearts we knew he was polishing off his pre-match steak and chips, many a small boy like myself would carefully husband his pocket money (across the pasture of temptation that was Saturday morning) in fervent hope that he would discover whether those eyes were, as the song implied, icy-blue and ruthless, or whether the Holgate was guilty of understandable poetic licence.
Irritatingly, the teller of the tallest tales at Boynton Comp - one Richard Henry - lived but a few doors down from our confection-stuffed shrine, and it was thus impossible to contradict his incessant intimations that (so frequently did Captain-My-Captain lovingly pop a gobstopper into the little squirt's mendacious cakehole) the boy Richard was now, to all intents and purposes, Boam's surrogate son (or at the very least his favourite nephew).
But though Fate had bafflingly promoted Richard Henry, there nonetheless remained a feeling amongst those less favoured that, just as our bag of Sherbet Lemons would fuse itself inseparably to the lining of our trouser pocket, so our lives were somehow, less tangibly but no less mysteriously bound up with those of our idols.
Ma and Pa Boam (and Bill Gates in his Sports Shop) were proof that, though they necessarily inhabited a more rarefied realm, footballers still breathed much the same air. (Upon their retirement, this was, frequently, literally the case - the air in question being the stale fug of the Rose and Crown as the landlord with arthritic knees would play King Anecdote to a retinue of the feckless.)
Ashley Cole could probably afford to buy everyone in Britain a bag of Sherbet Lemons. Not that it would occur to him: because, you see, Ashley's not like us. We know that this is the case because, if he were like us he presumably wouldn't insult our intelligence. For what else can we assume is going on as he forces us to listen his pathetic and ludicrous jeremiads. How are those who, like myself, can barely afford to attend one or two games a season - let alone take one's young nephews - supposed to react when Cole protests: 'I'm not greedy'? 'Oh, I quite see your point, Ashley'?
As for invoking 'matters of principle', that's just obscene - and other columnists have been quick to point out the contrast with our own Wilf Mannion, who spent his latter years in destitution (and whose boots Cole is, as the cliché has it, not fit to lace).
Footballers now officially live on a different planet, and what is most depressing is that it's most eager residents often appear to be those (like the son-of single-mum Cole and Beckham with his penchant for gold-plated snooker tables) that emerged from backgrounds that one might have expected would inculcate a degree of sensitivity as to their good fortune.
Football has always been a working-class game, and nothing better illustrates the extent to which the Thatcherite ethos destroyed working-class values in this country than the heedless avarice of the modern player. Once upon a time, if you had your head turned by an extra five-bob a week you'd 'fess up, not bleat about the 'lack of respect' you felt your present position afforded.
So Ashley, if you're reading (hey, you never know!), we accept your right to earn as much dough as you can - for it's a right we claim for ourselves. And we can appreciate that the pulchritudinous Cheryl probably comes with a portfolio of expectations that would make even a man of your means blanch. But whilst we're surely touched by your certitude that the first time you laid eyes on her you knew she'd be your wife, you may care to give pause for thought that, had she not known you were a Premiership millionaire as you approached with that predatory look in your eye, she may have imagined you were about to mug her.
So do us a favour my left-footed chum: take the money - and shut it. Because if you want, as you put it 'respect' from the ordinary joe in the street (in which not too long ago you lived), then you have to carry yourself with integrity - you have to earn it. Like your ex-teammate Gilberto, who diverts much of his earnings into educating slum children in Sao Paolo - or Lilian Thuram who charmingly gave his ticket allocation for the recent France international to a group of immigrants threatened with eviction/deportation from a government building in which they were squatting. Men whose fame, whose luck has not gone to their heads.
No Toffee Bon-Bons for you Ashley I'm afraid - you get the black Midget Gems (no racism intended).
Little Porritt
Like all Boro fans I watched the Panorama expose of Chelsea's solicitation of Middlesbrough schoolboy Nathan Porritt in a state of volcanic indignation - which was only partially mitigated upon learning that the boy who was '99.9% certain to leave Boro had ultimately signed on with us as an Academy player.
But what, it's legitimate to wonder, prompted such an unlikely volte face by the Porritts of Coulby Newham? Was it, as the grubby little Geordie agent seemed to imply, because Chelsea were expected to dig a whole lot deeper into Roman's tardis-like pockets? Did young Nathan ne'er actually wish to step beyond that luminous petrochemical horizon - or was it simply that Gibbo came in with a bigger offer?
What's for sure is that the more money washes into football the more fascinatingly tawdry the whole soap-opera becomes. (And if ever you needed convincing that nepotism is a narrative that will flourish for all eternity, then the anomalous earning power of Craig Allardyce should do the trick.)
We're all naturally glad that young Porritt has deigned to rest awhile. But should he ever decide his heart belongs in West London, I hear Cheryl and Ashley are looking for a lodger.
A Tale of Two Centre-Halves
It occurs to me that since the backyards of (e.g.) St Barnabas Road now harbour few (if any) outside lavatories, the phrase 'built like a brick shithouse' will soon be emptied of genuine meaning. Nevertheless, the strapping son of Mr and Mrs Boam certainly warranted comparison with the solid and un-showy edifice of legend.
Stuart, a stopper of little discernible finesse, was one half of a formidable partnership - the other being the late Willie Maddren.
Maddren's languid unflappable style, his superb reading of the game, deserved greater international honours. It is a measure of how far our club has come that Maddren's latterday doppelganger, Jonathan Woodgate, should not be denied his due owing to the dowdiness of his livery.
And though he's yet to play alongside Robert Huth, the prospect certainly bears superficial resemblance to the granite foundation of the team that Jack built.
The stature and lineage of Huth makes the moniker Tank Commander well-nigh irresistible. Political correctitude however, commands me to seek an alternative.
A quarter of Football Mix to the reader who can supply the German for alfresco khazi.
NOW HAVE YOUR SAY IN THE NEW HOLGATE FORUM
BACK TO CALUM LAW INDEX
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