|
|
HAMPERED BY HERITAGE 18-1-07
Calum Law
A white, six-inch wide panel of econoweave poly-nylon; the faded red lettering is like a troublesome hieroglyph unearthed from a long-buried civilisation:
ERI
AMP
it winks.
Deciphering occurs and the shirt's owner is accorded due honour - received with a studied insouciance which strongly suggests he is aware of the garment's ironic chic. For (back to semiotics!) the sign-value of the ancient away top - spotted in The AntiGallican, SE22 on Saturday - does not reside in the marking out of its wearer as a supporter of long-standing; nor yet in saying: 'I was there when we were really crap'. No, an even more subtle and complex signal is being emitted: namely, 'I have an abiding emotional fidelity to the Boro/Crapness nexus' or put another way, 'my heart is pledged to what its shiny synthetic cladding represents'.
For we can have a fair idea of the delights that probably awaited the recipient of a Heritage Hamper. It's doubtful whether they included Gentleman's Relish or Game Pie - and the hamper itself was probably, in point of fact a cardboard box. In short, the market penetration envisaged by the brokers of the sponsorship deal would be of a type unlikely to interest those piloting the aspirational brands that flock to attach themselves to the Modern Soccer Product.
To be fair to Boro, at the time of the infamous Heritage era, football in general was still in the doldrums, and scarcely anyone would have envisaged the commercial frenzy about to engulf the game. A few years previous we'd sported a logo even more parochial in the form of Blue Bell Garage - a suburban car showroom fortuitously managed by my mate Snaithy's dad.
It was surely the deal that crowned his professional life. Half a dozen standard-model Cavaliers leased to the senior pros - plus a Senator with walnut/leather interior for the boss - got you (in addition to the shirts), pitchside hoardings, endless photo-ops in the Gazette and a complementary matchday lounge next to 'the 100 Club' (of which my friend and I naturally made exemplary use).
Chicken drumsticks and comps for the North Stand offset the fact of our star player being one Archie Stephens, a burly forward who'd come up through the Western Counties League and who was probably just happy to no longer receive his match fee in wurzels and manure.
Nonetheless, it's the Heritage shirt that comfortably takes the rosette for retro cheese impact. Its contemporary brandishing is a kind of sly, masonic-style handshake with Rubbishness, and it encapsulates the maddening charm of Middlesbrough F.C.
You can never imagine a Geordie for instance, celebrating the shameful incompetence of their recent history; no, they'd earnestly sport a commemorative Fairs Cup Winners' jersey (in wool, with lace-up collar). Their crapness is, for them, a raw, open wound - whereas ours is like a subcutaneous lump of shrapnel with which we entertain the Grandchildren.
And yet, the Heritage Hampers era really is another time, another football club. We had eight full Internationals in our starting line-up last Saturday, but the forty minutes they spent confounding their pedigree was, in a strange sort of way, integral to the enjoyment of my friend Si and myself - both fans for thirty-plus years. For us, still, the bitter renders palatable the sweet - and I suspect there's many who share our weakness.
Imagine if Mr Abramovich Snr had picked up a Boro kit for little Roman whilst on shore leave around Teesport - could we cope emotionally? Would we ne'er pine for dross?
We should have no regrets that the links with the two-bob shower of the 80s are sundered, yet one exquisite image makes me wish they'd overlapped a little more - Signor Ravenelli's face as he prised the first tin of pork luncheon meat from his Heritage Christmas gratuity box.
Pampered by Privilege
At the Boxing Day meet at Kempton Park several years back, a wet, dispiriting (and shockingly costly) afternoon was leavened by the chance to observe the great Desert Orchid, ears pricked and still sprightly, take a ceremonial canter down the home straight.
And it was this spectacle that sprang to mind on hearing of Beckham's move to the aptly-named L.A. Galaxy. Will this be the nature of the fate that awaits the human showpony? Shall they change the rules so he can come on and off for dead balls like a field goal kicker, or will they choreograph a few trick shots into the cheerleaders' half-time routine?
Already the wealthiest footballer on the planet, Beckham is set to become rich beyond the dreams of Croesus; yet with his contemporaries Giggs and Scholes in arguably the most majestic form of their careers, any transatlantic envy is likely to flow eastwards.
Spurning the chance to redeem his reputation with Milan, the reedy-voiced midfielder and his talentless wife appear to believe America (that gave us Bogart, Sinatra, Ali and Monroe) is ready to fall at their feet in homage to their manifest star quality. As if. Like the bubble that floats clear from the soapsuds, their self-obsession has but one damp outcome.
Goldenballs may think he's Champion the Wonder Horse - but shrewd punters have him marked down for the glue factory.
Hunkered for Anchorage
Despite having given up the tabs, your columnist remains a lanky streak of piss. Whilst forever primed for sand arriving in his face, he's often found a measure of consolation from a factoid gleaned, almost certainly, in a Doctor's waiting-room.
Apparently (this magazine asserted) those narrow through the hip, are nonetheless prized by some females of the species due to the lack of buttock signifying (I quote) 'good pelvic thrusting'.
What it doesn't signify is the ability to repeatedly lash it in from twenty-five yards, which is why my heart sinks every time Downing gets given responsibility for a free kick within range of goal. The great Shootists (Muller, Fowler, JFH, Roberto Carlos) have that heft to their haunches that allows them to drive through the ball. While skinnys like Downing might occasionally feather one into the top corner, mostly they'll waft into the wall or the Stand unless, a la Gerrard, they have genuinely exceptional technique.
If their team doesn't possess a Beckham, Riquelme or Pirlo, fans want to see the opposition wall 'bricking it' a little.
Leave it to Lard Arse.
Wankered by London Bridge
Many thanks to Message Board users who posted complimentary responses to last week's column: I'm chuffed that some folk like reading it - I enjoy writing it.
Sadly, my wallet refused to countenance joining the CoB post-match celebrations in London on Saturday - and the sozzled peregrination that, by all accounts, ensued. Terminating, as things are prone to, in Peckham, it already carries the whiff of legend. (Any resemblance to a group of football supporters was purely accidental).
My West Ham fund begins now. Up (and left a bit) the Boro!
NOW HAVE YOUR SAY IN THE NEW HOLGATE FORUM
BACK TO CALUM LAW INDEX
|
|
|
|
