Here he is... the one and only (which is just as well really)...
REFEREE McFUDDLE The Man in the Muddle!
Another season is underway here at Roker St, and as I take my place on the popular side, I wonder what Ray Wilkins' men will come up with this season. Ray himself is a great asset to Barrow and was no slouch as a player. At Man City he was nicknamed the 'Crab Nebula' because of his shining eyes. I can remember the chant now from City's Holte End: "Ray Wilkins, King of All Cockfosters!" Anyway, I digest. I am at the Colchester match. As Barrow mount pressure in the second half, Colin Counterweight and Barry Menacer both go close to tipping the balance, but it's not to be - the points are shared, two each. I pop into the Bluebell outside the ground where I sometimes run into my old muck and fellow referee George Housemartin, and sure enough he isn't there. Like a bannister in a courtroom drama I approach the bar. Now my eyes ain't what they used to be, so I point to the first pump and say "Half a pint of that, please, Miss." "That's the collection box for the lifeboats, mate," says Brian. "Is it?" I say, going bright yellow. "Well, a half of anything, then, thanks." "How about Tennants?" he offers. "If the landlord drinks the stuff it sounds fine," I reply. I pick up my pint and head for the television screen where Desmond Linesman is hosting Granada's excellent 'Bandstand' show. "Hey, where are you going with my pint?" booms a familiar voice. It is George. He jokingly grabs the drink from my hand with a vicious yank. We sit down and discuss this and that but as usual when us refs get together we end up discussing Jeff Hird's equalizing goal against the East Germans in the 1969 European Cup Final. Was it a goal? I say yes, since television evidence clearly shows over half the ball over the line. However, George begs to differ, partly I think because he thinks that Jim St Greaves should have been wearing that famous number seven shirt, but that's football. George saunters off muttering about Russian linesmen. I am approached by a street urchin imploring me to buy a magazine called Give Them Rice! (I observe the urchin's striking resemblance to popular singer Mick Hucknose). I purchase a copy; inside I see the name of an old adversary, the notorious Harry (Harold) Hindpool. Now during his playing days Harold was no respecter of officialdom and I myself had to show him the red cardigan on a number of occasions. However, Harold still seems to be the 'Rebel Without A Corn' in his writing but I would like to ask him, if I may, through this organ, which Harrison he selected for his greatest Barrow XVI? Eric or Peter? RSPCA Harold, as soon as possible! Leaving the Bluebell, I make my way to Abyss Road and on the corner a poster catches my eye. When the bleeding has stopped I see it is advertising the moving picture 'Screaming Silence of the Slaughtered Lambs' starring Hannibal the Lecherous as Anthony Hancock. Steve Foster (unrecognisable without the headband) plays a rugged MFI agent. Sounds good - I love a nature documentary; so I enter the Odeon. Well I'm not Norman Barry, but all I can make out is a herd of bloody moths flying about and when the picture does start it's all about tortoises that can speak... stroll off! It's the last time I visit the Essoldo, I can tell you. ''til next time... keep it clean and watch those studs, Joe McFuddle. Issue 008 - November 1991