REFEREE McFUDDLE ...in which Joe goes babysitting and tells his grandchildren a scary story!
"Can we watch it again, Grandad?" "No, no... come on you two, your Mum will have my guts for starters if she finds out I've kept you up this late!" "Awwww, please Grandad... just let us watch Kenny Gordon's first goal." "No, come on kids... upstairs and put on your gymkhanas and Grandad will come up and tuck you in." "But Grandad, our pyjamas have 'Cape Contracts' on the front and they should have 'Prudential' instead and what if there's a fire and we have to go outside and all our friends will laugh at us." "Oh, Cowperthwetta, I'm sure your Dad will buy you both some when he gets back from Saudi Utopia. Just Kuwait and see." "Grandad, why is Daddy working out there on a gas thingy when Kylie's Mum says they're building a gas thingy down the Coast Road?" "That's a good question Pet, but the answer's a long story." "Story, Gandy, story!" "Yes, okay then young Ray... up you go and Gandy will tell you a story... and don't forget to brush your teeth!" Oh, hello folks... got my hands full just now looking after the grandchildren... bless 'em. You know, I believe that children are our future. Treat them well and... eh, funny dream I had last issue. Let me tell you all about it. I dreamt I had resigned from Give Them Rice when... "Ready Grandad!!!" Oops! I'll have to leave you for a few minutes, folks... why not flick to Whatsisname That Has No Name in its column for a mo and I'll be right back. "Tell us one of your stories of when you were in the SAS, Grandad." "Ahem... er no, not tonight love, heh, heh." "Well what about the Enfield matches?" "No darling, here's one you've probably never heard before... Once upon a time Barrow were top of the Third Division and fancied to go all the way... Europe, everything, so the board decided to build a vast complex behind the Steelworks End comprising a Supporters Club, training pitch and swanky leisure centre-cum-restaurant under a vast dome. However, as the plans were drawn up and the concrete ordered, a raggle taggle gaggle of gypsies who had been on the derelict site refused to move along and so the law were called to remove them. There were ugly scuffles, worse than the match against the Neopolitan Police back in 1990, but eventually they moved off. Suddenly, as the gypsy king was packing away his crystal balls he turned to the crowd, spat on the ground and cried... 'I curse thee, AFC, for ever and ever, and a dee!' "The very next year Barrow were relegated, two years after that they were out of the League and nearly folded altogether. Neither the leisure centre nor the dome were ever completed. "Some say that the curse still hangs over us as even our greatest moments are tainted with ill luck, and the only way to break the spell is thus... Barrow must win the FA Cup and bring the trophy to Roker St. on the last day of May at the dead of night. The cup is to be filled with Bovril and the gypsy king must sip the potion as the town hall clock strikes the midnight hour. Next his mystical balls must be buried under the centre spot. Then, and only then can we start the climb back to our rightful place in the top flight." "Cor Grandad, what a spooky story... is it true?" "Course it is petal, you ask any of the old timers." "Right I shall ask Colin Methven in the Sport and Leisure on Saturday." "Yes, you do that petal... Now nighty night, you two." "'Night Grandad."
Y'know, luck, football and superstition are inevitably intertwined in a blancmange a trois and all three factors are a pair of strange bedfellows if ever there was one. F'rinstance ole Procky has kept the same hairstyle since scoring a hat trick for the Tally Ho in 1973 and Cowps would always stop at twelve goals in any match to avoid thirteen. 'Methsy' Methven insists on being the last man out onto the pitch, last out when trying for the offside and last to the bar after the game, and even Neil 'The Doh' Doherty will never head the ball if there is an R in the month! In the summer Paul Inks of West Ham led England out backwards dragging an enormous rabbit's scut as a lucky charm and fortunately we were only beaten 2-0 by the San Francisco 69'ers... so much for Graham Faylor's lucky black capt! Recently I was talking to a lady friend of mine who is a roaring thespian (indeed she once shared a dressing room with Zsa Zsa Labore) and she was telling me of the superstitions and traditions of the theatre. For good luck they say 'Break a leg' before a performance. I would like to see this introduced into Association Football. Also there is a famous play called Mac's Death which is never referred to as such, but is known as The Scottish Play so as not to evoke evil spirits and bad luck. Drawing another parallel to football, I personally think that Barrow have been beset by bad luck since the triumph in the 1990 FA Trophy final and so would like to hear it referred to as the Scottish Cup Final from now on.
The power and influence of this organ never starts to amaze me. A few issues ago I mentioned ex-AFC star Billy McAdams in this column and it acted as a chrysalis which started as the ball rolling to ignite the red touch paper which saw a great reassurgance of interest in this hero of yesteryear, culminating in a series of fund raising events to help out in Billy's struggle against illness. Next, the editorial team thanked Asda for letting hundreds of AFC speccies park their vehicles on their car park on match days. A fortnight later, a twenty foot electrified fence was erected, complete with machine gunned observation towers and patrolling Dobermanns. So if anyone reading this is interested in financing an idea of mine for a moving picture, then read on... The storyline is as follows... Sir Richard McLuvvie is an eccentric nuclear scientist recently retired from working up the coast at Sellafive. One day in the pub, McLuvvie finds a mosquito in his amber nectar, and, being a Scot he attempts to remove from the insect the beer it has consumed. But during the complex process he interferes with the creatures blood structure which is powerfully irradiated and mutates with the lager producing a bucketful of DNA*. Distraught by his failure to recover the stolen liquid McLuvvie hurls the bucket's contents into the drain and goes to bed. However, the DNA gushes into the sewers underneath the town where it is imbibed by a swarm of newts. Overnight, the amber liquid goes to work on them and they are all transformed into frightening and repulsive giant reptiles. On discovering the creatures next day nursing their now monster size hangovers, McLuvvie hits on the idea of using them as attractions in a theme park like Knowsley United Park. Soon that supermarket on Flass Lane is knocked down and Newbarns Drastic Newt Park is opened to the public. Of course, everything goes wrong as the giant newts are always getting as drunk as... er, er... anything, and run amok in the town centre demolishing buildings and making car parks. (*Technical note: DNA stands for Deadly Nuclear Ale and not for National Dyslexic Association as widely believed.) Well, that's about it for now so if you're the backers with the ackers, shift yer knavish selves and contact me at Give Them Rice, 9E Rillington Place, Baroque Street, Take Manhattan, Staten Island 2. 'til next time, remember... players have a right to an interval at half-time, Joe McFuddle Issue 018 - December 1993