It was Saturday morning, school had finished for the week and there was a football match to go and watch. Dad was having a bath, unusually his second one this week, and changing his underwear for the third time this week, Mum suggested he was getting rather posh changing so often and wondered whether the fact that she had finally got rid of the Burco boiler, wash board and Posser and replaced it with the latest Hoover washing machine with attached mangle had anything to do with this new era of cleanliness.

Dad arrived at the breakfast table with bits of paper stuck by blood to his face. “Damned safety razor” he said, “at least with the cut throat you tended to be rather careful, but a safety razor, indeed, about as safe as a chip pan on a hot stove at night.” “Never mind” said Mother, “ You’ll get used to it I suppose, now eat your breakfast up we can’t afford to be throwing anything out even though rationing has finished, money doesn’t grow on trees you know.”

Outside it was a usual type of early Autumn day, a few birds were singing and the swallows had all left for warmer climes, it had been raining a bit overnight but had now stopped and the cloud was beginning to dissipate thus allowing a week watery sun to appear.

Dad was now quietly eating his breakfast, a full English at that, with a pint mug of Seargent Major’s tea, at least that’s what he called it when it was that strong you could stand your spoon in it, whilst trying to catch up with the nation’s news in the paper. I couldn’t wait to be an adult so that I too could read at the table, being a lad it was frowned upon and considered very bad manners. Suddenly he exploded, “This flaming paper has gone up from tuppence to tuppence halfpenny,” he said that’s an extra Threepence a week we’ll have to find. His face bright red, partly from the bath and no doubt due to his increased blood pressure owing to the price increase, he toddled off back to the bathroom mumbling away to himself and leaving his cup and plate on the table to be cleared away by Mum.

Outside some of the lads were knocking about, playing with an old football, many of them had scrapes on their knees from being tackled and hitting the pavement or road as they fell in their short pants. I joined in with them and was soon rolling on the floor after being barged off the ball by fatty Smith, but was soon up and at him, revenge as they say is sweet and within a minute I’d managed to trip him with a slightly high tackle. He hit the ground head first and his head spit open. That’ll teach you, I thought. Out came his rag of a handkerchief, which looked well used, to help stem the blood and the game continued. No sooner had we started again and a voice shouted me, “come and get ready if you want to go to the match”. It was Dad, the paper on his face had gone and large blotches of congealed blood had replaced them. Looking me up and down he remarked at the state my shoes were in and I was threatened with not going to the game if I didn’t go and clean them immediately. The order was received and obeyed and I also had to wash my hands and face again.

We set off. Living a fair way from the ground, there was no other alternative than going in the car, she was a beauty, a pre-war Ford 8 with two doors and wire wheels and was my Dad’s pride and joy. Starting her could sometimes be a nuisance as she either had to be started with the handle in the front of the engine or rolled down a hill. After much cursing and swearing and a fair bit of sweating the engine burst into life and we were off to see the magnificent famous Tangerines play. It was the highlight of my week akin in some ways to Christmas, something that you just couldn’t wait for and got more and more excited as the time drew near.

Oh the memories of those days, the smell of the stale beer and fags on the men’s breath, the passion of the supporters, the expectation of the crowd, the comradery of the fans both home and away, the feeling of being manhandled down to the front so you could see the game, the crush to get out at the end, sometimes with your feet not actually touching the ground. The feeling of disappointment if you had lost but the pure excitement if you had won or even drawn against some of the better teams. The expectation of hearing the results, how had the other games finished? Had we moved up the table?

Sadly those days are long gone. Despite the passion having remained until three seasons ago, despite the feeling that something better may be around the corner, the eternal hope of better things to come, those feelings have been killed in the main by the greed of one family who give neither a fig for the game, the supporters, the players or their manager. Their sole interest is to squeeze as much as they can from a corpse that was once a vibrant and colourful football club with a lengthy proud history, in order to line their own pockets and maintain their lifestyle.

Everyone seems to be at fault but them, everything that goes wrong is not their fault, yet despite all the evidence around them, they maintain that someone else is to blame.

We are the envy of the football league. Pah!

bottle added 18:25 - Sep 10 Curryman - they can line their pockets, sell the silver cutlery, bring their own name into (further) disrepute, skim the cream off the top of the milk and fleece our pockets. The one thing they can't steal or corrupt are our memories. Those perfect Tuesday evenings on a packed Kop with the floodlights lighting up the night sky from miles around. The chants of the fans, the goals scored and celebrated, those frustrating times of"so close yet so far" and those better days of "oh my God yeeeeesssssss!" That's what we have got for our investment over the years, our very souls satisfied by the team in Tangerine, our hearts filled with emotion, to feel alive! What will the Oystons have, no emotional attachment, no vested interest in results other than a balance sheet. Shark dead eyes watching a game with no hearts in mouths waiting for the final whistle or an ear to the result of another game. They will never feel the way we have felt or take a simple pleasure in seeing a Blackpool Fc sticker in a car window in some other town, shaking hands with someone in foreign climes sporting an old Blackpool shirt. These are the things we own and they can never take them away or share or remember on a slow cold Sunday afternoon in front of the fire. What belongs to us will be returned to us, their days of rule are coming to a close and we will rebuild and support because it's our club whatever division it's in and our strength of will and desire to feel the way we once felt will carry us through. It's always darkest before the dawn, but daylight will creep into the sky again and we will see that it isn't daylight, it will be those floodlights lighting up the sky and our beloved seasiders will once again take to the pitch and lift our souls and fill our hearts once again! COYMP!

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tangerinesince1970 added 19:15 - Sep 10 Curryman & bottle I salute you both. Brilliant blog & addition. I first went to Bloomfield Road in August 1970 (pre-season friendly versus Blackburn Rovers) with my Dad and Grandad and that was the start of it all, a lifetime's allegiance. That daylight can't come soon enough! UTMP!
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