4000

23rd August 1975

This was not my first visit to Carrow Road. Heck, this was not the first time I had seen Norwich play Aston Villa that year at Carrow Road. The two teams had met on a warm late spring evening at the end of the previous season, with both teams having been promted, so it was a dead rubber, I believe those tennis types call it.

Dad had got a new job a couple of years before, working at Brooke Marine, and the company had the job of refurbishing kitchens at the Barbican Estate in the City of London.

The Barbican was back then, swish, newly built, and hen someone moved into a flat, the place was stripped and new furniture put in. And Dad used to go down on a Monday morning, leaving at half three from Lowestoft, to be dropped off for four and a half day’s work, ten hour days, eating fish and chips three nights, steak on Thursday night, and staying in digs.

He did this many weeks, if not months, and decided that we could afford season tickets at Norwich. Season tickets then were rare, this was exciting, £25 would get us tickets for all 19 games. We would take the train each lunchtime, have a snack at the ground before taking our places in the stands.

In 1971, there had been a disaster, not the last or the first, at a football match, on Stairwell 13 at Ibrox. The resulting inquiry lead to many stands being closed as being unable to evacuated in an emergency, or unsuitable for standing. The South Stand at Norwich was one such stand. Dad had stood there for decades, with the same people in the same place. These were friends.

But over the summer of 1975, second hand red and blue seats were installed, and we had our seats in block N two rows from the front. The first home game of the season had been the previous Tuesday when Norwich drew with Leeds 1-1. Dad was in London, so we did not go.

So, Saturday rolled round and we took the 11:15 train from Oulton Broad North to Norwich, rattling over the marshes to the fine city. I can eve now remember the smell of the upholstery and the way the windows rattled when the engine was idling.

Back then, Carrow Road was reached, as it is now, either going north from the station and then crossing the roalway at the Clarence Harbour, or along Riverside Road, past the oil and freight yards of the railway and the yard of Boulton and Paul.

We usually went along Riverside Road, and if I was lucky he would buy me an ice cream from the Dairyland van parked beside the river, a huge cone the size of a dinner plate it seemed to me, and the ice cream smothered on with a spatula No ice cream like it . Even now.

We would buy a program from the guy standing at the corner of the Main Stand and the River End, I never used to read it, but looked at the pictures, before walking round the ground to the South Stand to enter with our book of tokens.

The ground, even at half twelve would be hung with the smell and smoke from boiled hamburgers. Boiled. In brine. I got Dad to buy me one once, covered in boiled onions too. The roll was probably boiled too.

At the back of the stand was a canteen that did coffee and cakes. It had that odd smell of fried bacon, brewing tea and cigarette smoke. Nothing like it now. In winter it was so hot and humid condensation used to run down the windows like running water.

Our seats for the season were at the end of a row, by the stairways, making trips to the inadequate toilets easy. Behind us sat a guy who was a double for Leeds and Scotland international, Duncan McKenzie, who assured us in February that after beating Bradford in the 5th round of the cup, winning at Southampton in the quarters meant that a trip to the semi finals in April was assured.

I never forgave him for that, City lost 2-1 at home in a replay to Bradford, and Southampton went on to lift the cup.

I can remember very little about the game that day, except that one of the goals was scored by club captain, Duncan Forbes, who broke his nose in the process, yet celebrated like a mad thing and carried on playing with his yellow shirt covered in snotty blood. City were 5-1 up at half time and won 5-3 in the end. I thought all games would be like that, hatful of goals.

But it was not to be. We saw the season out, with over 35,000 fans squeezed into the ground on several occasions, it would never be that full again. And City survived that season back in the top flight, and would for a few seasons until relegation in 1981.



15th May 1982

This season was the first where teams got three points for a win. I mention this as it came to be a bone of contention at the last game. Norwich had not done well for most of the season, and at the end of February were in mid-table, just playing the season out, apparently. But then they put a run of results together that had them challenging for the third and final promotion spot with Sheffield Wednesday. City won 13 out of 16 games, and there was to be a decider on the final day, as Norwich were playing 4th place team Wednesday on the final day.

I was 16 years old, and had not been to an away game before, not even at Ipswich. And when it became clear that I wanted to be there, as back in those ancient days, you could just turn up and get in, tickets were for people in seats and for terraces in the future.

My friend Owen and I tried to plan a trip by train. From Norwich it was going to be an adventure, until Mum said no, we could not be trusted on our own on the train all the way to Sheffield! But then on Friday she told me when I cam back from school she had got me a ticket on a coach, so I could go the next day after all, and there wasn’t all that messing about on trains.

I can remember the journey, sitting on the coach as it travelled up the A17, all lined with daffodils and contrasting with the fresh green growth of the fields. Even the countryside was decked out in our colours. It seemed.

Once in Sheffield, we passed the Hexagon Theatre, famous for being where the world snooker championships were held, and taking place as we went past on our overcrowded coach.

Once at the ground, our coach and dozens were lined up the hill behind the ground, we walked miles to get to the ground, and with nothing else to do, I went in before one to take in the atmosphere, standing in the upper level of the Leppings Lane end, looking down at the 12,000 other City fans as they arrived.

It wasn’t a classic, but the edge was there as the program for the day pointed out that if the league had kept it to two points for a win, it would be Wednesday getting promoted instead of Norwich. Wednesday took the lead, then in the last 5 minutes City levelled, and there was chaos in the stand behind the goal. Then, in the dying minutes, Wednesday scored a winner, scrambled in from a corner, with one of their fans in the penalty box, nearly putting the ball in the next.

There was chaos on the pitch, but the goal stood.

City had lost, and we had to wait to hear if the other results had gone our way and we would go up anyway. It wasn’t until after 5, when the classified results on Radio 2, as it was then, confirmed we were promoted anyway.

The coach stopped at Sutton on the way back, and we all went to the chippy and then the pub to celebrate. Then the players coach arrived too, and they went into the pub for a beer too.



7th April 1984

I had only known travelling to football by train. Games at Carrow Road anyway. Walking down to Oulton Broad North station to get onto a train to rattle over the marshes. My parents could not drive, nor ever tried. Nor did they learn to ride a motorcycle. Buses were plentiful and cheap, there was a Co-Op round the corner, and in the early days, a butchers van, a fruit and veg van and even a grocery van used to come round.

There was no need for a car.

But going out on trips mean relying on Shreeves’ coaches having enough other passengers for them to run. And it would be nice to take the family out. So, in 1983 I began to learn. From scratch.

It was hard, and expensive, taking half of my YOP allowance I was earning from the electrical shop I was working at to fund the one lesson a week. But after a failed test in January 1984, I passed second time, and a few weeks later we went to Halvergate, on the marshes, to buy a secondhand family car. A seven year old Ford Fiesta, would take us all over East Anglia and beyond, but it was a shed, broke down a lot, and I knew nothing about auto repairs.

Still don’t.

So, on 7th April 1984, I drove to Norwich for the first time, rather than take the train. This meant driving over the marshes via St Olaves and Haddiscoe, then across to Hales and on the main road to Norwich. We park at County Hall, then walk down Bracondale to Carrow Bridge to the ground.

The TV cameras were there, for some reason, but there was nothing exceptional about the game, nothing to suggest there would be anything unusual about it.

It was one of those days when everything Norwich did went right. And everything the Watford keeper did went wrong. City won 6-1, John Deehan scored four. John Devine even scored. And we got to watch it on the telly that night.

We passed my friend’s Dad on the way home, on the straight out of St Olaves, instead of sounding the horn as the few horses in the car took us past, I flashed the headlights, meaning giving a warning to a car a mile ahead I was overtaking.

Maybe this would bring in a new era of fantasy football now I had a car, and all games would end in cricket scores? It didn’t.



6th March 1985

There is something about evening games that make football special. The floodlights standing stark against the dark sky, the grass and players kit had a luminosity that they did not have in daylight, and the noise of the crowd seemed to be louder than ever.

So a cup semi-final, at home was going to be special. Doubly so as it was against our nearest and closest rivals, Ipswich Town. Although it pains me to write this, but growing up, Ipswich had the better team, results alone prove that, and Norwich were regularly thrashed by our noisy neighbours. As it was the League Cup, of the Milk Cup as it was called then, the semi-final was over two legs, and in the first leg at Portman Road, Ipswich had scored in the first couple of minutes, and after that the City goal lead a blessed life as City held on to lose by just the single goal.

But the second leg was a new start, and at our place, rammed with noisy fans, packed into three stands, as the fourth, the old Main Stand, had burned down the year before. Players changed in portacabins next to the pitch, so they could hear the noise of the crowd as we gathered for kick off.

This was a few weeks before I started work, so money was tight, but had been able to get to the ground to pick up tickets for the game, ensuring Dad and I could be there, though waiting for him to get home from work, then getting to Norwich in our family car, finding somewhere to park and walking to the ground. And from Bracondale, we could see the ground all lit up by the floodlights, looking a picture. I can feel the excitement all this time down the line.

We took our places in the River End, surrounded by the people we met each week. We didn’t know their names, where they lived, what they did for a living, but we met up every two weeks to worship at the Carra.

It was a very different game, Norwich played like they had been fed raw meat in the month since the first leg, and clattered into challenges, which the referee decided to wave play on for. Just before half time, a shot got a double deflection and wrong-footed Paul Cooper in the Ipswich goal, and City were level, and all the play for.

Norwich pushed on in the second half, and with three minutes to go, Norwich got a corner in front of the Barclay at the other end of the ground. Mark Barham stepped up to take it, Dave Watson stepped out in the penalty area, and Town captain Terry Butcher followed, leaving Steve Bruce unmarked on the penalty spot. The ball landed on his forehead, and arrowed into the roof of the net.

The ground went wild. I still don’t think I ever heard a noise like it again. The game ended, and Norwich players celebrated, whilst Ipswich players trooped off, but in their portacabin could hear us banging on the side of it and singing them songs to remind them that they had lost.

And we left the ground half an hour after the end, walked back up the hill to the car park and then to wait in line to get out of County Hall and drive back home, in time to see the highlights on TV.

The semi final was better than the final. Better than winning the final. Better than winning almost any game.



22 March 1986

Some away days are memorable because you see your team promoted, relegated or get an ass-whipping. But sometimes you get to see an unexpected bumper win.

This season, Norwich were trying to get promoted the first time back to the First Division, and in the process had won a club record ten league games in a row.

Sheffield Utd were hot on our heels, and although we were pretty certain we would go up, this game was going to be tough.

I went up on a coach, setting off from Lowestoft at a stupidly early time, getting to Bramall Lane before half twelve. The coach parked outside the ground, and other passengers sat down to eat their packed lunch. Those of us on the back seat were bored, and bugger sitting on the bus for an hour and a half. We saw a pub the other side of the road, The Sportsman.

We went over, there was no police to stop us, we go in wearing shirts, and there is no trouble. We talked and joked with their fans. They told us to put our scarves on a table, so when the police came to clear City fans from the pub, their fans stood round the table so the colours could not be seen.

I have rarely been so tipsy going into a ground for a match. I can remember staggering up the terrace to the overflowing toilet a few times during the game, as I tried to focus on the game, the goals rained in, with about twenty minutes to go, we were 3-2 up, then as Utd pressed for a leveler, we broke and scored two the other end.

We were delirious. The realization came that we were now certain to go up, it was just a case of when.

And once we got home from Yorkshire, we could watch the goals on the telly again, and I taped it to watch it over and over again. As you did.



4th April 1987

Norwich were back in the top division, and not doing too bad. I chose this game as it was typical of our away days at this time.

We would drive from home to Bungay to collect some friends I worked with, then take the A12 south to Colchester, where for under a tenner we could get a ticket and railcard, getting on one of the sparsely used trains into Liverpool Street.

We would go up onto Bishopgate to the White Hard for a couple of pints, then over the road to KFC for some lunch, back to the pub before pouring ourselves onto a train or Tube to where the game was being played.

Football was changing, and Tottenham were one of the prime movers. When we were there, plans had been announced to close the most vocal area of the ground, The Shelf, to make room for executive boxes. It was the future, sadly.

Spurs fans were protesting, but money talks.

Meanwhile on the pitch, Glenn Hoddle and Chris Waddle mimed their new single, Diamond Lights. It was awful, so they did it twice.

I was listening to the radio for the result of the Grand National, and the horse I had drawn in the sweepstake, Spartan Missile, romped to the finishing post. I was a tenner better off.

And on the pitch, Norwich played well, and with twenty minutes to go, scores were level at 0-0. And then Micky Hazzard came on and sprayed the ball all over the shop. One goal went in, two went in, so did a third.

And that was that, run the gauntlet of home fans on the way to the tube station, back to Liverpool Street and home, getting back at about eight in time for supper and watching the footy again. See, a pattern was developing.



1993-94 Europe

Norwich have only qualified for Europe and played in it, the once. By this time I was living in Germany having been posted there in July 1993, and waiting for a married quarter to become available. I was living in single accommodation, and living like a single male in the RAF posted to Germany should do.

Half litre bottles of beer were one DM each, 40p, and double spirits in the bars were 40 pfegs, they may as well have given it away. You could get hammered with a 5dm coin, and I did, most nights.

Norwich had been drawn against Arnhem in the EUFA Cup, for the first leg, I was standing in a field in Denmark with my little radio trying to pick up Radio 2 to get the result. RAF Laarbruch was home to the Harrier Force in Germany, tasked with protecting Germany. As part of that, we would deploy to airfields and pretend to be at war.

Which is why we were in Denmark. Pretending to be at war.

We would get up before dawn, pretend we were being attacked, grab our rifles and lay in a ditch to make sure the pretend enemy did not take our site.

We would then go to breakfast with our billy-cans for a fry up and a cup of compo coffee. Breakfast was made of compo egg, beans, compo bacon and compo sausage. Don’t know what was in it, but you would be bunged up for weeks.

We would then go to the pretend bomb dump to pretend to prep bombs and then take the pretend bombs with correctly filled out paperwork to the hides for pretend loading to the harriers, so they could go on a pretend sortie to destroy pretend Russian targets.

We did this for 14 days.

One night, it was the night of the European games, I stood outside our tent with my radio, slowly scouring the megahertz, trying to get the results. Amazingly, I heard the final results; Norwich 3, Vitesse nil.

Yay.

Three weeks later, I was on gate guard when the next round rolled round. City were drawn away at Munich, a place where no English team had ever won. Little Norwich didn’t stand a chance, did they?

My friend, Stu Beart, had a Sky box, so once my shift was done, I hopped it over to his room to watch the game.

Quite what Norwich were doing there, I don’t know, but it was magical even in a half empty Olympic Stadium. Out of the blue, Jeremy Goss pounced on a poor clearance, and the ball sreamed not the back of the net. Their keeper didn’t move.

We then scored a second with a header Everyone stopped, and the commentator didn’t seem sure what had happened. What happened we were 2-0 up.

We hung on to win 2-1, then drew the second leg 1-1. We were through. That night I walked back to my single room on the night of the greatest result in my club’s history, and there was no one to celebrate it with. Anyway, I had to be on duty at half five the next morning.

By the time the next round rolled round, my then wife had joined me, and we went to watch the Game against Inter in the Schnelly in Little City. It was a horrible place, they owner kept his huge dog in the café, which even then didn’t sound too hygienic.

City lost both legs 1-0, not embarrassed by any means. And could have sneaked a draw in either game, but the adventure was over. Maybe never to be repeated.

So it goes, so it goes.



17th December 1995 A game I did not go to. But memorable.

Two years after that European adventure, Norwich were broke, mismanagement by the chairman had resulted in most of the top players being sold, manager Mike Walker leaving, and the club relegated in May 1995.

Worse was to come a year later after Robert Chase stepped down, the club was technically insolvent, and had to be rescued by TV chef, Delia Smith.

But before then, the darkest moment. Chase had recruited former Norwich player, Martin O’Neil from Wycombe, where he had been a roaring success. He came back to Norwich and we thought the good times were just around the corner.

But he had been sold the job on promises for player recruitment that could not be kept. Hull City forward was chased and the deal never closed.

Prior to a televised game on Sunday afternoon, news broke that O’Neil had resigned and was joining Leicester instead. On the day we were playing them. And hour before kick off.

All hell broke loose.

O’Neil went on to be a he success at Leicester, which could have been at Norwich.

Dad and I decided to boycott games whilst Chase was in charge, so we did not go to a match over Christmas that year, as I was back from Germany as my first divorce was finalised. Little did I know was that Dad had four months left on this earth and would die in April next year. From that moment, everything to do with Norwich would be done with thoughts Dad wasn’t here to see it happening.



12th April 2004

I would like to think we knew we were going to get promoted. We had been on a great run, sored more goals than anyone else in Division 1, conceded less than anyone sle. But I guess when you’re that close to it, you don’t see the bigger picture.

A few weeks before, we had gone to Cardiff, and when one of their supports said something along the lines that we were obviously going to win the league, we were genuinely surprised. We hadn’t seen it coming.

The season began it Bradford in August, in temperatures of 101 degrees and again, as drunk as I have been at a football match. I blame the local pub doing the local brew for a pound a pint. Even in 2004 that was cheap as chips.

I had drunk a few of those.

And then met friends in the ground when they arrived at the ground. I was very tired and emotional. We drew 1-1 that day, then drew 0-0 with Sheffield Utd next away game, and our sole striker, Zema Abbey did his knee and was out for the season. Peter Crouch, then an unknown came to play for us on load, and Darren Huckerby, and everything changed.

So, to Reading on Bank Holiday Monday. We kicked off in the evening, other results had gone our way, but still, all to play for.

We gathered two hours before the game, standing in the area below the stand, supping pints served from some kind of ultra-modern backpack meaning we did not have to go back to the bar.

We were in good spirits.

And then the game started, it was even, and with a few minutes to go, the referee Neale Barry, got in the way of a clearance, the ball dropped to Phil Mulryne who swung a boot at it, and the ball flew into the top corner.

We had won. And needed a point from the last few games to seal promotion.

We sat on the bus driving up the M4, and kept saying to each other, “fuck me, we’re promoted”. Not even we can screw this up now.

And we didn’t.

The season ended with us beating Crewe at Gresty Road, with Ewan Roberts scoring his 96th and 97th goals, and the final whistle saw a pitch invasion, as we celebrated winning the last ever First Division title.

And Dad wasn’t there to see it.



3rd May 2009

The final game of the season. A dreadful season. Norwich had failed to win an away game all season, but had one last away game, at already relegated Charlton, and if results went their way, could still stay up.

I was not there.

I wasn’t even in the county. I was in Kazakhstan. In Almaty, at the end of my last survey job, so it turned out. I can’t remember when I heard that we were relegated, might have been that day. But as the trip had gone on, and the end seemed to be sure to come, results went our way and we survived one more week.

Until the very last game.

Norwich couldn’t even win that game, they lost 4-2, and so what we expected and deserved came to pass, and for the first time in 49 years, we were in the 3rd tier of English football.

And deserved to be there.

Four years after being a Premier League club, all the money, the players, hope and good will. All gone. And yet the seeds of the rebirth were there. Many of the same players there when we went down, would be central to our promotion as champions the next year, and return to the Premier League the season after that.

Sometimes you have to suffer the very lowest of the lows, to appreciate the highs, when they come round.