Sunday 24th March 2024

Thirty nine years ago, the 24th March was also a Sunday.

I had begun woring at the chicken factory six days earlier, and to be honest, was something like hell. But this was going to be something different, asNorwich had made it to only their third Wembley final, this time playing Sunderland.

The 1984-85 season was one plagued by fighting on the terraces, and away from it too. The League Cup had seen its fair share of trouble, with Millwall rioting at Luton in front of the TV cameras, and Chelsea fans smashing up their home ground as Sunderland knocked them out of the semi-final. Norwich had beated Ipswich over two legs, and as both were two "unfancied" teams from the rovences, both teams got over 45,000 tickets each.

It was one of the worse finals ever to grace the grand old stadium, Norwich winning thanks toa deflected shot at the start of the second half.

There was no trouble, few arrests, all for dunkeness, but good news doesn't make the news broadcasts.

Of course.

Norwich lost focus and ended up being relegated, and at the end of the season there were the Bradford Fire and Heysel to suffer through.

But for a few hours, a few days, we were top of the world.

A glorious Sunday morning. One filled with promise and potential. And at the same time, next to no football.

So, what to do with it?

I had plans. Lots of plans. And another place to check for early Early Spiders.

So, after coffee, we drove to the Hoe, parked up and on what should have been a quiet Sunday morning, but there were dozens of people in gym kit with numbers on their vests, about to do some crazy phys.

We walked along the sea wall, and round the corner leaving the two fishermen who had walked beside us dragging their tackle in a box on wheels, to set up and dangle some worms.

We ducked under the tape at the end, and began to search, but found no rosettes. As expected there were several small rockfalls, whose rubble partially covered the grassy slope, and the rubble was thickest where the early Early Spiders would normally be.

We checked the rough area beside the fans, but found nothing their either, but we were being watched by a twitcher, probably upset we had walked where the Black Redstarts are usually seen.

Along the sea wall, folks with the numbers were walking or jogging, while on the grassy hoe above, sportier types were jogging or running.

We walked back to the car, drove to the tunnel and up, re-joining the A20 and going to Folkestone, parking near to the barbers.

My knee had begun to complain, and then the memory card in my camera failed, so any thought of going to Earley Wood to look for Early Purples went out of the window.

I just had a haircut, now £17, where three years back it was twelve, though I always give the guy shoo shears me a twenty.

We walked back to the car, then drove back home, though Capel, onto the A20 and into Dover and thence home.

I would rest my knee the rest of the day, put ice packs on it and take drugs.

As if life wasn't exciting enough, my body thought I would enjoy a bout of vertigo in the afternoon. So, with no warning as I dried off after a shower, the room violently spun round, and did not stop until I stood still for two minutes. No idea where that came from, but I hope it clears quickly.

Luckily enough, although I did get it again later when I went to bed, not as severe, so I slept well.

The evening I joined a Zoom meeting to see Mark Radcliffe and Marc Riley be interviewed about their time as Mark and Lard on Radio 1, when for a few brief months they introduced the flagship breakfast show.

Its twenty years since their show got cancelled, both got jobs on Radio 6 and broadcast to the this day.

Just not together.

It was a good show, from two guys who never took themselves too seriously.