Bladepicker
Paul Coutts Fan Club Founder Member
I was having a good old reminisce with a friend last week about watching football as a youngster in the late 80’s/early 90’s and how much it has changed. I enjoyed our recollection so much I wrote a little piece about a typical Saturday watching United for young Bladepicker, circa about 1988/89. Have a read if you fancy – it’s a bit long, but it’s the fond memories for me that show how United became a such a massive part of my life.....
Saturday morning. School out of the way for another two days; the homework given on Friday that I fully intended to do to get ‘out of the way’ last night is now firmly lodged at the bottom of my bag with only a slim chance that this will see light of day before a last minute dash on Monday morning. An early morning sun shines into my bedroom over the rooftops of Sharrow and I am immediately filled with excitement – it’s a match day at the lane.
Breakfast is skipped for a morning lying in bed, reading the football section of the Daily Mirror that I ran downstairs to get when I heard it delivered. I read it cover to cover, absorbing every bit of knowledge about every league in England in the way my science teacher only wishes I could about Chemistry. I read the small section previewing United’s match, even though I know their predicted line up and view of our formation is bollocks; Ian Bryson up front and Agana on the wing? – are you having a laugh?
Then it’s up, a wash and downstairs as mum and dad get back in with fixed odds football coupons and Saturday lunch – always either chop suey roll or sausage and chips from the Chinese on Abbeydale Road, or a Pork Sandwich, resplendent with crackling, stuffing and dip from the butchers at the top of the road, complete with chips wrapped in newspaper from the Blades fan’s chippy on Club Garden Road. Tomato Ketchup and Henderson’s Relish a must on both, as I eat in the front room while watching first Saint and Greavsie with Division 1 goals from last week and then switching over for Grandstand and football focus.
Then I hear 2 dongs on the dining room clock, time to get ready to go; a t-shirt, a jacket and then a Blades shirt worn over my jacket for the top layer. If my brother was coming with us he would be ready to go to and invariably we would be left waiting for my dad who was making one last check of tickets, gloves, money and mints before the 15 minute walk to the lane commences. We would go past Mount Pleasant, out past the old Midland Bank which was now an Italian restaurant called Rossis and down Woodhead Road. Here you would start to see other walking too, excitedly talking about the match and what would happen, I’d be totally optimistic every week – the blissful ignorance of negativity that comes with youth – whereas others would be moaning and pondering how many we would lose by.
The smells that will always be football to me start to fill the nostrils; a heady mix of diesel, fried onions and horse shit that somehow combine into a wonderful aroma that always takes me back to the Lane every time I think of it. Past the bloke in the sun hat touting ‘Programmes one pound, come and get your match day programmes’ and down Cherry street towards the Kop, walking down the Arnold Laver side of the road cause we lost last week when walking on the ground side. Into the Kop and quickly up to get on the barrier above the middle walkway – it was pretty much filled by about 2.30 but we had our spot where we stood every week. High enough up for a 10 year old me to see as we were above the gangway, but not too far forward to have a bad view of the pitch or have to watch through the fences.
The same faces were stood around you; we would talk about your week, the midweek win/draw/loss away from home and how the game went if you or they had been. You’d not know the team in days pre mobiles and instant news, so you’d try to work out from who had what shirt/tracksuit combination on the pitch warming up as to who was starting before the teams flashed up on the scoreboard. The ground fills up, I join in with the songs but just whisper the swear words as I am next to my old man. “Oh we’ll never be mastered, by those Wednesday bastards, we’ll keep the red flag…” etc. Then the roar as the game starts.
What follows is something that for me, is something that does wane in time, constant excitement. Never as a 10 year old did I ever think it was a rubbish match, I was never bored or disillusioned as I am at times now as I always invested so much in the match, so much in United that I was constantly gripped; whether joy as we scored, disappointment as the opposition hit the net and the away fans cheer in the distance or, probably the worst emotion of the lot, the sheer nerves when you are winning by only one goal at twenty to five. My Casio watch says there are 3 minutes of normal time remaining but the whistling has started. There is no fourth official, no time added on is x minutes, only the ref knew how long to prolong the agony. Quarter to comes - “we’ve played two minutes over ref, what are you playing at?” “it’s that dickhead Roger Milford, we’ll be here till they chuffing score” I still bite my nails to this day – no prizes for guessing where I started.
Finally the whistle goes and the cheer goes up. We’ve won and the weekend is made. Players clap the Kop, I wait for the crowd to disperse as the full time results come up on the scoreboard. Wednesday lose, even bigger cheer to accompany it as it was 0 0 on some old blokes transistor radio when our game finished. Then the walk home following victory, back to my mum doing sandwiches for tea, praise and grumble on in the back ground and checking the results and then table on the new-fangled teletext television to see if they had updated it yet, invariably missing the hold on ¼ and having to wait for it to cycle round again. As we won I would walk to the newsagents on Chippinghouse Road and wait for the Green Un to be delivered and read it cover to cover. Then watch Match of the Day, Goals on Sunday and read all match reports and scores from the Sunday papers, to such an extent that I could tell you on Monday morning every score and probably scorer in the football league.
If we lost then it would not be much different. Only I would be so down that I wouldn’t get a Green Un and want nothing more to do with football for the rest of Saturday. My dad would get a Green Un from the club on a Saturday night and by Sunday morning, I would have come round enough to bring myself to read it, and then I’d be back, filled with optimism again for the next game. Oh how I love United, I do.
I’m not resistant to change – indeed I’m in awe at social media and the internet age and how much information we have instantly at our fingertips. However it saddens me that I was probably amongst the last generation (pre Taylor report and the internet age) to have an upbringing watching football like that. And I am really glad that I was. It is no wonder football and, specifically Sheffield United are part of my DNA. Up the Blades.
Saturday morning. School out of the way for another two days; the homework given on Friday that I fully intended to do to get ‘out of the way’ last night is now firmly lodged at the bottom of my bag with only a slim chance that this will see light of day before a last minute dash on Monday morning. An early morning sun shines into my bedroom over the rooftops of Sharrow and I am immediately filled with excitement – it’s a match day at the lane.
Breakfast is skipped for a morning lying in bed, reading the football section of the Daily Mirror that I ran downstairs to get when I heard it delivered. I read it cover to cover, absorbing every bit of knowledge about every league in England in the way my science teacher only wishes I could about Chemistry. I read the small section previewing United’s match, even though I know their predicted line up and view of our formation is bollocks; Ian Bryson up front and Agana on the wing? – are you having a laugh?
Then it’s up, a wash and downstairs as mum and dad get back in with fixed odds football coupons and Saturday lunch – always either chop suey roll or sausage and chips from the Chinese on Abbeydale Road, or a Pork Sandwich, resplendent with crackling, stuffing and dip from the butchers at the top of the road, complete with chips wrapped in newspaper from the Blades fan’s chippy on Club Garden Road. Tomato Ketchup and Henderson’s Relish a must on both, as I eat in the front room while watching first Saint and Greavsie with Division 1 goals from last week and then switching over for Grandstand and football focus.
Then I hear 2 dongs on the dining room clock, time to get ready to go; a t-shirt, a jacket and then a Blades shirt worn over my jacket for the top layer. If my brother was coming with us he would be ready to go to and invariably we would be left waiting for my dad who was making one last check of tickets, gloves, money and mints before the 15 minute walk to the lane commences. We would go past Mount Pleasant, out past the old Midland Bank which was now an Italian restaurant called Rossis and down Woodhead Road. Here you would start to see other walking too, excitedly talking about the match and what would happen, I’d be totally optimistic every week – the blissful ignorance of negativity that comes with youth – whereas others would be moaning and pondering how many we would lose by.
The smells that will always be football to me start to fill the nostrils; a heady mix of diesel, fried onions and horse shit that somehow combine into a wonderful aroma that always takes me back to the Lane every time I think of it. Past the bloke in the sun hat touting ‘Programmes one pound, come and get your match day programmes’ and down Cherry street towards the Kop, walking down the Arnold Laver side of the road cause we lost last week when walking on the ground side. Into the Kop and quickly up to get on the barrier above the middle walkway – it was pretty much filled by about 2.30 but we had our spot where we stood every week. High enough up for a 10 year old me to see as we were above the gangway, but not too far forward to have a bad view of the pitch or have to watch through the fences.
The same faces were stood around you; we would talk about your week, the midweek win/draw/loss away from home and how the game went if you or they had been. You’d not know the team in days pre mobiles and instant news, so you’d try to work out from who had what shirt/tracksuit combination on the pitch warming up as to who was starting before the teams flashed up on the scoreboard. The ground fills up, I join in with the songs but just whisper the swear words as I am next to my old man. “Oh we’ll never be mastered, by those Wednesday bastards, we’ll keep the red flag…” etc. Then the roar as the game starts.
What follows is something that for me, is something that does wane in time, constant excitement. Never as a 10 year old did I ever think it was a rubbish match, I was never bored or disillusioned as I am at times now as I always invested so much in the match, so much in United that I was constantly gripped; whether joy as we scored, disappointment as the opposition hit the net and the away fans cheer in the distance or, probably the worst emotion of the lot, the sheer nerves when you are winning by only one goal at twenty to five. My Casio watch says there are 3 minutes of normal time remaining but the whistling has started. There is no fourth official, no time added on is x minutes, only the ref knew how long to prolong the agony. Quarter to comes - “we’ve played two minutes over ref, what are you playing at?” “it’s that dickhead Roger Milford, we’ll be here till they chuffing score” I still bite my nails to this day – no prizes for guessing where I started.
Finally the whistle goes and the cheer goes up. We’ve won and the weekend is made. Players clap the Kop, I wait for the crowd to disperse as the full time results come up on the scoreboard. Wednesday lose, even bigger cheer to accompany it as it was 0 0 on some old blokes transistor radio when our game finished. Then the walk home following victory, back to my mum doing sandwiches for tea, praise and grumble on in the back ground and checking the results and then table on the new-fangled teletext television to see if they had updated it yet, invariably missing the hold on ¼ and having to wait for it to cycle round again. As we won I would walk to the newsagents on Chippinghouse Road and wait for the Green Un to be delivered and read it cover to cover. Then watch Match of the Day, Goals on Sunday and read all match reports and scores from the Sunday papers, to such an extent that I could tell you on Monday morning every score and probably scorer in the football league.
If we lost then it would not be much different. Only I would be so down that I wouldn’t get a Green Un and want nothing more to do with football for the rest of Saturday. My dad would get a Green Un from the club on a Saturday night and by Sunday morning, I would have come round enough to bring myself to read it, and then I’d be back, filled with optimism again for the next game. Oh how I love United, I do.
I’m not resistant to change – indeed I’m in awe at social media and the internet age and how much information we have instantly at our fingertips. However it saddens me that I was probably amongst the last generation (pre Taylor report and the internet age) to have an upbringing watching football like that. And I am really glad that I was. It is no wonder football and, specifically Sheffield United are part of my DNA. Up the Blades.