No. 1 - "The Lucky Ones"...

(Originally written around 9th December 1998)

In the good old days B.C. (before City), I never paid any attention to superstitions and good luck charms, particularly in relation to football. You know the sort of thing, a player will always put his right sock on first, then his shirt, cross himself half-a-dozen times before putting on his left sock and complete getting ready for kick-off. Anyway, after supporting Bradford City for far too long, I realized that it was my duty to help improve the team by any means possible. So I abandoned my skepticism, and decided to adopt a “lucky charm” to help our gallant boys on the pitch.

So far this was the easy part, if watching City can ever be described as easy. The difficulty lay in what to choose as my special item. I immediately ruled out the obvious things such as four leafed clovers, rabbits feet and horse shoes – if items are indeed lucky, surely there is only a limited supply of luck – and I reasoned that because these items were so common that any powers held in them would be all used up by now. I told you that I have been supporting City far too long! What to choose was a dilemma. I spent all the summer of 1990 discarding various choices, as the items in question didn’t have that ‘special feel’, or if you prefer – aura.

Early in the season (1990-1991) my wife, Sarah, and I took a short break in The Lakes to celebrate our second wedding anniversary. It was on this trip that I saw it. It called to me across the waters, it shone like a shiny thing, it filled me with joy and hope. It looked like a hat. The reason it looked like a hat was because that’s what it was. Perched triumphantly on one of those polystyrene heads, and proudly displayed in the window of a specialist mountain clothing shop. It ensnared me with its power, I knew I had to have it, had to wear it, had to take it to Valley Parade, had to let the World see it’s glory. Also, I knew I had to convince Sarah to let me part with the best part of twenty quid for it.

But, although I had started to show signs of severe mental imbalances due to my dedication to City, I had enough clarity of mind to choose to marry a very understanding, and indeed gorgeously lovely girl. She said yes, I could buy it. I still don’t know if Sarah fully appreciated how "The ‘Lucky Hat" would help City – but she knew I believed in it, and that was enough for her. Plus, she said it would have to be my anniversary present from her. Hey-hoe.

The Lucky Hat was a truly wondrous thing. For one thing it was spelt in capital letters – THE LUCKY HAT. It was also stylish and chic, with a smart black finish, offset by a discreet and delicate logo on the front. But more, much more than this, it had flaps to protect your ears from ravages of winters stood on the Kop. These flaps (imagine a Sherlock Holmes type Deerstalker), could be snugly secured under your chin, or tied jauntily on top of your head. And to finish, it was made of that fleece material that they make jackets from. The whole effect was of a quality piece of headgear, which gave its wearer a fashionable air. I’m sure you’ll agree from my description that it was the perfect lucky charm.

So, off to Valley Parade, my spiritual home, to let it work its wonders. A Division Three home game against Swansea City on 22nd September. The Lucky Hat had a great reception from our usual mob on the Kop. You could tell that they were overcome with emotion and a sense of wonder by the tears of joy they shed when they saw it. Their faces lit up with smiles of delight as they realized they were in the presence of a potent good luck charm. The Lucky Hat worked a treat and fulfilled all my hopes. However, it appears that the City players on the day were not enlightened enough to the benefits of The Lucky Hat, as they proceeded to lose 1-0 to a 58th minute goal. I considered this a temporary setback, as obviously the Great Weasel (John Docherty) had so affected the players minds that they could think of just one thing – “hoof that ball”.

Undaunted, I returned to VP for out next game. The Lucky Hat was simply sensational as we beat Chester City 2-1, with one of my all-time favourite City players, Mark “Zico” Leonard scoring the winner. The boys on the Kop were unanimous, the Lucky Hat was a true hero! How they wished to own my hat, but it was mine, all mine. The season was not too spectacular, we missed out on the play-offs by just 3 points and only one place, but my Lucky Hat talisman ensured we all had great memories: Robbie James scoring a thunderous 40 yarder at Rotherham United, Phil Babb pushed up a makeshift striker and scoring 10 goals, and Steve Torpey getting a hat-trick against Hartlepool United in the Leyland DAF Cup. Thank you Lucky Hat!

Now, I know that some of you are thinking, “If The Lucky Hat was so good, why aren’t City in the Premier League and competing in Europe?” Well, I’m very saddened to say, The Lucky Hat is missing! I had 18 months with my Lucky Hat, and then it simply disappeared, it vanished without a trace. The Police have been unable, (due to the fact they haven’t tried hard enough I’m sure), to locate it. All attempts to trace it have failed. But the answer is obvious! The Lucky Hat went missing around the same time that Manchester United started to win the Championship again after 30 years of trying. Most people put this down to Eric Cantona signing for them, but I know the truth. It would appear that whilst at L***s united, Cantona heard about The Lucky Hat, and was bewitched by the prospect of using it for his own wicked aims. He kidnapped it, and I’m ashamed to say, used its powers to help the "Unclean Ones" to win the Championship before smuggling it across The Pennines to Old Trafford. Here, he once again used it for evil purposes as Alex Fergusons’ boys swept to undreamt glories.

Of course, it is entirely possible that my wife may have tired of me looking a prat whilst wearing it, and simply binned it. I wonder, could she have done such a terrible thing? I’m being silly, how could Sarah do that to me. It had to have been Cantona.

I must go now. They have rung the bell for dinner, and Sarah will be visiting soon. I’ll write again when I get new supplies of crayons…

Kramer

No. 2 - "How It all Began"...

(Originally written around 20th February 2000)

It’s been a wee while since I last jotted down my ramblings, but I’ve been on some seriously large doses of medication since May. As we all know, the history pages have been written and the 1998-1999 season is now one of myth and legend. Critics thought it mythical that we could reach the very heights, but our Claret and Amber legends proved them wrong.

It has to be said that the 9th May 1999 caused most Bradfordians to have their hearts in their mouths, instead of the medically accepted chest cavity. Men, women and little children wept tears of firstly sorrow, then joy, followed by disbelief and fear, but finally elation as the Promised Land was delivered. VP was engulfed by a great, heaving multitude, all whooping with delight and glee. (I do so enjoy a hearty whoop every so often).

Strangers hugged one another, and I have to say, we do have some very strange supporters. Black clasped the hand of white; the young danced with the old, the sick and ill were cured. Actually, that last part didn’t happen as far as I recollect, but artistic license and the law of averages permit me.

One of my most vivid images from that evening is of Mr McCall, and his quite clever impersonation of someone slipping from a car roof. A routine from the training ground I’ll hazard.

What japes! Oh, marvellous times!

The players and club are adored in Bradford but, sadly, are reviled throughout the land. Do we care, not a bit. We laugh, Ha Ha, in the face of the Rodney creature as he crawls from his Marsh. Bradford City is our club, our team, our heroes - our hope. The rest can go and boil their heads.

This leads me to a question.

How do we, as fans, become so committed (in every sense) to one individual club?

For me, the K~Man, it goes back nearly twenty years and begins with a name I’ll never forget. I’ll elaborate….

When you think of football, what names loom large in your thoughts?

Some people recollect names such as Bill Shankly, Eusebio, Bobby Moore, Ossie Ardiles, Pele, Sir Alf Ramsey, Steve Torpey and numerous other legends from the game. As for myself, whilst I thrill at the memory of these illustrious greats, the name I associate most with our wonderful and beautiful game is a name you will never have heard before.

He’s not an international footballer; he doesn’t play in the Premier League or the Nationwide. In fact, he doesn’t even play footy as far as I know, and he is not a professional sportsman. Having said that, he’s a pretty keen cricketer and a dab hand with one of those golf sticks. Even so, not one of you will have heard of him.

His name is Nick Jocelyn. When I think of footy and Bradford City, I think of him. Let me explain why.

Nick Jocelyn

Back in the autumn of 1981, I was in school assembly one morning when Nick asked;

“Fancy going to watch Bradford this Saturday?”

At first I was puzzled. I had no idea what this chap, who I had known a little over twelve months, was going on about.

Why would I want to watch Bradford?

Where would we watch it?

What did he mean by “Bradford”?

Was Nick on the same planet as the rest of us?

After Nick had explained that he wanted to go and see a football match involving Bradford City AFC I became intrigued.

Now, the question had caught me somewhat by surprise. After all, in my previous 12 years I had never shown a liking for football, although my dad had once taken me to see Borrussia Moenchengladbach whilst we were stationed in Germany.

Emboldened by the maturity that turning 13 had brought to me, I confidently declared;

“I’ll have to ask my mum.”

Anyway, to cut to the chase, we both went to the game. I’m sad to say that I cannot remember the opponents. Maybe I don’t remember because the game was dull and uninspired and, as I recall, high proportions of those early matches were dull. But the seeds were sown, and a lifetime passion grew with each passing 90 minutes.

Nick and I used to catch the bus into town. We would then amble along Manningham Lane to the ground, perhaps stopping to buy a programme if our meagre (take note Mum and Dad) pocket money would stretch that far. Then onto the rather poorly stocked club shop in the back of the stand. I loved that hovel of a shop. And finally we would pay our admission fees and enter the ground via dodgy turnstiles. Incidentally, can anybody remember having to leap over the large puddles that seemed to be permanently placed underfoot, whilst simultaneously handing over your money, collecting any change due and then forcing the turnstile to revolve?

A fairly tricky manoeuvre, and one which I’m sure that the stars of today, Beagrie and co., would be proud of.

Nick would always bring a packet of fig biscuits with him. This is not your average footy food I’ll grant you, but Nick had spent some years living in South Africa and he assured me that figs were good for you! He has always shown a certain flare for the outrageous, and has never been one to follow the crowd. Hence he supported unfashionable BCAFC. But in those days of the old Kop being somewhat exposed to inclement weather, we soon graduated to pies and beef drinks. Figs are all good and well for the digestion, but they don’t warm you up as much as a Meat n’ Tatie does during half time on a cold February night!

We would both happily stand on the Kop, munching figs, with the crumbling concrete underfoot, and watch our heroes weave their magic. Barry Gallagher, Daisy McNiven, John Hawley, an unfeasibly young Stuart, and the legend that was Bobby Campbell. Oh happy days. Come rain, wind or sleet and snow. Win, loose or draw, we both enjoyed our Saturday afternoons.

Supporting City became a consuming passion for me. I loved every thing about the club – our shabby ground, the majestic views over Canal Road, the players, the club history, the very fact that our players were “our players”, accessible to the fans and willing to stop and sign autographs. Nick didn’t become the ardent fan that I did.

Don’t get me wrong, he still loves the club, but he is sensible and is able to distance himself from things. He became my best man and my daughter’s Godfather, and he still remains my best friend after all these years. I thank him for all that.

As I said at the beginning. Lineker, Puskas, Zico, Platini – they are all great footballing names, but to me Nick Jocelyn remains the greatest name. After all, he inspired my love of the beautiful game. But, most importantly, he introduced me to Bradford City AFC. You’ve got to love him for that. Oh, and he can also ski.

One final thing. I’m reliably informed that we have just celebrated a new millennium. Personally I don’t work on the Gregorian calendar, I find it somewhat flawed. I ask you who needs Thursdays? I much prefer the old Roman one. But if you happen to use the Gregorian calendar, best regards to you all, and belated best wishes for the New Year.

Speak soon,

Kramer