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