Following the Football round London; on teaching and football and teaching football.

'appy 'ammers







The Boleyn

One early morning I got a call from the Fat Controller to go and do a day’s supply teaching in a school in West Ham. I was new in town and much taken with the idea of going to one of the cradles of good footballing philosophy; the great John Lyall and Ron Greenwood, architects of modern English coaching and responsible through the years for such illustrious names as the incomparable Bobby Moore, the hero of ’66 Geoff Hurst, Martin Peters who was so good he was still playing in the 1st division when he was 37. Trevor Brooking, the Lampards, father and son, the list goes on and on. And all of them proper footballers; passers and runners, not one would've hoofed it up into the stratosphere for it to come down with snow on or indulged in a hopefull punt up to the big lad.



The school was a little like that to. I was totally redundant, useless, only there because of the legal requirement. I learnt far more than the kids did, even if it was boring having to sit and watch them teach themselves. And the little ones. I had a Y6 class, the biggest people in the school, the class had three assistants from ethnic backgrounds working with immigrant children who came from an incredibly diverse background. The Deputy Head, who’s class it was, had left an “integrated day” on a white board; this is jargon for a list of things for the kids to do. And that’s what they did; all day. My highlight was to get the key to the Sports Cupboard and open it for the girls who then gave an infants class a PE lesson. I just watched, open mouthed. In class I tried to help, but they were all so confident and competent that I was genuinely redundant. Like that big fella up front down the Boleyn waiting for the long ball lofted hopefully goalward. That’s just not the West ‘am way, see, and it was the same in school. Superb coaching – in this case by the Dep who’d got her class running like clockwork and could go out for the day and it all tick tocked away without her – or me. Simply wonderful; if a tad boring for me.



The imaginatively named Boleyn pub.

Once upon a time we stayed in West Ham with Joe, he knew of a great pub, right next to the Boleyn Ground, fancifully called the Boleyn. And it was. Great. In the back room there was proper dancing with a proper organist playing all the old tunes that your Mum and Dad knew. Just like Cockneys were supposed to be. Everyone was dressed to the nines, none more so than a large, elegant West Indian gentleman with a fairly impressive girth stretching his waistcoat tight, gold watch chain dangling at just the right angle, who was an obvious Romeo. The East End has always been an immigrants destination; Milligan and his Irish mates fighting Mosley’s Black Shirts down Brick Lane, anti-Jewish riots, the West Indians sailing into the docks often stayed, nowadays it’s the Bengali sweat shops in the Rag Trade. West Ham United’s Clyde Best is widely credited as being the first division’s first black player.

            What Joe had forgotten was that it was F.A.Cup semi-final day and that from Villa Park down the M1 to London doesn’t take that long. Soon the bus loads of fans began returning and crowding into their local, and singing at the top of their liberally liquid laced voices, “Wemberleee, Wemberleee.” Yep, the ‘appy ‘ammers ‘ad done it again. Off to Wembley.

C'mon you Spurs!

The next club on my Fat Controllers list was T.H.F.C. The Spurs. The Yids. The Double. Kick and Rush. Gazza in tears. All of that and more. Much more; a proud institution. The school was literally in the shadow of the East Stand, the kids were almost totally Afro-Caribbean, an excellent, if demanding place to work. The boss was a Yorkshireman and after a few days there I asked him how he managed to run the place so well.

“Simple” he answered frankly, “I’ve got a very experienced staff and I go over budget ever year because of it. I offer my governors my resignation every year when they complain about it, but I’m still ‘ere.”

Next I asked him if he was a football man, tread gently see, not everybody is.

“Leeds United, man and boy!”

So I asked him about the big place casting its shadows over our little playground.

            “Never been in since they went PLC.” Was the blunt Yorshire reply, “The Arsenal send their lads up every season! But the other lot haven’t been in since they went public. Says everythin’ dunnit.”

If you click on the link you can see how close the school is to White Hart Lane.

http://maps.google.com/maps/empw?url=http:%2F%2Fmaps.google.com%2Fmaps%3Ff%3Dq%26source%3Ds_q%26hl%3Den%26geocode%3D%26q%3Dwhite%2Bhart%2Blane%26sll%3D51.603276,-0.065854%26sspn%3D0.025749,0.076818%26ie%3DUTF8%26hq%3DWhite%2BHart%2BLane%26hnear%3DWhite%2BHart%2BLane,%2B46%2BWhite%2BHart%2BLn,%2BWhite%2BHart%2BLane,%2BLondon%2BN17%2B8HP,%2BUnited%2BKingdom%26ll%3D51.603276,-0.065854%26spn%3D0.016633,0.038418%26t%3Dh%26output%3Dembed&hl=en

            One afternoon as the tidal wave of kids surged down the corridors I came across the boss looking a little more frantic than usual. Apparently the lad who ran the school Athletic Club hadn’t turned in. I immediately offered to do it.

            “I can’t pay you ‘owt, you know that!” said the boss. I told him it would be fun and he agreed and just told me to give them a few races and let them go home when they’d had enough. The thing is that if you do something like that for children, they don’t forget. So we did some silly warm ups I know of; every one jogs in a line and you shout out body parts for them to touch the ground with. You start with the obvious and accessible stuff like right hand, left hand, the knees, the elbows, then you throw in “Your bottom”, giggles galore, and eventually you go for the nose and the ears by which time the kids are mostly lying on the floor in hysterics. I still do it with my Spanish children. And they still love it. Then we did some silly races; hopping, crab walking, frog jumping. Then it got serious; heats, semi-finals and finals. Boy can those kids run. Its in the balance, and the stride; there’s nothing more natural than running, is there. Its flight and chase – forget the gathering, its hunting and being hunted, pure and simple. It was beautiful to watch their natural grace and ability, great to hear the laughter and see the smiles, but best of all, the next day every one of them greeted me going past down the corridor or in class. Yes!

Up the Arse!

I know its infantile but I simply can’t resist it. During one of my many sojourns in the city of pea soupers and soot, I lived hard by Highbury. It’s a proper football club still, is the Arsenal. Many of the supporters still live nearby and walk to the game. There’s a school at the end of the road and, of course, sooner or later I got to go there too. I’m a massive fan of these lovely old Victorian schools; huge big classrooms full of space and light, steps so worn by generation after generation of children that the top of one tread almost meets the bottom of the next. What they often don’t have is playground space. One Tory government or another hit on the hooligan idea of selling off school playing fields and of course, in London land was at a premium. Which is one of the reasons why I think the Arsenal should be so applauded; for breaking the bank to keep the Emirates local. I worked a few days in another Islington school with a tiny playground underground; I kid you not, literally underground, all electric lighting and troglodytes. None of the kids was over three foot tall. I seem to remember some barbarian had built a car park on the top where their playground used to be. What I remember best about Highbury Primary School was the football. There was only room for one pitch at playtime, but under the benevolent direction of Doreen at least six games were in progress at any one time. Talk about 3D chess – nothing on this mun! It was mindboggling to watch, incredibly all ran smoothly, disputes ran at the normal level or below ……… unb’lievable as we say in Wales.

The other thing about the Arse is that they invest in their, and Tottenham’s, community. I was privileged to be in a school one day when “the lads” came in to work with our kids. There were three of them and they were all about 7 feet tall, no more than 17, utterly professional, utterly charming and brilliant with the kids, who loved them. They did some football stuff which should have had me scribbling furiously, but I just watched open mouthed again at their easy confidence and control, both of the ball and the children; believe me they were good, very good. At the teaching bit and the football bit. Then they did some Literacy work, all football inspired, which the kids lapped up in a way they mightn’t have done in class. Brilliant.

The other other thing about the Arse is the ladies. I’m a huge believer in unisex sport. Arsenal Ladies is the most successful women’s football team in Britain. They’re semi-professional and have sometimes made their Continental professional opponents look silly. A wonderful role model for all British girls, not just Londoners. The club have academies for both boys and girls and their inward investment is an example to all clubs, especially other North London clubs who ignore little schools on their doorsteps. Let’s hope that’s changed.

British primary schools are almost uniformly excellent and on the very rare occasion that they're not its because the managemant is crap. And so it was that I went to a tall old Victorian building in Newham where a Super Head had been installed to effectively break up the school. Staff were not happy. Senior staff were disgruntled. So when I asked the Deputy at lunchtime if I could use the playground some time in the afternoon for a PE lesson, she said, "Stay out there all day for all I care!" she was bitter, you could sense it. So we did - stay out there all afternoon. We did some skills for a bit and then played one of the longest games of school football ever played. In fact I'm off to fone the Guiness Book of Records now ............

That afternoon still occupies a high spot in my professional memory as the time I got paid 120 quid to play football all afternoon. Not bad, eh.

And finally I’d like to tell you about my friend Paul, a lifelong Spurs supporter. When we worked together he let slip one day that he’d played in a youth team with Glenda Hoddle. After the Ooohs and Ahhhs had died down, Paul said that wasn’t his best namedrop. He claimed that he’d beaten Olympic gold medallist Linford Christie in a race. And he had. Its quite well known that as a youngster Linford wasn’t what you could call an enthusiastic trainer. He also ran the 400m rather than the pure sprints he later became so dominant in. 400 hurts. He was also quite fond of what we can term recreation; disco’s, late nights, girls, who knows, maybe even a little recreational spliff or two. And so it was that Paul caught him on a bad day and beat him in a 400. He also claims to have snogged Kim Wilde, but that’s just going to far isn’t it!



Wet dream or what?



Binlife

Its bin a hard day's night!

Is there life after Bin Laden?

Is there life in a Bin?

Ich Bin Berliner!

I'm tin therefore I'm a Bin

Binlife, for those throwaway moments ..........

Returning from the wilds I felt the need of a few luxuries. passing the Bin by the Mercadona, I noticed there was a shapely, curvacious lady with a little torch shining it into the bin and talking to herself.

Nothing too odd there. In these parts as in many others, there are plenty of folk whose best means of keeping the inceasingly rapacious wolf from their door is to rummage and sell. For the most part they're professionals and carry the tools of their trade; a trolley of some sort and a long stick with a hook or handle for rummaging at length. Often they can be heard conversing with themselves. So can I for that matter. Frequently.

Coming out of the supermarket I noticed that there were suble differences with this lady. Firstly, almost the entire contents of the bin were now piled carefully alongside her in their bags. For a few moments I entertained the entertaining thought that maybe she'd genuinely lost something in the bin. The second difference was that there was definitely another voice joining in the conversation with a will. Unless she was a natural mimic with built in ventriloquist's skills there was someone in the bin. As I drew level with the bin I could see her companion in the intestines of the bin casting about. They had the curves and skin colour to be Gypsies, but the lady to the fore had a trace of Indian blood in her features, those lovely high cheekbones and huge deep brown eyes. I concentrated on the sounds and realised with the same shock as always that those Spanishy sounding words with an almost Slavic accent were Portugese. They were Brazilian. Brazilian Bin Rummagers by Torchlight. How not at all romantic.

The Maccy D

What Real Cyclists do while the rest of the world sits on its Fat Arse.

Where men are men and bikes are white.

The key to this is stealth. You don't want to alert all that wonderful wildlife and glorious landscape; all those shy and timid cooks in their delicate habitats; those auld fellas slaving over a hot still, tinkering and adjusting here and there. Oh no; none of this planning and booking malarkey - no; its up and at 'em, hit 'em on the run before they have time to get all startled and flee. And so it was with us, a flurry of fone calls on the afternoon of the 28th, and I found myself climbing onto the 8.32 at Burgos Rosa de Lima train station the following morning. This enormous and largely empty folly was the scene of yet another attempt by RENFE to scupper our hit and run guerrilla tactics. They'd changed the timetable again, only by five minutes, but in early morning Vitoria it was enough to make Jaime and Amaia have to sprint up the platform and scramble on, very demanding at seven a.m.

            As guerrilla cyclists we are veterans at combatting this kind of foolishness, so we contented ourselves with a suitably feeble early morning display of “outraged of Tunbridge Wells” and pretended to go back to sleep. And thus it was that we were able to surprise a beautiful fox and watch his flight over the snow; three beautiful Roe Deer who crossed the road in front of my nose; a Wild Boar charging disgruntled through the gorse; cormorants perched, wings spread out to dry, for all the world like old men reading the morning paper; a heron here, an egret there, a woodpecker’s dipping flight. We caught several cooks in their prime and savoured their succulent stews; we sipped in silent appreciation distilled spirits, both pure and those laced with honey. We climbed magnificent snowy mountain passes, through the silent stillness of ancient beech forests, bursting out onto views of unimaginable beauty – unimaginable, that is, to those polishing their arses on the sofa.



Valle de Cabuerniga

Spanish people will tell you that their national obsession is food. Its not; its talking. Even on trains at ungodly hours of the morning. Thus it was that we woke the pretty girl opposite. We changed trains, did the shopping necesary to go into the wilds of Cantabria, and set off up the cycle track to climb the puerto Palombera. Spain is a high central plateau ringed by mountain ramparts, so climbing from the landward side is nothing like climbing the great puertos from the sea. It was as perfect a winter’s day as you can get; crystal clear shining air with the sun beaming away above. Up we went gazing across the snowy slopes to the ski station and the  Pico Tres Mares, Three Seas Peak beyond. A flash of colour caught our eyes, “Fox!” We followed his flight up the field and down into a river bed. “He might come up out of there.” said Jaime and we saw him emerge and sprint off. He crossed the road and we saw his spoor climb the bank and up into the forest.

Up at the top we played silly buggers with snow balls and Jaime tried leaving his impression in the snow bank, but it wasn’t ‘avin’ it, the snow was way too 'ard! Onward and downward, twenty kms of that special spell beech forests cast; a soft silence punctuated by dripping snowmelt and birdsong. A cathedral like stillness; a rushing meltwater stream at every bend and curve; silvery soft trunks tower like sentinels above a carpet of crunchy copper coloured leaves. Its prayerlike; devotion.

All morning and afternoon Amaia had been worrying about the last part of our journey; the lad on the fone had told her the last 2 kms to the youth hostel were vertiginous. I scoffed at the idea, people in cars, what did they know; I reassured her that 2 kms was only 2 kms. We could walk up pleasantly and enjoy it. It'd be a doddle.

Later, over dinner, we decided we were never going down ever again. We would simply have to do without daily necessities like bread, banks, books and beloved ones down the mountain. It was a nightmare; more vertical than vertiginous. Later we heard that a local, a bit loose in the head, had hurtled headlong to his death having missed one of the corners. It was that steep! The youth hostel was basic; one big room with an open fireplace and a pile of mattresses; but it was the view from the biggest picture window I’ve ever seen that made it singular. Right across the valley and up to the pass we’d just descended. Incredible.

The wilds of Cantabria proved to have two restaurants and bars and several posadas. A pre prandial vino was deemed the order of the evening and so we went down the pub. For it was; a pub. The lads were taciturn, as was our landlady, to the point of being rude. A fine home-cooked dinner was had by firelight, logs blazing, with fancy French liquor choccies.

The next morning we made a friend. She abandoned a little light pottering in her garden to amble over the road and gesture expansively at our route to Barcena Mayor, she was very explict and gave us to understand that it was a gentle hour and a half stroll. After we’d arrived some three hours later Amaia christened her Abuela Atleta or Granny Athlete. The walk was wonderful, all forest and slopes, wild horses and rushing streams. The village too was beautiful, but a bit museum like; the Cotswolds at 4,000 feet. We made another friend who showed us around his workshop as we admired his handicrafts. Beautifully decorated hand carved walking sticks and all sorts of other implements, all made of local beech, ash and pine.

That evening the atmosphere in the pub was a little livelier. We sampled the still’s delights, orujo; Jaime the clear dangerous stuff, I tried the honey variety. The lads conducted an impromptu sobriety test. The long and winding road to the door had to be done in a straight line; actually it proved to be more of a challenge for those conducting the test to get the door open than those suspected of being the drunks to walk through it.



"Bells on bob tails ring"

The morning brought those beautiful deer skipping up the bank to clatter across the roadway and scatter safely in the forest above. A local farmer put on a show; how not to get the cows out and off to the meadow – like naughty children they scarpered in three different directions before he got them up through the village onto the road and down into the meadow. We climbed the puerto in still perfect conditions, a harmony of birdsong and dripping branches accompanying us, the thaw now well advanced.

We were off to collect Leire and stay up above in the altogether colder world of the plateau. New Years Eve, dinner stealthily cooked in our crowded room, a misty midnight ride to fireworks and fancy dress as the bells bonged out the old and bonged in the new.



a-Bustling in the Hedgerow?

Shift change; Amaia off to study, Leire all set to ride. The mirror still waters of the enormous Ebro embalse reflected forest and snowy mountain. Up front I heard a-bustling in the hedgerow, and pulled over just in time to see a bristling muscle bound boar break cover and batter off up through the gorse to the forest. Having never seen one of these nocturnal animals in the wild, I’ve now seen two in a month. Years ago, grape-picking in Provence, while wandering the hills I once came face to face with a huge male, tusks and all; I can still see those tusks. They impressed me mightily in the seconds it took me to note the fence between us.

            We climbed the puerto Magdeleña and suddenly emerged onto one of those thousand year views; views that stay with you all your days. It’s a little like the Lakes in Cumbria, massive mountains behind, steep, steep valleys below, slate roofed summer cabins arrayed in friendly rows like rural miners cottages up on the the top of the world; the valle del Pas, and its famous cabins.



Cabañas pasiegas.



Halfway down this wonderful hidden world we were distracted; well it was cold, really cold now, and we’d been in the mist up in the forest, caldo, broth, was calling, and once in Roberto’s splendidly simple establishment the siren smells of cooking reminded us that it was downhill all the way now and we were well in advance of the dark and, well, hungry ……… and, most importantly, there was cocido Montañes on the menu. We’d been subject to several days of temptation by now, and all of a sudden the flesh was weak.

Well, it was fabulous! Considerably more fabulous than the poor example in the picture. A base of beans augmented with freshly chopped greens and all stewed slowly with chorizo, fatty bacon, and in prize position, in a masterpiece of presentation, a thick slice of morcilla de Burgos. If you add a pretty, friendly, chatty waitress, misty mountain views, a bottle of red, a main course and home made puddings all for a song, well, you’ll understand why I say that Restaurante Roberto in San Pedro del Romeral (942 59 55 93)  will occupy a special place somewhere in between my stomach and my appetite until I get to go there again!

The Pig Products in their raw state.

We hurtled down half the world to the river and valley bottom. Reaching our destination we stopped at the first building – a hotel. All appeared to be shuttered and closed for the New Year holiday, when Leire noticed a light; the family holiday meal was being eaten in the restaurant and on ringing the bell we did the swiftest bit of business I’ve ever been privileged to take part in Spain; we asked the question, got a very quick affirmative, were shown the room, a 50 Euro note changed hands and our hostess was off back to the bosom of her family. Not so much as the hint of paperwork, no ID requested or seen, no tour of the premises, no sales talk, breakfast suggestions, nothing. Normally all this, in the land of chat, takes a goodly while, can take an age and has been known to take for ever. We were way too full for dinner and settled for a stroll and listened to feuding owls under a palm tree by winter moonlight.

Real men with a real stew!

In the morning Jaime fired up the trusty Trange and made toast while I prepared a slow Tupper-full of muesli and banana; our luck with the winter weather had finally run out. The sky had come down to greet us, mist and cloud combined. We dithered and dawdled, we dawdled and dithered, until we could neither dawdle nor dither no more. And its funny; even a Welshman traumatized by 40 years of rain was soon fired up, the endorphins buzzing around the brain with the simple joy of spinning the pedals, the rushing river beside us, our constant companion as we sped down the Via Verde del Pas. The chirimiri, or drizzle, metamorphosed into mist and we began to really enjoy it as Jaime got the bit between his teeth. Almost before we knew it we were trundling down country lanes all cormoranted and be-heroned nearing our destination, another climb, puerto de Alisas.

This one was different, totally different. We’d known all morning it would be an ascent into the cold wet world of cloud. Cantabria is like Wales; names like between waters, three waters, both waters and the splendidly all encompassing between more waters, abound. Everything is covered in a good thick layer of mould, trees harbour mosses and lichens, the colour scheme is green and grey. We’re talking a world of water here; damp, misty, fecund, verdant, humid; these are the applicable adjectives.

We went into it with our eyes open, rain gear on, spirits high, climbing legs well trained. And it was good, Jaime spotted a bus stop with a fireplace, the passing cars were careful and well lit, cowbell tinkled through the mist. The thing is we hadn’t bargained with the descent. By the time we got down to Arredondo we were frozen, the posada didn’t have any rooms and when one of the locals suggested we try the bar in Ason, we grabbed at the idea like any self-respecting drowning man at the nearest straw. I’d been there see, some years ago with the gang, walking, in the middle of winter. We’d stayed at a casa rural owned by the lady at the bar, I didn’t know for sure if they had rooms above the bar too but I remembered she was friendly and cheerfull.

Orujo de miel.

It was pretty much dark by the time we climbed the last 4kms up to the bar and I opened the door and entered – blinded by the steaming up of the glasses as is traditional in times of crisis. It was shit or bust; disaster or rescue, 20 kms more in the cold and dark, freezing half to death. Did they have a room, we were three.

            “Yes, did I want a triple, or a double and a single?”

I explained about having stayed in one of her casa rurales and she offered me one of those too. Later as we parked the bikes in the basement where the boiler warmed the heart of the establishment, she showed us their albergue, “For the mountaineers and so on,” she said, almost apologetically for the poverty of the stark bunk beds, seeing our looks of familiar appreciation, she went on “you can stay here if you like, its all the same to me.” We felt it would be too stingy to move our bags downstairs and deny our rescuer a portion of her profit.

Note the lack of label - clearly the good stuff; home produced.

Showered and changed with all the wet stuff hung around the upper floor we descended for dinner; it was the perfect antidote to our disaster. The perfect remedy for our poor bone chilled bodies. She asked us where we wanted to dine and we opted to stay in the warm and comfort of the bar rather than the dining room. It was like eating with the family really. The food was as good as the day before and the orujo was homemade. The Boss was doing the end of year accounts at another table; daughter and boyfriend were sent on their way to study in Santander; we were the only people in. It turned out that the boss had passed us that afternoon while we were having a chocolate break by the river over the other side of the pass, psyching ourselves up for the big moment of the day. Wine finished, pudding to be digested, the dangerous clear stuff was brought into play. Jaime opted for the real stuff, orujo blanco, while I stayed with the honey version I’d enjoyed the last couple of days. Our saviour then gave us to understand that the orujo de miel was for poufs and nancy boys, maricones who couldn’t hack the real stuff, the clear pure liquid. This was greeted with howls of laughter as all week I’d been accusing all other cyclists, clean and comfortable on their pristine mountain bikes of being maricones, poncing about without so much as a saddle bag let alone climbing big passes with a full set of panniers on like us!