The following is a short story about a young Leeds fan in the 1970s written by Paul Gladwin.
“It’s Bremner with the ball. He lays it off to Giles. Giles back to Madeley. Leeds United knocking the ball around confidently now...still nil nil. Madeley to Lorimar, down the wing to Jones. Jones holds the ball up... then skips around the Arsenal defender...Jones gets to the bar line and puts in a cross. It’s Clarke. It’s there! Clarke! Alan Clarke with a diving header gives Leeds United the lead. Alan Clarke, ex Leicester City man has given Leeds the lead in the FA CUP Final. A great goal there from Clarke. His team mates are all around him, congratulating the scorer. He points to the Leeds’ fans. It’s dreamtime for them and for their heroes in white...”
And it was dreamtime! May 6th 1972, an’ I were a scrawny twelve year old football mad lad from Worksop in Nottinghamshire. Me name’s John Jepson. And this was the happiest day of me life.
Only time the mighty Leeds have lifted the FA CUP. The greatest cup competition in the world. A ‘Sniffer’ Clarke goal on 53 minutes won the cup for us, and won a place in me heart at the same time. Every time I played football after that, I were alous ‘Sniffer’ Clarke. Alous! The other kids used to take’t piss summat chronic. “Who the hell’s ‘Sniffer’ Clarke, Jepson? Never heard of her.” They were lyin’ o’course. Probably jealous, bein’ Sheff’ Wednesday fans and never won owt. Everybody’d heard of ‘Sniffer’ by then.
I couldn’t believe it - the Mighty Leeds - FA Cup Winners 1972 . We’d lost to’t Stamford Bridge lot in 1970 after a replay. An extra time David Webb winner did us. Git!
Come to think on it, the mighty Leeds’ve alous been unlucky. I mean this was ’72 right and we’d just won’t cup, and we only needed to beat Wolves in’t last match o’t season to do’t double. It were a foregone conclusion. Everybody said so. Me dad said they were, “Stuck on, lad”
We were stuck on alright - lost 2 –1. I were listenin’ to’t match on’t radio in’t kitchen, urgin’ the Mighty Leeds on. Singing ‘Marchin’ On Together’. I wan’t singin’ very long mind. As the ref’ blew’t final whistle, I burst out cryin’. Cun’t stop. We’d finished runner’s up to Derby. Chuffin’ Derby County! Can you believe it? Licked us by a short head they did.
Them an’ their manager, old big head, were sunnin’ their sens on holiday in Spain at’t time. News comes through to ‘em that the Mighty Leeds ‘ad lost, and Cloughie held a press conference straight away.
“It’s not so much winning the League that thrills me, young man,” He said, wi’ not the slightest sense of bein’ thrilled at all. “It’s the thought of beating that lot from Yorkshire that makes me smile.”
He weren’t even smiling. Talk about rubbin’t salt in’t wounds. I were screamin’ all sorts at tele as me dad were eatin’ his tea. He told me to be quiet or I might wake me mam up. I knew he’d had a pint or two but surely he weren’t drunk enough to forget that we’d buried her three months earlier.
“Aren’t ya supposed to be a bit clever to be a manager, dad,” I says. “ Mr Castle is!” And referring to’t Derby manager, I said, “ He’s an idiot in’t he, dad!”
“Sum are good at sum stuff, lad, and sum are good at others.” He said wisely as he tried unsuccessfully to cough a pea up.
“Besides, he’ll be’t next England manager way he’s goin’.” He coughed again, this time more vigorously. “Mark my words.”
I alous marked his words. Din’t say much, but what he did say were worth listenin’ to.
To be honest I want that much bothered if Cloughie did get England job. Din’t bother about England much anyway. Internationally I alous looked out for Scotland, me mam’s side o’t family. The Mighty Leeds had a bunch of Scottish players anyway – Bremner, Lorimar, Harvey and the fabulous Eddie Gray. The thought of the mighty Scotland lickin’ England at Hamden Park. Jimmy Johnstone scorin’ a hat trick. Fantastic! Me mam loved it. Me an’all. Old man weren’t overly impressed mind.
“I’m not bothered about England,” I said, “As long as he never manages the Mighty Leeds.”
Me dad were eatin’ his usual - fish, chips and peas. He’d had ‘em every day that God sent for fourteen weeks since me mam died. Never brought any food in to cook. Cun’t cook anyway and din’t know how to wash a pot, so that were a waste a time. So he’d just nip to chippy. “Save on’t Fairy, eh lad?” he’d say.
Never buy me any. I were alright though – me Auntie Beryl lived round’t corner, so me dad’d pack me off to her house for some snap. A regular diet of beans on toast - or spaghetti on toast - or egg on toast. If Auntie Beryl’d had a good day at bingo she might even stretch it to beans, and egg on toast. But that would be stretchin’ it. No wonder I were scrawny. Me dad’d often throw me a chip or two, but no more. Said I’d got to eat proper if I were gonna play for Revie. For years I thought the staple diet of a First Division footballer were beans on toast. And as a bonus for winnin’ they get an egg wi’ it.
Auntie Beryl had a lad an’all. Just the one, “All I could force out.” she said. He were called Mark – our Mark. Me cousin. Strange thing, but everybody from Worksop were christened ‘Our’. I thought it were summat to do wi’ Salvation Army. Most of the people that I knew were Christened by’t Sally Army. They sang ‘Come and join us,’ and so we did.
Our Mark were’t same age as me: went to’t same school – Ockendon High: played for’t same team. He were a goalie, weren’t bad. Nowt to shout home about mind. We’d never wake me mam up shoutin’ about him, that were a fact. At twelve he looked the absolute spit of Jack Palance. Him off Shane, ya know, that film wi’ Alan Ladd. Whenever our Mark saved a shot, especially a penalty or free kick or summat, all our mates from school’d shout, “Shane, Shane, we luv ya, Shane.”
Din’t bother our Mark though. Told everybody he were Jack Palance’s reincarnation. Me dad used to say to him that ya can’t be the reincarnation of somebody until they were dead. Our Mark couldn’t grasp that concept, an’ he want bothered anyway. He knew who he were, an’ that were that.
He alous wore black. Never owt else, alous black! Our RE teacher, Mrs Corbett, used to call him Hamlet. Said there were something rotten in the state of Denmark. We din’t have a clue what she were on about.
“What’s Denmark got to do with it?” Fat Rollow asked. “Are they in our qualifying group for’t World Cup, Miss?” Fat Jimmy Rollow were known as Cack Ma Wack, ‘cos when he were a nipper he used to shit his self, and when his mam found out she’d smack him.
Aswell as wearin’ black, our Mark’d alous wear a cowboy hat. Well he said it were a cowboy hat. In fact, it were me granddad’s pit helmet dolled up, an’ he looked a right state. Wanted me Auntie Beryl to get him an horse an’all. She said she’d see what she could do at bingo. I don’t know about an horse, she ought to have bought him a bath, ‘cos I tell ya summat, to my knowledge he never had one. Mrs Corbett were probably right come to think on it - there were summat rotten in the state of our Mark’s socks. “Cowboys don’t wesh.” He said proudly. “Too busy fightin’t Indians.”
I remember one time, getting changed for trainin’ we were, an’ our Mark’d whipped his socks off good style. And God’s honest truth, Christ his feet were black bright. Looked like Cassius Clay! Cunt see any skin, none at all, the chuffas were covered in muck. Dolly Dolby, a mate o’mine; right winger; good player he were; went on trial with Coventry; he wanted to send our Mark to Coventry when he saw his feet; Anyway he shouts, “Mr Castle! Mr Castle,” as loud as he could.
Mr Castle were our English teacher and also’t football coach. Six foot seven inch Irishman he were. Absolutely massive man. There’s castles in Cork smaller that him. His hands were bigger that some of us kids. He were like summat from’t Land Of The Giants. Now even though he took us for football, he alous wore cricket whites. Not sure why, but they were alous spotless. Not a mark on ‘em, and that’s the way he liked it. In fact that’s the way he liked everything.
“Mr Castle! Mr Castle!” Dolly kept shoutin’. Our Mark din’t look too bothered though. He cunt care less how big Mr Castle were, he were still no match for Jack.
Palance. A couple of seconds go by and we hear this rumble... as if the floor starts shakin’. It’s as if there’s gonna be an earthquake or summat. More rumbling and then the door flies open and Mr Castle ducks under it and walked in. Monster feet for a monster man. It only took him half a step to get from’t gym, that were fifty yards away, into his beloved ‘changing area’. I say beloved ‘cos it’d only just been built. His pride an’ joy it were. You could hardly do anythin’ in it without him giving ya grief about it.
Once, when Micky Minnott was sludged up to hell after a particularly horrific football match against Bellsonn Grammar, Mickey got in’t showers for a wesh. It were like Sludge City it were. Cack all o’er place, all o’er Mr Castle’s beloved changing area – the lot. When Mr Castle saw the state o’t place, he went ballistic. There were an earthquake then alright. 8.5 on the Richter Scale. He dragged Mickey out of the shower by his pubic hair and he shouted something to Mickey about Bellsonn, and about gassin’ the little bastard, and then lobbed summat at him. It were a bloody good shot an’all ‘cos whatever it were that he threw, it landed right smack on Mickey’s forehead. Knocked him clean out. Mickey, like the majority of us, had literally no idea what’d hit him. Dolly thought he knew what the missile was though. Said it were probably the blarny stone.
“What’s all dis chouting.” Mr Castle bellowed. It took me’t first six months at school to understand a word he said. Not desperately good for an English teacher! “You know I won’t have chouting in my changing area. Moight crack da paint.”
“It’s Jepson’s feet, sir. Look at ‘em. They’re as black as’t ace o’ spades.” Said Dolly. “He’s muckyin’ up your changin’ area, Sir.” Mr Castle’s head then turned straight to me. I, as quick as a flash, scanned his giant frame for any potential missiles, but couldn’t see any. It were then that I realised that he thought that I was the Jepson in question, and before you could say ‘Jackie Charlton’s lankey’ I blurted out, “Not me, Sir. Mark Jepson, Sir. Not me, Sir.” Mr Castle’s body again began to turn, this time to my cousin. There he was - cowboy helmet on head, socks of death on’t floor, and feet of black on Mr Castle’s beautiful brown bench. As Mr Castle turned, evvveryyythinnng beeegannn tooo slooow dowwwwn. Real time was out of joint. Nothing was as it should be. And as our Mark started to stand up, I swear I could hear the theme tune to ‘SHANE’.
An I could, ‘but it were Mr Castle hummin’ it. There he was, a grown man, dressed in cricket whites, standing in front of a boy dressed in all black who thought he were Jack Palance - and Mr Castle’s humming the theme tune to ‘SHANE’. No wonder it felt surreal. It chuffin’ was.
Mr Castle stared at our Mark, and casually pushed his white coat tails back. Our Mark, staring at Mr Castle, coolly pushed his black shirt tails back. They stood looking at each other for what seemed like an age, waiting to see who’d make the first move. Eyes glarin’ and hands twitchin’. All us lads slowly began to back off, unsure of the outcome! Here it was - history in the makin’. They’d talk about this day as long as men were men. It were the gunfight at the Okendon Coral.
Still standin’, still, glarin’ and still twitchin’, then our Mark flinched slightly. He’d used this tactic once before in The Home-Stedders, where he’d killed a local prospector - so he thought it were tried and tested.
It might’ve been tried and tested on a naïve prospector from Missouri, but it wasn’t tried and tested on Mr Castle. As the man in black flinched, the man in white adjusted his body somewhat, and from out of absolutely nowhere fired a blackboard rubber from twenty five feet at the gold stealing, murderous man in black – namely our Mark. Now even though he could see it coming towards him: an’ even though he knew the rubber’s trajectory: an’ even though he knew the speed it were travellin’ at - especially as it were in slow motion - an even though he knew all these things, he were still powerless to prevent it from smackin’ him right on the nose.
A couple of seconds went by, then Dolly said, “Sir, you are without doubt the fastest draw in the west, Sir.” Mr Castle turned violently on Dolly, who by this time had began to resemble Cack Ma Wack in the way he was standing. Dolly whispered, “Aren’t you?”
Mr Castle’s gaze transferred from Dolly to the prostrate figure of our Mark. Hat still on head, socks still on’t floor, and his face now lyin’ next to ‘em. If this was the end for big Jack Palance he certainly didn’t die with his boots on. Not even with his socks on! Mr Castle casually looked across at Dolly again, and in his best Gary Cooper said, “Yep!”
On that word, the music shut up, time sped up and our Mark woke up. Mr Castle looked at our Mark’s manky feet, the souls of ‘em clearly on show, and said “I don’t know about Jack Palance, Jepson. You look more like one of those Indians he’d be fighting.
Neither our Mark nor the rest of us knew which particular tribe of Indian Mr Castle were referring to, but our Mark, lyin’ there in all sorts of confusion, just said, “Sir?”
Mr Castle took half a step forward, and standin’ o’er the man in black he said quietly, “Black Foot Sue, Jepson. Black Foot Sue.”
Four years later an’ I’m asleep in bed. It were about a quarter past seven in’t mornin’ an’ me dad knocks at me door. “What!” I shouted. He opened the door and walked in. He were ashen faced. Summat’s happened I could tell that. I says to him “You alright? He just looks at me. He weren’t alright that much were obvious. “Is it our Mark?” I say. No answer! “Auntie Beryl?” Still nothin’! He just stood there at the end of me bed as if in some kind of trance. “What is it, Dad? What’s a matter?”
“I’m sorry, lad...” he says. “But... but Brian Clough’s just been given the Leeds’ job.”
Oh my God.
Life Would never be the same again.
“It’s Bremner with the ball. He lays it off to Giles. Giles back to Madeley. Leeds United knocking the ball around confidently now...still nil nil. Madeley to Lorimar, down the wing to Jones. Jones holds the ball up... then skips around the Arsenal defender...Jones gets to the bar line and puts in a cross. It’s Clarke. It’s there! Clarke! Alan Clarke with a diving header gives Leeds United the lead. Alan Clarke, ex Leicester City man has given Leeds the lead in the FA CUP Final. A great goal there from Clarke. His team mates are all around him, congratulating the scorer. He points to the Leeds’ fans. It’s dreamtime for them and for their heroes in white...”
And it was dreamtime! May 6th 1972, an’ I were a scrawny twelve year old football mad lad from Worksop in Nottinghamshire. Me name’s John Jepson. And this was the happiest day of me life.
Only time the mighty Leeds have lifted the FA CUP. The greatest cup competition in the world. A ‘Sniffer’ Clarke goal on 53 minutes won the cup for us, and won a place in me heart at the same time. Every time I played football after that, I were alous ‘Sniffer’ Clarke. Alous! The other kids used to take’t piss summat chronic. “Who the hell’s ‘Sniffer’ Clarke, Jepson? Never heard of her.” They were lyin’ o’course. Probably jealous, bein’ Sheff’ Wednesday fans and never won owt. Everybody’d heard of ‘Sniffer’ by then.
I couldn’t believe it - the Mighty Leeds - FA Cup Winners 1972 . We’d lost to’t Stamford Bridge lot in 1970 after a replay. An extra time David Webb winner did us. Git!
Come to think on it, the mighty Leeds’ve alous been unlucky. I mean this was ’72 right and we’d just won’t cup, and we only needed to beat Wolves in’t last match o’t season to do’t double. It were a foregone conclusion. Everybody said so. Me dad said they were, “Stuck on, lad”
We were stuck on alright - lost 2 –1. I were listenin’ to’t match on’t radio in’t kitchen, urgin’ the Mighty Leeds on. Singing ‘Marchin’ On Together’. I wan’t singin’ very long mind. As the ref’ blew’t final whistle, I burst out cryin’. Cun’t stop. We’d finished runner’s up to Derby. Chuffin’ Derby County! Can you believe it? Licked us by a short head they did.
Them an’ their manager, old big head, were sunnin’ their sens on holiday in Spain at’t time. News comes through to ‘em that the Mighty Leeds ‘ad lost, and Cloughie held a press conference straight away.
“It’s not so much winning the League that thrills me, young man,” He said, wi’ not the slightest sense of bein’ thrilled at all. “It’s the thought of beating that lot from Yorkshire that makes me smile.”
He weren’t even smiling. Talk about rubbin’t salt in’t wounds. I were screamin’ all sorts at tele as me dad were eatin’ his tea. He told me to be quiet or I might wake me mam up. I knew he’d had a pint or two but surely he weren’t drunk enough to forget that we’d buried her three months earlier.
“Aren’t ya supposed to be a bit clever to be a manager, dad,” I says. “ Mr Castle is!” And referring to’t Derby manager, I said, “ He’s an idiot in’t he, dad!”
“Sum are good at sum stuff, lad, and sum are good at others.” He said wisely as he tried unsuccessfully to cough a pea up.
“Besides, he’ll be’t next England manager way he’s goin’.” He coughed again, this time more vigorously. “Mark my words.”
I alous marked his words. Din’t say much, but what he did say were worth listenin’ to.
To be honest I want that much bothered if Cloughie did get England job. Din’t bother about England much anyway. Internationally I alous looked out for Scotland, me mam’s side o’t family. The Mighty Leeds had a bunch of Scottish players anyway – Bremner, Lorimar, Harvey and the fabulous Eddie Gray. The thought of the mighty Scotland lickin’ England at Hamden Park. Jimmy Johnstone scorin’ a hat trick. Fantastic! Me mam loved it. Me an’all. Old man weren’t overly impressed mind.
“I’m not bothered about England,” I said, “As long as he never manages the Mighty Leeds.”
Me dad were eatin’ his usual - fish, chips and peas. He’d had ‘em every day that God sent for fourteen weeks since me mam died. Never brought any food in to cook. Cun’t cook anyway and din’t know how to wash a pot, so that were a waste a time. So he’d just nip to chippy. “Save on’t Fairy, eh lad?” he’d say.
Never buy me any. I were alright though – me Auntie Beryl lived round’t corner, so me dad’d pack me off to her house for some snap. A regular diet of beans on toast - or spaghetti on toast - or egg on toast. If Auntie Beryl’d had a good day at bingo she might even stretch it to beans, and egg on toast. But that would be stretchin’ it. No wonder I were scrawny. Me dad’d often throw me a chip or two, but no more. Said I’d got to eat proper if I were gonna play for Revie. For years I thought the staple diet of a First Division footballer were beans on toast. And as a bonus for winnin’ they get an egg wi’ it.
Auntie Beryl had a lad an’all. Just the one, “All I could force out.” she said. He were called Mark – our Mark. Me cousin. Strange thing, but everybody from Worksop were christened ‘Our’. I thought it were summat to do wi’ Salvation Army. Most of the people that I knew were Christened by’t Sally Army. They sang ‘Come and join us,’ and so we did.
Our Mark were’t same age as me: went to’t same school – Ockendon High: played for’t same team. He were a goalie, weren’t bad. Nowt to shout home about mind. We’d never wake me mam up shoutin’ about him, that were a fact. At twelve he looked the absolute spit of Jack Palance. Him off Shane, ya know, that film wi’ Alan Ladd. Whenever our Mark saved a shot, especially a penalty or free kick or summat, all our mates from school’d shout, “Shane, Shane, we luv ya, Shane.”
Din’t bother our Mark though. Told everybody he were Jack Palance’s reincarnation. Me dad used to say to him that ya can’t be the reincarnation of somebody until they were dead. Our Mark couldn’t grasp that concept, an’ he want bothered anyway. He knew who he were, an’ that were that.
He alous wore black. Never owt else, alous black! Our RE teacher, Mrs Corbett, used to call him Hamlet. Said there were something rotten in the state of Denmark. We din’t have a clue what she were on about.
“What’s Denmark got to do with it?” Fat Rollow asked. “Are they in our qualifying group for’t World Cup, Miss?” Fat Jimmy Rollow were known as Cack Ma Wack, ‘cos when he were a nipper he used to shit his self, and when his mam found out she’d smack him.
Aswell as wearin’ black, our Mark’d alous wear a cowboy hat. Well he said it were a cowboy hat. In fact, it were me granddad’s pit helmet dolled up, an’ he looked a right state. Wanted me Auntie Beryl to get him an horse an’all. She said she’d see what she could do at bingo. I don’t know about an horse, she ought to have bought him a bath, ‘cos I tell ya summat, to my knowledge he never had one. Mrs Corbett were probably right come to think on it - there were summat rotten in the state of our Mark’s socks. “Cowboys don’t wesh.” He said proudly. “Too busy fightin’t Indians.”
I remember one time, getting changed for trainin’ we were, an’ our Mark’d whipped his socks off good style. And God’s honest truth, Christ his feet were black bright. Looked like Cassius Clay! Cunt see any skin, none at all, the chuffas were covered in muck. Dolly Dolby, a mate o’mine; right winger; good player he were; went on trial with Coventry; he wanted to send our Mark to Coventry when he saw his feet; Anyway he shouts, “Mr Castle! Mr Castle,” as loud as he could.
Mr Castle were our English teacher and also’t football coach. Six foot seven inch Irishman he were. Absolutely massive man. There’s castles in Cork smaller that him. His hands were bigger that some of us kids. He were like summat from’t Land Of The Giants. Now even though he took us for football, he alous wore cricket whites. Not sure why, but they were alous spotless. Not a mark on ‘em, and that’s the way he liked it. In fact that’s the way he liked everything.
“Mr Castle! Mr Castle!” Dolly kept shoutin’. Our Mark din’t look too bothered though. He cunt care less how big Mr Castle were, he were still no match for Jack.
Palance. A couple of seconds go by and we hear this rumble... as if the floor starts shakin’. It’s as if there’s gonna be an earthquake or summat. More rumbling and then the door flies open and Mr Castle ducks under it and walked in. Monster feet for a monster man. It only took him half a step to get from’t gym, that were fifty yards away, into his beloved ‘changing area’. I say beloved ‘cos it’d only just been built. His pride an’ joy it were. You could hardly do anythin’ in it without him giving ya grief about it.
Once, when Micky Minnott was sludged up to hell after a particularly horrific football match against Bellsonn Grammar, Mickey got in’t showers for a wesh. It were like Sludge City it were. Cack all o’er place, all o’er Mr Castle’s beloved changing area – the lot. When Mr Castle saw the state o’t place, he went ballistic. There were an earthquake then alright. 8.5 on the Richter Scale. He dragged Mickey out of the shower by his pubic hair and he shouted something to Mickey about Bellsonn, and about gassin’ the little bastard, and then lobbed summat at him. It were a bloody good shot an’all ‘cos whatever it were that he threw, it landed right smack on Mickey’s forehead. Knocked him clean out. Mickey, like the majority of us, had literally no idea what’d hit him. Dolly thought he knew what the missile was though. Said it were probably the blarny stone.
“What’s all dis chouting.” Mr Castle bellowed. It took me’t first six months at school to understand a word he said. Not desperately good for an English teacher! “You know I won’t have chouting in my changing area. Moight crack da paint.”
“It’s Jepson’s feet, sir. Look at ‘em. They’re as black as’t ace o’ spades.” Said Dolly. “He’s muckyin’ up your changin’ area, Sir.” Mr Castle’s head then turned straight to me. I, as quick as a flash, scanned his giant frame for any potential missiles, but couldn’t see any. It were then that I realised that he thought that I was the Jepson in question, and before you could say ‘Jackie Charlton’s lankey’ I blurted out, “Not me, Sir. Mark Jepson, Sir. Not me, Sir.” Mr Castle’s body again began to turn, this time to my cousin. There he was - cowboy helmet on head, socks of death on’t floor, and feet of black on Mr Castle’s beautiful brown bench. As Mr Castle turned, evvveryyythinnng beeegannn tooo slooow dowwwwn. Real time was out of joint. Nothing was as it should be. And as our Mark started to stand up, I swear I could hear the theme tune to ‘SHANE’.
An I could, ‘but it were Mr Castle hummin’ it. There he was, a grown man, dressed in cricket whites, standing in front of a boy dressed in all black who thought he were Jack Palance - and Mr Castle’s humming the theme tune to ‘SHANE’. No wonder it felt surreal. It chuffin’ was.
Mr Castle stared at our Mark, and casually pushed his white coat tails back. Our Mark, staring at Mr Castle, coolly pushed his black shirt tails back. They stood looking at each other for what seemed like an age, waiting to see who’d make the first move. Eyes glarin’ and hands twitchin’. All us lads slowly began to back off, unsure of the outcome! Here it was - history in the makin’. They’d talk about this day as long as men were men. It were the gunfight at the Okendon Coral.
Still standin’, still, glarin’ and still twitchin’, then our Mark flinched slightly. He’d used this tactic once before in The Home-Stedders, where he’d killed a local prospector - so he thought it were tried and tested.
It might’ve been tried and tested on a naïve prospector from Missouri, but it wasn’t tried and tested on Mr Castle. As the man in black flinched, the man in white adjusted his body somewhat, and from out of absolutely nowhere fired a blackboard rubber from twenty five feet at the gold stealing, murderous man in black – namely our Mark. Now even though he could see it coming towards him: an’ even though he knew the rubber’s trajectory: an’ even though he knew the speed it were travellin’ at - especially as it were in slow motion - an even though he knew all these things, he were still powerless to prevent it from smackin’ him right on the nose.
A couple of seconds went by, then Dolly said, “Sir, you are without doubt the fastest draw in the west, Sir.” Mr Castle turned violently on Dolly, who by this time had began to resemble Cack Ma Wack in the way he was standing. Dolly whispered, “Aren’t you?”
Mr Castle’s gaze transferred from Dolly to the prostrate figure of our Mark. Hat still on head, socks still on’t floor, and his face now lyin’ next to ‘em. If this was the end for big Jack Palance he certainly didn’t die with his boots on. Not even with his socks on! Mr Castle casually looked across at Dolly again, and in his best Gary Cooper said, “Yep!”
On that word, the music shut up, time sped up and our Mark woke up. Mr Castle looked at our Mark’s manky feet, the souls of ‘em clearly on show, and said “I don’t know about Jack Palance, Jepson. You look more like one of those Indians he’d be fighting.
Neither our Mark nor the rest of us knew which particular tribe of Indian Mr Castle were referring to, but our Mark, lyin’ there in all sorts of confusion, just said, “Sir?”
Mr Castle took half a step forward, and standin’ o’er the man in black he said quietly, “Black Foot Sue, Jepson. Black Foot Sue.”
Four years later an’ I’m asleep in bed. It were about a quarter past seven in’t mornin’ an’ me dad knocks at me door. “What!” I shouted. He opened the door and walked in. He were ashen faced. Summat’s happened I could tell that. I says to him “You alright? He just looks at me. He weren’t alright that much were obvious. “Is it our Mark?” I say. No answer! “Auntie Beryl?” Still nothin’! He just stood there at the end of me bed as if in some kind of trance. “What is it, Dad? What’s a matter?”
“I’m sorry, lad...” he says. “But... but Brian Clough’s just been given the Leeds’ job.”
Oh my God.
Life Would never be the same again.