I imagine
that many reviews of Hatters, Railwaymen
and Knitters could begin thus: ‘For those disillusioned by modern football;
by sky-high ticket prices, players who may as well have trained as high-divers,
and boardrooms made up of foreign billionaires more interested in sponsorship
deals for their dubious looking countries/gambling endeavours, Daniel Gray
gives us the antidote: football as it should be, back-to-basics with shin pads
held up by gaffer tape, managers whose bellowing can be heard from ten rows
back, and gate fees of less than a fiver. Via weekends in Luton, Crewe and
Middlesbrough, amongst others, Gray paints a picture of the true game; the one
we all fell in love with as kids, with our fathers at our sides and our heads
in the clouds.’
Or
something like that. Which would all be fine and true, but such a review, to
me, would dampen what this book – at its core – is really about: community and
belonging, and the search for them amdist a hyper-globalised world of CEX
second hand electronics shops and the ubiquitous, blue pasty seller we’d do
well to avoid talking too much about, given both reviewer and author’s origins
in the North East.
Which is
where we begin. The early 90’s, outside Ayresome Park, where Gray and his
accomplices, Chunky and Moustache, are queuing up for autographs from their
beloved footballers. Gray, starting the book so nostalgically, risks putting us
off; risks, dare I say it, excluding the readership beyond those not au fait
with football that this book richly deserves. And I don’t just say that because
I’m a Sunderland fan. No, the unenviable task of writing about Middlesbrough –
Football Club and town – without resorting to wistful ‘oh, those were the days’,
or ‘fucking Thatcher’, is a task handled beautifully by Gray. I say ‘beautifully’
because, as he points out, on the ‘10.30 to Nunthorpe’, ‘the theme colour is
rust’, yet Gray, returning from his now-home in Scotland, is like Craig Raine’s
martian, seeing the world afresh. Teesside, Gray tells us, is a ‘giant Sci-Fi set’ which makes his ‘heart
leap with joy’. There is a sentimentality to this – of course there is, Gray
even admits as much – but there is also a gritty realism: an acknowledgment of
stronger, more economically productive times and a scathing criticism of the
damage caused to post-industrial towns like Middlesbrough by a succession of
self-centred Conservatism and ill-thought out Labour dreams.
I’ve
actually skipped ahead, and forgotten to summarise the introduction, which
explains why Gray is back in England, and why he plans to visit these less than
celebrated football towns. It’s simple: he is, at least as the book starts, on
the verge of turning thirty. Based now in Scotland, the author wants to reacquaint
himself with his mother land, to see if his ideas of what England is and what
it has become chime with his biases. He also considers 2011 – the year the book
was conceived – an important year because ‘England seemed to be repeating
itself.’
During
his travels through ‘England’s Football Provinces’ – Sheffield, Burnely,
Newquay, all are here and more – Gray sets out to take the national pulse, and
to see how he feels about it all. The results are a country gazed at through
the various lenses of lower league English football. In Chester, Gray is
uplifted to see the revitalised Chester FC, now owned by their fans, and, at
the time of his writing, recently promoted. In Newquay, Gray pays £4 – the same
price he did to see ’Boro in the 90s – to watch football at, well, England’s
foot. In Ipswich, he finds a more quiet England; in Bradford a one still
fraught with racial divides, but making baby steps towards solidarity; and in
Meriden in the West Midlands, he watches the national side, finding that it is
OK to like a club team and support the Three Lions simultaneously.
There are
repeated motifs, as you would expect, but repetition does not equate to
monotony. Each visit is loosely shaped around the same basic premise: arrive
early, amble round town, describe its significant histories, make way to
ground, comment on idiosyncrasies of club, watch match, comment on quirks of
said club and fan base, leave, have dinner and beer, amble back in to town,
reflect on said town’s nightlife, return to hotel, repeat. Despite how boring I’ve
just managed to make that all sound, I can assure you that in Gray’s hands, it
is in no way tiring. There is a misconception that football teams and matches,
in fact football in general, is all the same: 22 overpaid men kicking a ball
about for an hour and half, watched on by pie-scoffing, lager swilling blokes
in their fifties. Gray’s encounters in the weird and wonderful places he visits
attest that yes, that is true, but there are also countless other types of
football, and countless other ways to watch, appreciate and talk about it.
This, he ultimately posits, is a reflection of England: one which, in spite of
(or even because of) its ubiquitous coffee shops and chicken restaurants, is
made thrillingly, unknowingly and charmingly unique and alive.
Gray’s
decision to not visit a Premier League club seems to me the only flaw to be
levelled at this book. Flying over Liverpool, he spots Anfield and Goodison
from the air and notes that ‘ending with a Premier League game would be like
finishing a wholesome, happy marriage with a cocaine-fuelled orgy.’ Ending the
book, maybe, but I personally would have enjoyed a visit to a top-flight club –
somewhere less glitzy like Stoke, or Sunderland(!), would, I’m sure, have
revealed just as vivid a socio-historical tapestry and just as much footballing
passion for the author to comment on. Anyway, that is a small criticism, and
probably more my desire to see Gray rip the piss out of the Mags (and us) while
trying to float something poetic about West Bromwich, or Hull.
In the
end, I have to resort to review type, singing the airs and graces of Hatters...which contains more than its
asking price. For a start, this is a genuinely funny book – I laughed out loud
(yes, actually LOLd) several times while reading it. I would give you examples,
but the one that immediately springs to mind is only funny if you’re familiar with
the Northern Rail route between Newcastle and Middlesbrough. It’s also a terrifically
well-written book, which might sound daft, but Gray is both an erudite scholar
and someone I’d like to have a pint with. There are few if any pretentions to
his prose, and his style is chatty, humble and very northern without sounding
like some twat from Manchester that everybody secretly wants to chin (apologies
to anyone from Manchester – you were my go-to northern knob; next time I’ll pick
Huddersfield, or Washington). Anyway, my point is that the writing never feels
laboured: historical anecdotes sit perfectly against football commentary,
itself handled quite unlike anything you’ve ever heard on Sky Sports, and
observations of people and situations are exacting, fresh and generous.
All told,
Gray shows us that football is the type of game that we always knew it was: one
that unites us more than it divides us. This is a hugely entertaining book
which, if you’re reading this because you somehow think I’m a good selector of
Christmas gifts, would make ideal reading for everyone from the diehard fan
with his or her team’s initials tattooed on their knuckles to the Stuart
Maconie or Simon Armitage fan who enjoys a bright take on this little island of
ours. Buy it, read it, tell all your mates about it, then go and watch your
local team kick lumps out of each other – it might just make you realise how good
we’ve still got it.
