The culmination of the school year meant
the annual pilgrimage to Alton Towers for hundreds of eager-eyed teenagers from
a corner of East Lancashire. The invasion was a sea of spotty faces and Adidas
poppers. A day mainly spent staring at slowly shuffling feet in mile-long
queues, the roar of the Nemesis echoing above. The sun always shined, even when
it rained. We were young, we were free. It was where we found our heaven.
The Runaway Mine Train was always a particular favourite of mine. Not only did it run around twice, but by the end of the day you could race around from the exit straight to the front of the queue and cram in the last thirty minutes with repeated attempts at gesticulating a finger or two to the camera flash before the tunnel.
The Runaway Mine Train was always a particular favourite of mine. Not only did it run around twice, but by the end of the day you could race around from the exit straight to the front of the queue and cram in the last thirty minutes with repeated attempts at gesticulating a finger or two to the camera flash before the tunnel.
On the coach home from leafy
Staffordshire in July 1995 I respectably listened to Linny Craig's football
punditry on the back row, thumbing through a copy of ‘Shoot!’ she boldly
predicted to armchair Manchester United fanatic, Daniel Leaper, that Rovers
would be unlikely to reclaim their Premier League title in the forthcoming
season. Her comments twisted a dagger to the pride and soul at such a
spectacular and relatively fresh success, but deep down - I knew Linny was
right. Kenny knew too.
Come our return to the dreary main
hall in September it would already be clear. Fighting another yawn with eyes
not fully inflated, sleep still stitched into the corners and already
day-dreaming of Alton Towers in ten months time, the honourably moustachioed Mr
Hodkinson roused me from my wishful slumber with a feverish review of
Newcastle's bludgeoning start to the campaign. The mighty Blue & Whites
were already yesterday's news. Bursting with pride and enthusiasm, as if Peter
Beardsley was his son and Ginola his lover, Hodkinson drew parallels with our
own potential and desire to make an equal impact into Upper School and our
GCSE's. The sentiment was there, but like Kevin Keegan's entertainers: it was a
load of bollocks really.
By mid-September, Rovers had made
their Champions League debut at home to Spartak Moscow. It had ended much like
the Uefa Cup bow to a team of Swedish postmen the year before, in misery,
humiliation and another limp defeat.
Religious Education, led by the
suspiciously friendly Mr Eastwood from that nearby hovel they call B*rnl*y,
usually centred around copies of equally suspicious fishy warm paper being
handed out, whereby you had to put the name to badly-sketched illustrations of
what appeared to be Aladdin's slippers and a machete. However, this particular
morning's lesson began with the unexpected excitement of the school's sole TV
and VCR trolley being wheeled in. The last time this had happened, Religious
Education took the unexpected step of screening Disney's The Lion King to
bewildered yet grateful fourteen year olds expecting the usual crap about Moses
parting Jesus' hair. Or something like that.
The divine message was still absent
though, as that snivelling bastard Eastwood gleamed as he pressed play, his snivelling
bastardly grin growing with each crackle of the VHS tracking as Sergey Yuran's
winner for Spartak from the night before beamed before our very eyes.
"B*rnl*y Bastard" I
quipped.
"OUT!" was the retort. It
was a familiar occurrence.
As Leicester City made their own
history on Monday night, I couldn't help but be taken back to those halcyon
days of 1995: Returning from Anfield to be driven through the victory parade
around Ewood, eyes aglow, mind fuelled and racing with endless possibilities.
Today the Premier League title, next year Europe, two years on Tuesday: the
world! Maybe Eastwood would get caught with child porn. Then we signed Matty
Holmes.
The truth was, that Rovers had
reached their zenith. Sure, there would be more glory days to follow, along with
plenty of crap, but never again could we claim to be the nation's best. In the
year of our lord (Jack Walker) 1995 we were the best in the land - forever
etched in stone, forever in our hearts and minds. For Leicester City, it is all
much the same.
Maybe Leicester will go on to to a
period of continued and unexpected dominance, maybe they won't.
Maybe Jamie Vardy will go on to score
the fastest hat-trick in Champions League history, maybe he won't.
For now, they are the champions of
England and nobody can take that away from them, not now, not ever. Whatever
the future holds, this remarkable achievement is theirs to savour until the end
of days.
Congratulations Leicester City. Thank
you for giving us neutrals something to get behind, on a particularly miserable
season on a personal level. Thank you for making football magic again. Thank
you for reigniting the memories and pride once more. We are the Rovers.
P.S.
Dear Mr Eastwood, I still think
you're a prick. Enjoy your promotion. It won't last.
