I need a Boro fix

Cogeur_le_Conq

Well-known member
Laid up in bed and being unsociable. I'm going to be bored sh1tless tonight. I hate watching Hogmanny whether it's Joolz (look at me) Holland or Andy Stewart.

I can't find any live BBC Tees Sport stream tonight and don't know of any live podcasts which will be discussing the last 24 hours' events.

I turned Sky EPL News off earlier before the club's anouncement in disgust, as there was absolutely no mention of the 19 confirmed cases. They were still advertising the match though in the ad breaks.

I've never felt so starved of information as I have today.

Can anyone hit me up with some good stuff, or I'll have a Boro cold turkey?
 
Here you go bit of nostalgia for you, done this a good few years ago


Not the best but..............

Actually its brilliant.

Thanks for sharing. It's the first time I've seen it.

I'll probably need a Ghislaine Maxwell grade 24/7 suicide watch now 👀

Evokes a million memories of so much stimuli, both visual and nasal.

Nothing was as bright, vivid or thought provoking on a four year old's eyes and nostrils as walking up the centre stairs to the North Stand seats and seeing the ressies in their effervescent scarlet tunic with single white Boro lion across one breast on a shimmering lush green carpet of North Yorkshire Moors harvested turf, neath the flood lights of a mid week evening.

The sweet sickly aroma of pish and sweat, slightly masked by the smell of Woodbines, Bovril, stale beer and the tinderbox deathtrap of a wooden stand.

I was even taken to one or two pro games that first season. Apparently I was at the Oxford game, where the Holgate perimeter wall collapsed but have zero recollection.

I did remember thinking, wow!, this is the equivalent to one of my dad's earliest Boro memories, of being passed over the napper of Boro gadgies at the age of 13, to be plonked onto straw bails around the pitch against Burnley in the 6th round of the FA Cup in the terrible winter of 1947.

I'd grown used to him banging on about us being robbed. Little did I know, that I too, was to grow to taste that same pain, over and over and over again again. Seemingly ad finitum.

Thanks dad 😥

As I got to know the sons of the other gadgies in those first few years, we made Ayresome our playground.

The first couple of years I was more interested in ducking and diving through the side doors of the North and South stands than watching the football, laughing at the token barbed wire atop the wall at the back of the Bob End, which was supposed to keep the kids from the Boy's End jumping in among the grown ups.

Our dad would see my head popping up in different parts of the ground as I'd either scale over or slide under the dividing fenses between the chicken run and Holgate or into the new seats in the middle of the Bob End installed for the 66 World Cup or running down the passageway between the Bob End and North Stand like trying to avoid Colditz search lights and the eyes of the Gestapo.

Nothing was unsurmountable, no passage blocked, other than the dressing rooms, boardroom or 100.club.

I'd spend the next 5 years or so stood outside the Boro Social Club under the South Stand waiting eternally for my auld fella to reappear, with a flushed red face, rubbing his hands together in anticipation and steaming breath on a freezing night air, to the sound of the crowd already installed on the Holgate barriers and the wave of hot breath as a chorus of the Ayresome Angels would blast out. Then spend the match either stood or sat on the front wall or back fence, until the bobbies would walk along smacking the dangling shins of the kids, with their truncheons, like a kid dragging a stick along railings resulting in us jumping down or even falling down the back embankment.

I spent most games with my nose pressed into the backs of giants and being in awe of the hard lads.

My feet hardly touched the ground again until I'd been carried along by the departing crowd to the bottleneck to Boot Boy alley

I learnt to handle myself waiting outside that club, as did all the scrotes of my age, but I began to meet more and more of my extended Boro family on that stretch of the Clive Road, in front of the frosted glass windows of the club. I'd be forever peering through that opaque glass to make out the sight of the silhouette of my dad putting his coat on as the wait was excruciating. And it wasn't for the doggie bag of Upex pork pies, sausage rolls and pease pudding from the gadgies spread laid on by the club.

One of the scruffy scrotes I'd regularly see hanging around was @Johnny Vincents Motorbike, who lived down our road and his mother was a friend of my mam's.

A million years later on discovering the late, Tim Lloyd's Hong Kong based Boro Mailing List when I lived in Paris, I was amazed that the young kid and father I first went to Ayresome with my dad for the reserves was Tim's dad and older brother.



Well that should have killed some time..

Bah, humbug. Its still NYE and the next match is a year away 😊

KTF, WSO, IWWT, Block 2: The Bob End Crew, UTFB.

Herbert BAMLETT
Tim Lloyd's original Boro Mailing List

Bonne année et bonne santé mes amis rouges 🥂
 
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Actually its brilliant.

Thanks for sharing. It's the first time I've seen it.

I'll probably need a Ghislaine Maxwell grade 24/7 suicide watch now 👀

Evokes a million memories of so much stimuli, both visual and nasal.

Nothing was as bright, vivid or thought provoking on a four year old's eyes and nostrils as walking up the centre stairs to the North Stand seats and seeing the ressies in their effervescent scarlet tunic with single white Boro lion across one breast on a shimmering lush green carpet of North Yorkshire Moors harvested turf, neath the flood lights of a mid week evening.

The sweet sickly aroma of pish and sweat, slightly masked by the smell of Woodbines, Bovril, stale beer and the tinderbox deathtrap of a wooden stand.

I was even taken to one or two pro games that first season. Apparently I was at the Oxford game, where the Holgate perimeter wall collapsed but have zero recollection.

I did remember thinking, wow!, this is the equivalent to one of my dad's earliest Boro memories, of being passed over the napper of Boro gadgies at the age of 13, to be plonked onto straw bails around the pitch against Burnley in the 6th round of the FA Cup in the terrible winter of 1947.

I'd grown used to him banging on about us being robbed. Little did I know, that I too, was to grow to taste that same pain, over and over and over again again. Seemingly ad finitum.

Thanks dad 😥

As I got to know the sons of the other gadgies in those first few years, we made Ayresome our playground.

The first couple of years I was more interested in ducking and diving through the side doors of the North and South stands than watching the football, laughing at the token barbed wire atop the wall at the back of the Bob End, which was supposed to keep the kids from the Boy's End jumping in among the grown ups.

Our dad would see my head popping up in different parts of the ground as I'd either scale over or slide under the dividing fenses between the chicken run and Holgate or into the new seats in the middle of the Bob End installed for the 66 World Cup or running down the passageway between the Bob End and North Stand like trying to avoid Colditz search lights and the eyes of the Gestapo.

Nothing was unsurmountable, no passage blocked, other than the dressing rooms, boardroom or 100.club.

I'd spend the next 5 years or so stood outside the Boro Social Club under the South Stand waiting eternally for my auld fella to reappear, with a flushed red face, rubbing his hands together in anticipation and steaming breath on a freezing night air, to the sound of the crowd already installed on the Holgate barriers and the wave of hot breath as a chorus of the Ayresome Angels would blast out. Then spend the match either stood or sat on the front wall or back fence, until the bobbies would walk along smacking the dangling shins of the kids like a kid dragging a stick along railings resulting in us jumping down or even falling down the back embankment.

I spent most games with my nose pressed into the backs of giants and being in awe of the hard lads.

My feet hardly touched the ground again until I'd been carried along by the departing crowd to the bottleneck to Boot Boy alley

I learnt to handle myself waiting outside that club, as did all the scrotes of my age, but I began to meet more and more of my extended Boro family on that stretch of the Clive Road, in front of the frosted glass windows of the club. I'd be forever peering through that opaque glass to make out the sight of the silhouette of my dad putting his coat on as the wait was excruciating. And it wasn't for the doggie bag of Upex pork pies, sausage rolls and pease pudding from the gadgies spread laid on by the club.

One of the scruffy scrotes I'd regularly see hanging around was @Johnny Vincents Motorbike, who lived down our road and his mother was a friend of my mam's.

A million years later on discovering the late, Tim Lloyd's Hong Kong based Boro Mailing List when I lived in Paris, I was amazed that the young kid and father I first went to Ayresome with my dad for the reserves was Tim's dad and older brother.



Well that should have killed some time..

Bah, humbug. Its still NYE and the next match is a year away 😊

KTF, WSO, IWWT, Block 2: The Bob End Crew, UTFB.

Herbert BAMLETT
Tim Lloyd's original Boro Mailing List

Bonne année et bonne santé mes amis rouges 🥂
That’s poetry Coga, write a book please
 
You could ghost write it Bud, if you have the time.

I reckon most of our exploits are best left to grow old and fade away gracefully. Too many obvious real names, too easy to guess, if aliases where used.

There's a gang in every part of Teesside who could fill a book with their exploits.

We were the crew without a clue, when the BBC/Clive Road Axe Men, Wrecking Crew, Redcar Casuals et al were fighting each other more than with other teams fans.

None of us used the moniker Frontline. I think that materialised from the younger Joeys/NTP who were more organised. We were all just p1ssheads out to watch the football but defending ourselves if provoked. They were looting service stations, stonking fruit machines and emptying the shelves of designer clothes shops in remote towns /cities.

Half the time at away games, you'd be more likely to get a slap from one of the many gangs of mates from anywhere in Teesside who travelled together in small groups.

Persil vouchers were to blame for large numbers travelling together using service trains, more out to save money, than to cause bovver.

In those days everyone was game for a slap, especially if wearing your colours away.

None of this leaving scarfers alone. It was extremely dangerous following your team away in the mid to late 70s.

Not a lot of honour involved, but getting nicked, then pleading guilty to get a small fine or slap on the wrists just for defending yourself and your mates was an occupational hazard and I would never describe these handy lads as hooligans. Just working lads on the p1ss.

It went nasty when all the younger generation started carrying Stanley's to do run by slashings with two blades separated by a coin or spacer.

How hard is that?

The sly scouse scallies of both blue and red persuasions started it off and some younger Boro fans eventually follied suit and used them against some Barnsley fans near the Welly.

That's when any the 'fun' went out of it for me and Thatcher was demonising all football fans and started kettling and caging. The consequence of which resulted in the tragic deaths at Hillsborough

I'd rather distance myself from any glorification of football violence to be honest.
 
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I have loads of time mate, and I wouldn’t want to be involved in a hoolie book neither .

but I’ve heard a riches of your stories, you write extremely well
and your memories are sound. I may have told you I got mugged and slapped by a couple of Boro fans in the underpass at the station, all for my silk scarf, so I know what you mean
 
I have loads of time mate, and I wouldn’t want to be involved in a hoolie book neither .

but I’ve heard a riches of your stories, you write extremely well
and your memories are sound. I may have told you I got mugged and slapped by a couple of Boro fans in the underpass at the station, all for my silk scarf, so I know what you mean

Silk scarves were like silver to a magpie.

I often bought a new one every other home game. Jack's Lad's, Charlton's Champs/Aces etc. One side Middlesbrough FC in red and white, the other black and blue. Even silk one side and wool the other. They'd always go straight in my pocket folded up before I left the shop.

I bought a Boro casey from Pat Charlton in the club shop on Kensington Road quite late after a game had finished once.

It was dark and pretty much the streets were deserted.

I then heard the dreaded sound of Riders/Dealer's with segs in behind me, with the pace getting faster and faster until I broke into full pelt with a couple of kids legging me.

I was fast as feck at that age, and with adrenaline, mangaged to gain a sufficient lead to be able to run into the drive of one of the big houses on Park Road North and hide behind a bin, holding my breath for about an hour, sh1t scared, they'd hear me gasping for air.

God knows what time I eventually got home and I can't remember what happened to the ball. I think I may have jettisoned it in the hope they'd slow down and be happy with the casey.

They kept on running. The ball was just an excuse to folly me and give me a kicking.

These were the days when it was common to get mugged by solo nutters for a cheap Timex watch.

The dialog was always the same...

"Got the time chore/mate/charva"

"That's a good watch. Giz it"

Thank God I grew up. I hated being a kid
 
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