You'll Never Walk Alone - the forgotten pleasures of a collective experience

I see no value to me or to others of writing for writing's sake, so my blog posts, like those of anyone else who cares more about quality rather than quantity, have become fewer in number over the years. On many topics I have penned my thoughts and see no point in saying the same thing again in a different way, or in saying what others can say more effectively than I can.

So whilst I never think “What shall I write for my next post?”, every so often a set of thoughts forms so strongly in my head that I feel that I must commit them to the written word while they are so strongly held in my mind, and having committed them to writing, it seems silly in the age of online connectivity not to share them, even if only a few ever read them.

So here we go...with a post inspired by a football match but actually more about the joys of collectivism, and the inestimable harm that the Covid 19 Pandemic threatened to do to us as a species. If that sounds like a contrived and pretentious leap of reasoning, I apologise. However I hope that some will identify with what follows….

Yesterday evening, Saturday 7^th May 2022, I had the good fortune to be present at one of the true cathedrals of the beautiful game, Anfield, the home of Liverpool FC, for a crucial fixture as the English Premier League approaches its seasonal climax. A generous friend of mine, who has hospitality seats at Anfield, had two spare places for a pre-match meal in the Centenary Suite followed by a crunch match against Tottenham Hotspur, and he texted me a couple of days ahead of the game to ask if I and one of my family fancied joining him. For my son Nick and me, this was a gift horse not to be looked in the mouth.

I'm a lifelong active football fan, with memories stretching back to crumbling windswept terraces of Burnden Park, the home of my hometown team, Bolton Wanderers, where as a schoolboy I would pay my 15p admission and cheer on my heroes in white, then as now plying their trade in the lower tiers of English football. Supporting Bolton has brought many highs and lows, and in the not-too-distant past there were real highs, when in the first decade of this century Nick and I never missed a game as our team established itself as a Premier League force and evolved into a highly successful outfit, with Sam Allardyce attracting mavericks and misfits from world football like Jay Jay Okocha, Ivan Campo, Youri Djorkaeff, El-Hadji Diouf, Fernando Hierro, Bruno N’Gotty and Nicholas Anelka. Such superstars all bought into Big Sam's style and values such that for several years the team punched well above its weight in the League, and during the early 2000s, we saw most of the world game’s superstars at the Reebok. Moreover, the big teams were quite often sent home humiliated and outclassed by a Wanderers team that at its best in 2004-2005 mixed sublime artistry with bruising pragmatism.

Heady days indeed, but Wanderers' decline into the lower leagues, plus other commitments in my life and that of my family, have led to a decline in the number of matches that we attend, then the pandemic has meant that I hadn't been to a live match in over three years. So to be thrust back into the experience with a surprise trip to a top-of-the-table clash between two of the legendary teams of English football represented a quite stunning return to a forgotten pleasure.

The pre-match buzz is better at Anfield than almost anywhere because the modernised and expanded stadium still rises like a temple from the midst of the terraced housing of the city whose name it bears. However wonderful the newly built stadia such as the Emirates, the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium or even Bolton's still futuristic Unibol, there is something special about Anfield, approached along residential streets with street corner pubs crowded with raucous fans. I'd forgotten how good that pre-match buzz is, as it assaults the senses with sounds (distant chanting) sights (pilgrim like fans dressed in club shirts or colours) and smells (burgers, onions and beer)

But nothing prepared me for the emotional impact of the moment we emerged to take our place high in the Sir Kenny Dalglish Stand. I've been to hundreds of matches over a period of over fifty years, at many of the great venues of football: Maine Road, Highbury, Old Trafford, Wembley old and new, even Marseille’s Velodrome, as well as Burnden Park and the Reebok/Unibol, and many times to Anfield. But not for a few years, and not since Liverpool’s current team has reached such excellence under Jürgen Klopp's charismatic leadership. I was unprepared for the impact of hearing “You'll Never Walk Alone” sung on a perfect spring evening beneath the lights, and even though I was there as a neutral, it was impossible not to join in with those truly inspirational words set to that soaring melody. What must it feel like as a player to hear that choir of 45000 singing with such gusto?

The game was a 1-1 draw, not a classic, not a goal fest, but a chance to be reminded of the stratospheric standards of the players now gracing the EPL. The likes of Kane, Son, Van Dyke, Salah, Henderson, Alexander-Arnold, Thiago and all the rest make even the premier league stars whom I watched a decade or so ago look slow and pedestrian. The modern game, played at bewildering speed on a pitch that looks and plays like snooker baize, is light years away from that which I watched on the rutted sandy mud heaps of the seventies. Live TV does a great job, but comes nowhere near to conveying the grace, pace, speed of thought and lightness of touch of the modern game. These men ARE worthy of their eye-watering wages, because people show up in their thousands to watch them, just as others pay to watch film stars and musicians. Exceptional talent is box office. And when a team of mercurial talents like this Liverpool side is led by Klopp, a man of such manifest human qualities, including a sense of proportion, the result is compelling. I genuinely believe that Klopp is one of the most impressive human beings in the public eye at present, and if I could meet one person from the world of sport I would wish it to be him.

But above all, what I took home from last night's game was a renewed belief in the value and power of a collective experience - the pleasure of being part of a crowd. I'm glad I am triple jabbed and have recently had a bout of Covid, because I was able to relish the joy of a crowd, free for now of any worry of what I might catch: the collective elation caused by a goal going in or by the frustration of a misplaced pass or an unlucky miss; even the shuffling along in a queue for the bar and the toilets, with unknown strangers breathing down ones neck, felt somehow like a forgotten pleasure recaptured.

Lockdown and isolation suited some, and brought its own benefits - a chance to slow down, even to stop, listen and reflect, and we must not forget that. But we homo sapiens are social animals, and even those like me who prefer quiet places and one to one chats rather than noisy parties, can find joy in the collectivity which affirms a common identity, be it at a concert, a sports match, or even a religious act of worship. And as is often pointed out, there is in fact very little difference between an act of religious worship and a football match - not least the singing of songs of praise to those whom we worship.

You'll Never Walk Alone? Well yes, I will often walk alone, and I'll enjoy it enormously, but to walk and to rejoice among a crowd of others is also a true joy. 

Testing, testing: Everything's Gonna be Alright

A quick and time-sensitive post, which I hope will serve to inform, reassure and possibly even persuade.

It's all about testing for Covid-19, and specifically about the oft-maligned lateral flow tests which have become so familiar to many of us. I felt moved to write up and share some thoughts here and on Facebook because I have today (18-08-21) done my twice-weekly lateral flow test with one of the new-style kits for the first time. 

I had heard that there was a new version coming soon, but hadn't realised they were being issued until I opened a new pack, received yesterday.

The new version is significantly different to the ones which have become so familiar, and a significant improvement from what I can see: 

• no need to swab in the mouth, which for me has always been the most uncomfortable bit. Just once in each nostril, twisting x5 each side.

• the extraction tube is pre-filled with the fluid, so no need to "decant". It has a peelable top, making it rather reminiscent of the insulin pen needles, so familiar to diabetes peeps.

• the swab is a bit shorter, more robust-feeling and was to me less irritating in the nose.

• the test cassette looks different, but has the same functionality (although on mine today, I couldn't get my phone's QR reader to recognise the code, so had to enter it manually).

• the extraction tube holder is a small, reusable plastic plinth, not the rather large and ungainly cardboard box.

• 4 drops not 2 on the cassette, then ready in 15 minutes, not 30.

So this morning's test felt like a re-learning experience, but once we get used to it, these will be very easy to do, and can become as much a part of daily routine as cleaning teeth, and just as easy.

I'm not sure how widely available these new-style tests are - I always get mine by doing an online order via the NHS app, which is always a quick and flawless process, with next-day delivery, but if you haven't used a new style test yet, I hope this post gives you cause for some small optimism (I am far too easily excited by novelties).

And finally a bit of shameless pontificating: if you haven't been a regular LF test user, I am a firm believer and highly recommend it. They may not be 100% reliable, but are surely a whole lot better than not testing, and I find it reassuring to be told twice a week that I am unlikely to be infected as we all get out and mix more.

We keep being told that we are at or near a pivotal point in this pandemic, but I have to say that to me it really feels like it right now: The opening up and deregulation of a month ago has not led to the apocalyptic infection rates that so many keyboard warrior experts were all too quick to predict, and although the daily rate remains high and hospitalisation and death rates are still alarming, we appear at the moment to be getting tantalisingly close to striking the balance between hiding from and living with the virus. I am not convinced that New Zealand's much-vaunted "Zero-Covid" approach is sustainable in the longer term, and their decision yesterday to lock down the whole country for one confirmed case cannot go on forever if they want to remain part of the world's trading and tourism community. 

I am, and always have been, shamelessly rose-tinted in my view of life, so anything I say about the pandemic or anything else has to be seen through that filter, but I am keen to get on with my life. I shall remain cautious in my approach to what I do and where I go, but as I am not really a fan of crowded noisy places, there is not much that I want to do that is particularly risky. I am desperate to get along to the Unibol Stadium to watch the Mighty Wanderers again, and I have plans for visits to London for exciting events in the coming few weeks, which include rail travel and hotel stays, but I won't be found in a crowded nightclub or a busy bar. I shall continue to wear a face covering for the foreseeable future on trains and in shops, for my own and others' reassurance, but I refuse to live in fear, and shall not waste energy getting annoyed about those who choose not to wear a mask.

So - getting back to the purpose of this post - I hope that regular and easy testing will prove to be a small price to pay for the freedom to begin to live a little again.

And a song title for this post? How about a forgotten 90's classic Everything's Gonna Be Alright by Sweetbox, still one of the cleverest samplings of classical music in my opinion, and a great message for a vision of a post-pandemic life.

Sweet Caroline: How a minor hit from fifty years ago became a ubiquitous football anthem

 

Truly, we are, living in strange times. Strange days indeed - most peculiar, mama (kudos to any reader who can identify that song lyric without googling it)

With numbers testing positive for Covid-19 here in the UK surging, the government is nevertheless relaxing the restrictions with which we have been living for fifteen months. Cue joy and relief, but also much social media driven anger and condemnation, barrack-room expertise and prophecies of doom and gloom....Let’s wait and see.

Yet as the UK and its government once again risks being cast in the role of international pariah, the country is at the same time riding a wave of excitement and national pride whipped up by the performance of England's football team, guided and led by the admirably restrained, palpably decent, thoughtful and eloquent Gareth Southgate.

In 2018, the unexpected success of his young squad in reaching the Semi-Finals of the World Cup in Russia briefly diverted attention, lifted the mood and unified the nation at the height of the agonisingly long process of leaving the EU. Oh to be back in such simple, carefree days….

Three years later, an even younger squad has gone one step further in the delayed Euro 2020 Tournament and at the time of writing, the nation (well certainly its media) is in a state of heady excitement and euphoria at the tantalising prospect of the squad bringing to an end to the fifty-five year wait for a major tournament win in our national sport.

Southgate's squad are more than just a group of footballers more gifted than their predecessors of several generations past. They are a thoroughly admirable group of young men, schooled by their clubs and in no small part by their national coach in the appropriate behaviours, attitudes and responsibilities that come with their status as richly-remunerated national heroes. Gone, it seems, are the days of laddish “boys will be boys” behaviour, of responding to media questions with contemptuous clichés or even open hostility, and of hiding from the bigger issues in society.

The 2021 squad is a rainbow coalition in some ways reminiscent of France's golden generation which won the World Cup in 1998 and the Euros in 2000. It is a team of thoroughly modern English footballers, many with recent family origins from outside the country, yet every one of them proudly flaunts their patriotism and pride in wearing that shirt with its iconic three lions. The likes of Marcus Rashford, Tyrone Mings and Raheem Sterling have been unafraid to speak out against racial and social injustice, whilst Harry Kane, in some ways every inch the cockney diamond geezer of yesteryear, wears his LGBT+ armband with manifest comfort; men like him in the not-too-distant past would probably have exhibited the tribal homophobia and intolerance which was once endemic among the white working classes.

Rashford in particular has become a national treasure thanks to his off-the-field advocacy for children like he once was, and that he did so last year with steadfast politeness and respect for those in power was a remarkable achievement. He may be an angry young man from the wrong side of the tracks in Wythenshawe, but his anger at social injustice is nuanced and constructively channelled.

Other players, like Mason Mount, Declan Rice and Calvin Philips not only look like schoolboys living out their dream, but behave with the gratitude and humility that in the past was often lacking in those paid a fortune to do what most of us just have to do for fun. Win or lose against those stylish and talented Italians on Sunday night, these young men have done themselves and their manager proud, and I for one will be eternally grateful for the joy that they have brought us in this toughest of years.

And then there's the music...

Heady days need a soundtrack, as we have been so effectively reminded by all the nostalgia for the summer of ’96, but unlike in 1996, the 2021 soundtrack is strangely retrospective. In 1996, Britpop was at its height, producing some of the best new material that had been written in a generation, launching stellar careers for the likes of the Spice Girls and solo Robbie Williams, whilst David Baddiel, Frank Skinner and the under-rated Lightning Seeds created their singalong masterpiece, Three Lions. That song is everywhere right now, almost always murdered by a tuneless drunken chorus, but it is in my view truly a work of genius. It's wonderfully English, not triumphalist as many think, but rather a self-deprecating tale of repeated failures and near-misses, laced with the pride which we as a nation seem to take in plucky losers and the timid but very real longing for redemption.

Of course, Three Lions has been at the forefront of our giddy ride to the Final of Euro 2020, but it is being run close by Neil Diamond's Sweet Caroline, which we have heard belted out by players and fans after every win, gleefully joining in with the “dah-dah-dah”.

This has set me thinking, as often happens with my musically addled brain: how is it that certain songs achieve iconic ubiquity years after what was initially a thoroughly underwhelming chart performance?

Sweet Caroline is a perfect example.

Neil Diamond was for some years a respected but unheralded songwriter, until he broke through in the UK with Cracklin’ Rosie in late 1970. He had written I'm a Believer for the Monkees and other successful songs, but his name was little known on this side of the Atlantic, and when he finally achieved modest success as a singer, he was to me and my teenage contemporaries the sort of singer that your granny liked, a crooner no less. Sweet Caroline had been written and released in 1969 in tribute to JFK's daughter Caroline Kennedy, and made no mark whatsoever on the UK charts. Two years later, it was released as a follow-up to Cracklin’ Rosie, and reached No 8 in our charts. For the next thirty years or so, it was largely forgotten, but then early in the 2000s it started popping up at the sort of disco that goes with every modern wedding reception - the sort where dad dances, granny kicks off her heels to reveal her true undignified self and ten-year-old boys do a knee slide across the floor. A similar thing happened to Can’t Take my Eyes Off You, another minor hit from the late 60s by an American crooner dressed in a pullover - Andy Williams.

Next, DJs responsible for after-match playlists caught on to it, and in no time everyone knew it, such that when your team pulled off an unlikely escape from relegation and the fans partied like they had won the League, Sweet Caroline, dah-dah-dah became a song of triumph and joy. Then as Wembley filled up this summer with fans for the first time in over a year, England started winning, and the rest is history. Neil Diamond’s accountants must be laughing all the way to the bank.

Many songs have had a similar trajectory; here’s a few more that were either unnoticed at the time of release, or in some cases derided:

Tony Christie’s Is this the Way to Amarillo, written by the wonderful Neil Sedaka and containing some of the cheesiest rhymes ever attempted (Dawning-Morning, Amarillo-Willow-Pillow, Marie-Me, Ringing-Singing, Maria-See her etc ) made it all the way to No 18 in 1971 (there’s something about that year!), then remained forgotten until Bolton’s comic genius Peter Kay imbued it with post-modern irony for 2005’s Comic Relief, such that it became a mass singalong song. I maintain that one of the happiest moments of my entire life was when I was one of 27 000 fans at the Reebok Stadium in  May 2005, celebrating as Sam Allardyce’s Bolton Wanderers team of misfits and has-beens secured European football to the tune of Christie’s Shala-la-la-la-la-la-la-la – Diouf-Diouf.

The Proclaimers’ 500 Miles made it to No 11 in 1988, then remained forgotten until revived years later, again by a combination of mobile DJs and football fans; likewise, Jeff Beck’s Hi Ho Silver Lining (No 14 in 1967, No17 in 1972) and even Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire, which has never even made the charts, yet achieved anthemic status after Liverpool’s 2005 Champions’ League win and the England Cricket Team’s Ashes win the same year.

Even Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now was a relatively modest UK No 9 on its first release in 1979 at a time when the now legendary band had passed their first wave of success and were seen by many music fans to be an example of outmoded, overblown and over-produced pomp-rock. Forty years on, it is everyone’s favourite singalong song.

The list could go on, and many will have their own favourites to add to this list. They all date from the days when singles chart position and longevity was very much the test of a song's success; since around the turn of the millennium, chart success has mattered little, indeed few of any age could name the current Number One at any given time. Yet despite failing that test at the time of their release, these songs have become enduring and ubiquitous. What do they have in common? Well not a lot really, other than that intangible thing called a damn good tune, often a brilliant hook and above all something we should just call singability.

Let’s just hope we’re still singing Sweet Caroline at 10pm on Sunday night, and that “good time never seemed so good” proves to be true. I think we all deserve that pleasure.

#ItsComingHome