Tag Archives: Yorkshire

English by Birth, Leeds United and Yorkshire by the Grace of God. Happy Yorkshire Day!   –   by Rob Atkinson

“We say what we like and we like what we bloody well say”

Whenever I sit down to count my blessings – something I occasionally feel the need to do in order to show a bit of gratitude for the good things in life – high on the list of those blessings are my Yorkshire birthright and heritage.

Life’s a bit of a lottery at the best of times, let’s face it – and the cold reality is that I was only about thirty miles east of being born into a whole different situation: red rose instead of white, black pudding instead of that glorious Yorkshire pud that gives real meaning to roast beef, pisspoor Boddingtons instead of John Smiths or Tetleys – good Lord, perhaps even Bolton or Blackburn or Manch….. no, I just can’t write that – instead of Leeds United? It’s a horrific thought, and whenever I’m feeling a bit less than chuffed with the way life is treating me, I’ll think on that for a while and reflect: things could have been a hell of a sight worse. 

I’m not normally the type to wear my heart on my sleeve, but I do take a lot of pride in wearing a Leeds United badge pretty well anywhere on my person. It’s a big part of my identity, and anyone who knows me even slightly will be well aware that I love Leeds United, hate Man U – and have a deep and abiding mistrust and suspicion of those troglodytes who live, move and have their being ovver on t’wrong side o’ t’hills – amid the dark satanic mills and Coronation Street hovels of Lancashire.

That’s not to say I don’t have friends who are unfortunate enough to owe their allegiance to the Red Rose – and a nice bunch of lads and lasses they are, too, by some fluke of genetics no doubt. Maybe they all had Yorkshire forebears, that must be it. And, let’s face it, Lancashire is one gene pool that could use a fair bit of purification. But, even given the odd nice guy here and there, there’s just something inherently wrong about Lancashire. It has silly place names that seem to cater to some of the local accent’s tortured vowel sounds – Urmston, Cheadle Hulme, Blackburrrrrn, Burrrrrnleh and the like. And a lot of the less civilised natives make our own cavemen seem like Oxford dons by comparison.

Let’s face it, the best thing about this god-awful place on the wrong side of the hill is the M62 heading East. And if you do venture far enough into its benighted interior to get past the most severely blighted parts, emerging into some sea air in the far West – you get to what passes for their coast and find it’s the wrong bloody way up. Seriously. Take a walk on Blackpool beach (if you must) and, for anyone who spent their childhood summers sensibly, at Brid, Filey or Scarborough, there’s this confusing feeling of heading South when you know you’re facing North, or vice versa. It’s not nice, it’s not normal. It’s just wrong.

It’s strange then, isn’t it, how whoever was responsible for creation so ordered things that God’s Own County should have been placed in such close proximity to the County that Time and Good Taste Forgot – with only a decent amount of high country to separate the two and keep those of us on the right side feeling clean and healthy.

As it is, and thanks to those blessed Pennines, them ovver theer get most of the rain that otherwise might have landed on us, and what wild weather we do get has had most of the impurities removed by its passage over those rugged mountains and through those narrow passes west of Huddersfield.

Lancashire is then, in effect, a sort of oil filter that keeps Yorkshire nice and shiny, while that less fortunate county lives with all of the grime and crud we can do without. As arrangements go, it’s pretty neat.

So, we have a lot to be proud of in the Broad Acres, what with our craggy and varied coastline, our bleak yet thrilling and panoramic moors, our beautiful national parks and our market towns – and of course our Leeds United. And even, I suppose, some of those lesser football clubs that are dotted around the three old Ridings. They’re all Yorkshire so, by definition, they’re all part of the best collection of football clubs anywhere.  And because we have this pride, this sense of identity that goes with being a tyke and having the White Rose for our emblem, we’re not to be blamed for wanting to show off a bit.

We want to say “I’m from Yorkshire”, with a note of defiant pride in our voices. It’s up to the listener to deduce that this is indeed something to be proud of – for a Tyke, all that’s needed is that simple, assertive declaration – I’m From Yorkshire – and our status as superior beings, lavishly endowed with the highest possible rank of birthright, is beyond doubt, requiring no further clarification.

A Proud Yorkshire Lad

A Proud Yorkshire Lad

I’m well aware as I write this that there are many Leeds United fans out there (and this is after all a Leeds United blog) who hail from parts of the country less fortunate and less beautiful than Yorkshire. Some of them even suffer under the iniquity of being Lancastrians themselves, with their love of Leeds United separating them from their less enlightened brethren. There’s little I can do for such unfortunates but sympathise – and remind those people that, as Leeds fans, they can at least claim some association with the Best County of Them All.

The partner of a late and much-missed friend and colleague of mine hails from California – but she fell for my mate’s West Yorkshire accent and voice, and now she wears his old Leeds United shirt, giving full rein to that Yorkshire part of her that’s survived the passing of her man.  All of which says a lot about her, and about the late John, who was a terrific and mega-talented bloke. But it says a lot about Yorkshire too, and what the place can mean even to someone with roots thousands of miles away, once they’ve been here, breathed the Yorkshire air and been bewitched by the unique atmosphere and beauty of the place. That’s why it’s such a popular tourist destination – and that’s why we lucky Tykes are so incredibly proud of the White Rose.

If you’re Yorkshire, as I am proud to be – just embrace your Yorkshireness, wear your pride like the badge of honour it most assuredly is.  And if you’re not – well, what the hell. Join in anyway. Have a look at the I’m From Yorkshire Facebook Group and see if you don’t wish you belonged to God’s Own County, the Broad Acres.  Not everyone, sadly, can be that blessed – but for those who wish it, well – by gum, there’s always a warm welcome into the ranks of Honorary Tykes.

Think on now – after being a Leeds United fan, being even an honorary Yorkshire person is the second best blessing life can bestow!  

New Play About the Bradford City Fire: “The 56”; a Leeds Utd Fan’s Review – by Rob Atkinson

The three-strong cast of The 56

The three-strong cast of The 56

When the Bradford Fire Disaster happened, I was in the middle of what I feared at the time would be the story of the weekend, as Leeds United fans fought a pitched battle with their Birmingham City counterparts at St. Andrews on Saturday the 11th of May, 1985. A young fan died at Birmingham that day, killed when a wall collapsed amid disgraceful scenes. It seemed certain that the events of the day would create the usual lurid banner headlines. Some fans on both sides would be happy and excited about this; others, less so.

For my own part, I was utterly gutted that we’d lost by a goal to nil, sickened at the thought of yet more bad press for my club – and completely unaware that a lad had lost his life. On the way back to Yorkshire, it became clear that, in the light of the devastating events in Bradford, nobody would be talking about our game and its riot after all. It was a dreadful Saturday in what, with Heysel still to come, would be remembered as a tragically awful season.

On Friday last, three decades older and that much more hard-bitten and cynical, I attended a new drama staged in Barnsley, based on interviews with survivors of that day at Valley Parade almost thirty years ago. It recalled in detail some extremely sad memories and brought back some long-buried feelings arising out of that weekend so many years before. The review I have written of the play, which is entitled simply The 56, is reproduced below.

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This review was originally published on The Public Reviews on 14th March 2015.

With the focus once again very much on the 1989 Hillsborough Disaster as the inquests re-openre-visiting all of those mistakes and examples of scandalously covered-up incompetence – here, on the stark and minimalist stage of the Civic in Barnsley, was an almost unbearably vivid reminder of another football tragedy in Yorkshire, with another shattering death toll.

Four years before the Sheffield calamity, and 40 miles or so up the road in Bradford, an inferno destroyed the old wooden-construction main stand at Valley Parade, home of new Third Division Champions Bradford City. Disaster struck without warning as the Bantams took on Lincoln City in what should have been a joyous celebration of promotion and the league title. On the day though, the story was more of heroism and unbelievable bravery amid terrifying chaos as fire broke out and fan tried to help fan despite intense heat, choking smoke and the speed with which the blaze spread, engulfing the stand and trapping the unfortunates who tragically fled in the wrong direction. It was one of those occasions too horrible to recall and yet too salutary ever to be forgotten. A line in the verbatim text of this hard-hitting piece says it all: 

“It was like a JFK moment, a Princess Diana moment. You’ll never forget where you were when you heard.”

The verbatim testimony nature of The 56 is at the core of what this work is all about. What is heard is no skilfully-crafted dramatic script – it is the actual accounts of survivors, those who were frantically involved on the day in escape and rescue. This lends a raw and visceral feel to the whole thing; the audience is aware at all times that these are real people giving their real and painful memories of events that really happened, and which affect them to this day. The way that the three actors handle this medium is admirable in the extreme. That quality of hearing words as they are formed in the mind of the witnesses is massively persuasive. The whole spectrum is there, from fond reminiscence of the innocently celebratory way that day started, through incredulous shock as events unfolded, so disastrously quickly, to grief, pain, even despair and a little bitterness – but with the pride of a city and a county which united in grief and loss to “just get on with it” as the long process of recovery began. It’s remorselessly impactful and almost uncomfortably inclusive.

The actors do all that could possibly be expected of them in terms of conveying the feelings and reactions of those survivors interviewed. As a piece of theatre, the effect is both harrowing and intensely evocative, with the increasingly convincing feeling of hearing about that awful day at first hand. The pace varies according to the mood of the moment; at times each character is lovingly sharing memories of the lead-up to that day and their love affair with a family football club, in relaxed and humorous monologue. But at other times, the dialogue comes at the audience pell-mell, the witnesses talking over each other as the confusion and bewilderment of developing tragedy is tellingly reproduced. And then it’s back to turn and turn about as each witness talks about the effect on their lives since that time, of the horrific memories they carry with them; mental scars are revealed as well as lasting shock and disbelief. But there is also the pride of getting on with life, of recovery – as club, stadium and city rose again in as literally Phoenix-like a manner as could be imagined.

It’s an appropriately minimalist production; the set is simple yet effective– a mute reminder of the wooden construction at the root of the disaster;the darkness of the backdrop conveys its own mood and message. The audience’s attention is drawn to the mesmeric interpretations of the cast who perform to pin-drop silence and a feeling of collectively held breath. As the testimony comes to a conclusion, the awful death toll – including, let us not forget, two fans of the other side that day, Lincoln City – is read out at funereal pace; a fitting tribute at the last to those who are no longer with us to give their own accounts. The audience reaction at the end is sombre but appreciative of what has been so consummately achieved.

In recognition of the thought-provoking nature of the evening, there was a Q&A session shortly after the end of the play itself. This gave a welcome insight into the creative process, with the actors and the director able and willing to enlarge upon what had motivated them and how they had approached the material so as to convey the testimony effectively, yet with immense respect.

This is a challenging piece, certainly not entertainment in the precise sense of the word. It sets out to remind, to enlighten and to pay tribute both to the dead and to those without whom that death toll would inevitably have been much higher. It tells of how individuals, a football club, a city and a county were struck by disaster, of how they conducted themselves so courageously on the day and of how they gradually recovered in the years to follow. In this, it is totally successful and – for those who wish to know more about what actually happened in Bradford on May 11th 1985, and how, and why – it’s a theatrical experience not to be missed.

The play was reviewed at the Civic, Barnsley on March 13th having previously been staged at the Edinburgh Fringe and in Bradford itself; it is scheduled to tour various other venues until May 23 (Click here for dates and theatres). A collection is taken at each performance to raise money for the BCFC Burns Unit Appeal; donations to this most worthy cause may be made online here.

 

Angry Leeds Fans in Protest at F.L. HQ, Preston TOMORROW – by Rob Atkinson

The Football League: rubber-stamped as corrupt

The Football League: rubber-stamped as corrupt (and incompetent)

The Football League Operations Centre at Edward VII Quay, Navigation Way, Preston PR2 2YF will be the scene of peaceful protest tomorrow, as Leeds United fans turn up in force to hold the League to account for their callous and ignorant treatment of its biggest and most famous member club. The local police are fully aware of the planned protest and have liaised with the organisers to ensure a smooth and peaceful event, between 10:00 and noon on the day.

There is no need to go over the fine details of the League’s mistreatment of Leeds United here. It’s all been well-documented enough – and the League in its complacency has taken not a blind bit of notice despite all the articles, arguments and logic placed before it. Serenely ignorant, they have blundered on, determined to act in the worst interests of United, flying in the face of their own guiding principles. It is time, therefore, to turn up in numbers and to make some noise. We must devoutly hope that the media will take an interest so that, perhaps, a few ripples may spread further afield. This blog understands that BBC Look North are interested in the event – again, let us hope so.

The other purpose of the protest event is officially to present to the FL a printout of the Change.org petition (publicised on this blog a number of times in the past few weeks). This petition has now broken the 20,000 barrier. That’s not so far off an average home attendance for Leeds in these parlous days; pretty good going for a campaign that is largely confined to online media and will therefore not have reached the ears of many less tech-minded Leeds fans.

The protest in Preston is the culmination of months, years, decades of shoddy treatment of our club Leeds United at the hands of the League. Finally, we have the opportunity to be heard.

Support the petition. Support the protest. Make your voice heard. We may never get another chance as good as this.