by Eddie Allen
Anyway, before the season got underway I had my barium meal and endoscopy. Fourteen months down the line they actually found out what my problem was. My entire immune system was under attack from a deadly and painful bacteria ‘helicobacter pylori’. My lymph glands tried their hardest to withstand the onslaught, but failed miserably. I caught more chest and throat infections than I care to remember. My immune system was non-existent; it took years of antibiotics and antacids, along with skip-loads of bio-yoghurt, to get my system back to somewhere near normal.
Meanwhile the 94/95 season got underway and Eltham United started where they had left off; completely dominating the Premier Division. Rumours were rife from various club secretaries and managers and even league officials that I was playing contracted players, who in turn signed up for me under false names. Well what can I say except ‘jealousy’?
That’s all it boils down to, bloody jealousy, so nearly every game my club had had signature checks, bloody disgrace!! But that seems to be life at the top, and believe me my team were at the top, totally invincible during this period. Being fundraiser, secretary, kit-washer and team manager, I took the brunt of everyone’s accusations, which, I must hasten to add, were totally unfounded. Was it my fault that Eltham United thumped all the so-called top sides in the division? For five years, every team we played wanted to be the first to beat us, treating an ordinary league game like the FA Cup final, Sad really! Once they were 3 or 4 down they resorted to kicking lumps of shit out of every Eltham player on the pitch; wankers!
I made more enemies in ten years running the club than at any other time in my life. Why? Because my team had to be the best, that’s why! And we were; I used to deliberately arrive five minutes late for all league meetings, nonchalantly strolling down the aisle, looking for a seat. I would feel hundreds of eyes scanning my every move, and then the whispers would start until I sat down, knowing every motherfucker in the hall hated my guts. What a fucking buzz! Mind you, the best was yet to come. The following season would prove unbelievable; breaking the league’s hundred year record.
My arrogance and cocky attitude got totally out of hand. I used to phone up the opposition every week and tell them the kick-off time and who the ref was, et cetera. I could tell from their voice that they resented me, so I always ended the conversation with tongue-in-cheek remarks like, “Do ya know, after this week my team has gone nearly a year without being beaten?” or, “Be prepared for a mauling, we’re on fire!” I even once told this guy that his team would be better off getting lost on their way to our ground to avoid being humiliated. When I think now how I used to act, well to say I cringe would be a massive understatement. Anyway, near the end of the season with another Premier Division title sown up and reaching another Senior Cup final, Castaways committee called for an urgent AGM. There were only three football teams and a cricket team that played there. Being a new club member, I just sat listening to the committee, telling everyone the club needed to raise £1,500 otherwise bankruptcy was a foregone conclusion. The response I heard filled me with dread; no one was prepared to stick their hands in their pockets. Harry, who was the chairman, looked distraught. He’d been running Castaways for yonks and was desperate not to let the club get closed down; still feeling unwell and not fully recovered from my health ordeal, I felt compelled not to say anything. Then Harry looked at me and asked if I had any suggestions on how to save Castaways from extinction. I gazed at him, my face expressionless pondering on my reply.
“Well Harry, uhh, I’m not surprised your club’s in the shit. Firstly, you only open on Saturday afternoons and Sunday mornings; secondly, the bar area is a joke! Even I wouldn’t have a pint in here! And thirdly, you’re too cheap on pitch prices. Greenwich Council’s Sutcliffe Park is dearer than here and that’s a shit-hole. You need to open seven days a week and encourage teams to train here. Also the bar area needs tarting up, so outsiders will hire the hall for functions.”
“We’ve survived forty years as we are,” Harry sighed.
“Yeah, that was then and this is now. Life is much more expensive now than it was forty years ago. You can’t operate on no takings, Harry,” I stated.
The rest of the guys in the room nodded their heads in agreement with everything I said. Harry sat with his chin in the palms of his hands, looking seriously glum.
“I’ll tell you what, Harry; my club will bail you out of trouble but only if you sign Castaways running over to me,” I said, expecting him to tell me where to get off. His response floored me completely.
“OK,” he said, smiling. “If that’s how the club can survive, then it’s time to move forward. Fresh blood and enthusiasm could be the answer.” He put the idea to a vote and Yours Truly now had his own ground!
Within weeks, Eltham United were legally in total control of everything to do with Castaways Sports and Social club, however I didn’t know it at the time, but this was the beginning of the end for me, big time! My dream had come true; now all I had to do was bring the club up to scratch and press forward with my plan for non-league football. Eltham had won the senior cup for the second year running and a third premier title. During the summer of ’95, the name Castaways was erased, signs taken down, being replaced with larger and better signs, stating that this social club had been renamed ‘Eltham United Football Club’. I couldn’t believe it, at long last!
Over the summer, I had floodlights installed and joined Courage brewery. The bar and function room was revamped, with a new bar and furnishings, satellite TV and fruit machines, along with pool table and dart board. The punters flocked in seven days a week. Teams would train under floodlights till 9 p.m., then stay in the bar till closing time. We had weddings, Marks & Spencer quiz nights, birthdays, anniversaries and race nights - absolutely sublime. The more dosh the bar earned, the more was spent on the clubhouse and grounds.
Edward was now pushing towards his twelfth birthday and started to play for a local kids’ team. After paying his membership and weekly subs, Edward found himself on the bench all the time; his non-appearance during games upset me greatly. He used to get upset and sometimes would cry out of frustration. So, in my infinite wisdom, I decided that Eltham United should have their own under-twelves. I advertised for players and a manager and introduced a junior pitch into the ground. I must admit we just squeezed it in. We were bombarded with youngsters who wanted to play football. I was utterly shocked at the amount of kids who wanted to play; they would turn up, with their parents, in their droves for training sessions. It wasn’t long before we had under-twelves and under-elevens. The club was seriously buzzing, and the future of Eltham United looked pukka!
It was now August and the 95/96 season was only five weeks away. I had transformed the club from going bankrupt, into a viable concern. Unfortunately, my success with the club and the constant usage of the grounds brought about complaints from a couple of residents whose gardens backed on to the ground. One in particular, who I won’t name, made it his own mission to destroy me and get the club closed down. The bastard had powerful friends in extremely high places. I later found out that he was a ‘mason’ and in the clan were magistrates and old Bill, so you can imagine, I had no chance!
The 95/96 season was nearly upon us; I sat on the veranda, drinking coffee alone, my mind buzzing with images, daydreaming of the future, non-league football, FA cup qualifying rounds. My thoughts quickly disappeared after noticing out the corner of my eye a figure standing watching me from the other side of the junior pitch. He was too far away to see who he was or even describe him; he just stood there, motionless. I felt a bit uneasy, and not sure of myself. Why I felt nervous I don’t know. I mean, it was broad daylight and sunny, even though I was alone in acres and acres of open ground, surrounded by tall trees. But for some weird reason, I was definitely on edge. I took a sip of my coffee taking my eye off the figure for a second, when I returned my gaze he’d gone from where he stood. To my horror he was now standing at the back of the main pitch under the trees. No fuck
ing way did he cover that distance in a second, I thought, absolutely no way. He stood, staring in my direction, in the shadows of the trees. He then raised his arm, gesturing me to come over. It was at this point a car screeched into the car park. I glanced at the car and immediately back to the where the figure stood. He was gone! I kept staring at where he’d stood, my mind completely confused, asking me questions. Oh! Shit, it could have been…nah leave it out, Ed.
I was dragged from my hideous thoughts by the sound of someone’s voice.
“Hi, Eddie, I presume?” the guy asked.
“You presume right, young man, what can I do for ya?” I asked him.
“My name’s Ron White and I represent Queens Park Rangers Ladies Football club. We’ve been let down on a ground for this season and we’re desperate to find a base. I’ve been to every club in the area, you are our last hope. Have you by any chance got any room for another team?” he asked. He looked really stressed out.
Well well, I thought, have I got room for my beloved QPR? The thought of seeing blue ’n’ white hoops running over my pitches swayed my answer.
“It’s your lucky day, Ron. Come into the club for a coffee and we’ll discuss it,” I said, gesturing him towards the club’s entrance.
Ron followed me into the clubhouse; I noticed the smile on his face as he approached the bar.
“I don’t believe this, you’re an R’s supporter,” he chuckled with glee while he scanned the photos all around the bar. “Blimey, that’s an old photo of Stan Bowles and Rodney Marsh. Ahh, those were the days,” he smiled.
While he played ‘name the player’, I made two mugs of coffee and returned to the bar, holding the club’s fixture diary.
“How long have you supported QPR, Eddie?” he asked.
“Since I was eleven. Long time for continuous punishment. Mind you, Ron, we all have our crosses to bear and QPR are mine, amongst other things,” I laughed.
I sat down and flipped through the diary, picking dates and times for Ron’s ladies.
“I can offer you fourteen dates, from September ’95 till May ’96. Would that be enough for your team?” I asked him.
“Superb, Eddie. You’re a life saver, mate. I don’t suppose there’s any room during the week for training?”
I glanced through the diary, pondering for a moment. After juggling round a few bits ’n’ bobs, I said to Ron, “I can fit you in Thursdays, from six till seven-thirty, if that helps?”
“Fantastic. That’ll be just the ticket,” he beamed, feeling really chuffed with himself.
So the deal was done and monies changed hands: QPR Ladies were now club members of Eltham United FC. Forgive me for feeling over the moon, but this was a serious feather in my cap and I felt elated. After Ron had left I wandered around the ground, taking in the sunshine, feeling pretty good with the way my life had finally started to pay some sort of dividends. This is just the tip of the iceberg, I thought.
Well, the 95/96 seasons got underway and Sue took over the running of the bar while I looked after all the teams. Edward started his football career playing for the under-twelves, and Eltham United’s Senior side were unstoppable, literally. The club buzzed all week and every week, and as you can imagine, the kids and ladies teams were extremely noisy. This produced a string of letters, complaining about the high volume of noise, especially from the kids. I had meetings with residents and listened to their grievances, but what they wanted was beyond the distance that I would bend. I told them, there was no way I would kick the kids and ladies football teams out from the club, just to satisfy five miserable residents; I then informed them that I would do everything in my power to get the boys to lower their tone on and off the pitch. This was acceptable to four of them; the only exception was the muppet on the corner. He swore that he would bring the club to its knees and get the place shut down. He just wouldn’t listen to me at all; he made it perfectly clear that all he wanted was no activity whatsoever in the ground.
Anyway, the complaints from him continued; he wrote to the council and the local newspapers, which backfired in his face. The local press ran the story of how certain individuals were trying to close down the club. The picture of a hundred kids from the age of ten to fourteen “looking glum” appeared in the rag with the article. The photo definitely swayed public opinion in our favour and we received letters of support from all and sundry. So, I mistakenly thought that the problem had gone. Unfortunately, I couldn’t have been more wrong. During ’95 he started a smear campaign against me personally, telling lies and giving certain individuals false information on the behaviour of club members and myself.
November 5th, 1995: firework night at the club. I spent the whole day preparing for the kids’ barbeque, disco and firework display. The evening was a roaring success. So many happy faces, the kids just loved it. I worked hard all night, cooking food and doing the display. The club was heaving, full to the brim, the kids would scream and laugh at the fireworks, while mums and dads had a few drinks, enjoying the barbeque and friendly atmosphere. At the end of the evening after everyone had gone, I started to clear up the spent fireworks and bag up all the rubbish. When I finally finished it must have been close to midnight. After locking the club, I drove out to the front gates. Unbeknown to me, the guy on the corner had called the police and they lay in wait for me. I pulled out of the gates, turning right, but I only got a hundred yards before I got pulled over. I wasn’t worried at all; I only drank three or four halves of lager all night. They were bought for me while I stood cooking the barbeque. Anyway, I had to blow into this bag and the reading was low, so the young copper wanted to let me go. However, the older copper insisted I had to go to the local nick and blow into a certain machine.
Now what happened next surprised me; instead of taking me to Eltham police station, which was five minutes away, they decided to take me to Orpington, which unbelievably took half an hour. By the time I’d gone through all the rigmarole at the station, I eventually blew into this machine a staggering one hour later. Consequently, the level in my blood stream had just gone over the legal limit and even then certain officers wanted to let me go, except the older guy. So I was nicked for drink-driving and amazingly, after I’d been charged, they let me go and gave me a lift back to the club where I jumped into my motor and drove home! The thought of being stitched up never occurred to me till much later. A few weeks after this, the guy on the corner was at it again. The thick wanker got the club raided by the police over the Christmas holidays; we were shut at the time! I got the call while me, Sue and the boys were at a family party. The guy was obsessed.
During January 1996, I remember forking and sanding the goalmouths on the main pitch. It was absolutely perishing and my fingers were frozen, due to the icy wind blowing across the pitch. Out of the blue, I saw this guy walking towards me, smiling.
“Morning. Ya doing a grand job. Mind you, it’s a bit parky for outside work,” he said with a large grin.
“Yeah, it’s a bit nippy,” I replied.
“You’ve done a fantastic job here, especially for the local youngsters, but I fear its to no avail,” he sighed, shaking his head.
“Why’s that?” I asked. I stopped what I was doing and resting on my fork.
“I think you know the answer to that question. Don’t you?” he turned round and opened up his arms. “All this space will eventually go to waste because of one man and one man only. His obsession with destroying you is formidable.” He said it like he knew the outcome of my battle with the guy on the corner. “Listen to me, Eddie, you’re one of the family and whatever happens, don’t lose sight of that,” he smiled.
“How do ya know my name? I never told you,” I asked curiously.
“I know everything, trust me. This is something you have got to go through. The course of events that follow cannot be altered in any way, shape or form. Let’s say, it’s already written.”
“Who are you? And what do ya mean, ‘one of the family’?” I asked, feeling conf
used and suspicious.
“Doesn’t matter who I am; just remember our meeting and keep the faith,” he said, slowly walking towards the car park.
“Hold on a minute, mate. You can’t just stroll in and out of here, making wild assessments, and leaving me to ponder over everything you’ve just said, without any explanations!” I cried out, as he vanished down the clubs driveway.
I dropped my fork and legged it towards the club’s entrance. I looked left and right down the street; nowhere to be seen, he simply just vanished into thin air. This has happened on a few occasions, where strangers have walked up to me, and shall we say, given me messages! Anyway, I carried on repairing and drying out the goalmouths, my mind, far, far away, with thoughts of angels visiting me from the spirit realm. The next few weeks flew by and my appearance at court for drink-driving came and went, being banned from driving for a year. The following week was my 40th birthday, which, I was reliably informed was where my life apparently begins. Well, if that’s the case, you can shove it. I’ve never heard such bullshit about turning forty in my life. But, as you do, I arranged a party to celebrate the fact that I was getting older. I actually filled the club up with so-called friends and Sue’s family; it’s amazing how many friends you’ve got when you throw a party, especially when the booze and grub are free!
