Around this time I decided to bring out the ‘Mrs Poacher’ suit. When I got my new suit the old Poacher was stored in my loft with a view to overhauling its appearance and turning it into a ‘Mrs Poacher’ Mascot high jinks are always hard when there’s no-one to bounce off, so I took a leaf from the Notts County mascots book and introduced my wife for a game against Hartlepool on a Friday night. I was only attending thanks the England game the next day.
At first I took the suit to Tim Hall, the West Ham fan that I worked with. He seemed keen to fill the suit and I believed he wanted to do it for all the right reasons. Between him and his good wife Beth they managed to change the appearance from work weary Poacher to abhorrently ugly Mrs Poacher. Out went the white hair and in came a disastrous blond mop. Facially we had to work with the same ‘bone structure’ so the outcome was a rather butch looking girl with stunning eyelashes and a boxers jaw. Beth even tore up a pair of her pyjama’s to make bows for Mrs Poacher’s hair! We took her to the second Rockingham event I attended which meant free tickets for Tim and his whole family. Tim is a big motor racing fan but I don’t think he fully expected the Mrs Poacher thing to be a hard gig. How wrong he was. The suit sadly wasn’t fit for purpose and in front of 32,000 people he struggled to see exactly where he was. After this less than successful outing the suit was put in the loft and forgotten about.
The problem was that I needed someone to wear the suit. There were plenty of takers but all would have wanted to steal my limelight. When I’m Poacher being centre of attention is my second consideration behind entertaining the fans, but when considering someone to share the pitch with me being number one becomes of utmost importance. Call it selfish, greedy or whatever you like but I’m afraid I don’t want to be upstaged by someone wearing a suit I toiled for many hours over the night before. The obvious answer was Ken Eades. In truth if Ken hadn’t been let down by the club before I probably wouldn’t have bothered bringing the suit back out. Despite working hard for hours the suit still resembled the mascot equivalent of a gin soaked old hag and as Poacher I imagined I’d have a really attractive wife.
The visitors were Hartlepool, relegated from League One last year. I’d met their mascot a few times, a guy called Stuart Drummond who took on the alter ego ‘H’angus The Monkey’. There’s a legend in the North East that a monkey was shipwrecked and washed up on the coast, only to be hung by the locals who thought it was a French man. Personally I’d have thought that this incident would be best swept under the carpet, but obviously Pool fans thought it was worth celebrating, hence H’angus. Stuart himself caused a stir when as ‘H’angus’ he ran for mayor of Hartlepool and won! He took his victory very seriously and immediately ditched the mascot suit to actually become mayor in his own right, which was surprising given his police caution that came after a game in Blackpool where he was shown to be over the drink drive limit on the pitch. He’d enjoyed some of the hospitality along the Golden Mile and rolled up at Bloomfield Road with a blow up doll in a Blackpool shirt. I hear he wasn’t far from being arrested and the club issued him with a strict code of conduct to adhere to. Hearing this man was mayor of his town almost defied common sense.
The new H’angus was called Simon. Or Steve. I can’t actually recall as I referred to him as H’angus. He rang me and left a message Wednesday night, I left a message on his phone Thursday and he reciprocated with another message Friday night. By the time I went into the bar to find an excited Ken Eades I was still no closer to discovering what H’angus actually sounded like.
There was no such fear with Ken. He sounded as confident and excited as the day we played MK Dons. Once again he took his seat with a couple of stiff whiskeys to help his nerves, and once again the chicken hat came along for the ride. I grabbed a pint and went over for the pre match banter.
My pre match banter was doomed to failure. No sooner had I settled into a seat on Kens table was I whisked away by James Lazenby. I was required for a photo shoot on the pitch whilst a cheque from somebody was handed over to somebody else. I protested as I had a full pint and James allowed me to take it into the ground and drink it there. Now here was a real honour. The FA does not allow alcohol within sight of the pitch or the fans and to my knowledge nobody had ever had a pint pitch side. I got a perverse feeling of being an A list City celeb as I made my way to the changing room with a cold pint of Fosters in my hand. James looked after it for me and I changed.
The shoot was the same as usual. I pose, ruffle a kid’s hair and perhaps pinch a nice ladies bum. I shared the photo with Splat The Cat and the irony wasn’t lost on me. Two weeks back they’d been desperate for someone to fill it and had let me down, now I put a load of work into Mrs Poacher and Splat appears with me hearing nothing in advance at all! That’s the way mascot life is though, we sometimes feel a bit like mushrooms. Kept in the dark and fed on dirt.
I jumped briefly out of my suit so I could fetch Ken from the bar but I took a few seconds to stand in the tunnel and drink my pint. Players came past me and had a few comments and I got a menacing look off a steward but I was going to have my moment. Once finished I sensibly took the glass back to the bar and told Ken it was time. H’angus who had been drinking at a table three down from where we sat earlier joined us.
H’Angus was a committed mascot. He asked if he could stay out for the whole game to cheer his side on. For me this is impossible, as my suit has restricted sight and airflow meaning anything more than half an hour gives me the sensation of being suffocated. It was only when he explained he got twenty pound a match to perform I understood his dedication. He wanted to make sure the job was his for a long time as he got free travel, entry to the game and twenty quid to spend on anything he chooses! I swung it for him anyway and off he went out onto the field. Before he did I asked him if he could remember Stuart Drummond to which he replied ‘course I do, he’s our mayor’. Seems like mascotting is a good thing to have on your CV.
Ken changed with the passion of a twenty-year-old lad and couldn’t get out on the pitch quick enough. He followed me everywhere acting as effeminately as he possibly could and worryingly doing an excellent job. I’m sure his wife must have had doubts as she saw him mincing around the pitch behind me like Julian Clary doing Pudsey Bear. He even managed a few autographs, which was amazing considering he couldn’t see his hand in front of him. Ten minutes before kick off he seemed to disappear but quite a lot does evade your view when suited and booted so I thought nothing of it.
It was only when I got in just after kick off I realised why he’d gone, because he was absolutely knackered! He’d given it his best shot and had almost run himself into the ground. I got in the changing room and found him slumped in a chair covered in not one but at least seven layers of sweat and looking three stone lighter. He gasped something about ‘wonderful experience’ and ‘thank you’ before changing into his clean clothes, which were instantly soiled by his perspiration. Paul Owen one of our best stewards took him round to his seat, and on coming back remarked ‘I’m not sure that old boy will make it home!’ I knew Ken and I knew full well he’d be back the next week. His day was rounded off as we halted a run of three defeats and ran out 2-0 winners.
We managed to beat Rochdale 7-1 in my Dads first game of the season a couple of weeks later. He normally made at least one or two a year, and last year it had been the 5-0 thumping of Grimsby. As I got changed he remarked that he wouldn’t mind a go at being Mrs Poacher and in a haze of beer talk he agreed to do it at our home game with Darlington. I recorded his request on my mobile phone so he couldn’t back out later, and sure enough three weeks later he turned up at my house at twelve o’clock to collect the suit.
We did the usual thing of having a couple before the game. He parked in my spot and we got the usual glares from security men. They seem to think that my space, exactly two feet from the entrance to the ground is a little too cushy for someone who doesn’t need disabled access. Arriving in my Dads car threw them further as they’d come to expect a battered old red Rover 214 instead of this shiny new white Astra (red and white, you see City through and through). We were watched as I usually am until I pulled a big blue bag large enough to contain two human bodies from the boot. This convinced the stewards I was deserving of my space. After dropping the suits off and quickly raiding the club shop we went into the bar.
We bumped into an old friend of my Dads called Wayne Raithby who still goes to games with his eighty odd year old Dad Fred. They are a father and son team that I hope my Dad and I will emulate for years to come. We swapped a few stories and theories as to what was going to happen and sank the standard issue four pints of overpriced watery ale. I think its standard that football clubs serve bad beer, but I can’t put my finger on what it is that causes it. It may be the student bar staff that hasn’t pulled many pints in their careers or it may be watered down to make it go further. Either way I don’t care as my money is at least lining the clubs pockets and not some pot bellied southerner. Plus the drinking environment is excellent. Few clubs have such a friendly supporters bar that both sides can frequent but at City we have excellent facilities. The bar gets busy buts its spacious and there is a bar at both ends of the elongated area. Six or seven big TV screen show Imps games from the past few weeks and today we were watching replays of us beating Barnet, Rochdale and Swindon on a loop. Apart from the fact not everyone was wearing red and white I could have been in heaven.
A little worse for wear we came out of the Centre Spot Bar as it’s officially known and made our way round to get changed. It had been Children in Need the night before so we had Pudsey Bear with us to do some collecting. Pudsey wasn’t the official bear but instead a copycat bear with the eye patch and a Lincoln shirt on. That’s not to say the money didn’t go to Children in Need, of course it did but along with my Dad we looked a sight and a half heading out onto the pitch. I went up the tunnel first, flanked by my pink and blue haired Mrs Poacher followed by a soiled looking poor mans pudsey and we all wore Lincoln shirts. We were giving five and a half thousand people the chance to see what magic mushrooms can do to you!
In the mouth of the tunnel I spied a yellow football so I kicked it out onto the playing surface as I came out. The players usually hoof one out as they come out so I thought it’d be a good chance to mimic them. How wrong I was. Darlington striker Barry Conlon thought I’d done it on purpose and he drop kicked a second ball directly into my face, which he followed up with a foul-mouthed tirade about what he’d do if I did it again. As I wheeled away more in shock than anything I felt the warm flow of blood dripping from my head down inside the costume.
I’ve been ‘assaulted’ by a few players before. I recall joining in a kick about with Rotherham players back in my first season and kicking a ball away after they passed it to me. One of their forwards, Paul Warne kicked the ball so it hit me on the bum as I turned away from him. That was funny. Similarly I pulled the same stunt a couple of years back with an Exeter substitute who had to retrieve his ball after I whacked it into our fans behind the goal. He gave me a foul-mouthed tirade on the pitch much to the amusement of our fans that saw me turn my back on him and walk away. In that context his reaction was funny. Barry Conlons was not.
He had his little say in front of our family stand that housed two hundred or so youngsters and parents from local schools. They will have heard every word of it. When he kicked the ball at me I was facing him but due to restrictions of my suit I couldn’t actually see him. Conlon might not have realised but I’d also been off work for a few days the week before with migraines, which I’ve heard are not helped by vicious blows to the face. However I am a professional volunteer so I gave him the obligatory comedy gesture and walked away to focus on giving my Dad his experience.
As you may have sussed through the course of my story Dad is a no nonsense man who I could never have imagined dressing up as Mrs Poacher, and yet his love for the club took over. He walked like a woman, posed like a woman and smelt like a mixture of fresh sweat and beer. The fans always love the Mrs Poacher outfit as well. Once my old Poacher outfit was decommissioned myself and Tim and Beth Hall (some friends of mine) set about hacking it up to make Mrs Poacher. I went into a fabric store and bought some pink fabric (!) and gave her a Sid Vicious haircut for the new century. I don’t know if it’s the horrendously ugly face, the wild punk hair colour or just the fact that two grown people pretend to be a married pair of furry Imps that amuses the fans, but love it they do. This was only the third outing for the suit at a game in two years and as usual ‘she’ was causing a minor stir. Dad couldn’t see his hands let alone hold a pen so he tried to stay back from the crowd and just wave. I had second-guessed him on this so prior to the game I’d had a quick jaunt round all his friends in the bar and let them know he was doing it. They gave him a quick heckle and a few wolf whistles. I could feel him turning red through the suit!
I led him across the pitch to wave at the away fans. Alan Long normally goes round all four sides of the ground and gets them to cheer to try and gee them up before the game. I love to play up to all the stands but I was surprised how well my Dad did it. I wondered if he’d secretly been dressing up in sight restricting suits for a while….
Just before the players come out I took dad to the centre circle and let him admire the view. He stood in awe and rotated himself through three hundred and sixty degrees admiring Sincil Bank from a perspective he hadn’t experience in 53 years of being a fan. I actually felt guilty at having positioned him over one of the sprinklers they like to turn on before the game to grease the pitch up a bit to suit our new passing style of football. That guilt soon left me when he jumped three foot in the air as a jet of ice-cold water shot up his shorts without prior warning. I decided to alleviate his potential anger and jumped on one myself to ensure I was good and wet. After the teams came out and we made our way off the field I made sure I flicked my soaking wet costume in the direction of Darlo players, stewards and in particular ball boys.
The game was frankly abysmal. We lost 3-1 and we were lucky it wasn’t seven. I didn’t go out at half time instead enjoying watching a kid’s game on the pitch with my Dad. It was only after the game, full of pent up rage at the result that I needed an outlet. After all tomorrow was my 28th birthday and I hadn’t been allowed the small concession of having City win and thus ensuring a good mood until Tuesday at least. I had only one avenue I could explore.
I positioned myself behind the advertising hoarding that met with the edge of the tunnel, and awaited Barry Conlon. He’d only got on for twenty minutes and had hardly had a touch, so as well as his baldhead I could recognise him by his perfectly clean shirt. Sure enough he came my way and fuelled by incessant anger and sudden injustice at the assault I had my say.
‘Conlon. Over here. You owe me an apology mate’. His face soured. ‘Why? What for?’ ‘You kicked the ball right in my face. I’m the mascot and you split my lip’. I underlined my point by flicking aforementioned thick lip out and in his direction. ‘Not me mate’. This was a ridiculous statement, as I knew it was him. He was the only bald headed player on their team and in addition he was six foot odd and as distinctive as an anorexic at Weight Watchers. ‘You’re out of order Conlon, I know it was you I saw you’. With that he had decided enough was enough and that my slanderous comments were worthy of a slapping. He cut across the mouth of the tunnel and headed straight for me.
This is where a bit of good old-fashioned common sense comes into play. I wanted my say and I intended to have it, but it wasn’t going to be at a cost. Just seconds before Conlon came across I’d briefed one of our stewards, a lovely Leeds fan whose name escapes me, that I’d be having my say. She warned me to stay off the pitch and not to swear and I adhered to her wishes. When Conlon decided to implement a second dollop of North Eastern justice she stepped across me to ensure he couldn’t come through. I felt safe enough to continue my fight for an apology.
‘Out of order mate. Come on then’. I began to feel my father’s blood rising in me. He had a temper in his day and like David Banner it pops out every so often. Further confrontation was avoided thanks to Joey Hutchinson of Darlington who had clearly seen the earlier incident. He bundled Conlon down the tunnel and shouted ‘Look mate he’s sorry, just leave it’ in my direction. Either way I had no choice but to leave it as Conlon had gone and I’d look pretty silly arguing with myself.
No sooner had I returned home than I put together an email complaining to our stadium manager that I’d been assaulted and was contemplating criminal action. After all I read earlier in the week that prisoners who had been forced to come off heroin inside had been given compensation, and if that’s fair and right then I should have a slice of Barry Conlon’s cake. After all Darlington are one of those League Two anomalies that have copious amounts of money thrown at them every season and yet always fail to impress. Its unlikely Barry Conlon earns less than three grand a week playing up north, and if that’s what he gets for twenty minutes dire football every seven days I think he could have afforded me an apology.
I’d like to argue that my indignance is a result of the awful actions of the man and not some knee jerk reaction to my birthday being spoilt. Sadly that isn’t the case. I may have taken steps for an apology against Paul Warne and the Exeter lad had we lost those games but we didn’t, we won them both and I left happy. Had Rotherham hammered three past us as Darlo did then I’d probably been tempted to ask Warne for an apology as well. If I got it then at least I’d leave the ground with a victory of sorts, a victory that Conlon chose not to grant me.
I believe that love us or loath us mascots are part of football today and especially in our league play a particularly prominent part. Okay at Manchester Utd where a qualified actor is on fifty quid an hour to pose for pictures they not play a part then perhaps I’d take it, but at Sincil Bank or York Street where a die hard fan gets nothing for sweating manically inside a foam suit for an hour every Saturday our presence is important. The kids love us and parents love anything that quietens kids down at a football match. The sponsors still love us just like in the Premier League, but more for the banter than the photo. At Old Trafford a picture with Fred The Red is great for the multi millionaire property developer to take home to the kids. At Lincoln when a group of half cut builders appear for a photo flanked by their local boy ‘done good’ businessman it’s the craic they are after. Therefore I feel that players like Barry Conlon should at least admit when they’ve done wrong to us, as we are small-unsung heroes of football. It wouldn’t have cost him any of his ‘hard earned’ cash and if it made a volunteer worker who is motivated by love of their club feel better then he should be a man and do the right thing. It’s us that pay his wages.
Mind you Mr Quaker the Darlo mascot was in the news last year when he was arrested with a massive quantity of cannabis in the boot of his car, and ex chairman George Reynolds is currently being housed in one of Her Majesty’s own hotel for a spot of swindling, so perhaps if they added Barry Conlon and an assault charge they’d have a hat trick of felonies.
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