Why do it?

I figure it’s time for another blog, and a question I often gets asked is: Why do it? So I shall answer that for you, and give you a blog at the same time. Multi tasking, women take note: It isn’t hard.
The first time I actually saw the advert on the back of the Echo was in a friends kitchen in Wragby. I was employed at Mckechnie Plastics in my home town, and had just paid money to watch most of our promotion season. That had culminated in a 2-0 win over Brighton and a wave of mass euphoria. Football fans will tell you there are times you feel close to your club, and times you feel disenchanted. After the usual ten years of very little (which Imps fans everywhere will be all too familiar with) we suddenly had pride. Now I wasn’t good enough to play for the club, but maybe I could be mascot? That was my third thought.
My second thought was linked to an unhappy relationship I was in at the time. I had bagged myself a girl who wasn’t exactly causing me to live loves young dream. I wanted somewhere else to be on a Saturday, and an extra job seemed good. If that job heaped embarrassment on her and caused a rift then I was striking it lucky. That was my second thought, and the one I usually use in conversation when people ask. It seems far less mercenary than my first thought: Money.
That’s right, the first thing I thought was ‘I could earn a few extra quid here’, and so I rang up. Everything else was an afterthought as I contemplated my life as a mascot. First and foremost I was poor and could do with not only saving my entrance fee, but perhaps bagging twenty quid into the deal.
Imagine my surprise in the interview when it was explained the position was voluntary.
By then though the thought of being Poacher the Imp had planted seeds in my mind. I could be involved. The paper might carry my picture, and I might get access to my heroes even if they were a third tier side. I might get a seconds airing on Sky Sports. I might feel like I belong to my football club.
Funny when I look back because now there is a stand and a kids club named after me, I own a moneybox with ‘my’ own face on; I’ve been on Ant and Dec and even scored goals at Wembley and The Millennium Stadium. The most I wanted was a flash of fur on Calendar and maybe to get in the odd away ground for free.
So what motivates me? It’s clearly not the money. The position is voluntary and in my belief it should be at every club up and down the country. You can pay a man to love something and he’ll do his best if you’re a true fan willing with REAL passion for the club then your performance will always be more rousing, more passionate and ultimately genuine. I’d feel guilty at taking money from the club I love who are giving me the opportunity to do the job I love, it seems ludicrous! I acknowledge some mascots love their club and do get paid, but there are a minority who are motivated by the money. I don’t wanna point the finger (Fred The Red), but last time I heard United paid you £30 an hour and flew you on pre season tours of Singapore.
That’s not to say I don’t gain a little by being Poacher. The odd little keepsake here and there from events and games are nice, as is the programme and team sheet the club give me on a match day. I get a nice car parking space next to the ground as well which does help ease stress, especially with the bag to drag across the city! Let me tell you as well, that bags not light. There are lumps everywhere and if you carry it wrong you might just get a horn in a hole you don’t like. Or maybe you do. Who knows?
I get a discount in the club shop as well. How goods that? No I won’t buy you a shirt.
I get other rewards though. I remember in my first season we played Fulham, managed by Kevin Keegan at the time. I was going through my memorabilia phase and liked to get a programme signed by someone from the other side. So out I strode onto the pitch, pen tucked in the front my shorts and programme down the back. As Kevin emerged I rushed over and pulled the two from my nether regions before presenting him with them. He duly signed and went off to sit down.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I am boasting of my signed Kevin Keegan programme and how I abused my position to obtain it. You are, aren’t you?
Well this story is actually about me being generous and kind, sorry to disappoint. As Keegan walked away there was a little boy crying at the front. He’d come down from the stands to get the programme signed and Kevin had missed him. It was quite clear by his age and Dads Newcastle shirt that he had no clue who Keegan was, but I gave in anyway. I went over and gave him my programme.
See there is rich reward. I made that kid happy, and every week similar things happen, often smaller but always the same result. Every week a young child is attending their first ever game, or want their picture taken with me. I really buzz off being able to help make their day special, like years ago when my Dad made the day special for me. Okay back during my first game there was far less pre match entertainment and access to people at the club but you still remember attending the games and good things happening. I just want to give that back every week.
There are two postscripts to this story. The first is this: I gave that kid my programme, but he never handed his unsigned one over to me. Subsequently I ended up with no programme and back then I was buying my own. So I gave £2.50 away as well as Keegans signature. It’s true, nice guys always finish last.
Secondly there is a nasty underbelly to this, when kids decide that what would actually make their day is attacking me. I mainly get hit over the head when bending down for a handshake, or have my gloves grabbed and tugged by enthusiastic future ASBO chavs. Both tend to spoil my day.
Oh and then there are the kids who shit themselves and scream and scream and scream and scream until I go away. That isn’t an unfamiliar situation to me in the night clubs of Lincoln though so I can handle that.
I do it to be a part of my club as well. There are some wonderful people at the club who have always helped immensely over the years. As I sit here and contemplate it I feel a list coming on: Steve Prescott, Jill Fox, JV, Wayne Banks, Tim Poole, James Lazenby, Kerry France, Jerry Lonsdale, Rob Noble, Mo from the tea room, Paul Owen, obviously Alan Long, Casey, The Vaughans, Bubs, the list goes on and on. That isn’t extensive, but I’ve never been let down by these people and seeing them season after season is a blessing. I’m not going all heartfelt on you, just saying to feel like you belong to you club is the biggest thing a fan can feel. I’m sure there are guys out there who feel the same, the 12th Man guys for instance. It doesn’t matter how you’re involved, but being involved is important.
Finally I have to confess I like the kudos of being the mascot. I get embarrassed when people introduce me to their friends by going ‘you know who this is don’t you?’ It happens loads, more so with my none Lincoln City friends! I stand there thinking ‘of course they don’t know. They’re not Lincoln fans and if they were what on earth would make them think I was a six foot Imp whose existence they haven’t acknowledged?’ Then I get the big reveal and the usual ten minute conversation about it: and it’s right there the appeal lies. People are interested; they want to know all about the mascot life. I always say ‘Life is like a jungle and not like a zoo, participate, don’t spectate become the view’ (well The King Blues sang it first but I use it now) so I guess being interesting is better than being banal?
I’ll leave you with the usual amusing tale. A few years ago we played York City. I seem to think it was the sixth game of the season, and they had a five match winning streak (time may have clouded the facts there). Chris Brass was their manager and we beat them 3-0. Anyway at half time Bev from the St Johns ambulance crew suggested I get patched up looking injured and collect some money from the fans. I did it, and we strayed into the away end. I maintain to this day Bev led me in there on purpose, but shortly after I went in something felt cold around my ears….
A York fan was proceeding back into the stands carrying my head. I was stood in my full suit with my arm in a losing and a bandage on my head. Worst of all my actual head was poking out of the top of the suit and my skin was rapidly turning a deeper red than my fur. I imagine at that time I looked like an Imp with a zit for a head. I could nothing as their fans tossed my head from one to the other, cheering each time it didn’t come back to me.
By the time it did it seemed a little more damp than when it left me. I put it back on and went through the charade of getting back into character for the (long) walk back to the changing rooms.
Humiliation in front of 4000 football fans. That is not why I do the job.