No more than a tragicomedy....

 

Despite a TV and Film career spanning over 60 years, Norman Wisdom was never a man likely to regularly feature on the back pages of the tabloids. But a recent posting on the Aldershot Town Fans Forum did stir some long-lost memories in my head.

And given the tragicomedy quality of our football and off-pitch direction in recent years, perhaps now is a good time to bring the events back to life.

I always found Norman Wisdom to be pretty tiresome, but Poppy Seed’s mention of his name on Shotsweb, brought back vivid memories of my days at Woking Grammar School.

When the summons was delivered to the 6th Form Common Room, by the Head Master’s Secretary, the mutual ‘card school look’ was one of ‘oops’.

I was in my last year at school and I was both Captain of the School 1st XI and fixture secretary. We played pretty much all of the top independent schools in the South East of England, together with the best Grammar Schools across the region. An impressive fixture list that had been built up over many years.

On every occasion that I was required to enter the School’s Reception area I always found the Zulu spears and shield hanging just outside of Head Master Jack Goode’s office somewhat disturbing. No doubt they were trophies received by the school for their role in our colonial past. 

And as I waited in the lobby to be called in, I just knew that with the door open to the Second Master Rigby Hardaker's study, an icy cold stare from the terrifying little man would soon be penetrating the back of my brain, in search of the reason for my early morning call to see the Head.

The door to the office opened, and without any form of acknowledgement, the Head Master’s Secretary simply announced, ‘go in, the Head will see you now’.

The office was dark, save for a brilliant shaft of light that hit the shiny bald head of ‘Jack’, disappearing upwards to illuminate a couple of old school photos hanging somewhat forlornly on his study wall.

Without looking up from the papers, ordered so neatly on his large oak desk, Jack Goode crisply advised that he was pleased to hear that we had won 3v0 at Charterhouse on Saturday. ‘An excellent performance’, he confirmed. ‘But we do want to keep Charterhouse on our fixture list. Never again will you sink to the violent depths that can be witnessed every weekend at rugby playing schools.’

‘Yes Sir’. I turned and left.

I can’t remember the time of year, but it was either the autumn of 1970, or perhaps early spring, 1971. Charterhouse away was always a fixture to look forward to. Fantastic facilities and quality food served up after the game. Better than the tea and biscuits offered up when we entertained visitors at Loop Road. And it was always a bit off putting when the ‘posh boys’ ran out onto the pitch in a superb matching kit, lining up against a team appearing in a collection of lost property shorts and socks, complemented by ill-fitting washed-out shirts.

The game was pretty intense for the opening 30 mins. Both sides taking care not to be exposed at the back and offering little concerted effort going forwards. But then just before half time two well taken goals set the scene for the rest of the game. Woking, dominant and well on top, with Charterhouse only threatening when the ball was played out wide to their tricky left winger.

It was only in the second half of the game that I had the time to form the realisation that the cocky winger was probably related to the overly animated linesman. A short guy, in his fifties, dressed in a baggy black tracksuit, with his ‘bottoms’ tucked into a pair of white woollen socks.

When the tackle was delivered, I have to admit that probably more than 50% of the damage was by design with the balance left to, ‘I do apologise old boy, for the mis-timed tackle.’ The winger was down and he was never going to get up quickly.

I guess the Lino didn’t see it quite like me. He was jumping up and down waving his flag frantically, as the once tricky little winger writhed about on the ground, mouthing abuse in my direction. And the referee, who had clearly seen the assault on the winger’s future manhood possibilities, was certainly not impressed when he heard our goal scoring forward shout out, ‘don’t rub them, count them.' 

The referee bent down and over the stricken boy, 'do you need a stretcher, Wisdom.' His attempted reply to the simple question was both weak and inaudible; but on the touchline the storm clouds were gathering.

‘Referee, referee. He kicked my boy.’

If the Lino said it once, he must have repeated the phrase twenty times. His plaintive cry accompanied by a display of flag waving that would have been useful on Nelson’s HMS Victory, at the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805. ‘Lord Nelson, Lord Nelson. The French and Spanish are coming.’ 

The referee took a few minutes to get the wounded player off the pitch and then, he asked me to leave. Adding, ‘don’t expect any food tickets after the game, boy.’

Some many years later I watched an interesting documentary about the life and career of Norman Wisdom - his son Nicky, who owned a sports shop at the time in Haywards Heath (although I had Petersfield in my head), added a family perspective to the story about a man who in later life became a big hit in Albania. 

Funnily enough he failed to mention the fixture against Woking Grammar, but it was pretty obvious that he had completely lost the aura of being a tricky little winger.