‘What’s the difference between a roadie and a homeless person? A laminate.’
It came about through Carl out of Madness introducing me to a guy named Alfie Hitchcock. Alfie worked alongside The Mean Fiddler Organisation and I believe it was originally Vince Power’s idea to do it. Alfie, to his credit, stuck me up for the job. The job was organising a Celebrity Five-a-Side tournament at The Phoenix Festival.
The Phoenix, while it lasted, was a big deal. A couple of years on, I was playing five-a-side over Paddington Rec and Martin Fry, the singer out of ABC was also playing. I heard him mention that he was going to The Phoenix, to play football. The other guy seemed confused. Mr Fry responded, “It’s bigger than the music.” That wasn’t true but we ran those guitar pickers close and I’m not going to be mealy-mouthed here, the Celebrity Football was hugely successful and almost exclusively- down to me. Yeah, I said it. Meant it… Not only can I tell you how I made it successful, but I can do so in one word, I made it ‘serious’. For some reason, competitions of this kind were always deemed ‘fun’. I played football all my life and I doubt a single second of it was ‘fun’. There were moments when I enjoyed it but fun? My hunch, was that I wasn’t alone in this and that nobody with an ounce of dignity, celebrity or otherwise, wanted to participate in a football tournament that reeked of ‘fun’ and guess what? I was right.
People thought I’d got it all wrong but as nobody expected it to take off, they just left me to it. In short, they gave me enough rope to hang myself. I’d do that of course but only once it had become successful. I had some insight into ‘celebrities’ taking the game seriously as, at around that time, I’d been invited to play with a bunch of actors against Iron Maiden. The main guy’s name was Steve. Anyway, we arrived at the venue, which was Steve’s abode. It was situated on a few acres that included a full-size, perfectly manicured football pitch. Running alongside it, was a track and mounted on that track, trolly. Mounted on the trolly, a tripod. Attached to the tripod- a video camera. A couple of (then) current West Ham players were on the sidelines- watching. At one point during the proceedings, I’ve gone into a tackle in the centre circle with the Iron Maiden gent and he’s gone over. I’ve enquired if he’s OK. He didn’t answer but he did give me a dirty look. Not so much for the tackle- for the enquiry. This geezer was taking this shit real serious. Fine by me. I can’t recall the result but I know I scored from way outside the box. I was fine with long shots but inside the penalty area, I’d fall apart. Put it this way, I’d be the last person you’d want taking a spot kick. Iron Maiden Steve had a village green on his grounds. Inclusive of a red phone box and a private pub. In which, the game was being replayed on a big screen. I got to watch myself score- on telly. Have to say, I enjoyed that... Immensely.
Chickens Roosting, On the Pitch…
Nowhere was my lack of a core personality more prevalent than when playing football. I got into the game late, at about eight and always wanted to be a flair player and very occasionally I was but I had no control over when or where flair would strike. Most of the time my only strengths were tackling and running. I was particularly adept at sliding tackles and could do that one where you’re running alongside, slide in with a block tackle and spring up in a single movement. It’s not something I ever worked on. Destroying the creativity of others just came naturally… I wasn’t overly aggressive and never went in to hurt anyone- ever. I never suffered (or inflicted) serious injury and, on the rare occasions my mind was right, I was half-decent. You know, for the standard I played at, which was low. I certainly wasn’t one of those kids who, when their name crops up, people comment on how good they were. Probably a long way off that list but those of us who destroy are rarely appreciated. Or liked.
It was odd, as on one hand, I didn’t take football seriously. On the other, it could not have been more so. By eleven, I’d ceased harbouring dreams of turning pro and I blame Charlie George for that. Before him, my footballing idol was Bobby Charlton. I loved Charlton and the way he constantly ran. That, for some reason, I could do. Then, along came Charlie with his fancy London ways and the next thing you know, I’ve been sent off in two school matches in succession, for nutting people. As a lost soul, I’d always rooted for the baddies in movies but the football pitch, until Charlie, had been sacrosanct. Having a mum who hated men hadn’t helped as all the coaches were men and deep down, I considered them wankers and, truth be told, it probably wasn’t that ‘deep-down’ either.
Whenever I played, it was the most serious thing in the world but even there, it was twisted as I was never that focused on winning but on silencing my internal critic and he, be it on grass, tarmac or concrete, had a field day (get it!). I never won but on the rare occasions he had somewhere better to be, or better to do, I was able to enjoy my football and play, reasonably well. This struggle with my internal critic ‘Oh, for fucksake, you missed- that? You can’t play football you cunt.’ Ensured that any positive comment on my ability came as a shock. Once, when playing for EJ’s over Talacre, the half-time team talk from a guy called (I believe) Larry included the sentence “We’re losing because he’s the only one who can kick a ball.” The ‘he’ was me. As I was the only white kid on the team and he didn’t know my name, that wasn’t out of friendship.
There are maybe half a dozen snippets of that nature that, keep me company in my old age. Dalglish has a room full of trophies, I have a few observations. EJ’s probably went on to win the league (they usually did) but it would have been sans Mick. My life was too chaotic, and I was too selfish to turn up regularly. Because there’s no team in I. Where were we? Ah! The Phoenix. The format was eight teams. Two groups. The winners from each played in the final. This went on for three days. This meant that each year, there were three ‘Champions’. While I, quite rightly, take the credit for the tournament being successful. The origins of its triumph can be traced to one player who, by committing on the first year, guaranteed, we’d be getting a second…
Damon Albarn’s presence was down to the actor Trevor Laird. Both were pals of Phil Daniels. I’m unsure as to whether Phil was there or not but Damon's attendance - at the height of all that Blur/Oasis business, turned what would have been a moderate success, into a huge one. The Phoenix was held near Birmingham. I know this as one year the RSC entered a team due to their base in Stratford upon Avon, being nearby. The festival was held in the late spring or early summer. I know this because the money I got from it, paid for our holidays for a few years. Being involved in a festival is a strange experience because, for the time you’re there, it becomes your universe. On arrival, people eyed my laminate and nodded respectfully. I thought they were insane but within hours, if someone’s laminate didn’t say ‘Access All Areas.’ I knew that they weren’t a worthwhile human being. Despite which, being a man of the people and all that, I’d still speak to them, but you know, I’d keep it kind of brief…
I did the festival for three years and on each, the same team would win their respective day. These were Arsenal Celebrities, Loaded Magazine (who sponsored the event) and ‘The Steins’. The latter were not only the most interesting, but they played the best football. It all went Harlem Globetrotters when those cats came to play.
I’d gone to school with the Steins and vividly recall it being impossible to the the ball off Brian and Edwin during twenty-a-side games, during break. Given that kids were playing in steels, holding onto the ball meant you were either insane or, brilliant. Guess where those two fell? They were older than me but a couple of their siblings, Carl and Bert, were younger. I once did a press-up competition in a sauna with, I think, Bert. He won and seeing my confusion stated “Mick, I’ve got five brothers.” The Steins are outstanding athletes but more importantly, outstanding people. That first year was kind of stressful and I’ll never forget my joy at seeing them, laughing and joking, as they made their way through the crowd. It was traditional for the day’s winners to be presented with their trophy on the main stage but one year I was finding it difficult to get anyone.
Time after I’d approach these artists and they’d basically, shit themselves. “You’ll have to speak to my manager” was something of a reoccurring. If they didn’t want to do it, that was fine but none of them would admit as much. It was as though they thought it might be good for their careers? Yet they weren’t sure- it’d be good for their careers? Maybe this’ll be perceived in this day and age as ‘racist’ but as the Steins are black, I was focussing primarily on black artists but they were all as corporate- as fuck. Then, from behind, I heard the distinct voice of an African American. Surely this cat was going to be OK. He was part of George Clinton’s band and, he was a lot more than OK. Without a moment’s hesitation, he invited us back to George’s trailer and right there, Mr Clinton presented that trophy. It was fantastic and George was everything you’d expect him to be… George Clinton is one cool dude. Rez-pek!
One night we were walking around the site, there’s loads of tents where, laminate-dependent, punters drank for free. Out of one, this weird little man emerges, dressed in some sort of fur coat that’s way too big. On spotting Mark (Stein) his eyes light up and he shouts “You’re Mark Stein! You’re Mark Stein – you played for City!” Mark nods, we walk on. I had to be informed who the fellow was. Even after being told, I still didn’t know. In fairness to Noel Gallagher, he’d had a few drinks and his response was standard for those who follow a club and encounter someone who’s played for it. Mark also played for Chelsea but Damon, the die-hard fan, didn’t recognise him…
Having vague recollections of the violence and destruction booze could have on a family, I was into maybe my fifth/sixth year of recovery by the time we were doing the Phoenix. When I say we, I mean Pay, Eddie and me. Eddie was a ref. We had two but he’d would choose a pal to accompany him each year. There was no shortage of takers the money was decent and, all in all, a lot of fun. Patience was my assistant and she was excellent. Pay may have been petite and Pay, may have been charming but Pay, took zero shit… Eddison is the loveliest guy in the world but when push comes to shove. Guess how much shit he tolerated? Thanet’s (NW5) finest right there… Rez-pek.
Added to all the fun of the fair, we’d also get a lot of free shit. I got a Sega Saturn system for my son but it never took off. He remained extraordinarily loyal to that Saturn and Sega in general. I felt kind of bad about it because it seemed as though he was the only kid in the world who carried the fight for that company. Imagine then, how great he must have felt when Arsenal were not only sponsored by SEGA but went the season unbeaten wearing ‘Dreamcast’ shirts. To be honest, that aspect of the invincible season gave me more pleasure than any other.
Things hadn’t got off to the best of starts with me and the ‘Fiddler’ and that, was down to me. Allison, Vince Power’s (then?) wife dropped off, I don’t know, maybe two hundred tickets. This was based on each team being provided with a given number. This was a figure I’d calculated myself. I think originally, I’d stipulated twelve a team but on receipt of those briefs, I found myself doing a bit of recalculating… As I’d yet to inform the teams how many they were to be allocated, shaving a few off wasn’t going to be difficult. I could easily get them down to ten and in some instances, eight. Averaging that out at three per team gave me around seventy ‘spare’ tickets and bear in mind here, that these were festival tickets and festival tickets, were not cheap. I’ve been on the internet trying to discover the exact price those tickets were, while desperately trying to recall the exact number I was issued but the long and short of it was, that by skimming a few I’d earn around two and a half grand and that, for a family struggling to make ends meet, was fair money. It was such fair money… I simply had to phone a friend…
Enter Denmark Darren…
Darren (God Rest his Soul) was a longstanding friend and I doubt that this will cause any offence to those who loved him, he was also, a rapscallion. He’s up there with the most charming rapscallions you’re ever likely to meet but nonetheless…Darren was one of the best friends I’ve ever had and he stuck by me when it got (real) dark. So, naturally, it was Darren I called about the tickets and fair to say, he was keen on the project. Put it this way, before confirming the deal, I found myself in the corner shop, sending him a facsimile of a couple of the ‘briefs’. The reason I’d not committed had nothing to do with morality or even, getting caught. If it came on top at Darren’s end I knew with the utmost certainty he’d keep me out of it. No, the reason was… Look, some guys are a sucker for a pretty face, I’m not but combine that, with a beautiful smile – I’m a goner. While I stood to earn a couple of grand out of the tickets, I was plagued by the image of Allison Power’s smile… That being so, an hour or so later, I called Darren and told him the deal was off. It was fair to say he was a tad disappointed as it seemed he’d already had a few ‘askers’. To his credit, Darren was ever eager to earn and had already stuck the fax of the ticket, on the board outside his emporium. Had he jumped the gun? Yes, especially knowing I was a right wanker, who’d use any excuse to not make a few quid. Our friendship was reminiscent of ‘The Odd Couple.’ I was the neurotic one. Darren took the ticket news in his stride and moved on to the next deal. On a good day, he’d be doing about a hundred of them. With my Stan Flashman fantasy out of the way, I got on with sorting out the tournament. It came, therefore, as something of a surprise shock when I got a call, a couple of days later from Alfie, informing me that I’d been summoned to see Mr Power over the matter of some tickets… Bollocks!
I ought to point out that there were rumours that Vince didn’t much like touts and employed some draconian methods in dealing with them. I’d taken them with a pinch as until recently, I’d not been one. I can’t say those rumours played on my mind as Alfie drove us up to Harlesden. The loss of earnings from the tournament though- did. That’d be a real kick in the bollocks. It would sum me up too. Punished for something I’d not done. Just something I’d played at. Entering the office, Vince sat at his desk. Alison stood nearby. I didn’t know Vince and before embarking on this job, I’d never heard of the guy but sitting across that desk from him, I’ve got to say, he was kind of intimidating. He wasn’t trying to be, I suspect that Vince Power never ‘tried’ to be anything in his life. He just… was. In terms of film stars. He wasn’t giving Brad Pitt or Ryan Gosling. Vince gave Robert Mitchum, Gary Cooper. Maybe even, Lee Marvin. I mean, this was a man and one, clearly unimpressed with me. His disdain may have eased slightly, due to my honesty about having thought about selling his tickets. My confession came right off the bat and during the midst of it, I found myself transfixed by Mr Power’s hands. He had fingers like bananas. I found them rather disconcerting…
It transpired that, purely by chance, a member of the Mean Fiddler’s staff had walked by Darren’s shop and spotted the faxes of the tickets on his board. She’d promptly made her way over and, on scrutinizing the images, wrote down the ticket numbers. They’d then traced them to the batch Alison had given to me… Dam and blast!
A couple of things may have contributed to me not losing the gig. Firstly, Vince said something to Alison over her handing me around three hundred tickets and I piped- up “Not her fault. She didn’t know I was an idiot.” The second thing and I’m not sure how it came up, I suspect I worked it in my son’s Irish name. Life’s all about fine margins. For the following three years, Pay, Eddie and I had a nice little, annual excursion.
During that time I only ever made the effort to see one act. I’m not sure who I missed but there were a lot of big-time headliners. I don’t know if he actually played there but one time, backstage, I was arguing with a technician over something and looked around to see Bob Dylan standing a couple of yards away. The act I bothered to see?