August 2002. Stockport County had just been relegated after five years in the Championship and started the new season with plenty of shenanigans going on behind the scenes. On the pitch, Carlton Palmer was player manager.
After winning one, losing one and drawing two of their first four games, County took on Mansfield Town, a team Palmer would later manage, on a glorious Bank Holiday Monday at Edgeley Park.
Nothing smacks more of a Bank Holiday in the UK than a beer garden. And that’s exactly what me and my usual match going mob of Jimmy, Paul and Andy did. And we did it early. Nothing smacks idiots more than thinking a sunny day means you can drink as much as possible in a three hour period, before entering a football match and thinking things will go well.
We enjoyed the blazing heat outside the Sir Robert Peel pub, commonly known as “The Bobby” on Castle St and literally wobbled out at 2:55pm to take our seats in the Cheadle End. I was 25 years old, which looking back now, I should have handled this day with a lot more class and maturity but hey, we all make mistakes. At that time, we used to enjoy “sitting” at the very top of the Cheadle End, like naughty kids at the back of the bus. It usually involved standing, banging against the corrugated metal wall as loud as we could and starting as many songs and chants as we could. This particular day, the stewards had had enough. During a dour first half, we banged and sang and ignored repeated requests to sit down. Every time a steward or a collection of stewards asked us to sit, we flung out our arms like a dramatic Italian and asked why would we do that when there was nobody behind us? As are a lot of stewards at football grounds, they love the authority and power that the shiny orange jacket gives them. At half time we were given a stern warning, carry on and you’ll be ejected. This is the point where more sensible, sober individuals would have complied and done what they were told. After all, nobody sets out to be ejected, miss the rest of the game, risk arrest, or a ban do they?
Early in the second half, the inevitable happened. I, as the gobbiest one that day, was the first one out. Frog marched down the long staircase of the upper tier, down the steps to the corner flag and embarrassingly, not just dumped out on to the street but continued to be marched through the main stand, to the very far corner of the ground where a small security office was. The other lads roared and cheered as I made my way slowly through the ground. “Macca Macca, give us a wave” bellowed from the top of the Cheadle End. I was unfortunately unable to give the people what they wanted.
I was sat down in the control room and lectured on the rules and regulations of Edgeley Park and told they could see I’d had a lot to drink so they would just let me off with a warning and don’t do it again. Still drunk, I made my way back over the street to the Bobby Peel, ordered a pint and sat by myself watching the scores rolling in on Sky Sports. After a while, Paul and Andy walked in. They had not picked up on my consequences and continued the ongoing battle with the stewards. They too were ejected. Only Jimmy remained. For those that know young James, he always had a way with words in a tight situation, managing to avoid many potential batterings on nights out for looking at someone’s girlfriend or sometimes even worse. It was no surprise to any of us that he was still in the ground.
As we sat with our beers, we pondered the events of the day and moaned about the same thing we had to the stewards, how are County expected to play well if fans like us aren’t generating noise and atmosphere? They needed us. As it turned out that day, they didn’t need us at all, we won 2-0 with an own goal and one from star striker Luke Beckett. As the score came in, we sat around for a while and I then made one of the strangest decisions of my life, but one that ultimately makes the story complete and more comical. I decided in my wisdom that I wanted to tell Carlton Palmer, in person, the horrific injustices of that day and ask him what he could do to ensure fans like me weren’t treated in such a cruel way. I walked back over to the ground and headed for the players entrance. To my surprise the door was slightly ajar, so what did I do? Pushed it and walked in, obviously. I was quickly approached by a young lad that looked like he was in maybe in the youth team or something.
“Can I help you mate?” he said.
“Yeah, where’s Carlton Palmer?” I replied confidently.
Unbelievably he points down the hallway to the dressing room and says “just down there mate”. Now I’d never stepped foot inside the inner hallways of Edgeley Park in my life, in fact the frog march an hour earlier was my first time in the Main Stand. I walked determinedly down the hallway as a cloud of deep heat filled the air. The dressing room was empty, the players had already showered and left. I sat down on one of the benches in the tiny room and for a split second, pictured myself as a professional footballer. Suddenly, the mist parted and right out of the shower stepped Carlton Palmer and his assistant Kevin Richardson, in nothing but towels.
“Who are you mate?” Carlton asked anxiously.
“Just a fan Carlton, I got kicked out today trying to help the team out”.
I’ll never forget his response. Looking around in amazement and with a think Brummie accent he replied, “I’m not being funny mate, but how the FUCK have you got in here?”
“I just walked in Carlton, the door was open”.
I don’t think the big man could quite comprehend what was happening and rightly so. Here was a man that had played at the highest level, represented his country and was now in possibly the smallest dressing room he’d ever been in, confronted by a drunken young lad who wanted to discuss the stewarding.
“How can I help you mate?” I proceeded to tell him my long winded, victim story about the big bad stewards and how on earth could his team assemble an acceptable number of points this season without people like me? To his credit, Carlton listened, he didn’t interrupt me once. After my passionate account of events, he politely told me they’d “have a look at the tapes and see what we can do”. I thanked him and Kevin, shook them both by the hand and peacefully left the ground. As I walked a huge distance to my evening destination, I started to sober up slightly and the cooler air provided some clarity on what had just transpired. I phoned every friend I had to tell them exactly what happened until the battery in my phone ran out.
I highly doubt if the “tapes” were ever reviewed but I’d bet a few quid the security on the door was tightened after that.