Stoopid

Just a thought. I've always found the British lawn obsession quite odd. But I get the football point.

Salford?

Maybe take the opportunity to stop mowing the grass? Let it grow - looks good in my opinion, and attracts wildlife etc. Also, there's something inherently depressing about our obsession with neatness. Maybe it's just me, but I tend to associate the sound of lawn-mowers with the soul-shredding boredom of long-ago Sundays.

Pretty general behaviour I'd have thought. Greece a case in point. Remember a train journey to Salonika where the entire passenger population used the windows as convenient rubbish bins. Nobody batted an eye.

Hmm... You may have a point!

I've always been a Labour voter, but I have to say Sir Keir Starmer (steer calmer) is a dull fellow. I mean dull. What I'm saying is - God, is he dull!

I've kind of lost the will to live.

Had it 6 weeks ago, and had absolutely no problem with it. Well, apart from the words 'Conform, Obey, Consume' forming in tiny letters on my forehead. Hard to read at a distance though, so not that bad...

Beautifully written and evocative post. Growing up in Highfields, the Vicky Park/War Memorial journey was one me and the old feller made countless times in the early 60s. Like your Grandad, he was a regular between the wars, and on the journey would entertain me with stories about Sep Smith, Channy, Johnny Duncan etc. In fact, we often used to stop at the Turks Head (opp. the Nick), Johnny Duncan's boozer, where I'd sip my Vimto, getting excited about the forthcoming match, playing with the disreputable-looking dog that lived there. Sometimes we'd go to the Aldermans on New Bridge Street. My old man grew up in the streets round there and seemed to know everyone. After the match we'd go to my aunt's sweet-shop on Western Rd for a tea of mussels and a read of the Buff. Loved Filbert Street - it seemed to grow out of those terraced streets, and reflected the tough, urban crowd it attracted. No beauty for sure, but the very heart of the city. Be interested to see anything you come up with in respect of commemoration of that time.

Jackie Sinclair was some player - my first real hero, along with the Doog. Remember the disappointment when we sold him to Newcastle. Dumb move on our part. The understanding between him and Dougan was pretty special. Got so many goals between them. A joy to watch.

When your children have problems, it can be tremendously stressful. Don't really want to go into it, but my son was born prematurely, and basically spent the first 2 years of his life in hospital. Multiple operations, life-threatening many of them, and health (including mental) problems for life. The relationship between his mother and me eventually foundered (common story), though we remain bonded by the experience. Now it's nearly 30 years on. Life has found a kind of tattered equilibrium, and in some ways I'm at an uneasy peace with it all. Don't get me wrong, its been an absolutely horrific journey - some pretty grisly low points. Very few highs. The only thing I learned, I suppose, is that life was never going to be straightforward again. But once you've got your head round the fact that a 'normal' or 'happy' life wasn't really on the cards, things got easier to deal with. The truth of that trite phrase 'one day at a time' became more and more apparent. You need to absolutely live in the moment, to disregard the future more or less completely, to have any hope of sanity. At least that's my experience. And it's this living in the moment that allows the equilibrium I mentioned earlier - tattered as it may be - to exist. In some terrible way having this kind of experience helps that. The absolute nature of it means that you can't really worry about anything else. The external world loses nearly all of its weight when you're dealing with something so fundamental. Quite simply, nothing else is worth bothering with, let alone worrying about. It simplifies life. And actually, I'm quite grateful for that. It also helps that the nature of my son's thinking tends to this outlook too. He is in an assisted-living flat now, and we spend a lot of time together. He's a big City fan and we listen to/watch the games together (he cant go to matches being unable to deal with crowds - ironically). The stuff we do, things we say etc exist in a kind of constant present moment, which I have to say is actually a pretty good place to be. He's also very funny and has a weird almost surreal take on the world which I find vastly entertaining (much of our time is spent in dumb laughter). 30 years ago, I said goodbye to normality I suppose. And there have been many dark, even seemingly unsurmountable times since. But however black it seems - and believe me, I've been there - stay with it, try not to worry too much, forget about normal life - which, let's face it, doesn't really exist anyway - and hopefully you'll get through.

The Cardinal Tower. Have to say, I'm very fond of it. For my money it adds a bit of much-needed drama to the Leicester skyline. Its clean lines and simplicity give it a fairly uncluttered, even quite a timeless quality, I think, unlike its largely unmourned near-neighbours on the Maff which were demolished some time ago. Work used to take me up there sometimes. Brilliant views. I'd certainly miss it.

According to my old man, who was a City fan between the wars, Ernie Hine had the fiercest shot in football. Reckoned he saw him break the net at Filbert Street. Got my doubts, but he swore it was true. He also had Sep Smith as the best player, till he saw Keith Weller who he loved. Channy was his favourite though. Shame he (the old man) pegged before the Vardy era. Would be interesting to compare those two!

Also it was the time before the ubiquitous introduction of computers. Just. They were introduced to the place I was working at in 79. In other words probably the last time when personal freedom was something more than an abstract idea. At the risk of sounding like a deluded old git (I'm nothing if not that), I'm grateful to have been young when I was.

Right on the stroke of half-time. Crazy celebrations all round the ground throughout the break. Remember one paper saying; 'the Queen could have spent half-time riding a unicycle round the centre-circle and no-one would have noticed!'

Weird ground that. In a kind of Reggie Perrin suburbia, or the Hull equivalent anyway, rather than the inner-city terraced streets of most places then. Remember a large group of lads from Loughborough who got into a bit of a crunch-up with the cops as well. Passed the team coach on the way back. Plenty of smiles and thumbs up for one of the very few occasions that season.

Yeah, thanks mate. Almost succeeded in expunging that from my mind. Maybe I can rebook those therapy sessions when lockdown's over...

When we signed Lammie Robertson. Frank Mac called him 'the Kevin Keegan of the 4th Division'. Remember puzzling over this. Played with my mind far more than it should have. But basically thought 'we're knackered'. Also remember John Motson, after our opening scoreless draw at Maine Rd, saying that Leicester were going to be no-one's mugs this season. Hmm... Nice away day at Hull in the Cup, though.

Kind of relieved that fans can't attend for this one. Semi-finals are among the most soul-shreddingly anxiety-provoking occasions you can imagine. Even the triumph of Hillsborough in 69 left me wasted by nervous bouts of copious vomiting before the match. At Old Trafford in 74 I got into a bit of a tear-up with Liverpool fans in the pre-gentrified Salford docks, followed by the heartbreak of the replay at Villa Park. Same venue in 82 saw my piece of crap Cortina MK 3 give up the ghost on the Aston Expressway swiftly followed by the team doing the same in the ground. Very unpleasant atmosphere afterwards, with some drunken Villa fans looking for scalps (hastily assumed brummie accent coming to my rescue). Too much relief and what I see as misplaced optimism at this draw (me included) make this a game I'm so not looking forward to...

In the mid-70s Everards Brewery brought out a poster featuring Frank. It showed him rising to head the ball in a game against Liverpool. It was fantastic. The great man soaring head and shoulders above the red - shirted defenders, looking imperious in the classic blue and white, in front of a packed Main Stand. It was a night match too (from memory) making the colours more vivid in the floodlights. Underneath it said 'A Touch of Class' (or maybe 'A Class Above' - can't quite remember [well, it was a long time ago]). Seemed to sum up everything I loved about Leicester - local, specific and special as opposed to the generic, glory-hunting cliché that Liverpool represented, then as now. Man, I wanted that poster! Decided to liberate it from a bus-shelter on Charles Street, but when I went down there, very early one morning, armed with a screwdriver and chisel, it had gone. Everards had replaced it with some cheesy 70s piece of crap, and I never saw it again. At least, not in a place I could get my thieving hands on. There are some clips of Frank, of course, but to appreciate his effortless grace, his ludicrous ability and his undefeatable individuality you needed to see him, week in, week out. I count myself fortunate that I was able to. I get that Jamie Vardy will go down as our greatest ever. Deservedly so. But for me, and I guess many of my generation, nobody could ever quite eclipse the sheer beauty, impudence and star quality that Frank Worthington brought to the game of football. RIP you absolute legend.

Without doubt the most naturally talented, charismatic and entertaining player to ever grace the royal blue. Irreplaceable in the hearts of those of us lucky enough to see him in his pomp. Quite simply, I loved this bloke. Very, very sad day.

I love Porridge, me.

Bristol's an interesting one. Used to have a girlfriend from there (Rovers fan), so developed a bit of an ear for what had until then seemed (to me) a kind of generic country accent. The way they pronounce words ending in 'er' as 'el' is distinctive. 'Eva Turner' (friend of her mother's) becoming 'Evil Tunnel.' Also the way they say 'Bristle' for Bristol. Brilliant city, by the way.

Exactly. Used to properly piss me off. Like portaying Manchester characters with Liverpool accents. Lazy and insulting You're right about the Barry Kent kid. Seem to remember he actually came from Braunstone. The only note of authenticity in the whole thing.