Remember getting in just after Peacock had scored.Great season but too many home draws cost us -only lost twice at home the other being Preston on the last game of the season when I think we missed two pens.Some great games that season including Arsenal and Palarse cup ties.Remember beating Cardiff 4-1 after being 4 up by half time and then beating Middlesbrough at home I think the next day 2nil over Easter -Happy days
I remember your haircut back then. Almost as bad as mine
I was 9 years old and remember being at the game with my Dad. Unfortunately I became ill in the first half (at 1-1) and he had to carry me out. It was the only time I’ve missed a game through illness.
‘You gotta be some sort a’ c**t Burkett!’ …. the shout resounded in my ear drum, as the hapless defender lost his footing, the August sunshine burning in my (and the home side defence’s) eyes, as Millwall’s Billy McNeil rounded the sprawling left back and sent in a perfect cross for Bryan Conlon to despatch home, making it 1-1 with 14 minutes gone.
Now I was only 6 years old and all of this was mind blowing stuff. What an atmosphere!! This was THE South London derby in those days and 27,504 fans (the official figure, but many there that day reckon it was closer to 40,000) were inside The Valley, being served up a game that would live long in the memory. It’d already been an amazing day, as my dad had taken me with him to the office where he worked in Surrey docks. I was in awe of all the big ships docked there and asked dad if he might buy me an air-fix model of one for my birthday. The bog-standard adult response of ‘we’ll see’ ensued.
Dad and his colleagues would often go into work on Saturday mornings and then go to watch Charlton play, if they were at home.
I was a painfully shy and quiet boy but dad’s colleagues were really funny and his bearded friend George gave me a giant doorstep jam sandwich which caused much mirth amongst everyone as I desperately struggled to eat it.
‘Some sort of can’t?’ I’d been hearing this ‘can’t’ phrase a lot today. On the train from London Bridge, walking to the ground and now in the stadium. I suppose it must mean that you can’t do something very well, like the defender slipped and lost his footing, so he therefore ‘can’t’ defend, thus making him some sort of ‘can’t’. During a rare lull in the game I decided to ask Dad what the man had meant by ‘some sort of can’t’ and how many sorts of ‘can’t’ were there?
This seemed to cause hilarity among my dad’s workmates, but dad took his time and made a considered response informing me that it was just an old London saying that was best not repeated in front of women and girl’s, especially my mum, as she really didn’t like it and we might not be able to go to the football again if I were to echo it at home.
‘Then we’d both be ‘cants’ dad as we couldn’t go to football anymore’ …. this statement made Dad’s friend George roar with laughter and tears started to form in his eyes. I didn’t know what was funny but George’s laugh was infectious and I soon found myself laughing along, uncontrollably.
I had this thing about always wanting the team in white to win. I’d related this to my dad as the game started. ‘No, you don’t today!!’ exclaimed George with such authority that a switch of allegiance to the team in red was made instantly, and re-enforced when Charlton took the lead with a spectacular volley by their captain Keith Peacock with 2 minutes gone.
Plus, I remembered wanting the team in white to win when England had played Germany in the World Cup Final and being told the exact same thing.
This game was fast and furious and played in a great competitive spirit. They were tough men these players. I’d played a lot of football in the school playground and at Eltham Park South, but I couldn’t believe some of the bruising tackles that were being made. It was all a blur of colour and sound that I was instantly hooked on. ‘I need the toilet Dad!’ Dad led me up the concrete steps that seemed to go on forever until we reached a structure made of large concrete slabs. He told me to go in and be quick while he waited for me. There were many people inside and you had to do your wee in a trough on the ground. As I turned round to leave, some bigger boys spotted my rosette, a Charlton one that dad had bought for me on our way in. They formed a circle and were pushing me from one to another, hurling insults that I didn’t really understand. Mercifully, it was all over quickly when some big men came in and they melted away. ‘You alright?’ asked dad as I came out looking a bit ruffled and shaken. ‘I’m OK’ I lied. ‘What happened in there? Oh God, I knew I should’ve gone in with you!’ I was too embarrassed to tell my dad what had happened, but he got it out of me on the train home from London Bridge to Eltham Well Hall.
‘Best not to tell mum’ dad suggested, if we wanted to go to another game.’ You know what a worrier she is’. My response was simply; ‘Can we go again next week dad? Please, please!’
The game had been a seven-goal thriller with Millwall winning the match 4-3. There had been many chances for both teams and some amazing diving saves made by the goalkeepers. I tried to draw these after we had our tea that evening.
That night I dreamt that I had turned into Batman in the Valley toilet and ‘POW’ ‘WACK’ ‘ZAP’ & ‘SLAM’ I knocked all those Millwall boys out cold!
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Chapter One
MY FIRST EVER FOOTBALL MATCH
‘You gotta be some sort a’ c**t Burkett!’ …. the shout resounded in my ear drum, as the hapless defender lost his footing, the August sunshine burning in my (and the home side defence’s) eyes, as Millwall’s Billy McNeil rounded the sprawling left back and sent in a perfect cross for Bryan Conlon to despatch home, making it 1-1 with 14 minutes gone.
Now I was only 6 years old and all of this was mind blowing stuff. What an atmosphere!! This was THE South London derby in those days and 27,504 fans (the official figure, but many there that day reckon it was closer to 40,000) were inside The Valley, being served up a game that would live long in the memory. It’d already been an amazing day, as my dad had taken me with him to the office where he worked in Surrey docks. I was in awe of all the big ships docked there and asked dad if he might buy me an air-fix model of one for my birthday. The bog-standard adult response of ‘we’ll see’ ensued.
Dad and his colleagues would often go into work on Saturday mornings and then go to watch Charlton play, if they were at home.
I was a painfully shy and quiet boy but dad’s colleagues were really funny and his bearded friend George gave me a giant doorstep jam sandwich which caused much mirth amongst everyone as I desperately struggled to eat it.
‘Some sort of can’t?’ I’d been hearing this ‘can’t’ phrase a lot today. On the train from London Bridge, walking to the ground and now in the stadium. I suppose it must mean that you can’t do something very well, like the defender slipped and lost his footing, so he therefore ‘can’t’ defend, thus making him some sort of ‘can’t’. During a rare lull in the game I decided to ask Dad what the man had meant by ‘some sort of can’t’ and how many sorts of ‘can’t’ were there?
This seemed to cause hilarity among my dad’s workmates, but dad took his time and made a considered response informing me that it was just an old London saying that was best not repeated in front of women and girl’s, especially my mum, as she really didn’t like it and we might not be able to go to the football again if I were to echo it at home.
‘Then we’d both be ‘cants’ dad as we couldn’t go to football anymore’ …. this statement made Dad’s friend George roar with laughter and tears started to form in his eyes. I didn’t know what was funny but George’s laugh was infectious and I soon found myself laughing along, uncontrollably.
I had this thing about always wanting the team in white to win. I’d related this to my dad as the game started. ‘No, you don’t today!!’ exclaimed George with such authority that a switch of allegiance to the team in red was made instantly, and re-enforced when Charlton took the lead with a spectacular volley by their captain Keith Peacock with 2 minutes gone.
Plus, I remembered wanting the team in white to win when England had played Germany in the World Cup Final and being told the exact same thing.
This game was fast and furious and played in a great competitive spirit. They were tough men these players. I’d played a lot of football in the school playground and at Eltham Park South, but I couldn’t believe some of the bruising tackles that were being made. It was all a blur of colour and sound that I was instantly hooked on. ‘I need the toilet Dad!’ Dad led me up the concrete steps that seemed to go on forever until we reached a structure made of large concrete slabs. He told me to go in and be quick while he waited for me. There were many people inside and you had to do your wee in a trough on the ground. As I turned round to leave, some bigger boys spotted my rosette, a Charlton one that dad had bought for me on our way in. They formed a circle and were pushing me from one to another, hurling insults that I didn’t really understand. Mercifully, it was all over quickly when some big men came in and they melted away. ‘You alright?’ asked dad as I came out looking a bit ruffled and shaken. ‘I’m OK’ I lied. ‘What happened in there? Oh God, I knew I should’ve gone in with you!’ I was too embarrassed to tell my dad what had happened, but he got it out of me on the train home from London Bridge to Eltham Well Hall.
‘Best not to tell mum’ dad suggested, if we wanted to go to another game.’ You know what a worrier she is’. My response was simply; ‘Can we go again next week dad? Please, please!’
The game had been a seven-goal thriller with Millwall winning the match 4-3. There had been many chances for both teams and some amazing diving saves made by the goalkeepers. I tried to draw these after we had our tea that evening.
That night I dreamt that I had turned into Batman in the Valley toilet and ‘POW’ ‘WACK’ ‘ZAP’ & ‘SLAM’ I knocked all those Millwall boys out cold!