Tuesday 30^th June 1998
10:34 pm
The Parson & Clerk, Streetly

It’s often easy to look back at events with rose-tinted glasses. The brain has a certain knack of filtering out the bad and replacing it with a somewhat untrue version of what actually happened. But when your mind is unable to do that about a particular time, you know that things were really, really bad back then. That is definitely true of the summer of 1998.

It’s hard to know how it started. The previous year had been terrific for me. I had passed all my ‘A’ Levels in 1997 and had joined the University of Central Lancashire (AKA Preston University) in the September of that year. I settled into my studies (English and Journalism) and made a huge amount of friends, both in my halls and through the Christian Union. I was (dare I say it) quite popular and I really enjoyed meeting new people and exploring a completely new town and its sounds, sights and nightclubs.

But at the end of the academic year, in April 1998, something started to go wrong. I was hit by a wave of anxiety that I just could not shift. My thoughts became panic-stricken and my emotional state started to deteriorate. It got to the point where I was scared to get out of bed in the morning, as I knew that the whole cycle would start all over again. It wasn’t long before I realised that I was going through some sort of breakdown. It lasted for pretty much the whole summer and it was undoubtedly the worst time of my life.

Me being me, I didn’t tell people about it. I just didn’t want to worry people and tried to cure myself through praying, hoping and gritting my teeth. But it was the wrong decision. I was back at Manor Road for the summer, and it wasn’t long before my family could tell that something was going on, but no matter how much they tried to help me – and they were brilliant – I just couldn’t shake the condition off. I also wasn’t helped by my summer job at a factory in Walsall, which occupied me physically but not mentally, leaving me with too much time to ponder my thoughts. The constant rollickings from pumped-up machismo types didn’t help either.

So it was in this context that the 1998 World Cup took place for me, and it overshadowed the tournament. That’s not to say that I didn’t watch and enjoy games, and it did give me a welcome respite from all the other stuff going on. Following England’s 2-0 victory against Tunisia in their first group game, they were due to play two evening games during the next week, against Romania (on the Monday) and Colombia (on the Friday). I was working from 2–10 pm during that week, and would miss the games. The manager of our section was a smiley but fierce character, who seemed to like me but few other people. Therefore, we weren’t allowed to have radios on in our part of the factory. But I kept an ear out on the Monday night, hoping to find out the Romania score via a distant radio, and trying to ignore the ear plugs I was wearing and the fact that I was being deafened by numerous amounts of machinery. Unsurprisingly, I completely missed the score, a 2-1 defeat. However, our manager used to go home early on a Friday, so an old radio was found for the Colombia game and placed in our section. We still couldn’t hear the damn thing properly, but were able to figure out the two times that England scored, a 2-0 victory which just about put them through to the second round. But no matter how welcome this news was, the effect of it was short-lived. Although the nation was caught up in another World Cup campaign, it was impossible for me to get truly excited about it. When going through an emotional trauma, it envelopes everything else going on in one’s life. Football just did not matter that much any more, not at a time like this.

One of the few highlights of the summer, though, was catching up with old school mates, including James, my best friend since the age of 3, and Andrew, who we called – and still call – by his surname, Norton. After England qualified for the next stage, we arranged to watch the forthcoming game against Argentina at a local pub in Streetly, The Parson & Clerk. The Parson had been a haunt of mine prior to me going to University, with me spending a very happy afternoon there following my final ‘A’ Level exam. It was a local pub with a slightly ‘spit and sawdust’ layout in those days, but it was always friendly enough and we were looking forward to meeting up there.

The game was kicking off at 8pm (I was working a 6am – 2pm shift that week) so we got there 10 minutes beforehand. Naively, we imagined that we would be able to get a seat, but the large area beneath the big screen was packed to capacity. After buying a drink, we went to the back of the seated area and stood up to watch the game.

The first half was probably the most extraordinary of any England game I have ever seen. After five minutes, David Seaman needlessly brought down Diego Simeone as he ran away from goal. Gabriel Batistuta scored from the spot, although we all cheered in the pub at first as it looked as though Seaman had pushed it around the post. Four minutes later, though, and we were cheering for the right reason. Michael Owen picked up a loose ball and ran in on goal. The whole pub rose en masse, thereby blocking our view, but there was a huge roar seconds later when England were awarded a penalty. The replay showed that Owen had basically ran past Roberto Ayala, and then had fallen over. It was a clear dive, but the penalty was given. The people in the seated area remained standing as Alan Shearer stepped up to take the penalty. A brief pause and then huge celebrations followed. We joined in, knowing (or should I say presuming) that Shearer had scored.

Then came one of the two moments that everyone remembers about the game – the Michael Owen wonder goal. When he picked the ball from David Beckham’s pass, his first touch to bring the ball down was fantastic and he was on his way. Unfortunately, so were the crowd in the pub, who again stood up and blocked our view. We had no idea what was going on, and it was only after the eruption of cheers when we actually saw on the replay how good his goal was. A really special moment – shame we missed it.

After Paul Scholes missed a sitter to make it 3-1, Argentina forced a free-kick in stoppage time. Juan Sebastián Verón shaped up to shoot, but instead passed it to Javier Zanetti, who had broken free from the England wall. He smashed the ball into the net, and England’s hard work had been undone by a brilliant move.

2-2 at half-time, and although Argentina’s fantastic equalizer had rendered the Parson stunned, the quality of the first 45 minutes had left the fans in good spirits. There was as yet no hint of what was to come.

The problems began when Beckham was sent off for his petulant kick out at Simone. With the hindsight of 16 years, it looks a harsh decision – although Beckham was daft to do what he did – but in the pub it was an outrage. England were now a man down and had to try to cling on against one of the best teams in the world. It was unbearably tense, and as time went on and the alcohol flowed, the crowd started to turn. It started with a chant of ‘NO SURRENDER TO THE IRA’ to the tune of ‘Give Me Oil In My Lamp’, which made the three of us feel decidedly uncomfortable. Then the shouts of ‘STREETLY’ and ‘KINGSTANDING’ began. Kingstanding is the next town to Streetly and there has always been a perceived rivalry between the two places. Normally only schoolchildren were interested in such things, but yet here we were in a pub with 40-year-olds who were shouting their allegiances to either place. It was freaky, and although things were still seemingly fine, a tinderbox was starting to kindle.

This wasn’t helped when Sol Campbell’s header was disallowed with nine minutes to go, after Shearer decided that it would be a good idea to blatantly elbow Argentina’s goalkeeper Carlos Roa in the face. Again, the crowd’s reaction was biased, and the tension increased within the room. We knew that a rare chance had gone begging, all because of Shearer’s idiocy. England were playing bravely, but just about hanging on in there. We were praying for penalties. When they eventually came, the room let out a sigh of relief. England had managed to keep out the Argentineans and now it was down to who could keep their nerve. The punters at the Parson were nervous too, and thankfully remained in their seats.

After Sergio Berti and Shearer scored their penalties (the first time I’d seen England score that night), David Seaman dived to his left and saved Hernán Crespo’s penalty. The pub erupted, but we still had four more penalties to take. Paul Ince was the next man to step up, and he missed too, in a carbon copy of Crespo’s effort. We couldn’t believe it – the advantage had been lost – and we cringed as Veron, Marcelo Gallardo and Ayala put their penalties away, and cheered as Paul Merson and Owen did likewise with theirs.

There was one penalty left and the pub groaned as David Batty walked up – a man who had never taken a spot kick before. Beckham probably would have taken it, but he was off the pitch, and Batty needed our support. A cry of ‘COME ON’ came from the pub as he stepped back to take it, while Brian Moore (commentating for ITV) bizarrely asked Kevin Keegan, ‘Do you back him to score? Quickly – yes or no?’ Keegan answered ‘Yes!’ but was wrong. Batty hit his penalty too close to Roa and he saved it easily. That was it – it was all over. As the Argentineans celebrated, James, Norton and I stood there, completely stunned. After such a brave effort, we were out.

It was at this point that James quietly said to us, ‘It’s gonna kick off in here. Let’s move to the bar. You mark my words, it’s gonna kick off in here.’ I must admit that I hadn’t spotted anything. All the tension following Beckham’s dismissal seemed to have been dissipated by the penalty drama, but Norton and I decided to take him at his word and we moved to the bar. Thank God that we did. As a man stood up to stretch in the middle of the seated area, he was told to sit down by the bloke behind him. The standing man turned round and said ‘***K OFF!’ and before we knew it, all hell had broken loose. The two men started grappling with each other and their friends quickly joined in. Within seconds, beer was flying and chairs were being thrown as other people inexplicably got involved in the fight. Two bouncers came wading in from the pub door – any excuse for a punch-up – and seemed to be smacking anyone in their way, whether they were involved in the fight or not, while a terrified female voice came out from behind the bar, screaming for someone to turn the TV off.

It was like something from a cowboy film, but it was very real. As the three of us watched from our safe vantage point of the bar, the whole of the seating area were suddenly involved in the mother of all punch-ups, and it was extremely scary. Eventually some staff came out and kicked everybody out of the pub, leaving Norton, James and I at the bar, slowly drinking our pints and apologising to an elderly Canadian couple who were touring around England. They seemed genuinely fascinated with what was going on, particularly with the women who were now joining in with the fighting outside, but for us it was a horrible experience. After waiting for a break in proceedings, which came half an hour later when the police finally arrived, we crept out of the pub and made our way home. At one point, I looked back to see one of the bouncers standing in the middle of Chester Road repeatedly kicking a man as he lay on the ground, which pretty much said everything. When I reached home, I told my Mom what had happened and said that it was a relief that England had been knocked out when they had. If they had gone further in the World Cup and had been knocked out in the semi-final (for instance), God knows what would have happened.

The reaction to the Argentina defeat seemed in keeping with the trauma that hit me during the summer of 1998. Thankfully, by the time I started university again in September, I had recovered, although the experience left me with an emotional fragility that would take years to shift. It really was a wretched time and I was pleased to see the back of it, and if any event summed up what took place during that summer, it was the events of that night at The Parson & Clerk.