I’ve only ever written one fan letter in my life, which is odd because I’m a fan of lots of people and things. This was in the early 90s, after I’d broken my leg. Encumbered by an enormous plaster cast, I was back with my parents, stuck in the house and stuck between college and whatever I was going to do with the rest of my life. I didn’t have a clue what this would be. While I was blessed to have somewhere to be cared for, it was a dismal, disquieting time.
A friend would wheel me off to the football every other week, affording me the opportunity to see my club knocked out of the FA Cup by a team of part-timers, and then relegated to the old Third Division for the first time in our history. Other than that, I mainly sat at home, watching the four available channels. I saw Thatcher resign and the Gulf War commence. One of the first casualties, a fighter pilot, was from our area. When the poor lad was buried in the church across the way, there was a jet flypast. The sudden noise was terrific, causing the family cat – then sitting on my lap – to dig its claws deep into my groin.
