OFF THE BOARDS

Inspired by the highly original and amusing daily reports of the 2024 Almelo tournament (even though he was not actually there!) by Steve Gleadall the Committee have persuaded him to use his creative talents on a more regular basis to write a monthly missive for the Club's website.

Steve's idea is to create a light-hearted, quirky profile of a member each month to give us an insight as to what makes them tick, how and why they ended up living in sunny Chesterfield and what they have been up to in their lives up to this point.

Steve Gleadall: The pen and penalty of football reporting

As Christmas is a time for self-indulgence, I thought I’d self-indulge and recount my time as a football reporter. In a reserve fashion, you understand.

I know it sounds fun being paid—a small amount, admittedly—to sit watching football games but it isn’t all goals, glancing headers and giggles. Far from it. I mean, there was one cold November night I came within an ace of being locked in Hillsborough. That wasn’t great but the worst football match I have ever seen in my life was one in which there was precisely one shot at goal all game—yes, really; I was keeping notes at the time—and bugger all else happened in 90 despairing minutes.

First, a little background. I worked for The Star in Sheffield, though not as a journalist. Artist and then manager of a department. So it goes. One way or another, I was offered the chance to report Central League games at both Bramall Lane and Hillsborough—though only in midweek. Weekends, when the reserves played at home because the first-team was away, was someone else’s concern. The old Central League, for those who don’t know, was a long-established league up in t’north stretching from the Black Country to Tyneside for second-strings of professional clubs. Great chance to watch injured players on the way back, kids getting their first taste of ‘senior’ action and the joy of looking at the opposing team line-ups and wondering who was once famous.

Reporting was a matter of taking a notebook, collecting a plug-in old-fashioned heavy black ‘phone from the ground’s press room along with a hastily printed typewritten sheet with both teams listed and sitting in the (otherwise empty) benches reserved for the Press. At the end of the game I would make two phone calls: first to a press agency in London with the score because all national papers carried results from obscure competitions (Spartan League, anyone?) and then my report to the then Sheffield morning paper, the Telegraph. Eighty words, all in all. Incidentally, the night David Layne returned to the Owls’ reserve team one September midweek after his eight year suspension, I couldn’t get in the press box. Journalists from every media source in the nation managed to pack themselves in first. And yes, no one gave a monkey’s then about my humble report, but stoically I still ‘phoned it in. My carefully considered eighty words never saw the light of day.

Now to the ‘Hillsborough night incident.’ I delivered the result and my report, and put the phone back in the press room. I then headed to the exit. Oh dear, exit door locked. Never mind, I’ll try another. Damn, that was locked too. I know—bright idea this—I will go back to the press room, get a phone, plug it in and call the club, tell them I can’t get out. But… the press room was locked! So there’s me, galloping around under the south stand with the lights going out. Prospect ahead: a cold night curled up in a corner waiting for someone to open up the next day. As this was before mobile phones I imagined my wife sat at home wondering how much extra time was being played.

Happily, one of the staff (probably the guy locking up in mysterious fashion) had left an access door to the players’ lounge only partially locked and when I pushed it open I was swiftly but gratefully escorted out via the players’ entrance.

As for the ‘worst 0-0 ever’ it was my one and only Saturday afternoon report. I had the duty, as it was Blackpool Reserve playing (lovers of the Tangerine insisted it was singular, not plural) to phone in fifty words to the Blackpool sports paper every fifteen minutes in the first half, and at the end 200 words summarising it all for their Monday evening paper. Plus my eighty for local consumption, of course. Exciting, hey? Except… it took ten minutes before there was a shot at goal. Sailed wildly over the bar. And then, absolutely nothing. No shots of any kind, no goalkeepers required to do anything, not even a booking to liven things up. The game ground out in a desultory midfield error-strewn fashion. In the end I was left to comment on nothing happening, plus the state of the pitch. Seriously glad it was a nice spring day; praising the grass took up thirty words. Only 170 left to pad out…

Even worse I had to pick a Blackpool man of the match. Goodness, I hated those, especially when no-one played well. If I recall, I chose their right back who probably had nothing to do all game, and therefore made no mistakes.

Was I likely to be famous in any way from all this? Nope. I had at one point at the Lane been approached in my lonely spot in the press box one evening by two hopeful lads asking for my autograph, in case I might—in Martin Tyler or even Jimmy Hill fashion—become a household name in Yorkshire. Happily I persuaded them I was nobody.

Nonetheless, years ago I sported a beard and with a mop of hair and I was once asked if I was George Best, and would I mind signing autographs? Hmm… I pointed out that Mr Best probably had a flashy sports car and was unlikely, as I was at the time, to be sat upstairs on a number 75 bus destined for Firth Park in Sheffield. Also, I was lucky to be there: number two son at age two had lunged at a poster of a wanted (and bearded) IRA terrorist on the notice board at Woodseats police station, shouting, “Daddy, Daddy.” Okay, maybe I got away with that one.

A couple of final tales of my reporting life. During a long strike by journalists I was required, as per my contract as manager, to step into the breach by being half the sports desk. This involved taking calls such as one from an excited woman who said her husband had won a world heavyweight fight in Middlesbrough. I scratched my head wondering which promoter had singled out the North East for such a major fight. After twenty minutes on the phone I got her to confess it wasn’t conventional stuff but kick-boxing. Still, worth a paragraph in that night’s paper.

In case you think I was only fit for the reserves (probably true) I was sent to cover an Arsenal v Barnsley FA Cup tie. The press box at Highbury was too full for me so they sat me in the main stand to take notes—drawing curious stares from regular fans there—but I got into the equally crowded press room after the game. So crowded that when George Graham turned up the journos rushed en masse into the corridor to meet the Gunners’ boss so he never actually got into the room. It’s true then that while I never saw him I did get to hear him speak… from a distance.

But the footy story I will close with is during this weird time is I had to ‘phone round the local clubs on Thursday morning asking about team selections for the weekend. When I got to Barnsley I spoke to Alan Clarke, then boss at Oakwell. “Has (name of player, now forgotten) got over a bout of ‘flu?” I asked, wanting to know if the chap was fit to travel all the way to Plymouth. “Have you ever had ‘flu?” Stormed our Sniffer with the venom of a caught-offside inside forward. “Of course he isn’t fit to play!”

I duly reported that this player wasn’t travelling to Home Park, but turned out I was wrong. The man was fit enough to play the full game. Thanks, Sniffer for making me and the newspaper look like idiots.

On the other hand, don’t believe everything you read in the ‘papers. I know. I was there.

This month's player profile is none other than John Longstaff who has been with the Club for many years and is still going strong well into his 70's...

John Longstaff: record breaker, medal-winner, home maker and pig rider

Once upon a time there was a man of Viking blood who fell off a roof and rode a pig and won a World Cup medal with England and was part of a team which secured a place in the Guinness Book of Records and sort of built his own house… Obviously not all at the same time, though with John Longstaff it might not be a surprise that he can achieve several things at once.

Phew. There’s lot to unpack there, so let’s start with the football bit. John Longstaff got a call—much to his surprise as it was both short notice and he can’t recall being scouted—to play for the England over-75s at Cardiff in the Veterans World Cup. Seven-a-side, no preparation or squad training, but the end result for John was not only the satisfaction of scoring a penalty in the final’s shoot-out against the host Wales but also being on the winning side. Along with our secretary Ian Edmundson, the two Senior Spireites did our club proud with a great display in the finals (running footy, before you ask) and helped lift the trophy.

John however had an early introduction to be called up for winning football teams: he was five when at school he became noticed by the Headmaster who ran the school Under-11s team and was called to his office (but happily not to get the cane, as those who can recall how education discipline was might recall) but to play at outside left in a game with kids twice his age. They won that day, and winning became second nature to him.

Indeed, he overcame an arthritic hip to play the 11-a-side game until he was 55, and only had to stop there because the team packed up. He would have gone on longer if only he could.

North-east born John (so no surprise about the Viking legacy in him, which could well explain his competitive nature) might have settled to a life in Rotherham, getting over a tumble on his mirror-laden scooter—he was a mod for a time—playing for a Beighton team and working in a body repair shop. Then life offered the opportunity to work outdoors on building sites, and later he became a bricklayer. He was fifty at the time when he did his bricklaying apprenticeship, but he was born to the open-air life and had the ability to get things done.

While working for Rotherham council, John was part of a team that constructed a massive square frying pan complete with gas jets, brick supports and access ramps to claim the world record for the largest Yorkshire Pudding ever made, famously celebrating Yorkshire Day some years ago. The ramps were necessary to enable several cement mixer lorries filled with Yorkshire Pudding mix (courtesy of Hovis) to access the installation and tip the mix in before the cooking commenced.

John’s get-up-and-do-it spirit meant a willingness to go where others might fear to tread, including climbing on a roof to fix tiles when he tumbled off, fell thirty feet—almost giving a heavily pregnant homeowner good cause then and there to give birth—but having laughed off the fall, he went back up the ladder to finish the job.

When the time came to move to Wingerworth, he and his wife acquired twelve acres of land where they keep horses, sheep and chickens, and the couple began the process of building their own house. Remarkably, it went up in a very short time, thanks to discovering the joys of ordering it lock, stock and bathroom fittings from a hefty catalogue. The house is great with all mod cons, plenty of room and the benefit of being very well insulated, arriving ready to be assembled with John having put the time in preparing the footings as well as organising the services and coping with all the red tape and paperwork needed.

So, finally, to the story of John and his ride on Genie the pig.

For his sixtieth birthday, John organised a garden party with generous portion of pies and peas for the numerous guests, for which the leftovers were fed to said pig. Too much perhaps, for when the vet later came to trim Genie’s hooves the man was astonished to find the very porky fella weighed an astonishing 52 stone. Well, the hoof-trimming had to go ahead, though a calming injection didn’t quite do the trick with John and his good lady sitting on the animal’s back to hold Genie steady… only for the pig to take off and burst out through the barn doors. John managed to leap off but his wife wasn’t so lucky and clung to the galloping Genie on a charge around the field.

It was a good job Mrs Longstaff, very experienced on a horse, knew how to ride and hold on. John meanwhile, has no ambition to go riding ever again. But he wouldn’t mind another World Cup winners medal.

Steve's next player profile is of one of our more recent members who has returned from down south to enjoy his combined passions of speedway and painting...

Stewart Parsley: Between heart and art

There aren’t many people you meet who can say their life was saved by a watch, but Stewart Parsley is one of them. A relative newcomer to the walking football at Chesterfield (though having played the game elsewhere), Stewart is as healthy as you can get, all things considered. It almost didn’t turn out that way though.

It was an Apple Watch—a Christmas gift from his partner—that gave Stewart alerts that things weren’t quite right with his heart. It is a remarkable aspect of technology that a device you strap on to your wrist can give you enough information to tell you that a vital, unseen part of you isn’t working as well as it should. Armed with enough information, Stewart went for help and now is the proud owner of a pacemaker, which in itself is yet another example of the powers of modern technology.y

Even better, the pacemaker (which Stewart maintains has increased his net worth by a couple of thousand thanks to the titanium involved) was fitted in a day. Local anaesthetic, with him determinedly not look at the monitors (he doesn’t like ‘Casualty’ and all that medical stuff on TV) and he’s fitted with something that keeps him ticking along nicely. Better still, it only ‘kicks in’ when needed, which hopefully isn’t often. Interesting too is how the doctor can use an iPad to monitor it.

All this concern began in Swindon a couple of years ago was finally resolved when he moved to the Worksop area in the spring. Stewart had spent a long time in Wiltshire, most of the time working for Honda on the production lines. It was hard work, with the unsettling experience of his place in the process of twice being replaced by a robot. The advance of technology, hey? Good and bad, as we are finding out.

Stewart is a native of Sheffield (with his father coming from Manchester and his mother from Sheffield, he describes himself as a pink rose), but the Wincobank-raised lad found his early ambition being a carpenter frustrated by a lack of employment opportunities locally. But that in itself turned out to be a revelation, because he then discovered something he could do that surprised him as much as anyone else: he could paint. No, not cars, but some of the most amazing creations linked to one of the many sports he follows avidly: speedway.

Speedway is one of those sports that some would say occupies a fringe place, but to the aficionados nothing beats it, though that may be the wonderful smell of the fuel among the excitement. Stewart had been a keen fan in Sheffield growing up and began making bespoke Programme Boards. Now, if you have never been to a speedway meeting, you will not know an essential part of the dedicated fan’s life is to make a careful record in the programme of the finishing places in the heats (and I have seen people make a note of the positions of the four riders for each of the laps, too.) You need to have your programme on a board, and Stewart began making these colourful, highly-detailed and varnished boards and selling them. He even had a customer from Germany who would turn up to buy several at a time. He goes to fairs and meetings to sell his individual boards, each lovingly crafted and prepared and painted, showing a rider in action, often against background of a flag or a nation. (Author’s note: Having been to Owlerton years ago to watch ‘Flyer’ Wyer, I could have done with one of Stewart’s Programme Boards to keep track of his heat wins)

Stewart works with enamel paint on plywood, spending hours on each one and they are adored by speedway fans the world over. He is justifiably proud of his work. Ask him to show you a picture of one and you will see he has a genuine talent.

So, to walking football. His interest in our sport has a connection with another continent; his brother, living in Canada, was so taken with the game he started his own team in Ontario. Stewart experienced it there and enjoyed playing at the Highworth club in Swindon before finding his way to our Senior Spireites.

He might not have made it all this way though but happily the teenage Stewart survived head-butting a traffic light when his push bike brakes proved inadequate as he flew down the very steep Jenkin Road in Sheffield, waking up in hospital and telling the nurse he couldn’t stay as there was speedway meeting that night at Owlerton. Fans like him don’t give up easily!

And one more scare worth noting, reminiscent (his partner says) of Stewart being somewhere between a Ready Brek porridge advertisement and E.T. when she saw him in the middle of one night with a red glow in his chest. Happily, it turned out it was the reliable pacemaker quietly doing its thing, but must have been quite a sight!

Steve's third profile is of Neil Haddy, one of the original members of the Club, who has also been in the company of some famous faces over the years....

Neil Haddy: Stars in his eyes

Stars… Big subject, isn’t it? Well, Neil Haddy—Senior Spireites’ long-serving Treasurer—has had his fair share of them. Not only through the telescope or binocular lens as he studies the heavens (he’s into astronomy, and rates Orion as his favourite constellation; other star systems are available for admiration) but has had more than his fair share of meeting the stars on terrafirma.

There were a host of famous names and faces coming into his world in his job for nine years at Heathrow, welcoming (as much as a Customs and Excise man is expected to do) the great and good to Britain’s shores. He even shook the hand of Muhammad Ali and equally, surprised a less-than-happy Bob Geldof by simply being charming. He also famously once asked a certain person why he had so many golf clubs in his luggage. Turned out it was Seve Ballesteros, who even said they had been bought for him. Sponsorship, hey?

Neil also routinely helped in several drugs busts, not least of which was by discovering a plain cardboard box had strangely thick sides with a soft, squishy inside. Honestly, the way people think they can smuggle drugs into the country never ceases to amaze.

Neil has a fund of great stories about his time in Customs and Excise, but he is something of an accomplished media star, too. He has racked up interviews on national and regional television, appearances on Radio Sheffield along with being the speaker at training events. He can now add his interview debut on a web-page!

West London, for all its appeal and the chance to play football for a freight company’s team under the umbrella of incoming and outgoing aircraft, eventually began to pall and the Plymouth-born and bred Neil and his good wife Anita decided such intrusive matters as rising burglaries required them to head to pastures new. Thus he arrived in Chesterfield, which is a long way from his one and only attempt at sampling the Customs and Excise task of patrolling the waters around these islands. Sea sickness out of the shelter of Falmouth harbour put an end to that dream of being a sailor.

On more solid ground in a part of the world he has come to love and feel utterly settled in, the former Devonian was to become part of that legendary first creation of the great game of walking football. Yet the start of it all was in unexpected circumstances. While waiting for his grand-daughters to get changed after a swimming session, Neil casually picked up a leaflet and was enticed by the headline offering the chance to play football again at his age. Not that the Chesterfield FC Community Trust were rushed off their feet with the response: there were just two of them in Queen’s Park for that very first session, with Neil and Eric Bagshaw practicing ball skills between them. But the appeal of the game began to grow, and along came the likes of former chairman Roy Beresford to the point where this burgeoning sport could offer two-a-side games at Dronfield, with goals pulled up to the halfway line to make things a bit easier.

It all seems such a far cry from what we see now, although Neil’s regret is that with a couple of health issues he can’t take part as much as he once did. Nonetheless, he was on the trophy-winning Spireites team in several early walking football competitions and was able, as treasurer, to welcome a £5000 grant from the Coal Board’s Regeneration programme which went a long way to putting the emerging club on its financial feet.

Impressively, Neil has not one but two degrees from the Open University. Having earned one in Maths and Computers back in his working days, he set about using his free time when retired to get a second one in History. As such, he is an avid reader and something of an expert in both the American and Spanish civil wars. (Author’s note: I have been in a pub quiz or two with Neil and he is a very knowledgeable chap.) Away from researching the past, Neil has a keen eye for landscape photography.

Neil may not be playing as he once did and limits his refereeing these days, but he is an essential part of not only the club’s roots but also what makes walking football so good. As one might observe, a Financial Officer and a Gentleman

Steve's second profile is of Yashin who is a man of hidden talents, including playing the harmonium ...

Yashin Umerji: Happy not to be forever blowing bubbles

Rio Ferdinand. Jermaine Defoe. Bobby Zamora. Along with numerous others who made it in professional football: Those were the lads Yashin Umerji played alongside as a young West Ham hopeful, but he knew among it all he wasn’t going to be one of them.

Travelling alone on the two buses needed to go to the Hammers’ training ground at Chadwell Heath from his home in the Mile End, part of east London, didn’t make it easy: as Yashin points out, those who were taken in cars by eager parents (who could better badger the training staff over their offspring’s prospects) had an advantage. So when the time came to step away from West Ham he did what he always does, just accepting it as part of life. A step along the way.

Is he then a Hammers’ fan? Nope. Chesterfield FC is now in his blood. He arrived here by marrying a local girl some 17 years ago and was soon struck by how accommodating the people—and its football club—are. Then one Thursday morning as a taxi driver he picked up a customer in Hasland and saw, across the park there, some guys playing football.

A new door opened (despite being somewhat shy and hesitant), and thus Yashin stepped into our world of Senior Spireites Walking Football. If nothing else, this has helped his continuing quest for fitness after not being able to find a regular place in an over-40s eleven-a-side team. Your loss, Tibshelf.

Encouraged by the friendliness of the Hasland players, he expanded his interest to join the Dronfield side of the club.

Coming to Derbyshire has given Yashin fresh opportunities, and driving a taxi offers the flexibility to be with his family—a very important part of his life—and allows his wife to fully pursue her career in her vital job as a Medical Examiner Officer.

Another aspect of Yashin that comes across is he has had a variety of jobs to do with transport: bus driving, running a taxi and even working on the railway. You get the feeling he is flexible and adaptable. The grass will never grow under his feet. Or under his wheels.

As someone of Indian heritage, it comes as no surprise that Yashin has a natural interest in cricket. In London he played in the same team as his dad, and reveals his own son is already showing that healthy spark of playing the summer game in the same way, as an all-rounder. Last winter Yashin took his son to India—to Gujarat, specifically—for a visit as a school-approved development of the young man’s education and yes, cricket there was part of it.

Being taken by his dad to a concert in London, the youngster was smitten by Indian music and the singing. So much so, he now is part of a six-man band called Bollywood which adds to the incredible atmosphere and occasion of a traditional Indian wedding. Yashin plays the harmonium (quite self-taught, and a gift from his dad) and also sings. Alas, despite my pressing there won’t be an album from his band anytime soon. I have seen a video of them at a wedding and rest assured, they are good. (Author’s note: if you haven’t seen an Indian romantic/action/musical movie—often called Bollywood— you are missing a treat. Start with ‘RRR’. Honestly, that’s the name of the epic film!)

If there’s one thing about Chesterfield life however that leaves him just a little disappointed it is that he has to travel to Sheffield to get the sort of food his family love. His adopted town has many good things to offer but to his tastes, it just lacks those fine quality curries! But we should be willing to forgive him that as here is an utterly polite, intelligent and caring member of the local community. I can imagine his children will turn out the same.

Steve's first profile is of one of the true characters of the Club - Charlie Last....

Charlie Last: Wheels, Heels and Official Seals

Charlie Last has certificates. Lots of them. They adorn the walls of his home in Dronfield, and point in their colourful yet matter-of-fact way to sporting events the world over—though tucked among them is a letter from 10 Downing Street signed by one D Cameron.

That was a thank you for his work as a volunteer at the 2012 Olympics, just one of the many acknowledgements Charlie has received for all the volunteering he does. Away from the dramas of walking football, he has carved a place for himself as one of those unsung helpers who, as he so succinctly puts it, “support people in what they do.” This ability to freely and willingly enhance expectations has, along the way, earned him not only the impressive title of ‘Gamesmaker’ but also ‘Racemaker’ (the Tour de France is grateful to him, along with Silverstone and numerous other major events), but this curiously also points to another side of Charlie few might be aware of: he has a very large wardrobe.

This contains all the uniforms his many volunteering ventures have provided and he takes great pride in them, along with, er… an outfit for The Rocky Horror Show.

That’s right, it’s a costume complete with suspenders and stockings unlikely to be seen at the Commonwealth Games or even at the hundreds of Park Runs he assists with. It is an essential part of being one of Frank N Furter’s assistants when he attends performances of the Show, as he has done some dozen times, because you have to go in costume and what better than a nice set of black lingerie so fetchingly worn by Tim Curry in the movie?

Of course he also goes along to shows for Kinky Boots thoroughly looking the part, so nothing unusual there. (Author’s confession: I have attended a fans’ screening of The Sound Of Music and indeed waved my Edelweiss at the appropriate time with everyone else, but I did not dress as Julie Andrews). Charlie can trace his interest in the Show to a small venue on the King’s Road in Chelsea while he was at the highly rated Central School of Art and Design in London in the ‘seventies. Once bitten, he became hooked, and the wig is stunning.

Aside from the roar of the crowd and the smell of the greasepaint, one thing that soon becomes apparent is Charlie’s enthusiasm for the open road. As he says when you are a cyclist or a motorcyclist you are so much more aware of the world around you. He also likes how they look and feel.

His interest in two wheels is evidenced by six bikes—sadly unridden these days thanks to two knee operations, courtesy of a crunching tackle years ago playing in defence for Holmesfield—although one of his two motorbikes does get a regular airing. Those motorbikes have taken him to the Alps, to the Picos de Europa in Spain as well as around the top end of Scotland several times. Rider hint: best to go there in September to avoid being stuck behind a motorhome on a narrow road.

And then we mustn’t forget the dodgems. I first got to really know Charlie several years ago in Almelo, and understood here was a man who would willingly travel hundred of miles to not only kick a football but also leap into a dodgem car at the hotel and career round ramming into those not quick enough to avoid him. Happily, his football is not in that category.

But there is an interest in one wheel, too. Charlie is part of the acclaimed Barlow Red Barrows, putting on breathtaking displays at local events and raising thousands for charities each year. As he puts it, they go lower and slower than the aircraft, but you can bet it is just as enthralling—and probably far better at raising money for good causes.

For a good number of years Charlie made his living in the world of carpets (I resisted asking him whether Axminster would be good for an improved playing surface at The Akademy) and his shop in Dronfield was his everyday concern until recently. Interestingly when he originally applied for a job in the business he admitted his knowledge of carpets was mostly walking on them, but as always you suspect it is his straightforward honesty and easy going nature that probably got him the job.

Finally, a shout out to his goldfish, Bob, who never has a bad thing to say about life with Charlie.