Izdihar - Magic Kingdom Escapology

For my sins, I was born in a two-up, two-down in Stoke-on-Trent some 47+ years back. The house is still there and on occasion, I think I ought to go back and get myself photographed outside the joint wearing one of my Stoke City shirts - courtesy dictates that I would knock on the front door and ask the current owners if they minded me doing that, my luck would inevitably see me being told to poke off because said occupants would be Port Vale fans, but hey I can but try. The house belonged to my long since departed Great Grandma, my Dad's Gran. As I understand it, my parents lived there for a while after they were married till they got a place of their own in Campbell Road opposite the Victoria Ground. Don't think my Mum enjoyed being there much (Great Gran's, not Campbell Road), but my Dad was doing his National Service at the time and was in Belize for some emergency or other at the time I popped my head into the world.

Most of the first 8 years of my life was spent at the Campbell Road address and it is the place that is primarily responsible for me ending up a Stoke City supporter. I can still picture cold, dark, winter Saturday afternoons when the game was at home, sitting in the front bay window, looking out onto the road where thousands of fans would stream past on their way home, breathe caught white by the lights from the Vic. An image of a Christmas tree covered in fairy lights inside and the floodlights on the front of our house outside remains etched into my memory - how could I not be a fan? In later years, we would find a way of going into the last 10 minutes of the game, when they opened the gates, if we were were really lucky we might see a goal, if not, all we'd likely get the chance to do would be to commiserate with the 'old' men in there and wander off back home dejected. I can still smell the place, the Boothen End, a great Kop like terrace of swaying and chanting folk all of one voice and one aim, to see the mighty Potters win at home. Names like Banks, Ritchie (RIP), Greenhoff, Marsh, Pejic and Smith fought the good fight in our name. They were good days, but being young and largely bereft of money, seeing a whole game was something of a treat despite our proximity to the ground. It wasn't until a few years later that I began to see rather more of the games, once we'd moved out of Campbell Road and up to Oakhill where my parent still live today.

Schooling I largely recall as being something of a trial at every level, as I ended up being bullied in each of the three I attended. Not consistently, but for long enough stretches to make it a fairly miserable experience all round. I survived though, whether the influence has quite worn off all these years later though is debatable - let's just say I'm self reliant and leave it at that. I did though manage to get through enough 'O' Levels to get into the RAF, work on the aircraft and see some small part of the outside world.

I'll leave this here for now and shall on occasion return to pick up the story. Feel free to ask questions should you so desire. I'm no great raconteur, so any jog to the memory is likely to turn up some or other snippet.