BANDWAGON JUMPERS FOR GOALPOSTS

Welcome back. I feel I should explain my credentials. As I mentioned in the first post, I don’t want to be thought of as a fair-weather blogger. It’s funny to think that we’re one of those clubs that probably did pick up a few glory hunters, back in the days when we were imperious both at home and in Europe, and when we were led by the most charismatic, the funniest, and, let’s face it, without a shadow of a doubt the greatest football manager who ever lived. That 95-96 season when Frankie Clark took us to within a mere six goals of reaching the semis of the UEFA Cup was a golden age indeed.

I jest, of course. It was the late seventies and very early eighties that probably saw a few out-of-towners board the good ship Nottingham Forest. Certainly whenever you mention Nottingham when you’re on holiday in Europe, very often the name Brian Clough pips Robin Hood in the race to put a face to our city. And in England, too, we probably picked up a fair few people who wanted to share in our triumphs – the kind of people to whom, when nowadays they proclaim their love for Manchester United or Chelsea, we give short shrift. But anyone who came on board then, and is still with us now, has more than earned their right to shed that unsavoury glory-hunting tag.

Under Brian Clough and Peter Taylor, Nottingham Forest achieved things which now seem unbelievable. They took an unfashionable club from the Midlands from the Second Division to the Championship in three seasons, winning two European Cups, taking players who were either thought to be past it, or were thought to have never had it in the first place, and making them into world beaters. 1978 – Champions of England. 1979 – Champions of Europe. 1980 – Champions of Europe again. 1981 – I was born. I feel almost entirely responsible for the ensuing decline.

But things were still great when I first became obsessed with the club. I count myself as very fortunate that my initial foray into the world of the Reds was during an era of the likes of Stuart Pearce, Des Walker, Nigel Clough, Roy Keane, Teddy Sheringham. I grew used to us being seen as one of the teams who played football as it should be played – beautiful, counter-attacking moves, balls sprayed across the pitch to the feet of tricky wingers, the crunching tackles of our fullbacks, the intelligent reading of the game by our centre-backs, the cool finishing of our forwards. Referees were never surrounded by protesting Forest players – Clough simply wouldn’t allow it. It was a pleasure to be associated with the club, in any capacity. And despite the problems we’ve faced in the post-Clough years, that has never changed. It was always with pride that I would tell people that I was a Forest fan. Even if I did (and I’m not proud of this) start adding ‘for my sins’, somewhere around the time we appointed Joe Kinnear.

I saw my first live game at the City Ground on the 8th September, 1990. We won 3-1 against Southampton, despite Rod Wallace opening the scoring for them, thanks to a Nigel Jemson brace and a Terry Wilson goal. I remember little about the game, except for the fact that I was instantly hooked. It was joyous, but is was also nerve-wracking, and it was unlike anything I’d ever known. Then again, I was only 8 at the time. But it’s never left me, and I can’t imagine it ever will. There’s something about following your home-town team that makes it far more special than following the herd and attaching yourself to one of the big four. I can’t imagine life as a Manchester United fan – I’m already getting bored of how predictable our unbeaten run is becoming. Although long (long, long) may it continue.

Growing up, I encountered many Liverpool fans without a trace of a Scouse accent, and then at university discovered a lot of Manchester United fans whose accents belied them as southerners. All of them had a dad, or an uncle, or a Grandad on whom they blamed their allegiance. Under the most gentle of probing, their knowledge of their teams’ glorious pasts was invariably revealed to be scant at best. But the most baffling of the lot has to be the boy who came into school one day wearing a Blackburn Rovers shirt, never having shown any interest in football before. Coincidentally, this was just a day or so after they had won the Championship in 1995. We asked him where Blackburn played – he didn’t have a clue. He didn’t even have the wit to reply ‘Blackburn’, he just gurned emptily back at us, unsure as to why we were mocking him so mercilessly. It was my first real experience of that insidious creature – the mindless bandwagon jumper. It was, sadly, to be the first of many such experiences.

A friend of mine took his young boy to an informal football training session a few months back. The coach divided the players into two teams, and told one team that they were to be Manchester United, and the other that they were to be Chelsea. My friend was livid. He asked the coach why, as they were in Nottingham, he didn’t tell one side that they were Forest, and the other that they were Notts County. The coach replied that it had never occurred to him. This might seem like a very minor gripe, but if kids are growing up among these kinds of attitudes, then the future for any clubs outside of the big time will become increasingly tough.

Nevertheless, I will be happy to welcome aboard the many glory-hunters we are sure to attract when we’re back in the Premiership, and pushing for Top Four supremacy. They will be useful to bump up the numbers when we move to our new 50,000 seater stadium. However, I will refuse to speak to any of them unless they are able to prove their knowledge of our very own glorious history. But not just that, they need to prove their knowledge of the inglorious bits of our history too. Anyone can know about the good times, it’s the bad days when their support will really be tested. I’m willing to accept anyone into the Forest fold to share in the many great times that I’m sure are just around the corner, but I do think they should have to sit a short written exam on the mistakes made by David Platt before we let them through the turnstiles. After all, those who ignore history are condemned to repeat it.