Pies, poverty and parasites

A tribute to a lifelong Blade

Pie, poverty and parasites

Words: Tom O’Brien

I always associate buying a pie with my late mum. I remember lots of other stuff about her, of course, but when I am at the Lane and I buy a pie, she always pops into my head. Let me explain…

I was brought up in the 70s and 80s, with my brother and two sisters. It was a very different time to today. This seems an obvious thing to say, but I don’t mean it in a Peter Kay, “do you remember perms, Oxford Bags and Spangles” kind of way. I mean that our upbringing would seem remarkable nowadays, for reasons other than flared trousers, awful hair and long-forgotten sweets. 

You see, we were poor. Lots of people were poor in Sheffield, but we were really poor. Our dad was unemployed, and what little money came into the house abruptly made an exit; circulating around various pubs in Heeley, the Manor, Park Hill and Kelvin. Dad’s fortnightly giro-based binges exhausted the family funds. Things like rent, clothes and sometimes even food were often considered luxuries rather than necessities. 

I was born in a rented house in Heeley with an outdoor toilet and one cold tap in the kitchen, serving the entire household. Baths were a once-weekly event in a tin bath in front of the fire; my sisters first, me and my brother second. We sat back-to-back whilst my mum poured jugs of lukewarm, grey water over us. 

In our attic, pigeons came in through the hole in the roof and roosted. In the cellar, there were terrifying things (spiders, an old sofa, ghosts) and sometimes we would be locked inside as punishment for various misdemeanours. This was preferable to being “battered”, our name for the regular beatings our dad doled out. If you hadn’t guessed already, he wasn’t a very nice bloke.

When the hole in the roof eventually got too big, we moved to a council house on the Manor. This was a step-up in home comforts, with an indoor bathroom (toilet still outside) and a bit of a garden out the back. However, after a couple of years, a prolonged period of non-payment of rent saw us evicted and relocated by the council to a homeless hostel on Collegiate Crescent. 

Eventually, we were given a “flat” in the hostel. It was a bed-sit, with a double bed for mum and dad, and two single beds for the four kids sleeping top-to-toe. We shared a toilet with four or five other families. Subsequently, we moved to a horrendously cold, damp flat near Park Hill and a by-comparison luxury flat on Kelvin. It’s telling that not a single property we lived in during that time is still standing.

Parasites

I suffered with alopecia for most of my childhood and was variously stricken with lice, worms and impetigo. These kinds of things can be disguised by a clever haircut and smart clothes: I had none of these. My dad cut my hair himself, normally in a sort of “Hurricane Higgins” style, but with enough for a comb-over depending on where the alopecia patches were at the time. 

Clothes were either sourced at jumble sales or hand-me-downs from my older brother - and, yes, my sister too. Dad once fashioned me a very clever pair of shoes by cutting down my sister's knee-length boots, which resulted in a local bully following me to school singing “These Boots Are Made for Walking”. 

I expect if you have stuck with me thus far, you’re wondering what any of this depressing airport-paperback misery-lit has to do with pies and Sheffield United. 

We were always a Unitedite family. My mum’s family were Blades despite being from Derbyshire, and my dad only ever went to one football match in his life, which happened to be a Blades game. My brother was absolutely obsessed with United, and I followed suit. So when my mum got a job working at Bramall Lane, you can imagine the excitement.

BDTBL

I have already said that money was short. And whilst my dad was feckless and lazy and avoided an honest day’s work if at all possible, he was more than happy to send my mum out to do one on his behalf. She worked in loads of pubs around the city, but in about 1975 she started working at the refreshments counter, mainly on the Bramall Lane upper tier. Later on, my older brother and sister also wore the ‘Stadia Catering’ tabard for a time.

Everyone’s wages were handed straight over to dad, and they suffered the same fate as the giro. I wasn’t old enough to be concerned with this disparity between work and reward, and the only thing that interested me was that mum would bring me along to watch the matches for free.

My mum’s employment covered the seasons we dropped from 1st to 4th division, and the quality of football was progressively awful, although that didn’t seem to matter. Matchdays started for us at about midday. I helped mum by loading the pies and sausage rolls into the glass oven to warm up. 

What she didn’t know was that I secretly nibbled the excess pastry from every single sausage roll before putting it in the oven. Apologies to anyone who bought a sausage roll from the Bramall Lane upper tier in those days, particularly if you ever caught worms. I brought out the crates of beer bottles, carried boxes of sweets and cigars, and set up the spirits optics. I was fascinated by the optics and the enormous bottles that fitted onto them. I used to sniff the corks but never tried any.

Pies

Oh, but the pies! 

I have always loved pies. In those days, the pies at the Lane were made of the delicious-sounding “textured vegetable protein”, even the meat and potato or steak ones. They weren’t Pukka, either: the Blades didn’t really do brand names. For Bovril, read Maxpax Beef Tea. Or how about a packet of Chipmunk crisps? Occasionally, mum would give me a pie and log it as “dropped” to account for the missing money in the till, remuneration for my helpful oven-filling and intestinal parasite transmission.

The rest of the time until kick-off was my own. To my child’s eye, the empty concourse was a huge space, great for kicking a tennis ball up and down, or messing around with the first-team’s gym equipment. 

Once the fans started wandering in, I would find a spare seat for the game. I remember the half time “entertainment” – usually a procession of cars driving around the red gravel track. I always had to leave my seat at around 4:30 as mum had to deliver the day’s takings to the John Street stand and sign it over. I don’t think I saw the end of any game during that period. 

Occasionally, mum worked in the hut at the back of the away end, meaning lots of games with the travelling fans. Given the era, I saw quite a lot of trouble. I remember Newcastle fans kicking off: mum dragged me inside, closed the shutters and we cowered while they rioted outside, banging and shaking the flimsy hut. Normally though, mum wouldn’t take any nonsense, telling hardened hooligans off for swearing or pushing in. 

Redder

I still blush at a couple of incidents from this period though, such as during the famous League Cup victory over an all-conquering Liverpool side. A sell-out crowd meant that mum ran out of pies and sausage rolls early on, so I was sent for fresh supplies just before kick-off. I had to go through a little door at the back of the away end, clamber through the Liverpool fans, and ask a policeman to let me walk around the pitch and into the John Street stand. 

Remember, I was the classic scruffy 1970s kid, with my blue periscope parka, my free school uniform, no doubt my comb-over detached and blowing in the night breeze. They gave me a flimsy cardboard tray loaded up with hot pastries, and off I went. I was just behind the goal, right in front of the Liverpool fans, when disaster struck. I tripped over and dropped the lot. Cue a massive cheer from the Scouse faithful, and massive beacon cheeks for me as I scrabbled around on that strange red gravel to retrieve them.

I didn’t dare tell mum. I just frantically wiped the gravel-covered pies with a napkin before placing them in the warmer. The gravel wouldn’t come off, but for once it stopped me eating the spare pastry. I scurried off to watch the game, and never told mum what happened. I often wonder if anyone complained about it. 

It wasn’t the only time I was embarrassed pitchside. Midway through one match, mum was sent to cover another concession on the Kop, so we had to walk around the side of the pitch. As we passed the United bench (on John Street in those days) she told me to ask Alex Sabella, who was presumably a substitute, for his autograph. I didn’t want to, but she insisted, so over I went clutching a napkin. I remember Harry Haslam looking aghast, and Danny Bergara kindly telling me that it wasn’t the right time to be asking. Beacon cheeks again! 

I can’t remember why mum stopped working at the Lane, or precisely when. It was after 1981 because I distinctly remember hearing Prince Charming by Adam and the Ants for the first time before a night game. It put paid to my match-going for a few years until I could afford to go myself. Mum finally plucked up the courage to give my dad the boot in 1984, so a nicer home life made a lack of Blades games bearable. 

Sadly, mum died back in 2009, after a long battle with cancer. She remained a Blade, of course, often going to the games. I look back on my trips to the Lane with her very fondly. In truth, it was rare quality time spent together, something not always possible in a big family living on top of each other. 

For the last nine years, I have been going to the matches with my own son, and it probably won’t surprise any match-going parents that it has been a fantastic experience to spend time together. We have a lucky playlist, talk about things we wouldn’t normally get a chance to talk about, and enjoy the sort father-son time that only football brings. He still loves hearing about my days helping my mum, and whenever we buy a pie, we always think of her.

If that isn’t a fitting tribute to a lifelong United fan, what is?