My name is Gareth Southgate

I had an accident and I woke up in 1986

Am I mad, in a coma, or totally off my t*ts after a night out with Paul Merson

Gareth ran down the stairs from his office at the Riverside, he had to be at Hurworth by half past and he knew the traffic on the A66 would be awful at this time of day, all it took was some hayseed from Yorkshire driving his tractor down that road and it came to a standstill. As result of rushing downstairs, he didn’t notice the glass door at the bottom being opened towards him, he ran into it with the force of Bryan Robson being told they’d called last orders.

WHUMP!, he was knocked “spark out”, as Lee Clattermole would have put it.

Gareth started to come to, his head was spinning and it took a few seconds to clear.

“You ok there?” said a voice somewhere off to his right

“Yeah, fine, I think” said Gareth, he opened his eyes. The scene that greeted him wasn’t what he was expecting. He was sat on the kerb, facing what looked like closed petrol station, with row upon row of terraced houses. Bit of a shock that, as when he had closed his eyes, he was on the stairs at the Riverside. Gareth looked at where the voice was coming from, it was coming from a man in his late forties wearing a suit and tie, there was something familiar about him, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. The man spoke, “so where are you rushing to then ?”

“This”, thought Gareth, “is a dream, I am actually out cold and my body is protecting me, I’ve seen it on BBC2, I’d best play along with it.”

“Training ground, I said I’d be there at half past” said Gareth. The man chuckled, “well Bruce has them in training Stewarts park today if that’s what you mean by training ground.”

“Pardon?” Said Gareth, this wasn’t making much sense at all. In fact a Mark Page punchline made more sense. Which was worrying.

“Well yesterday he had them running up and down the avenue of trees and Sandy flats, until someone managed to let a Labrador off the leash and it went for Gary Hamilton, you know what they are like in Acklam”

“Hang on are you telling me the team are training in public parks and running up and down a school field, a professional football team ?”

“Look, we may be professional in name but they havn’t been paid in six weeks, we have two footballs, a set of nets and 1 kit between 14 players, and the only reason we have that lot is because they were locked in the boot of Colin Todds car when the administrator came to lock the gates” with this the man indicated over his shoulder, where Gareth now stared with utter disbelief.

Behind the man was the front of Ayresome park, a sight that Gareth hadn’t seen since his playing days with Crystal Palace, it looked old, the gates, which he had last seen in front of the Riverside, were rusty, in need of a coat of paint and most obviously, padlocked.

“What the f……”

“Language please, Bruce has requested no swearing, and what ever you do, don’t throw anything…………… that bloke hates missile throwing”

Gareth blinked. This was weird, he made a mental note never to take any headache tablets he found in his desk drawers, especially when the bottle had “prescription for Mr P Merson” written on it.

Gareth looked at the man “sorry, I didn’t catch your name”

“Henderson, Colin Henderson, I’m the chairman of this lot, not that there’s much to be chairman of at the moment, you must be the bloke the administrators sent to keep an eye on us, come on, I’m off down to see Bruce now, I’ll give you a lift”

“Thanks” said Gareth, this was bloody weird.

Colin Hendersons car was not what he thought of as a typical of a football club chairmans car, the Austin Princess was never British Leylands finest model, and in beige it looked like a bit of cheese with 4 wheels stuck on it. Colin Henderson opened the door “hop in, I think Bruce has been expecting to meet you”.

As they drove Colin Henderson turned the (rather crackly a.m.) radio on. The voice was familiar.

“Is that Mark Page ?” asked a bemused Gareth.

“Aye, he’s a local lad and I tell you now, he’s going to be one of the biggest names in national radio before long, the man is a genius, that catch phrase “Bye Bye Now”, they’ll still be saying that in 20 years time, well he will anyway” beamed Colin Henderson.

“Aye” said Gareth, “one day he’ll be bigger than the Chuckle Brothers”. Gareth realized, this wasn’t a dream, it was a horrible bloody nightmare.

At Stewarts park a rather anxious Bruce Rioch was leading the training, well it didn’t look like the sort of training Gareth was used to. They had one rather knackered looking ball, no bibs (one team was “skins”) and the cones had Middlesbrough Borough Council written on them in felt tip.

“so, said Bruce, your the bloke from the FA are you?”

Gareth nodded, best to go along with it.

“well you and that bunch of sharks have taken everything we have, our best players have gone, Peter Beagrie told me he was off last week”, someone walking across the park shouted “judas” in what sounded like a derbyshire accent, looks like Mr Beagrie wasn’t popular musedGareth, wondering why he had given his illusion a Derbyshire accent.

“all thats left is a bunch of kids, look at them” Said Bruce………..

And Gareth saw in front of him, the team of 86, and he couldn’t help but catch his breath

Steven Pears, Brian Laws, a very young looking Colin Cooper, Mogga Mowbray, Gary Gill, Gary Parkinson, a bloke with a quiff who was caught off side in a 5 a side training game, that could only be Bernie Slaven, Archie Stephens, who looked almost an elder statesman amongst them , Gary Hamilton, Alan Kernaghan , Stuart Ripley. He knew the names, he’d played against many of them, but he never realised how young they had been. Bloody kids.

“Just look at them” said Bruce, “kids, a few games between them, and that in a team that got relegated, somehow, we have to build a team out of them, do you have any idea how bad things are ?” Bruce pointed at the team “his mothers washing the kits, his father is paying that kids mortgage, he borrowed £5 off me last week to fill his car with petrol so he could give a lift to some of them to training, I had to borrow that £5 off my landlady!”

There was a shout from behind them,

“Bruce, Bruce, your not going to believe this”

The voice and face were unmistakable, it was Steve Gibson. A 20 something Steve Gibson.

“Your not going to believe this, FA have just rang, we’re back in business, we have permission to play the game and Hartlepool have said we could use their ground”

Bruce smiled. “looks like we are not dead yet, but no doubt someone at the FA will have a go at killing us again”, he turned to the team.

“Right you lot, team for the first match tomorrow night at Hartlepool, the opposition will be Port Vale, gather round…..”

“just what the hell is going on in my head” thought a very very worried Gareth…………