Dressing Down

I really hated Saturday 17^th November 2012; Heaton Winstons lost, Percy Main lost (6-1 at home), Benfield lost (5-1 at Spennymoor), Hibs lost and Newcastle lost at home for the second week in a row. The evening session was cancelled, but at least when I got home, my partner had not only prepared a rather fine pasta dish, she’d also bought me a new pair of strides. They’re great; Union Jeans from Seattle: straight leg, dark blue, slightly distressed (not sure what by), still with the tags on, from Tynemouth Station Market, which is the North East’s finest source of second hand vinyl, books and all the other sorts of memorabilia I spent my 30s getting rid of and 40s buying back. Even better, these beauties cost the princely sum of £2. I love a bargain me. I own 2 other pairs of jeans; Levi 501s price £6 from Oxfam in Whitley Bay and some stylish Primark ones that cost £4 brand new. It’s fair to say I’m not at the cutting edge of terrace casual culture; then again, I don’t want to be. Mainly because, I simply can’t afford to be.

I’m almost 49, with £90k still on my mortgage. I’m divorced with a son applying to University to do History (the subject with the highest graduate unemployment) who I’m supporting through his A Levels. I’ve got a good, well-paid job, but the idea of spending £300 on a jacket for going to football is a complete non-starter, especially when I couldn’t afford to attend an away game to show it off in the first place. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not part of the replica shirted Sports Direct Delta /Epsilon border underclass demographic, but I do think we, as football fans, need to accept that there is a third path between the shirters and the dressers that need not involve appearing to be a walking Val Doonican tribute, attired entirely in the latest releases from the M&S Blue Harbour catalogue, in a signature yellow polo shirt. I’ve loved the first two issues of Stand AMF, but I really think it has to be acknowledged that paying fifty quid for a pair of socks doesn’t automatically entitle you to assume you’re at the forefront of the battle to reclaim the game’s soul. The snobbery of the no kit wankers and ageing casuals is as irritating as the lack of self-awareness of the club shop clowns.

The first Newcastle away game I attended was a 1-1 draw at Ayresome Park in February 1983; I was 18. While the vast majority of our support appeared to regard NCB donkey jackets, black & white tartan scarves and moustaches as the correct terrace apparel, I was a little differently dressed in Dennis the Menace style mohair jumper, combat trousers and long overcoat with compulsory Unknown Pleasures badge. I looked like the scruffy student I was. A couple of years later, I did notice the appearance of slightly more fashion conscious individuals among a travelling support that tended to be somewhat lacking in the sartorial stakes. One of these lads, Snag from Felling, informed me as we left White Hart Lane after a late Beardsley effort gained us a 1-1 draw in August 86 that when it came to away games, it was responsibility of our support to “dress smart; act potty.” I tried to internalise this, but it didn’t really permeate my consciousness. Fast forward to the end of the decade, I welcomed the arrival of the 1990s at Boundary Park, watching Mark Stimson’s injury time own goal limit us to a single point, clothed in bike jacket, Butthole Surfers t-shirt, lumberjack shirt, split kneed 501s and paint spattered 7 hole DMs. It’s not just my new Union Jeans; I’ve long looked upon Seattle as an influence on my wardrobe.

I applaud lads who’ve enough spare cash, time to play on Ebay and dress sense to turn out smart, though I despair at my young’un and his mates in Pretty Green polos and knitwear Ken Barlow would look good in. However, I’m happy enough in my car boot sale jeans, Ex Catalogue Shop shirt and hand me down Quicksilver jacket; I might look like a dick, but as I’m nearly 50, perhaps that’s no bad thing. Let’s embrace inclusivity, even if means being unkempt.