9:52am Friday 19th June 2009
By Dennis Signy
There are a few disrespectful and anonymous souls who read my column in the Barnet FC match programme and my news reporting on the website who have me tagged as a name-dropping dinosaur who should hand in his computer and retire quietly to a corner of a dark room.
Notwithstanding their belief, with my feeling that the pen is mightier than the sword, I intend to plough on, neatly dropping in a big name or two en route.
It was almost fated that the knock on the door when Mrs S and I took possession of cabin D 185 on the cruise liner Arcadia en route for a 17 days excursion around the Mediterranean should produce a magical moment that encourages a newspaperman to think of scoops and headlines.
"I am Kevin Keegan", announced our cabin steward and my first thought in a momentary flash was to propel myself to the phone by my bedside to tell The Sun about my scoop.
I have known the former England manager since I broke the news to him in the 1970s that he was the next Footballer of the Year and have followed his career from Scunthorpe United via Liverpoool and Bayern Munich into managerial jobs at Fulham, Manchester City and Newcastle United.
Almost immediately, though, I realised that this was not the 'Mighty Midget' he had been dubbed by the tabloids in his prime... in truth this Kevin Keegan was well over six feet tall and was black.
As this sank in, the lad from Goa added - although by now there was no need - "I am not a footballer. I work for a living".
On reflection, I reckon P and O must have planted him for service with D185 knowing my penchant for a star name.
Although there were more than 2,000 passengers on Arcadia Mrs S and I were intrigued to find that the trio disembarking alongside us for a trip to Malaga were Tony Williamson, a co-director of mine at QPR in the Eighties, his wife Sue and daughter Joanne, an erstwhile West Ham United fanatic.
We arranged to meet in the Rising Sun public house on board after dinner that evening and we sat into the night recalling being travelling directors of a First Division side that visited such high temples of football as Anfield, Goodison and St James' Park.
The next morning on the sun deck I came across a chap stripped to the waist and carrying tattoos on his left arm proclaiming his allegiance to Crewe Alexandra.
"You'll be coming to Underhill next season then", I said.
He replied: "Been there. I was at Underhill for your first game in the Football League under Barry Fry when we beat you 7-4. I'm looking forward to coming again".
I told him that the defence had tightened up since Barry had left but he didn't seem over-impressed. Nor, come to that, was I. Can't remember the last time we scored four in a game either... certainly not last season.
There was more football talk at table 78 in the restaurant most evenings. Our table of six included two Derby County season ticket holders, retired police chief inspector Alan and his wife Elizabeth, who hail from Chesterfield.
Then there was Les, a wartime RAF man who served at Kohat on the Khyber Pass, near to my base at Peshawar.
In between discussing the merits of Pride Park with Alan and Elizabeth, Les and I talked lovingly of our youthful excursions Up the Khyber as part of the British Raj.
I thought that I was up with most of the PC inspired name changes that have been brought into the 21st Century. The Arcadia provided a new one for Mrs S and I. Sitting on the tender taking us back to the Arcadia from a trip to Corfu we noted that what used to be a sick bag had been transformed into a "motion disturbance bag".
There was one other oddity. The Arcadia advertised a child-free holiday. Yet around the decks were messages telling passengers where 'child lifejackets' were stored.
So here we go again - back to reality. The football fixtures were announced as we arrived back in Southampton and Lincoln City away on the first day of the season is our next port of call after Malaga. Venice. Dubrovnik, Corfu and the Greek island of Zakinthos.
Memories of two litres of Famous Grouse for £13 in Gibraltar will be replaced by cups of coffee or hot chocolate in motorway service stations en route to the various Lancashire outposts where League 2 takes us.
No more lashings of mash or platefuls of custard each day or bread and butter pudding, jam roly poly and jelly for 'afters'.
I am, as you see, a simple soul when it comes to my grub. Mrs S has me tagged as the only chap she has met who loved school dinners.
At a Christmas drinks party many moons ago I expressed my love of runny mince to Jack Dawkins, at the time Barnet's Director of Education.
He, enlightened chap, gave me carte blanche to go to any school in the borough of Barnet to indulge my craving for mince and roly poly.
I may not be the best editor the Times series has had since the Warden family started the paper in 1875 but, my goodness, I'll lay odds that I'm the only one who headed for a school kitchen rather than a pub or a sandwich bar at lunchtime with Barnet Council approval.
I never minced words on the grammar school issue either!
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