AS I look at the front page of The Non-League Paper, Dave Birch’s face says it all. The skipper - a pocket battleship who has led by example all season - is there on the front page, holding the Blue Square Bet North championship trophy aloft as his red-shirted team-mates celebrate.

If you’ll forgive me for using a cliché, it was the perfect end to a perfect day. If you were in the stands, I’m sure you feel it all went flawlessly … well apart from the odd clanger by the man on the public address system. However, up in the press box - or should I call it the media nerve centre? - the mood was occasionally rather less than calm.

Saturday was Hyde FC’s biggest day in years. There were VIP guests galore and a million and one jobs to be done. When I arrived at Ewen Fields just after 1.15pm I only had to take one look at Andy McAnulty’s face to realise the pressure he was under. But neither he nor chairman Allan Kenyon were to get an easy ride. There were going to distractions aplenty.

As I started to unclip the covers from the huge CD player we have at Hyde - it looks like it was designed for the new Olympic stadium - I began to hear the sounds of discord. From the commercial office, chief exec Ted Davies was shouting to me that club treasure Steve Johnson had gone walkabout (nothing new in that). He’d run out of staples while doing the programme and Ted was purporting to be worried about him. No need really. The silly old fool thinks nothing of leaving the ground at 1.45pm to go home for his dinner, even on such a potentially historic day.

Muffled sounds behind me turned out to be Allan Kenyon in discussion about a charity event. Then another demand for Johnson. The programme sellers needed change. Still no sign of him. He was probably feeding his 91-year-old mother a club hamburger. Another few minutes and Tommy Tonge was showing the crew from BBC Radio Lincolnshire how to place their cabling so that it wasn’t a deathtrap.

Then an elderly gentleman turned up at the door. Could he see the club chairman? His face suggested he had a matter of great seriousness to discuss. In fact, he was unhappy that the tea-bar sugar was wet - I kid you not. Allan, mega-busy but ever courteous, listened patiently before suggesting that the man would be better advised to speak to Elaine. I struggled to suppress a chuckle as the bloke concluded his comments on tea by saying he didn’t want to stir anything.

Next came a briefing from Andy on what to do if we won the title. This worried me. It was tempting fate. But he calmly notified me that Conference general manager Dennis Strudwick and Alan Alger of Blue Square were present. Think I also saw Blue Square managing director Mark Jones. I was to make sure no one ran on the pitch at the end of the game.

More muffled comments from behind me. This was Jon Manship instructing Allan Kenyon not to put any champagne on ice. Once again it was tempting fate. Later I noticed that not only did we have bubbly, we had several bottles of Moet et Chandon. Promised myself that I’d get a sip but it never happened. I think it all disappeared into the dressing room.

Finally, new steward Abby started to quiz me about the match. Which side was it she had to support? Which side! She then offered an apology for not knowing much about football, which I gladly accepted when she gave me a handful of humbugs.

Kick-off time and we had a dream start, David Poole giving us the lead on two minutes. Another few minutes and Danny Broadbent made it 2-0.

At this point, I’d have preferred it to be like the old days when you had to ring a club at half time and full time to know the score. No such luck in 2012. Everyone seems to have a smartphone and to delight in telling you the scores.

In the communications hub I sit next to Reporter journalist Craig Davies who seems to spend most of the game tweeting and reading tweets. Usually, he’s telling me that Clint Dempsey, a member of his fantasy team, has scored for Fulham or that his beloved Liverpool are beating someone. He continually updated me with the Guiseley score as did former chairman Steve Hartley.

It’s very hard to suppress the urge to share this news, when it’s good, although I realised it would be more than my life was worth to do so. Manager Gary Lowe had already screamed “for goodness sake” or something similar when I left the music on while he was being interviewed for a DVD. Didn’t want to get on the wrong side of him twice in a day.

On the dot of half time, as the players left the field, I was able to say that Bishops Stortford had taken a 1-0 lead. After the break, as our goals tally mounted, I became fixated with what was happening at Nethermoor, hence the announcement that Bishops Stortford had made two substitutions. I only realised I had made the mistake when I heard the laughter from the Scrattin’ Shed, a split-second before Ted Davies grabbed the back of my neck and started to shake me. My nerves were in shreds. I’d started the day convinced that the title race would go to the wire.

At long last it was over. Hyde (United) were champions of Blue Square Bet North. It was absolutely unbelievable given the reservations about Gary’s appointment 12 months ago and the fact that most of us would have settled for a season in which we weren’t skirting with relegation or financial disaster.

More problems followed. The PA became temperamental. Perhaps it overloaded. But I don’t suppose anyone cared. This was Hyde’s finest hour.  And if I might continue to echo the Churchillian tone adopted by Ted Davies after the game: never in the field of English football was so much owed by so many to such a glorious few.

The Tigers have found their voice again and roared into the national conference. Who would ever have predicted it? A knighthood for Gary Lowe Your Majesty.

I’LL always remember the day I was appointed group sports editor at the Ashton Reporter. After all it was Friday the 13th – Friday, February 13, 1987, to be exact. You don’t forget a dateline like that.
I’d like to say I got the job because I was the best man for it. But if I’m truthful, I got it because I was the  only man for it. With the exception of Hyde district news editor David Jones I was quite probably the only person on the staff with any interest in sport. However, Jonesey wasn’t a sub-editor and I was, even if I’d only become one the previous September.
Few people gave me much chance of success. Hyde United chairman Bill Paterson told me I was deluded to even think I could do the job. “You haven’t got the contacts,” he whined me. Shows what he knew. My phone was red hot from day one. In those days the Reporter sports editor was the first person a lot of people rang. At one point I even had clubs appointing and sacking managers on Tuesday nights so that I could get the story in before the Wednesday deadline.
My predecessor, the legendary Martyn Torr, had given the company eight weeks’ notice. “You’ll be my replacement,” he confidently told me but in true Reporter style I heard nothing of substance from the editor. Although very irritable, Duncan Williamson was a good man at heart. He just struggled to show it. In fact if he had a problem, it was that he was too nice. Certain cynical employees realised that if you could withstand his initial explosion of anger he would always back down.
Known as Alan within the office – and Duncan outside – he generally sat silently, with a scowl on his face and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, subbing like a demon. He clearly detested the managerial side of his job and during the two months before Martyn left he only raised the subject of the sports editor’s post once, and that was to tell me I would get it in name only. When I asked how much control I would have, he replied: “very little” and proceeded to tell me that his bosses resented so much space being given to sport when it was watched by only a few hundred people.
Come the day of Martyn’s departure I was called into Alan’s office. Well, I say office – it was more of a communal dumping ground. There was an old duplicator in one corner while the rest of the room was littered with prizes for competitions that had never been run: LPs by a band called Vow Wow and strange balls you clenched between your feet and bounced on. There was also an ancient bookcase which contained such highly useful tomes as a 1968 press directory which told you to ring  Central 2345 if you wanted the Daily Sketch.
I’d once tested the water to see if we might get an up-to-date press directory and was politely but firmly told not to be so silly.
As we stood among the debris, I was asked: “So, are you going to be sports editor then?” “No thanks,” I replied. Alan was visibly taken aback, “Oh,” he said, a surprised look on his face. “Why?” “Because you said I’d have no control and I’m not prepared to take stick from football fans for something I’d have no power over. They’d blame me for the poor coverage.”
A moment or two later I left the office and was immediately approached by Martyn Torr. “Have you got the job?” I explained what had happened. Martyn pushed past me, entered the black hole and began speaking to Alan Williamson. Moments later he emerged and told me: “If you want it you can have it on the same terms as me and with a wage increase.” This was wonderful. I’d become a sub-editor thinking it was a promotion. However, my wage hadn’t changed and without night jobs I was actually quite a few quid down every month. I’d tried broaching the subject with Alan but he really couldn’t see why people were bothered about money. I think he genuinely believed people should work in newspapers for the love of it.
Being sports editor was one thing. Doing the job well was another. I was very inexperienced – especially in production terms. Turning out seven pages of sport a week – well really within 2½ days – was a daunting job. I was simply left to get on with it and there was no one to help or advise. And I’d only ever read the football stories. Rugby, athletics, squash, hockey and so on were all a mystery to me. In terms of cricket I knew about Hyde CC and the Central Lancashire League. The Saddleworth League was totally uncharted territory.
During my first few weeks as sports editor we worked on sheets of paper and I desperately fought to keep on top of things. Alan, as was his wont, would only complain that I was taking too long and not doing things right. Another colleague, Jeff Garner, was running a one-man disruption campaign because he was unhappy about the package we would get for moving to computers, so I got little out of him. And then there were the surly NGA comps at the Co-op Press in Manchester. Most worked at snail-like speed. The supervisor, nicknamed the Penguin, was so unpleasant that I still struggle to believe it. He had a particular problem with league tables and often insisted there wasn’t enough room within a column to accommodate the for and against figures. It was total nonsense but I felt unable to argue back.
Another shortcoming was the lack of pictures. At that time, Reporter photographers didn’t do sport and I only started to get action pictures after a year or two, when one of the journalists, Calvin Palmer, decided he would give it a try on an amateur basis. In time he became quite proficient and my pages improved immeasurably.
Eventually, we left the Co-op and moved to Lockie Press, Golbourne, which was a much friendlier place and I got on well with my comp, a man named Jim Myers or, as he liked to call himself, Asinbed. (get it?). On the first Comic Relief Day, I wore a red nose for my Pav’s Patch picture. When I arrived at the print works, I was surprised to encounter a lot of laughing. I thought nothing of it, hung up my jacket and went to the toilet. When I returned, they were falling about. Then, I looked above the door and saw they’d enlarged my picture and placed a red light bulb through the nose. Actually, it was a very good piece of work and I took it back to the Reporter office in Stalybridge where I used it as a Christmas decoration until 1993 when new group editor Frank Whalley banned such fripperies.
The Pav’s Patch title was thought up by Martyn Torr. He said I needed to impose my own personality on the sports pages to show that a new man was in charge and there would be a different way of doing things. Pav’s Patch stuck to the extent that I used to get Christmas cards addressed to Mr P Patch. I used it for my Oldham Evening Chronicle column from 2006 to 2011 and for my piece in the Hyde United match programme. It is now the name of my weekly non-league football programme on 103.6FM Tameside Radio.
Eventually, I got into a groove. I like to think I was an eager learner and that my sports pages became the best part of the paper. Pretty soon I was making sure I rang all seven non-league managers in Reporterland every week. It was an interesting experience. Some times they lost their temper with you, sometimes they cried on your shoulder, but usually they were very helpful.
In 1992 I spoke to Mossley boss Terry Curran and found his voice kept fading away. Turned out he was shaving with a phone in his hand. The previous year I had to ring another Seel Park manager, Bob Murphy, at 9am every Monday. He would keep me on the phone for a full hour and say nothing. He let the opposition worry about him, not the other way round, and refused to comment on refs or players.
 When I first became sports editor, Ashton boss Albert Pike seemed to stalk me. He’d appear from the back of stands or even toilet cubicles. “I know we play in a shit league,” he used to say, “But you can ring me you know.” Yet when I did call, getting a comment out of him was like pulling teeth. Albert was superstitious and didn’t like talking to the press.
Les Sutton always had a joke while Curzon Ashton manager Taffy Jones lived up to his Welsh roots by supplying some amazing quotes. Lloyd George and Dylan Thomas had nothing on him. Pete O’Brien blew his top quite spectacularly one a few occasions – always when I wasn’t expecting it – and I found another Curzon boss – Terry McLean – impossible to understand. He had the thickest Liverpool accent I’ve ever come across. I used to get one word in three. The toughest person to deal with was Mossley secretary Brian Cowburn who knew the most inconvenient time to ring and would scream threats at me. “If you want us to put posters up at the ground saying ‘don’t read the Reporter’ we will do.”
I suppose one of the perks of the job was free tickets to sportsman’s dinners, although this could be a double-edged sword. At the Glossop Cricket League dinner there was always someone lying in wait to tell me just what an appalling job I was doing. One year, when Derek Randall was the guest speaker, I was asked to say a few words, too. I spoke for about five minutes and got a laugh at the end. I felt good, and things were even better when Derek got up from his seat, patted me on the back, and said: “Well done big fella.” Unfortunately the feeling of euphoria evaporated as I left the building. Trying to make my way through a group of lads at the door, one said: “Hey, it’s that effing shit speaker.”
At one point Denis Law was on the circuit and I must have attended five dinners with him in the space of two months. He was a really top bloke and we saw so much if each other that we almost became friends. However, he did manage to make a plank of me although, as he is a footballing legend, I’m quite happy to forgive him. At one dinner, during the introductions, they announced Jose Mendoza, chief scout of Barcelona. A tanned man stood up and acknowledged the applause. Later, as I was preparing to take a picture, I asked Denis if Senor Mendoza would like to join us. “Jose,” he called, “do you want to be on this photo?” and the man came over saying “si, si”.
The following week I was off work and the picture, which should have appeared four pages in, was on the back page, big and bold. That wouldn’t have been so bad except that Senor Jose Mendoza, chief scout of Barcelona, was actually a man from Stockport called Ken.
That proves one sad point. Most of my troubles came from within the Reporter where sport was held in fairly low esteem and was looked upon as something that could be easily cut and moved. In 1992, when Stalybridge Celtic won the NPL title, I had no back page. Because of a cock-up by the advertising department a couple of firms were given huge ads which took up 90 per cent of the back page. I complained to Alan Williamson and got nowhere, even though I told him the paper would lose credibility as this was such a big story. So I appealed to the managing director, Roy Winter, who allowed me to remove the masthead. It wasn’t much space but it was something. Alan moaned that I had no right to bother the MD.
I had more fun with Stalybridge fans when, one week, editor Frank Whalley decided I had to send the back page first rather than last. Try as I did I couldn’t get the big story – Bridge’s signing of Ian Arnold – from Martyn Torr and had to go with one about Hyde player Dave Nolan. That week, the Bower Fold faithful were so angry that I think they would have happily hanged me in Armentieres Square. But there was nothing I could do. The editor had decided to assert his authority although I have absolutely no idea why. The following week, everything was back to normal.
In the mid-1990s, when Glossop won the Manchester Premier Cup at Old Trafford, the printers got it all wrong and put the East Manchester back page on the Glossop Chron and the Glossop back page on East Manchester. Frank couldn’t have cared less. It was the same over August Bank Holiday weekend when he gave all the copy typists time off and kept the temp to himself. It was a double-header weekend  – two football matches and two cricket matches. I pointed this out to Frank who just shrugged and said sorry. I was in the office for hours keying in everything myself.
However, despite the obstacles thrown in my way, I loved being Reporter sports editor, just as I loved being non-league football reporter for BBC Radio Manchester. A quarter of a century after Martyn Torr came up with “Pav’s Patch” I’m happy to say it’s still alive and kicking. You can hear it every Friday, 6 to 7pm, on 103.6FM Tameside Radio. Please join me.

FOR the life of me I’ll never understand why Z-list folk sign up for “I’m a Celebrity …” It’s three weeks of utter humiliation in which they have to thrust their arms into a pit of snakes (literally) or gulp down bits of a kangaroo’s wedding tackle which have been through a blender.

I might be inclined to think they’re making one last, desperate bid for national popularity. They say they do it to confront fears and that they return home better and stronger for their ghastly experiences.

Well I confronted a fear recently and it was one every man dreads. It was the middle-age MoT. I allowed a consultant to insert tubes and fingers where you really don’t want them. And I not only survived - I found the experience to be nowhere near as bad as I feared.

You may have heard or seen the commercials doing the rounds at the moment. You’re asked if you’ve seen blood in your pee and, if so, to make sure you see a doctor. It might be an early sign of bowel cancer. Well that’s what happened to me and, considering my mother died a rather unpleasant death from said disease, I decided I had to bite the bullet.

Fast forward to a room in the shining new extension to Tameside General Hospital’s Hartshead Building. I found myself lying on a table, meat and two veg on view to the world, and trying to ignore the fact that a very pleasant - but female - nurse was flitting around. This was the worst part for me and yes, I’m sure she’d seen it all before and in far more impressive quantities than I could boast. Even so, you do feel rather a prat. Was her smile one of friendliness or amusement?

The consultant was a genial young bloke of about 35 (I’m 20 years older). He explained what was in store and then took me by surprise. “I just need a look at your prostate. Face the wall and put your knees under your chin.” “What?” I mumbled, panic-struck. “You never mentioned anything about this - aah!”

It was my worst nightmare. I had heard about these examinations and expected a porky finger being slowly inserted into my rear end, the feelings of revulsion and violation intensifying as he probed ever deeper. But that’s not how it was. It was all over in a split-second.

Okay, I could have done without the sound of gel being squeezed, the squelching, the wiping of the doctor’s finger afterwards, and being asked if I knew I was slightly constipated. But it was a light years from what I expected. It was very quick if not particularly clean. Uncomfortable rather than painful.

Next came the flexible cystoscopy - a very thin camera tube passed through your todger and into the bladder. Once again the consultant’s speed left me with no time to worry. Somehow, in one quick movement, he had inserted anaesthetic gel and the tube was several inches inside me before I knew what was happening. As with the prostate examination it was discomfort rather than pain although there was a burning sensation and I did have to grit my teeth as I felt the tube pass through or round a gland.

For much of the examination I was curling and uncurling my toes. However, eventually, I did sort of relax and that made everything easier to bear. Even so, I was happy when it was all over.

I could see images from the inside of my bladder on a television screen. They were a bit like those pictures of Neptune’s moon, Triton, taken from a Nasa probe. The consultant was very enthusiastic and started giving me a guided tour. He even showed me the hole through which urine flows. “Let’s just wait a second,” he said, “it’s like a fountain.” “Let’s just finish and get the tube out,” was my reaction.

Ten minutes later I was dressed and walking back to work. Half an hour later I was back at my desk.

Am I looking forward to my next MoT in ten years’ time or so? Nope. But I’ll live with it because never in a million years is it your worst nightmare - that would be to actually contract cancer.

So avoid the horrors not the examination. If something doesn’t seem right get yourself checked out. You’ll be okay. It’s nowhere near as bad as you think.

Finally, the longest saga in non-league football is over. The dust has settled. Gary Lowe has signed on the dotted line to become the new manager of Hyde FC and everyone appears to have accepted the fact.

Some people will tell you that Gary was given the job three months ago and others – chiefly the Ewen Fields board of directors – will vehemently deny it. Another group claim that he was in for the Altrincham job, or the Chorley job, or couldn’t agree terms. It doesn’t really matter.

What everyone at Hyde must now do is concentrate on creating a successful future. Whatever we may think of the past, it’s just that – past. That’s what happens in football. Decisions may be made badly, wrongly or clumsily, but life goes on. Hundreds of thousands of people dislike the Glazer regime at Old Trafford – I’m no particular fan myself – but he’s owned Manchester United since 2005 and in that time the Reds have enjoyed no small measure of success.

I don’t suppose any new manager is ever 100 per cent welcome, but I was a little taken aback by the vitriol Gary had to face when the news of his appointment broke. After all, he is a former Tigers player. He made 18 appearances in 1984 and 1985. He was signed by Peter Wragg and at the start he played alongside another future Hyde United and Curzon Ashton manager, Steve Waywell.

Gary was a stylish midfielder who started out at Manchester United in the mid-1970s. He spent seven years on the books at Crystal Palace and later played in the Football League for Hereford United, where he met the Stalybridge Celtic manager, Jim Harvey. I know him well and have always found him very easy to work with. He’s approachable and accommodating, and has a great sense of humour. If he has a fault, it’s the way he can lose his temper during a match. This is not a manager who watches quietly. Gary Lowe is a man of passion, and that will be visible from the start, if only because of the way his face goes through the colours of the rainbow as he screams at his players.

Of course, it’s not unusual for a new Hyde boss to get a welcome that’s less than effusive. There was uproar in 1983 when the board decided not to renew Les Sutton’s contract. Over the previous  three years he had steered the Tigers to a clutch of trophies and promotion to the Northern Premier League, where they enjoyed a highly respectable first season. However, new chairman Peter Pluck did not believe he was the man to lead the club at the higher level.

And the announcement was handled in a hamfisted way. The decision was leaked to the Reporter, who were allowed to print a “we believe” story. There was no name or club, but it was clearly the Hyde boss who was going. The collective gasps of amazement were almost audible across the town.  I was a postman in those days and was stopped so often that I stuggled to deliver my mail.

Sutty’s replacement was Peter Wragg, who has to rank as one of the greatest non-league managers of all time. When he took over at Ewen Fields, he had recently led Stalybridge to the Cheshire League championship (1980) and Chorley into the NPL (1982). As Tigers manager, he led the club into the first round of the FA Cup (1983), fourth in the table (1984-5) and two NPL Cup finals, the latter of which the team won under the leadership of new boss Pete O’Brien. Yet Wraggy was never taken to the club’s heart – probably because of the way Les Sutton was bundled out.

There was even a spell when Pete O’Brien was highly unpopular. After he quit to take over at Droylsden in 1994, there were people who felt he ought to be banned from the ground. They were appalled that he should walk out on the Tigers to work for another Tameside club.

It seems that the club is destined to go through some sort of catharsis every few years. Back in the 1960s we took the huge step of joining the new NPL only to find it was too much for us, and two years later we returned to the Cheshire League. In 1983, there was a furore when we switched the FA Cup tie with Burnley to Turf Moor. Three years later there were mass reignations over the sale of the ground to Tameside Council and the installation of a Baspograss pitch.

And then over the last two years we’ve had the winding-up order, the dropping of “United” from our name, the decision to get rid of red shirts, and last season’s changes at board and managerial level.

Yet the club has always carried on, and that will happen again. Perhaps you don’t like the way Neil Tolson lost his job. Perhaps you’re unhappy that Scott McNiven and Steve Halford weren’t allowed to take over on a permanent basis. But none of that is Gary Lowe’s fault. So give him a chance. Wait and see what he can do.

After all, if he has a record for one thing it’s long, money-spinning cup runs – and they’ve been in very short supply at Ewen Fields in the last few years.

BEING the saddo that I am, I decided to watch the royal wedding on the Fox Network – a right-wing US new station. And I have to say that it was worth it. Okay, I didn’t see the event in HD but I did get an entirely different perspective on proceedings. Yes, the Americans were impressed. Yes, they loved it. But they were much less deferential than anyone on the BBC or ITV.

They were mystified by a lot, but especially by those strange bird’s nest things so many women were wearing on their heads. “What do you call it, a fascinator?” asked presenter Shep Smith incredulously. And then when Princess Beatrice emerged from a car: “She seems to have an Easter egg on her head.” Actually, to me, it looked more like some sort of satellite television receiving equipment. Whatever it was, it was seriously weird.

At the end, we saw Victoria Beckham emerging from Westminster Abbey. “Doesn’t she look chic? That fascinator, it’s like two antelope horns.”

For the record, Princess Eugenie wore a hat resembling a strawberry punnet, and when they were talking abut Zara Phillips, Shep asked: “Is she the one wearing the flying saucer?”

The Americans were also at a loss with the various ranks of royals. Shep couldn’t understand why  some were in Rollers and Bentleys while others travelled by bus: “Gee, you’ve got be pretty put-out if you’re a member of the royal family and they make you travel by coach.”

And then we got the fly-past by the RAF. I really don’t think they realised the Lancaster and two Spitfires were the Battle of Britain Memorial Flight. I’m sure they thought those planes were actually in service. Given the crazy defence cuts we’ve had, they may not be too far off the mark.

Shep was also tickled by the fact the couple have been renamed the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge – and I can understand where he was coming from. I’m fed up of prime ministers handing out gongs to butter up their supporters and would get rid of the honours list tomorrow. I’m certain Cherie Blair used to watch the telly and then shout: “Tony, Ant and Dec are on. Can’t go give them a peerage or something?”

Think about it. What on earth did Jonathan Ross or Gordon Ramsay do to deserve an honour? If all you have to do is swear then I know loads of people who should have dukedoms. Remember that the entire Ashes squad got MBEs in 2005 – and I mean the entire squad? As one Aussie said at the end of 2006, when we were losing 5-0 Down Under: “I sure thought you’d have to be involved a little more than five minutes to get an imperial gong.”

Sir Elton John is another one who has profited. What’s happened to him? It looks like his head has been  recreated from wax and then melted. If he paid a plastic surgeon, he ought to ask for his money back. When that little kid grows up his friends will be too scared to come round to the house.

As for me, I thought Kate looked gorgeous, but then I always have. As for her dress, well all I can say is, it was white. What was all the fuss about? A wedding dress is a wedding dress. I thought her sister Pippa looked better in that figure-hugging creation she was wearing. What wonderful hips.

Anyway, although you may not have noticed, I am, in fact, an ardent royalist. I thought the whole day was great. I didn’t have a flag or a hat, but from one loyal subject, God bless ’em.

DO you get twitter? And yes, I realise that’s a strange question to be asking when I’m using the site to publicise this blog. However, I have to ask the question again – do you get twitter?
You see, I tweet sort of regularly, but only to impart nuggets of information. I’ll mention the guests on my 103.6FM Tameside Radio programme, or reveal some development in the weird and wacky world of non-league football. But I don’t conduct conversations or tell the inhabitants of cyber space what colour underwear I’ve got on or what I’m listening to. Maybe it’s because I can’t afford a smartphone and so don’t have the opportunity to tweet at every juncture.
Leading the exciting life that I do, I’ve just spent half-an-hour or so perusing various people’s contributions to twitter. It’s sort of riveting yet utterly banal at the same time.
For a start, it’s surprising how many people in responsible jobs feel the need to advertise their love of alcohol. I’m not sure that I’ll sleep more safely in my bed knowing that an air-traffic controller or medical professional has a particular liking for peach schnapps or alcopops. I’d prefer it if they focused on rather more sober pursuits.
And you see, this is my point: do these people who feel the need to broadcast every little fact about themselves realise that anyone in the entire world could be reading? I have visions of men tweeting about their affairs – “just been round to Gertrude’s to do the business” – without every considering that their wife might pick it up. Has a criminal ever bragged on twitter and then been arrested by the police?
Some of it’s plain crackers. Why would you intersperse tweets about being on a diet with others about the amount of cake you’re eating? Why would you want the world to know you’re drunk? I read one tweet which urged a woman to cheer up by eating a sausage butty. You can take that two ways.
Ultimately, who the hell cares if you’re having coconut cake for tea or have bought some new shoe polish? None of the people I know would give a monkey’s if I tweeted that I been to the shops or had narrowly escaped being run down by a pavement cyclist (don’t get me started on that one and the way they ride through red lights).
That’s why I’ve never set up a Facebook page. Who the hell cares what I do? From a personal point of view, I have absolutely no interest in where my friends go on holiday, or in seeing their photos. I mean, be honest, whenever you look at someone’s holiday snaps you do it to be polite, not because you want to. The 14th picture of the Lost Gardens of Penhaligon comes along and I want to top myself. Remember slides? I hated them, too.
So no, I suppose I don’t get twitter. Perhaps I’m just too old. Perhaps I’ve got better things to do. But for the record, I’m now going to brew up with a Sainsbury’s Assam tea bag and then spend an hour writing a little more of my history of Hyde (United). After that, I might try to get a life.

WHAT is it they say about buses? You wait ages for one and then three turn up at once? You could apply that to the Tameside area’s managerial situation over the last few days.
In this part of the world, bosses get hired and fired much less regularly than they once did. But in the space of a week three clubs parted company with their manager: Hyde, Glossop North End and Mossley. While, of course, Gary Lowe announced his intention to quit Curzon Ashton back in February. You have to go back to 1993 for such a mass turnover.
The interesting thing about Tols’s departure from Ewen Fields is not so much the decision as the terms used to describe it. These days it’s very rare for a club to admit to sacking a manager – that’s why I italicised “parted company”. It’s like saying “passed on” rather than “died”. Doesn’t sound so brutal but amounts to the same thing.
I can understand the Hyde board’s reasons for firing Tols, nevertheless I was sad to see him go. He was a great bloke to work with, clearly loved football not money, and I was very impressed with the way he conducted himself on 103.6FM Tameside Radio. There was no bitterness or rancour, just a plea to everyone at Hyde to get behind the club in the fight to avoid relegation.
 And the fans, officials and players certainly responded. There was a great atmosphere at the Hinckley game – no doubt helped by the good weather. If Scot McNiven and Steve Halford can conjour up so more victories I’m sure the Tigers will quickly put recent upheavals behind them and embrace a better future.
After Tols, the next domino to fall was Steve Young who resigned after being told he no longer figured in Glossop’s plans. It must have been a difficult pill for him to swallow when you consider that he led the Hillmen to their greatest success since promotion to the Footbal League first division – the FA Vase final at Wembley in 2009.
Ironically, that achievement may have led to Young’s undoing. National coverage and a few bob in the bank has given Glossop ambition. They see themselves in the Evo-stik first division north. They didn’t see Steve Young as the man to take them there.
Shaun Higgins quit as Mossley manager after less than a season in charge at Seel Park. It’s 30 years since the Bob Murphy glory days and no one has yet come close to matching him – not even Bob himself in follow-up spells as manager.
Speaking to Shaun – albeit very soon after his resignation – the tone of his voice suggested that he had simply had enough. He was much more cheerful the next day, and assured me the job hadn’t been too much for him. He was keen to have another go. Possibly he struggled to cope within the financial constraints he faced.
Were the Lilywhites wrong to put their faith in a youth policy? Over the years I’ve known lots of talk about all sorts of policies. I suppose they were all worth a try but I never knew one to fully succeed.
In 1994 Richard Dawson was in charge at Mossley. He was going to bring in players from Yorkshire and one, Craig Heseltine, used to travel all the way from Bridlington. Dawson lasted less than two months. Taffy Jones was a man with a superb record in Sunday football but I think he would agree that when he took over at Curzon Ashton in 1993 a lot of his young Sunday stars were unable to make the leap to the Northern Premier League first division.
Taff once told me that he was appointed to the Mossley job – in 1988 - only to get a phone call the following morning that the committee (or was that secretary Brian Cowburn?) had changed its mind.
From a journalist’s point of view, dealing with a sacked manager can be almost emotional. The man who’s lost his job may be angry, because he feels he was badly dealt with; or he may be bitterly upset.
 The first sacking I covered was Jimmy O’Connor. who was dismissed by Mossley in early 1987. He was sad not to have done better. Next came Dave Noble at Curzon (September). The Blues had joined the new formed NPL first division and quickly realised their traditional policy of promoting from within and running as an amateur outfit wasn’t working. Nobby was not impressed with the way he was treated.
And how do clubs feel about sacking the boss? Hyde chief executive Ted Davies told me he hated every minute of firing Neil Tolson. I’d like to know Dave Pace’s opinion. In the Nineties he got rid of something line ten managers in four years.

DO you have a nickname? Perhaps it’s my non-league football background, but I like them. On the other hand, my late mother-in-law didn’t. There was a legendary tale of how she chased away a lad who came to the front door once and asked for their George, except he called him Jud.
    A similar if somewhat more graphic story is attached to a friend of mine who is known to everyone as Jock. Jock’s dad really was a Scot and when he answered the door to a boy who asked in all innocence: “Is your Jock in please?”, he turned into the front room and said: “John, there’s some blinking ignorant buffoon at the door.” Or words to that effect.
    That story always reminds me of those occasions where you ring someone up and their mother answers the phone. You ask for Tez and you hear her shout across the room: “Terence, it’s for you.” A friend of mine has a son named William and goes mad if you dare to ask about Bill or Billy.
    Personally, I’m quite happy for my son to be called Jim or Jimmy. My mother-in-law wasn’t, of course, and never tired of telling me so.
    As you might guess, my nickname has always been Pav, Pavvy or Pav-o, although there was a time in the late 1960s when I tried to get the name Jack. That was because I was tall and thin, and whenever we had a corner at football on the school field I would  head up to the goalline like a junior Jack Charlton, mimicking commentators by saying: “And big Jack Pav goes up to the line.”
    Anyway, the name didn’t stick. Possibly because Jack Charlton was slightly better than me.
    But schoolboys can be very inventive in the nickname stakes. A mate called Stephen Lee was called tea leaf because his name shortened to Ste Lee. Another friend was called Bill Batey and his nickname was Oxo.
    Now this is dead clever and could only be worked out by a 13-year-old lad. Bill’s full name was William Robert Batey, which shortens to Bill Bob Batey. That’s three Bs, which is B cubed, which is beef cubed, which is Oxo. Brilliant!
    Another lad at school was called Dob because part of him was reputed to be of mammoth proportions. Continual use of that name eventually made him ill, which is strange because I’m sure he would love the tag nowadays.
    For some reason, they occasionally referred to me as Tiny. Perhaps because I was the tallest in the class.

WHO are the people that television channels trot out to make comments. They’re supposedly experts  but, as a rule, tend to be the sort of comedians who are about as funny as gangrene.
Tonight I’ve been watching a tribute to “Top of the Pops” on BBC4. I’ve struggled to believe a great deal of what I’ve heard. I’ve witnessed a succession of smug, self-satisfied, self-styled stars having a go at a programme that was a staple of my weekly television from 1964 until the mid-1980s.
They all complained about the choice of music. For all their supposed intelligence they struggled to understand the central tenet of the programme. It was called “Top of the Pops” because all the music was from the charts. It was never meant to be anything else. So, if the good people of the UK decided to buy such modern classics as “Save All Your Kisses for Me” or “Shaddap You Face”, they had to be included.
One of the bozoes they lined up suggested that in 1976 the young of Great Britain couldn’t understand why the programme didn’t reflect what was happening – rising unemployment, cuts, that kind of thing. Well, I was 19 in 1976, and even though I was studying for a degree in history and politics, I was largely concerned with football, a few pints down the pub and, well, girls.
Music was about enjoyment. It was usually a backdrop to attempts (99 per cent unsuccessful) to find girls. It was about being mega-serious.
Then they talked about punk being the reaction to out pseudo-middle class complacency, Okay. But whenever I now hear the Sex Pistols or Poly Styrene or whoever, it makes me feel all warm and happy. I’m about to turn 54 and punk reminds me of happy secure days long before mortgages and wage cuts.
And how many punk stars sold out to capitalism? Carl Wayne, the wild lead singer of The Move became a crooner and married Miss Diane from “Crossroads”. The Who’s Roger Daltrey bought a salmon nursery and used to advertise credit cards.
All right, there have always been musical snobs. I still meet middle-aged men who believe only they know what good music is. To me, all music is noise. If it makes you happy it’s good. If you don’t like it, it’s bad. For me, music is something I listen to while I’m driving.
So all you television pundits, take a chill pill. Just think how lucky you are that a television company will pay you to air your views because, at the end of the day, who cares.
Oh, and by the way, what was wrong with letching at Pan’s People? Dearie me those were happy days.