Wainwright

It was around this time that I was joined on my quest by my faithful companion, Wainwright.

I can’t claim to be a life-long fan of Hull City, or the Tigers as they are known locally. In fact I can’t even claim to be a life-long fan of football. As a young Bobby I would be sent to control the crowds at the Tiger’s ancient ground, Boothferry Park. As far as I could see, and I made numerous studies of this, there was not one single person in that stadium who was enjoying themselves. Certainly not me, and I was being paid to be there. Maybe that’s just a reflection of the northern way of life. We’re only happy when we’re miserable.

My attitude towards the Tigers changed once they acquired the KC Stadium. My children were teenagers and as a treat we went to see City versus Mansfield at a time when the team were doing well in what was then Division 3. City lost, 1 – 0, but from the time I walked into that splendid ground, dazzled by the green of the pitch, I was hooked and so were my children. The brilliant stadium, the jewel in the crown of a city in need of hope and dreams, changed everything, even the gloomy atmosphere I remembered so well. I’ve been going back ever since.

At the time of writing, Hull City are about to be relegated from the Premier League. By the time you read this they could be facing the challenge of the Champions League, or, more likely, cold, wet Tuesday evenings playing the likes of Macclesfield in the Johnstone’s - I’d sooner watch paint dry - trophy.

One sunny February afternoon in 2009 I made a trip that neither I nor any other Tigers’ fan ever expected to make. I went to Stamford Bridge to see City play Chelsea in the Premier League. It was a surprisingly close game that City could have won if they only had a striker on the pitch. It ended 0 – 0 and Phil Scolari paid the price the next day when he was sacked as Chelsea Coach.

But the real revelation that day lurked in the Chelsea merchandise shop. Among all the mugs, scarves and foam pointy fingers was a gnome, dressed in the Chelsea strip with his booted foot resting on a football. ‘We want one!’ cried the Hull City fans and three months later the enterprising manufacturer duly obliged with a limited edition of 500.

As soon as I read about the gnomes in the local press I knew I had to have one. It was perfect. If Tony Hawks could tour Ireland with a fridge then I could tour the world with a Hull City Garden Gnome. Images of the two us being feted on our travels and being forced to politely accept free drinks and accommodation filled my head. With a gaily coloured gnome in tow I might even get laid.

Not everyone shared my enthusiasm when I nipped out one lunch time to the Hull City shop and came back with my new best friend.

‘You paid fifteen quid for that?’ said the scoffer number one.

‘Yes.’

‘What you gonna call it?’ said scoffer number two.

‘Wainwright,’ I replied. ‘He’s called Wainwright.’

‘Why?’

‘That would be telling,’ I said, walking off clutching the little chap protectively to my chest, whilst eyeing a sneering sergeant who was making a move to free his extendable baton. And to this day only I know why Wainwright is Wainwright. And it’s got nothing at all to do with walks in the Lake District.

Next Time - As fat as a Fed Rep