Apologies in advance if this comes across as a ‘guess you had to be there’ story. It’s just that in these strange times where once normal folk are walking the streets mumbling to themselves, I find myself, at the most inappropriate of times breaking out in a little chuckle that raises the eyebrows of those in my presence.
It’s a waste of time trying to explain the reason for these minor outbursts to Americans, without them calling for the men in the white coats, or giving me the business card of their latest therapist. So I’ve come to the conclusion that in order to move on I must share the story of this incident with the good old Memory Laneists, who will understand it and maybe even see a slight bit of nostalgic humour in it .
A couple of weeks ago I had a minor foot injury and made an afternoon appointment with a foot doctor. Prior to this I was on a very unsuccessful clean up mission of my apartment. Before mission was accomplished I came across a few old Palace scrap books, which meant I stopped what I was doing and started reading them and getting all nostalgic. The cello tape had yellowed as had a lot of the match reports and pictures. A few of the pictures were loose with the tape still around them. I’d removed them about ten years ago when I attempted to become all techo and started trying to scan some pics on the BBS. I think my success rate was one in four. Anyway one of the pictures that was very much the worse for wear was one from 1973 of Alan Whittle and Peter Wall, in their civvie clothes, taken at some Palace function. Even with the utmost care the cutting fell apart when I touched it. It split in two almost perfectly which makes me think I bent it years ago in order to just scan the picture of one of them. A few more loose articles fell to the floor and before I had time to sort them out I remembered my appointment. I rushed around a bit to get ready and because of the sore foot I couldn’t wear socks so I stuck on a pair of flip flops.
At the doctors, his assistant, a small East European lady asked me to remove my footwear. When I did this, she asked me to raise the sore foot. A sudden look of alarm came over her face. “You have something stuck to your foot,” she said. Until she said that, I hadn’t noticed or felt anything. She grabbed at the piece of paper, which, with the help of a still clinging piece of 50 year old cello tape had stuck to the sole of my foot. “What is this?”she asked. I looked at the picture and there was the great Peter Wall staring right at me. I told her it was Peter Wall, and explained that I must have walked on him and he’d stuck to my foot. For unknown reasons she wasn’t impressed with the jaundiced picture of Peter Wall and didn’t even acknowledge that she’d ever heard of him. Instead of comparing notes of his performances in the Claret and Blue and the Red and blue she unceremoniously squashed the cutting up and threw poor Peter Wall in the bin. Then to add insult to injury she started spraying disinfectant everywhere, including on my throbbing foot. This woman obviously wasn’t at Stamford Bridge in 76, or ever saw Peter superbly marshal the Palace defense as a sweeper, or from the left back position, mark the best right wingers of the era out of the game. If she did she’d have shown a bit more compassion. Then again, in her defense she was only about 30.
I don’t know where in the world Peter Wall is now, but I wonder how he’d react if he knew a picture of himself from nearly 50 years ago, was stuck to the sole of a big smelly foot in a New York City doctor’s office and then tossed into a garbage bin by a glorified toe washer who would never have been able to lace his shoes.
Sorry for the ramble, but like I said “I guess you had to be there.”
It’s a waste of time trying to explain the reason for these minor outbursts to Americans, without them calling for the men in the white coats, or giving me the business card of their latest therapist. So I’ve come to the conclusion that in order to move on I must share the story of this incident with the good old Memory Laneists, who will understand it and maybe even see a slight bit of nostalgic humour in it .
A couple of weeks ago I had a minor foot injury and made an afternoon appointment with a foot doctor. Prior to this I was on a very unsuccessful clean up mission of my apartment. Before mission was accomplished I came across a few old Palace scrap books, which meant I stopped what I was doing and started reading them and getting all nostalgic. The cello tape had yellowed as had a lot of the match reports and pictures. A few of the pictures were loose with the tape still around them. I’d removed them about ten years ago when I attempted to become all techo and started trying to scan some pics on the BBS. I think my success rate was one in four. Anyway one of the pictures that was very much the worse for wear was one from 1973 of Alan Whittle and Peter Wall, in their civvie clothes, taken at some Palace function. Even with the utmost care the cutting fell apart when I touched it. It split in two almost perfectly which makes me think I bent it years ago in order to just scan the picture of one of them. A few more loose articles fell to the floor and before I had time to sort them out I remembered my appointment. I rushed around a bit to get ready and because of the sore foot I couldn’t wear socks so I stuck on a pair of flip flops.
At the doctors, his assistant, a small East European lady asked me to remove my footwear. When I did this, she asked me to raise the sore foot. A sudden look of alarm came over her face. “You have something stuck to your foot,” she said. Until she said that, I hadn’t noticed or felt anything. She grabbed at the piece of paper, which, with the help of a still clinging piece of 50 year old cello tape had stuck to the sole of my foot. “What is this?”she asked. I looked at the picture and there was the great Peter Wall staring right at me. I told her it was Peter Wall, and explained that I must have walked on him and he’d stuck to my foot. For unknown reasons she wasn’t impressed with the jaundiced picture of Peter Wall and didn’t even acknowledge that she’d ever heard of him. Instead of comparing notes of his performances in the Claret and Blue and the Red and blue she unceremoniously squashed the cutting up and threw poor Peter Wall in the bin. Then to add insult to injury she started spraying disinfectant everywhere, including on my throbbing foot. This woman obviously wasn’t at Stamford Bridge in 76, or ever saw Peter superbly marshal the Palace defense as a sweeper, or from the left back position, mark the best right wingers of the era out of the game. If she did she’d have shown a bit more compassion. Then again, in her defense she was only about 30.
I don’t know where in the world Peter Wall is now, but I wonder how he’d react if he knew a picture of himself from nearly 50 years ago, was stuck to the sole of a big smelly foot in a New York City doctor’s office and then tossed into a garbage bin by a glorified toe washer who would never have been able to lace his shoes.
Sorry for the ramble, but like I said “I guess you had to be there.”
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