Cod Almighty | Article

by Tony Barker

30 June 2016

Once upon a time, which now seems a long time ago, my dad, Albert Henry Barker – known by Harry to his friends – enrolled my then ten-year-old self into the Harrington Street open corner of Blundell Park.

It was here, in 1972, where I started to come into consciousness and witness my father's rather frail impatience and total unconsciousness of himself. If you ever saw the programme Catchphrase, by comedian Roy Walker, where he'd say: "Come on people, say what you see," he could easily have gotten the idea for it on encountering my dad.

I remember one particular occasion. We had won a corner right in front of us. Dave Boylen came trotting over to take it, and with that, my dad was off down the terrace to the picket fence like a startled hare to offer his advice.

"Come on Dave," he said rather loudly, "Make it a good un." Dave served up a totally crap corner. That was immediately pounced on by my dad: "Well, you useless git." An unbelieving Dave Boylen simply turned around, his hands slowly coming to rest on his sides, to stare open-mouthed at my dad. I was learning fast that to go around with my father, you really needed to take a shovel with you to dig a hole to escape into.

He was a good egg, my dad, union man and shop steward at the old Bird's Eye factory. He was as sharp as a razor and took no nonsense from anyone, no matter who they thought they were. He was, by all accounts, very popular among his peers. Not that we needed telling, as in the family home he was always the life and soul, always up to mischief, fun and usually embarrassing the life out of... well, anyone really.

My dad would do real daft stuff, like hiding behind the couch when a western film was on the telly. My sisters would have their new boyfriends on the couch and then he'd emerge, two fingers for a gun, joining in with the cowboys, taking shots at the injuns. My sisters needed a shovel each.

Every year we went on holiday to the Humberston Fitties on the 3C bus. We lived in a timeless bubble, mainly created by my dad

Every year, we went on holiday to the Humberston Fitties for a week on the 3C bus that ran near to our house on the Grange Estate. That's right, on the bus, with all of our gear as well. We would holiday with our cousins Craig, Richard, my uncle Les and his wife, Audrey. All I can say is what an absolutely fabulous time we would have. Me, my brother Kevin, sisters Sue and Ann lived in a timeless bubble, which was mainly created by my dad – and mam of course.

Even the Yorkies couldn't spoil our fun but only add to it. One day, when we were going round on one of those large family bikes with two sets of handlebars you could hire, we hit head-on with a Yorkshire family coming the other way on the bumps over the dyke. We were 'reet taffled' as well. The more we tried to untangle our bikes, the more frustrated the Yorkshire folk seemed to get, culminating in an outburst from one of them which sounded like it was from another country: "Does tha' wont fist rarnd tha' lugole?" We just stared at them, nonplussed, then quickly, carefully, untangled our bikes and let the foreigners on their way, cussing and cursing.

Football was one of Dad's passions. I remember him once coming home from work after a Saturday afternoon 2-10 shift, looking forward to watching Match of the Day over his egg, bacon and tomatoes, with explicit instructions for me not to reveal the score of the game. At this point please bear in mind that I was only ten. So we watched the game together until one team scored, when I jumped up and announced that I was going to bed. That was met with "Thanks a lot, twit" from my dad – and rightly so. But at the time I was dumbfounded until my elder brother pointed out my indiscretion. Ah, the innocence of youth.

My dad became ill with emphysema and he could not walk far, so away games saw us taking to the seats. But it never ever shut him up; his remarks were always forthcoming.

One time, at Scunthorpe United's Old Showground, me, Dad and my uncle Les were sat in the stands watching Town v Scunny. My dad entered into some banter with the locals; there was not a lot of segregation in those days. It was OK at first, but then started turning a bit nasty, with some hostility towards us. It didn't matter to my dad though. Even though he could hardly walk, he proceeded with a barrage of his usual observances, culminating in a loud rendition of "Who put the cunt in Scunthorpe?"

Uncle Les then started to nervously and fervently plead with my dad: "Harry, will you shut the fuck up before you get our heads kicked in." Unfortunately for me, on this occasion, I'd forgotten the shovel.

For all the embarrassment he sometimes caused me, I consider myself very lucky. He giveth me life, and eyes, to see my beloved: Grimsby Town FC. It was a very sad day when he passed over to give some well-meant grief upstairs.

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