… at which point Frank Clarke, not a man renowned for fanciful, flamboyant decisions, sent on a beautiful, lithe, athletic panther. Gathering the ball in it’s mighty paws, the panther streaked towards the Bridgford End goal, trailing colourful stars in his wake. A psychedlic submarine surfaced on the Trent, newspaper taxis appeared on the shore, time stood still and I lit up and enjoyed the entirety of a wholesome JPS. Still the panther headed goalwards, small munchkin-like humans with kaleidoscope eyes swatted aside, left trailing in his wake. The very grass glowed ever brighter and the Sun rose behind the Main Stand, as if to salute the panther, which, unleashed a flurry of incandescent silver orb-things goalwards, settling into the back of the bulging net.
Or so it seemed. What had actually transpired was that Stanley Victor Collymore had come on as sub, picked up the ball, gone half the length of the pitch and mightily smote one into the Bridgford End net, whilst my Dad and me observed from the Exec Stand upper tier. I don’t even recall the opposition. I think it happened, but I suppose it might not have. I remember the coming on, turn, run and shot, but perhaps not the outcome; Stan only came on as sub once, according to the records, but I can’t figure out who that was against and if he scored or not. In my defence, it all goes a bit weird when you end up at the match under the influence of magic mushrooms. What I definitely recall is turning to the old feller and actually, really, uttering the words, “Far out.” I also recall this being the one day in history where I out-smoked the old man, himself a prodigious smoker whose pre-match ritual was to call in at Ma’s Bar on Radcliffe Road, pick up 20 Rothmans and a pack of extra strong mints and still be trying to bum a ciggy off me before the end of a match.
(As a side note, I’m sure I once heard the mighty Frank Worthington describe scoring a goal on LSD and the ball turning into a dove. Beautiful.)
This peculiar event came back to me whilst reading a piece in yesterday’s Sunday paper (Observer) about the joys of getting drunk at the cricket - the Oval, to be precise, but it really applies to any cricket. The writer waxed lyrical about the various types of drunkenness that works so well at cricket - from full-on getting your kit off and streaking, finding players quirky little habits hilarious and fascinating through to gently falling asleep and waking up pink.
So that got me to levels of drunkenness at football and the realisation that I’ve never really been that far gone at a match and that it wouldn’t be a good thing anyway. Football, for me, isn’t great drunk. Save it for after! Which got me onto the mushrooms thing, which gets me neatly onto Stan Collymore.
Stanley, for all of his well-recognised weaknesses, was a force of nature, the like of whom I’ve not seen before or since. His career blossomed in 1994 and was dead by 2001. Stan was always open about his demons, depression in particular, but times were different. For example, Villa manager John Gregory said that just couldn’t understand how a footballer could be depressed.
Collymore arrived at Forest when things had been sliding horribly downhill. Teddy Sheringham had left, Nigel had left, Brian was gone, struggling with his own alcohol problems and we were newly relegated. Collymore set us alight, scoring 25 in that first season, including the legendary promotion clincher at Peterborough. Stan didn’t seem to score ordinary goals; it was almost always get ball, turn, run, give ball a mighty wallop with the laces, curled top right, driven bottom left. Stan was football on steroids. Stan made it look easy. Stan was…. The Man.
First season (94-5) back up in the Premier League and there was still no holding him. He scored in the first home match, live on Sky v Man Utd, a shot from just outside the box, which beat Peter Schmeichel on his near post. Stan went on to get another 21 league goals that season, including a beauty at Old Trafford and two in the 7-1 away win at Wednesday. Just look at the reaction fo the Wednesday fans in the clip, part of Stan’s top ten below. A standing ovation. In fact, Wednesday’s fans were terrific all-round that day.
It wasn’t to last. Stan never stayed anywhere for too long, nowhere more than 3 years, in fact. Liverpool came a calling and he was sold. Not before his brilliance had spearheaded us to a fantastic 3rd place and European football though. He’d briefly lit up our lives. He burnt bright and fast, like all the best rock and roll heroes. Stan's ‘replacement’, Pierre van Hooijdonk briefly promised to help us get over Stan, but there’s another story. I don’t think we’ve ever got over Stan. Never replaced him. In the intervening years, his (2x) 25 goal seasons have only been bettered by: PvH (34) and David Johnson (29). None in the top division. Come to that, Lewis Grabban is the only other top scorer with 20 or more.
I’m not going into Stan’s problems, which many seem to still enjoy baiting him for, He attracts a certain kind of abuser online, along with a lot of hero-worship. Stan can mention anything, famine in sub-Saharan Africa, and someone will throw ‘wife-beater’ at him. Often (I’ve checked) people who will gladly praise other more recent players who have been convicted of violence or sexual misconduct. Stan was ill. Stan made bad choices. He’s entitled to rehabilitation and understanding. He’s entitled to be allowed to continue to improve his mental health without sniping and continual reference to his past.
It is clear that Stan still has a lot of love for Forest and I think, deep down, maybe not even that deep, most of us have for him too.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=14xKg5lXWP4 - The 7-1 at Wednesday
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UxBwjEiloEM - compilation of Stan’s Top Ten for Forest
Loving Stans top ten! Proper legend