In memory of my brother, Donald Dykes, who died on 14.5.2008, and used to be the popular head steward of a football supporters social club.

I've been trying to remember how it was that I ended up working behind the bar at Dean Court, the football ground in Bournemouth, and I think I've figured it out. Approximately, despite my memory getting less efficient over the subsequent hours, it was 4:54pm on Saturday January 8th, 1984. It's possible, however, it was actually 4:55pm.

We'd just had a cup tie against some team called Mancaster Eunichs, or something like that. Their manager, a certain Rowan Atkinson, had opined on telly the previous evening that it was good to start their defence of the FA Cup with a comfortable tie, rather than having to face Evertown, Liverpond or other such teams.

His players responded by discussing this theme for around an hour, and not doing very much else. Bored of listening to them, Milton Graham wondered what might happen if he kicked the ball in the direction of their goal. For unclear reasons, Man Eunichs had a panda looking after their goal named Gary Bailey. At least, judging by his complete inability to catch a cold on that day, let alone a ball, I presume he was a goalpanda. Human hands are much more flexible than panda paws. This development proved ever so popular with many of the assembled. 1-0 to Boscombe. The visiting comedian was reminded that, indeed, "we're only third division!" Oh, and mention was made that he was fat and round and bounced along the ground.

Not wishing to take that sort of affront sitting down, the Eunichs sat down metaphorically speaking, and discussed whether putting the ball past a panda constituted a breach of wildlife protection legislation or some such, and if their manager was perhaps somewhat rotund and bouncy. Indeed, so bouncy, that Brian Robson completely failed to bring the ball under control two minutes later in the middle of the Eunichs' vulnerable parts. A Salisbury schoolteacher named Ian Thompson sauntered over and kindly demonstrated how round objects might be kicked in some direction or other. 2-0 to Boscombe. And the panda was jolly unjolly.

Realizing that the jokes weren't running in accordance with his script, the star comedian hit upon a cunning plan by introducing Gordon Strachan. He was in the sort of mood that left our midfield nearly in tatters. Strachan almost single-footedly overwhelmed us with a demonstration of extraordinary ball control and masterful ballance. He was almost too good for our midfield. Fortunately, he was far too good for his team mates. His magnificent passes were met with looks of astonishment from the other Eunichs and, instead of running after the ball, they stood their ground and applauded generously. This form of appreciation wasn't appreciated by the maestro, and his enthusiasm soon departed to seek a deck chair on the local beach.

One of the Sunday papers summarized the rest of the match rather well. I think it was the Express, but we read all of them twenty of thirty times, including those that subsequently arrived from Japan and Denmark. At least, we tried to read the one from Denmark and got the gist of things. The journalist related of old men in the stand hugging each other as they leapt up and down singing 'here we go, here we go, here we go'.

The scene in the bar after the disposal of the Man Eunichs was bedlam. It wasn't standing room only. There wasn't enough room to stand. It was shoulder-to-shoulder chaos, with the whole scrum presumably kept upright by: a. there not being enough room to fall over; and b. being somehow wedged in by the doorposts at the opposite ends of the room. You couldn't be crushed in a situation like that due to the lack of space for crushing to occur. Conditions behind the bar, as far as could be assessed, were reportedly rather like those in the trenches of the Somme.

At some stage, I think it was roughly 4:54 pm but it could've been 4:55 or, conceivably, even 4:53, a voice reached me from the other side of the bar-ricade: 'Little B, d'you want a job?" I think I was then somehow hurled in the general direction of the Wadworth's 6X pump and, somehow or other, found the latent ability to squeeze five pints at a time out of the thing whilst simultaneously adding up, balancing empty glasses on my head, wading and sliding through the slops oh, and yes, hugging somebody or other whilst leaping up and down singing 'here we go, here we go, here we go!'

Unusually for those times, the Man Eunich players didn't pop in for a post-match pint.

TD Dykes; putting the in before sanity

Ktdykes@arcor.de