The Kidd's Alright

A Memory of Moston.

THE KIDD IS ALRIGHT

The daylight had faded away and dusk was now dim enough to coax the streetlights to pop on, their vague orange light slowly getting brighter as their bulbs warmed. Meanwhile inside the Hamblett family home on Lakin Street a little boy stood, buttoning up his black duffle coat. His mother is at the kitchen table writing on the back of an envelope, coins stacked neatly next to her scribbling hand.

“Brian, I’m putting the money in the envelope, don’t take it out, just give it to Mrs Kidd.” she said while physically showing me the money going into the envelope.

“Okidoki!” I replied merrily as I tried to work out why there was no buttonhole left for my last button.

“Oh, Brian, come here. You’ve done your coat up all wrong. I do worry about you! When will you start grasping the basic things in life like laces, buttons or zips?”

“Oh yeah.” I realised my mistake and began unbuttoning until my mother took control.

“...and look!” she pointed at my trousers, zip down and white y-fronts plainly on view.

“Sorry, but its not my fault!” I insisted.

“Is it not? Whose fault will this be? The zip fairy? The buttons themselves? Is that the fault of the duffle coat company? Fancy them lining up the buttons with the button...holes? What sort of stupid system is that?” she continued as she zipped and buttoned me up. I looked on with disdain, quietly pulling my tongue out at the top of her head.

When I was wrapped up and had no privates were left on parade she pulled my hood up and covered my hair, then gently patted my head.

“Now, here’s the money,” she put the envelope in my pocket, “...and here is the bag, plates, and a mug, please don’t spill the gravy!” she held my shoulders as she spoke and locked eyes “Do...not...swing...the bag!” she nodded waiting for a response in like.

“Okay mum, I’m not stupid.” I said unconvincingly.

“Let me finish that sentence for you, Brian, I’m not stupid...all the time!” she stood up straight and felt her back, a groan left her lips.

“I know you’re not! he he.” she gave me her withering look which I ignored. “By the way I’m not stupid...at all! I just forget things. My mind is busy a lot of the time, and no one who is interesting is ever clean or has their zips done up all the time. Them people who is organised and clean and smart..well, they have nothing going on in their lives. I’d rather think about space travel, football or arm-wrestling than whether me fly is done up or not!” I walked, swinging the bag towards the front door, my football was just showing from under the sideboard, my left foot niftily dragged it out.

“Hey, no football, and when the gravy is in there, remember, don’t swing the bag!” mum said in exasperation.

“I’ll be okay with the ball, I need to practice as much as possible if I’m going to be a top footballer...and I can swing it now, there’s no gravy in there, so stop stressing...ouch!” the bag suddenly connected with my right knee and the heavy, dinner plated, shopping bag carried some weight.

“Serves you right, clever clogs. Now be careful crossing Lightbowne Road, pick the ball up before you cross and use the zebra, look both ways, don’t just run across...are you listening, young man?”

“Yeah, you said blah di blah...careful, blah di blah...don’t run...blah di blah...keep your eyes closed when you cross, all the obvious things that anybody does anyway!” I laughed at the glowering face that met my answer, mum didn’t do stern very well, it was like John Inman trying to be Clint Eastwood….Dirty Harry? More ‘make your bed,’ than ‘make my day!’

“I think you need to show a little more respect, Brian, it’s not funny saying things like, I’m going to ‘keep my eyes closed’ to cross the road! And what’s with this Blah di blah!? Is that what Stewart’s teaching you? Stay away from that child!”

“I’m only joshing, mum. I’ll be careful, I’ll not talk to any people with strange puppies and I’ll look both ways...twice...with my eyes open when I cross the road, promise!”

“Good, now go, before there’s a queue. Do you want any bread?”

“To take with me? Yes please, with jam or cheese or...what?”

“I mean….do you want bread with your fish and chips when you get back!” she shook her head in despair.

“Course I do, you can’t have fish and chips without bread and real butter!” I smiled as mum opened the door, squeezed past and out into the darkening evening.

I could hear the plates rattling loosely against each other in the bag as I walked and they were in really serious danger when I ran across the unchecked, main road, chasing the ball I’d forgotten to pick up. The noise became a major clattering as they threatened to beat themselves to death in my sprint for the wayward ball, but they survived as did I. One block down on the opposite side of the road, a shop window suddenly flickered with light and the door was pulled open letting steam escape out and upwards..a minute or so later I entered that door to Kidd’s chippy. The warm light and evocative smell of fried food welcomed me in as did the proprietor, the ever lovely Mrs Kidd.

“Hello Brian.” she said and a smile broke across her face, her fringe drooping down on her forehead as the perspiration and condensation playing havoc with her hair, she looked a little flustered with the manic preparation that was required for the Friday evening service. She mumbled as she looked at each department of her shop. I acknowledged her greeting as she wandered around behind the counter.

“Peas, done...fish in...sausages in...pies warmed...gravy...on…” she slowly wiped her brow with her right forearm and turned to face me. “...right Brian, I think we are all ready to go. Have you got a list off your mum?”

“Yep, the money’s inside.” I stood on tip toes and passed her my envelope.

“Two fish and chips and a portion of mushy peas and some gravy….pass me your bag, love.” she reached over and took the hessian bag. She placed the two plates on top of the fish fryer to warm and then looked over the counter at me.

“Guess who’s in the back of the shop!”

“Is it Giant Haystacks?” my eyes widened in anticipation.

“Who?” she asked, slightly bemused and taken aback by my rapid answer.

“Giant Haystacks, he’s a wrestler, and a giant. You must of seen him on World of Sport!”

“No, I’m always busy in here on a Saturday afternoon!” she explained.

“Oh yeah! You should get yourself a telly in here, he’s brilliant, no one beats him...ever!”

“I’m sure he is very good, but I’ve no time for telly on a Saturday, it gets a little mad in here. So you’re going to have to guess again, because it’s not him.”

“Is it….erm...Father Christmas? Bet he likes fish and chips!” my face lit up with hope, only two weeks until he was due down our chimney.

“No, its not Santa..I think I’d better just tell you, it may be quicker! It’s my son, he’s called Brian too!” she nodded her head to her right, towards the door where she chipped her potatoes.

“What? You mean there’s a footballer is in the shop? A famous one to boot, one that has scored a header in the European Cup Final!!” I pulled myself up so I could see more of the back room, but there was no sight of Brian Kidd.

“Yes, he is all that, but he also never tidied his room or put his dirty underpants in the basket...he was a right scruffy sod, to be honest!” she offered conspiratedly. “Brian, come and say hello to my favourite customer…” she called into the shadows of the back room.

A man emerged, he was tall and lean and a big beaming smile he had obviously inherited off his mother, spread across his face. But the thing that sticks in my memory more than anything was his hair! Skin and bone he was probably around six feet one inch, but his hair was right out of the Hair Bear Bunch, and added a good four inches to his height.

“Hello son.” his voice was warm, deep and Mancunian.

I stared in awe, words were a pick and mix in my head. They were all there, but they refused to knit together in a sentence.

“Woooah…!” I stammered.

“These are going to be a few more minutes, Brian.” Mrs Kidd said as she rustled the chips in the large range.

“Are you a United fan then, Brian?” the footballer asked.

“Err..yeah..look at your hair!” I said in amazement.

“I know, he pays nearly thirty pounds for a haircut in London and he comes out of the barbers with bigger hair, how does that work? More money than sense, if you ask me!” Mrs Kidd said without turning from the fryer.

“Mum, its not a barbers!” Kiddo explained with a beaming grin.

“I know its not! He’s a highwayman, daylight robbery. Come and sit down on this chair while I ‘tease’ your hair into a perm...oh, and leave your wallet by the till!” she said in disgust at the waste of money.

“I think it’s great!” I said to the tall footballer.

“Thank you! See mum, a man who knows where it’s at!” he said to his mothers back as she shovelled crisp, suntanned chips into the holding pan.

“Oh Brian! I thought you were sensible..now where do you get your hair cut?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Steptoes on Lightbowne Road, he’s rubbish, he can only do one haircut...and he always chops off my sideburns, it costs sixpence and its rubbish.”

“Your hair looks…” she turned and looked at the dark mop sat on my head, uncombed and unkempt...like a male Medusa...not snakes writhing around though...rat tails. “...well, you’re probably due a visit to the him very soon, get it cut nice and short, sensible, not all high falluting like Mr ‘Look at Me’ here.” she laughed as she thumbed a hand at her son and returned to her chip duty.

“Give over, mum. I’m still the same as ever, I just like my hair like this….me, high falluting!? Tssk!”

“What about them shoes, you look like you are on stilts...have you ever seen anything like them, hey Bri?” she asked me.

“I can’t see, I’m too small to see over the counter.” I was desperate to see the whole ensemble.

“Here….” she disappeared out of the door on her side of the counter and I heard an unbolting of the door on the customers side. “...quick in here before any other customers arrive.” I followed the proprietor in the flowered tabard into the back, rolling my ball slowly, foot to foot. She bolted the door again and told me to sit at a small table. “....Brian, show him them shoes.”

Kiddo walked into the back room, bending slightly so he didn’t bang his head. he wore cream flared trousers that touched the floor, hiding the shoes, so he had to pull the trouser leg up to reveal what my father would call ‘Claude Hoppers! A shoe with a heel of four inches and wedges under the sole of an inch or more.

“Ridiculous!” Mrs Kidd exclaimed as she returned to her chips. “...would you like a can of pop, Brian?”

“No thanks, mum.”

“Not you, little Brian!” she explained.

“Oooh, yes please, Dandelion please….hey, Kiddo….I love your shoes, there brilliant.”

“Ha, as I said before...a man with taste.” his laugh was deep, it didn’t go quite right with his beanpole exterior, it was the laugh of a heftier man I thought.

“Thank you, Mrs Kidd.” I said as she passed me a cold can of D&B.

The back door to the chippy was open to allow some of the condensation another escape route. It opened onto a backyard, flagged, with a green painted, wooden gate.

“Come on, lets have a kick about while you wait for your chips.” he held his hands out for my ball.

Like in a dream I followed this genial giant, striding like he had ten league boots on out into the dark yard.

“Why did you leave United Brian? You don’t mind me calling you Brian, do you?” the ball came at me like an exocet, hard and direct. I killed the ball instantly, it dropped dead at my right foot and I rolled it back to him a couple of hundred miles an hour slower, and slightly less accurately.

“No course not, that’s my name. United...errr...well I have and always will be a massive United fan...but...it’s just that my face didn’t fit anymore.” the ball flew towards me again and again, it was controlled easily.

“What? Like your head was too big to get through the shirt, is that ‘cos of your hair? Are Arsenal shirts bigger then?”

“No, its not because of my hair, good God, it’s not that big!” I looked at him doubtfully.

“Have you not seen your head in the mirror? It is proper ‘maffis’!” I tried to hit it back with a little more venom and took him by surprise, it hit him on the calf leaving a round, dark stain on his cream trousers.

“Sorry!”

“It’s fine.” he said rubbing at the mark, only making it worse. “Well I left United due to the management, I didn’t want to leave, but they wanted the money from selling me more than they wanted me! Arsenal and staying in the First Division, in the end it was a no brainer and it was sorted out for me by the money men before I had time to really think.”

“It’s a shame ‘cos we’re doing brilliant now in the Second Division, top of the league and Stuart Pearson is scoring loads of goals for us. He’s got normal size hair though!”

“Can we leave my hair out of this, please? I get enough grief off my mother and Bob w
Wilson, without a little kid having a go!” he laughed. He picked the ball up and offered to throw it high. “Head?”.

“Okay...no ‘purly curm’ talk any more.” I agreed. “Go on, high!” the ball was launched up and I headed it back into his arms. “Here, give us the ball Brian...how many can you do?” he bounced the ball to me and I immediately started flicking the ball up, from one foot to the other, not allowing any contact with the floor. I counted as I went, I reached 21 and had to overstretch and only ended up knocking the ball against Kiddo’s brilliant white shirt. Another circular mark.

“Sorry, but 22, not bad, hey? Bet you can’t do that in those...er...’canal boats’ you’re wearing!” he looked at me after he had perused his now smudged shirt.

“Here..” he wanted the ball.

“Bet you can’t do ten in them..hehe.”

Brian Kidd, professional footballer, Internationally capped and winner of the European Cup only a few years earlier was about to take me on in a keepy-uppy challenge...eek!

He held the ball and then threw it out in front of him with a back-spin on it. It hit the ground and the rotation brought it back towards him with the spin, he started well, easy if not nonchalantly. Same style, left foot, right foot...each contact keeping the reverse spin going so it always stayed close in to his body. He suddenly flicked it slightly higher than he wanted, but he controlled it nicely on his knee…(another stain!)...it dropped again to his feet and he continued with his ever so simple juggle.

I counted and as each number got higher a little despair entered my voice.

“14, 15, 11…!”

“Hey, thats 16 not 11, 18...19..!” he cried out, flustering him. He decided to continue the count himself.

“Brian….” his mothers call from the back door.

“Yes…” answered by both of us, followed by a slight miscontrol on the part of the biggest Bri, as he glanced up, the ball flying off at a tangent and hitting the window on the rear of the chippy.

“Hey, what have I told you about playing football in the backyard? Good God, Brian, how old are you…10?”

“11, Mrs Kidd!”

“Not you, that Hefferlump there!” she checked there was no cracks in the glass.

“Sorry mum.” the penitent footballer said.

“Brian...small Brian, your mum’s here, come on back in.” she turned and hastily returned to her work.

I walked back in, arms aloft, doing a little dance of victory.

“I beat Brian Kidd in keepy uppy..ha ha...sucker!!”

“Hey, kid, I was interrupted, watch this, come back. I can do that on my head, hey...kid…” I could hear the ball bumping off his head. “...are you watching, 12, 13…” I ignored it and walked back through the back of the shop and unbolted the door to find my mother stood there in her pink, fluffy flip floppy, slippers.

“Where have you been? I’ve been worried to death!”

“Whaaat?” I’ve only been five minutes, you don’t have to come looking for me after five minutes, I’m not a baby!”

“You’ve been half an hour!”

“Sorry Marie, it’s my fault, I let him meet my Brian. They’ve been playing….what the...look at the state of you!” she had just spotted her colossal son in the doorway. he ignored her and leant over the counter to me.

“Hey kid, 30 on my head and I could easily of done one hundred!” he held the ball over the counter, his hair was wet and flattened at the front onto his muddied forehead.

We all stood and stared for a second, his shirt blotched dark by the ball.

“Yeah? But did anyone see you do it?” I asked suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“No one saw it...so it doesn’t count...and that makes me the winner, Kiddo!”

“Brian, it’s Mr Kidd to you...hello.” mum nodded at the ‘dirty’ footballer.

“Look at you, trousers..ruined...shirt...ruined...hair...well that was a mess anyway!” his mother chastised him thoroughly.

“Will everybody leave my hair alone...I like it...okay?” he looked at each of us in turn then pulled out an afro comb to ‘tease’ the fringe back into place...quite unsuccessfully.

“Hey, Kiddo...erm, Mr Kidd, can I have your autograph?” I asked.

“Sure, but as long as you admit I did 30 on me head!” he laughed.

“Okay, you did 30..” I agreed reluctantly.

Meanwhile Mrs Kidd had wrapped our plated food in the News of the World and poured her treacle thick, gravy into the mug, all placed in the bag and handed back to mum.

Kiddo signed a large piece of white paper and passed it across to me...it read.

‘To Brian...the biggest cheat in Manchester, all the best...Brian Kidd...Mr. 30 headers!’

“Say thank you..” mum pushed me gently.

“Hey, I had my fingers crossed...so I’m still the winner..he he!” I declared.

“Brian...say thank you..” the push less gentle now.

“Thank you…(loser)..” I whispered with a smirk.

“I don’t believe you...have I brought you up to be rude to your elders...I’m so sorry?” she apologised to the Kidds.

“I’m not being rude, mum...just being honest…”

“It’s fine, he’s a good lad...he’ll make a good footballer.” he said to mum.

“Thank you. Right empty head...lets get home before these go cold, hey?” she bade farewell to mother and son and bustled me towards the exit.

“See you Mrs Kidd….see you Brian...don’t forget to tell Alan Ball and Peter Marinello you got beat by a little boy..he he.”

“Stop teasing him, Brian, its not nice…” I was finally hustled out of the door as I heard Mrs kidd laying into her son.

“Will you ever grow up? Come here, bend down….” through the big front window, the one with the Hollands meat pie sign hanging proudly, I saw her licking her handkerchief and wiping mud from his head.

“Hey, look mum, I hope you don’t do that to me when I grow up!”

“It’s what mothers always do...I’ll still be worrying about you when you’re 50!!!” she said as we strode home, slippers clip clopping while carefully keeping the bag horizontal, me kicking the ball against the wall and controlling it as it bounced just ahead of me.

“50!! I don’t think so. You’ll be about a hundred, won’t you?”

“Cheeky monkey, you can do some maths homework when you eaten your tea!” she laughed.

“I’ll do it when I’m eating my tea...I’ll count me chips...make sure I’ve got more than you...didn’t you say you was gonna start a diet?”

“No, I did not...I said I may cut back a little...that’s not a diet!”

“Ahhh...potatoes...tomato!” I misquoted the song.

“Just count your blessings...that should keep you busy until bedtime...potatoes...tomato?? Deary me, Brian, what on Earth are we going to do with you?”

“Hey, I beat Brian Kidd at keepy-uppy, you can’t knock that, mum, can’t knock that...at all!” I said proudly as I stepped in a large, moist dog turd. “Bugger..!”

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