A Yorkshire Almanac Comprising 366 Historical Extracts, Red-letter Days and Customs, and Astronomical and Meteorological Data
The main stand at Valley Parade in 1982 (Daniels 1982/11/03).
Martin Fletcher. 2015. Fifty-six. London: Bloomsbury Sport. Get it:
.When I reached G Block, I overheard an old man talking to a police officer by the stairwell. “I can smell something burning under my seat, but I just can’t put my finger on it,” he said. Although his words were unusual enough to echo in my ears, I walked on. As I sat back down, I remember checking the time on the clock in the corner of the Midland Road terrace and Bradford End. It was 3.40pm. I was just about to open my cola when the tiniest trail of mysterious white smoke began to rise from the front of our seating section. “What’s that?” one supporter asked. Nobody had any idea, and bafflement grew as the smoke did. “Piss on it, piss on it, piss on it!” those on the paddock on our left started to chant. “What a pity I’ve just been – I could have put that out!” I announced, to wry smiles all round. Over the next minute or so the small white cloud of smoke slowly expanded. “Bradford’s burning, fetch the engines … fire fire, fire fire. Bradford’s burning …” sang the paddock.
To facilitate reading, the spelling and punctuation of elderly excerpts have generally been modernised, and distracting excision scars concealed. My selections, translations, and editions are copyright.
Abbreviations:
It is curious that the Wikipedia entry for the song is entitled “Scotland’s burning,” when I think even in Scotland people know it as “London’s burning.”
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When I reached G Block, I overheard an old man talking to a police officer by the stairwell. “I can smell something burning under my seat, but I just can’t put my finger on it,” he said. Although his words were unusual enough to echo in my ears, I walked on. As I sat back down, I remember checking the time on the clock in the corner of the Midland Road terrace and Bradford End. It was 3.40pm.
I was just about to open my cola when the tiniest trail of mysterious white smoke began to rise from the front of our seating section. “What’s that?” one supporter asked. Nobody had any idea, and bafflement grew as the smoke did.
“Piss on it, piss on it, piss on it!” those on the paddock on our left started to chant. “What a pity I’ve just been – I could have put that out!” I announced, to wry smiles all round.
Over the next minute or so the small white cloud of smoke slowly expanded.
“Bradford’s burning, fetch the engines … fire fire, fire fire. Bradford’s burning …” sang the paddock.
201 words.
The Headingley Gallimaufrians: a choir of the weird and wonderful.
Music from and about Yorkshire by Leeds's Singing Organ-Grinder.