PLYMOUTH ARGYLE - Entertaining Fans

You know the feeling, you’ve decided against your better judgement to go to Burnley, you’re 2-0 down as usual, and the car’s miles away. Wasted day, except suddenly a lone voice pipes up GREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEN ARMY, and all’s right with the world.

As a Plymuff fan Noddy was a constant in my footballing life. In the early 80s I lived in Lancaster, and although I didn’t catch him amongst the 30,000 Argyle fans at Villa Park in our only Cup Semi Final appearance on an April Saturday, he was a comforting sight in the away end at Burnden Park 3 days later. Bolton’s lowest post war league crowd of 3,226 didn’t deter Noddy decked out in Green and White hat, scarf, shirt, and only Noddy could see the humour in the 50 of us being attacked with half bricks by the local scallywags in the car park (bombsite) next to the ground.

Everyone knew Noddy, he usually travelled to away games thumbing lifts, and inside or outside the ground he would always appear and would always be singing. Once in the mid 80s I was late arriving at Upton Park and as we had filled our allocation, the constabulary ushered us into some seats in the home stand where we tried to look inconspicuous. Noddy arrived and sang his heart out so that long before 90 minutes the locals had given up telling him to “shaat aap” and had gone elsewhere.

Sadly, he’s now gone to join the Green Army in the sky, but at his funeral the church was full of fans, players and the manager.

Late 80s, early 90s, I would always scan the fixtures for a game against a team including a reference to a toupee in their name. Wigan or Barnet meant an appearance from the Bruce Forsyth Appreciation Society, a group of 10 – 20 lads with false moustaches, matching T shirts and a small piece of dark brown carpet tied to their heads, who would move around the away end greeting the Green Army with “Allright my love” and other famous Brucie catchphrases.

Though not as famous, most home fans in the Devenport End know the composer, a chap down the front with darting eyes and a manic grin, who as soon as any singing started, would turn around and do an Andre Previn impression.

More recently there’s a great big bear of guy in a Russian hat who likes a pre- match tincture and sings his heart out. When we played Leeds he was more relaxed than usual and nodded off, until just before half time he threw up over his little boy and his mate in front of him. Well we’ve all been there, and in his words, “Guilty as charged. Plumbed the depths that day I'm afraid. A road to Damascus moment though. Haven't had a drink since. Trying to stay alive long enough to be able to teach my son James all things Argyle”. Keep it Green.