The Blame Game by Roger Fitton

D3D4 Morecambe correspondent Roger Fitton talks about the perils of being a writer and compares the catering experience at the Globe to that of Forest Green’s New Lawn…

The Blame Game.

One of the risks of sticking your head above the parapet and committing your thoughts to all and sundry in the way I am doing now is the occupational hazard of having it knocked off on a regular basis. Know-it-Alls of every conceivable size and IQ correct every little mistake they perceive you’ve made: ‘Their is too Ls in the word Paralell not won’ and other priceless little gems of the same ilk, for instance. Others take the opportunity to rant and rave about stuff which often seems to be in their own heads and has absolutely nothing to do with what you’ve actually written. But hey ho – there we go; it takes all sorts. I remember the first editor I ever had warning me:

“You’ll have to develop a thick skin” before she reconsidered. “Actually – in your case, just being thick is probably good enough!”

So I usually deliberately  ignore all negative comments I receive: responding to Numpties makes you a Numpty yourself in my opinion.

However, I’m going to make an exception and share with you all a response I got on Shrimpsvoices – the Morecambe FC fans’ forum – last week. I’d travelled the eight miles from home to the Globe Arena last Saturday only to discover that the game between Morecambe and Chesterfield had been postponed five hours earlier. I posted an article on this site (http://d3d4football.com/d3d4-match-reports-10022018/) making the point that if this had been a Premiership match, the world and his wife would have heard about it. Repeatedly. Ad Nauseum. My title “Only the Premiership Matters, Apparently” was a bit of a clue for those of us too dull-witted, drunk or dense to actually get it.

I was gratified by the responses I got on this site – particularly the one from Dave Dove which hit the nail right on the head.  D3D4 Editor James posted a link to this article on Shrimpsvoices and the responses there largely echoed what had been written elsewhere. Except one. This was from someone styling themselves as ”The Marksman” and this is the relevant bit of it:

“He’s got to accept personal responsibility for not checking himself before making the journey… Human instinct is always to justify our own actions and look for someone else to blame…”

My initial response when I first read this was to wonder what Mr Mark S Man does for a living. A Policeman, Traffic Warden or Clergyman perhaps?  No – the grammar was too precise for a Copper. Traffic Wardens, on the other hand, have trouble spelling anything that doesn’t say `Penalty Notice’ let alone big words such as `blame’. (OK – big words for them…) And the remarks were far too judgemental for a current Man (or Woman) of the Cloth, begging your pardon Your Popeship. So a teacher is my best bet. Probably with very young children who are unlikely to answer back and are easily intimidated anyway. Yes – almost certainly a teacher but equally definitely someone who is used to professionally wagging his finger at other people in a particularly holier-than-thou manner.

What this gentleman had written has absolutely nothing to do with the point I was making. Why do some people persist in doing this? Can they not actually read? Have they nothing better to do? Probably not. If they had the brains, they would probably blame Michael Fish for the fact the pitch was waterlogged in the first place – he was once a weatherman after all, wasn’t he? But why would anybody bother making a remark as pointless and unhelpful as the one I have just quoted? I mean…

But then the penny dropped.

Pearls Before Swine, Mr Marksman: at least as far as I was concerned.

So I would like to take the opportunity to publicly apologise to this gentleman for my own gross stupidity which I can assure him I will never repeat. Ever. I would also like to thank him for these actually very profound words of wisdom:

Human instinct is always to justify our own actions and look for someone else to blame.

It is not an exaggeration to say that this simple sentence has literally transformed my life. So much so that in Mr Mark’s honour, I am thinking of starting a new political party to celebrate it. The Mark’s-ist Party. (I’ve even thought of a slogan for this which I will share with you later.) But for now, I am going to describe my new, enlightened approach to life as that of a Neo Mark’s-ist . Which I hope the following article will suitably amply illustrate…

I realise now that the account I gave of what happened last week was actually an obviously thoroughly transparent attempt to blame other people for my own abject foolishness. Mea Culpa. Having what was actually a pleasant conversation outside the Globe Arena along the lines of ‘well – there you go’ with another fan from Carnforth was obviously a mistake. Mea maxima culpa. If only I knew then what I belatedly understand now, this conversation could have taken a totally different course.

For instance:  in reality, my fellow fan said to me – politely and with a certain amount of bemused sangfroid – that the game was postponed, adding: “The floodlights being off is a bit of a clue!”

Instead of making whatever banal response I did to this, I should instead have taken this opportunity to stand on the soapbox which I resolve here and now to carry with me at all times from this moment forth. (A Megaphone to go with this is not compulsory for Mark’s-ist Party members but it is recommended.) Then I could have said (after taking a deep breath – a very deep breath):

“Did you not check with Morecambe Football Club’s web and Facebook pages,  Twitter, Snapchat, Whatsapp, Radio Lancashire Online;  Thomas Snackaknacker dot com;  Chesterfield’s web pages and Twitter feed; the Met Office and Jonah the Sailor’s Alternative Shipping Forecast like any sensible person would before setting out today?  What’s the matter with you? ”

“No” he would have admitted. “I did so last time they were at home though – but I won’t ever do it again!”

“Why not?”

“Because it took me such a long time to check everything that the game was over by the time I’d finished!”

On second thoughts though, the tone of this is not sufficiently blame-soaked in my own very humble Mark’s-ist opinion. So how about this instead?:

He tells me the game is off and I reply: “This is obviously your fault, you complete prat! Did you not think to check before setting off?”

To which he would respond: “As you obviously did yourself, Mister Smart Arse! Human instinct is always to justify our own actions and look for someone else to blame!”

Yes – that’s more like it! (Although – given that pomposity seems to be a key part of being a proper Mark’s-ist – Doctor Smart-Arse would have been a bit more respectful…)

So – armed with my new-found ideological approach to dealing with life’s little problems – I decided to face the day when the Shrimps entertained Forest Green Rovers at the Globe for the first time ever.

I was going to write a parallel (please note – three Ls and two actually in the right place) report to the one I submitted last year ( http://d3d4football.com/the-forest-green-rovers-experience-by-roger-fitton/) about Morecambe’s visit to the Green Devils. I intended to contrast the catering arrangements at both clubs: Totally Vegan against Totally Against Anything That Doesn’t Contain Meat, for instance.

(Picture ! Vegans obviously don’t need a lot of choices, do they?)

A picture of the Menu under the Main Stand where I ended-up today, perhaps.

Maybe a contrast between the really decent pint of organically brewed local beer available at Nailsworth in a biodegradable container as opposed to the fizzy keg multinational sludge in a plastic cup on offer to the ordinary punters like myself at Morecambe away from the main bars. I thought I’d take some photos of FGR supporters actually sitting under a roof here in sunny Lancashire.

(There they are – right in the far distance, all 95 of them) Yes – sitting and a roof. (At the risk of stating the obvious, a roof is a thing that protects people from the weather. I mention it only because at the New Lawn, this is clearly a foreign concept.

There, away fans have not only to stand but also do this in the open and brave the elements weather – that should be `whether’ – they like it or not). But thanks entirely to Mr Marksman, I’m now going to take a very different approach to the one I took then.

So here we go:

At two o’clock on Saturday, I dialled 999 and asked for the local Coast Guard as a sensible precaution before setting out (I realise now that you can never be too careful as far as the weather is concerned).  Then I rang the Globe Arena and asked to speak to Mr James Bentley personally to make sure the match was on. Although Mr Bentley was unaccountably unavailable, I was able to ascertain that the match was due to go ahead as originally scheduled today as well. As I say – better to be safe than sorry.

Then I carried-out my routine seventy-five mechanical checks on my bicycle before oiling all moving parts, including my knees. Next, I very carefully attached my nice pink safety helmet and put on my actually dazzling yellow reflective jacket. Finally, I adjusted my mud deflectors before ensuring my bike’s bell and stabilizers were working properly – and set off. Well, actually I didn’t. I’d forgotten to tick all the relevant boxes on my very own Safety Checklist before I started out. And we all know who’d get the blame if anything was to go wrong as a result of this unforgivable oversight, don’t we?

In truth, one of my stabilisers had fallen off. Well, I say `fallen off’. That’s not exactly accurate. It was actually knocked off…

There I was, one minute, minding my own business cycling along and next thing, there’s an old woman lying on the ground next to her walking stick and a shopping trolley thing (you know, a bag on wheels of the sort favoured by many elderly ladies.) And the contents of this thing were spilled all over the pavement next to her. Oh – and a young man carrying a bag from nearby Tesco’s who happened to be passing appeared and seemed to be shouting at me.

“It’s a criminal offence to ride a bike on a pavement!” he yelled from across the street as he hurried to assist the woman lying on the ground. “It’s maybe acceptable for little kids to do so – but not for a man of your age!”

“Does – does it look bad?” I asked him as he tried unsuccessfully to help the woman back onto her feet.

“Yes – we need an ambulance. I think you’ve broken her hip!”

“Not her!” I said in true Mark’s-ist style, “My stabiliser! Do you think it could be fixed?”

But he was already on his mobile phone, requesting emergency assistance. Mobile phone? – now, there’s a thought!…

I got my own out and took a surreptitious photo of him leaning over the old lady, who was gently moaning and asking for someone called Archie. Then, noticing that one of the things which had fallen out of her bag was a purse, I picked it up whilst the self-styled Good Samaritan – or Busybody if you ask me – was still distracted. There were two ten pound notes in it and a bit of change – probably the only thing between this old aged pensioner and total penury. But that’s her look out, isn’t it? – we Mark’s-ists can’t afford any bourgeois values like sentiment or empathy for others to get in the way of the bright new world we want to build for everyone, can we? I pocketed the notes and took a pound coin out of the change, leaving just a few coppers. Precisely the right amount to buy me a ticket for Section E of the Main Stand at the Globe Arena…

As the young man was still distracted, I slipped the purse into his Tesco bag. He stood up the moment I had done this and demanded to know what the hell I thought I was doing, running defenceless old ladies down as they went about their business without being any trouble to anyone.

“Hold your horses, Saint John!” I replied. (Saint John: ambulances; First Aid; selflessly helping other people and all that nonsense.) “She must have seen me coming! She should have got out of my way! Anyone would think she was blind or something!”

The young man pointed at the old woman’s walking stick, lying alongside her on the pavement. It was white…

“And I repeatedly rang my bell at her! You’re surely not suggesting she was deaf as well are you?”

The young man pointed at the walking stick again. It had three red stripes around the bottom of it. Now what did that signify?

In the depths of my memory, I vaguely recalled reading something about this in the Highway Code shortly after the rule about having a man with a Green Flag walking in front of your jalopy was abolished. What did it mean again?

Was it a warning to low-flying small dogs?

Or – talking about warnings – did they signify that the owner was on her final one as far as her right to actually possess a white stick was concerned? (You know – three stripes and you’re out? That’s right, isn’t it?)

Or maybe it means that – ah; and then I remembered:

“I don’t see what having a Three Star package with Saga has to do with it!”

“It means that she’s deaf as well as visually impaired, you idiot!” he yelled at me. Then, putting his hand to his mouth as if he might have offended her, he indicated to me to be quiet.

“If the old bat’s deaf, there’s not much point, is there?” I retorted at the top of my voice.

He looked as if he was about to hit me but my bacon was saved by the arrival of the Emergency Services. An Ambulance was approaching from one direction and a police car from the other. As the paramedics carefully placed the elderly lady on a stretcher and took her away, PC Plod took the young man and me to one side and asked us to explain what had happened.

“This idiot here” said the young fellow, pointing at me, “Was riding his bike on the pavement! He simply ploughed into the old lady and flattened her!”

“Hold on a second!” I protested. “I repeatedly rang my bell to warn her to get out of the way!”

The young man pointed again at the old lady’s stick.

“Well – being blind isn’t going to stop her hearing his bell!” said the policeman.

“It has three stripes on it as well” said the young man, pointing again at the stick.

This was not a good thing to say. The policeman looked first puzzled and then alarmed. The stick had three stripes right enough. But was there such a thing as a Sergeant as far as walking sticks were concerned? If there were, it merely reminded him that – after twenty-five years as a beat Bobby – three stripes were still eluding himself personally. This was not a happy thought. But then he belatedly seemed to understand what the young man was driving at.

“I don’t see what having a Three Star package with Saga has to do with it!” he said to him. “Now let’s see what the other gentleman has to say for himself.”

I was ready for this. I already had my phone in hand, open at the Gallery page.

“Human instinct is always to justify our own actions and look for someone else to blame!”

That’s why he’s lying to save his worthless hide, Officer! I stopped like the good citizen I always attempt to be to intervene as this vicious thug assaulted the poor little old lady and attempted to steal all her worldly possessions.”

As the young man started to vigorously protest, I provided the evidence of the assault on my screen, which clearly showed this man bending over the old woman as she lay on the ground.

Then I suggested that the Officer might be interested to look in the young man’s Tesco bag and try to explain the presence of the old woman’s most prized possession – her purse – in it. Which the policeman duly did. So as the young man was dragged away in handcuffs loudly protesting that he had been a victim of a miscarriage of justice, I allowed myself a particularly self-satisfied smile. This new Mark’s-ist way of treating people was going down a storm! Now I knew where I had been going wrong for the last half century and longer!

Once I’d got home and repaired the stabiliser, I was off again.

I eventually cycled the eight miles to the Globe Arena as I often do. But I felt even more sanctimonious about this than usual because of something that happened on the way. I came across a fellow cyclist and Shrimps supporter who had come to an unplanned and unwelcome stop by the Golf Club about two miles from the stadium. It’s really windy on this exposed bit right by the sea and today, it was bitterly cold into the bargain. The cyclist had a flat back tyre.

“Can you help me? I’ve just run over a bit of glass!” he said when I stopped.

Now normally, I would get the puncture repair kit which I carry in my pannier and help him fix the flat tyre. If he didn’t know how to do it, I would show how to get the tyre off, find the puncture hole in the inner tube and how to repair it as I did so myself. Then I’d re-inflate it with the dinky little pump I also carry with me on all journeys.

But not today…

“Can I help you?” I repeated in my most superior and scornful Mark’s-ist manner, “I most certainly can! In the future, think ahead and prepare for all eventualities my good fellow!”

Then I rode off and left him there to freeze to death, confident that I had applied the precisely correct Mark’s-ist Party Line in a situation of this sort. I’m sure the Marksman himself would be proud of the way I had implemented this particularly helpful new approach to other people and their obvious failings. A bit of glass, indeed! But Human instinct is always to justify our own actions and look for someone else to blame, isn’t it? Yes, even if this someone actually turns out to be a piece of broken bottle…

When I finally arrived at the Morecambe FC stadium, it was to discover that the very attractive and friendly female operative who sold me a ticket for today’s match had a problem printing it.

“Technology’s  been playing-up today! ” she said apologetically. I was about to say something suitably sympathetic in reply but caught myself just in time, thank goodness.

“It may be human instinct” I snapped, “But don’t try and blame your own obvious incompetence on the machinery!  Rest assured I will be raising this issue with your superiors! ”

Well that told her, didn’t it? Yea Mark’s-ism!

Inside the ground, I bought a programme from a young lad whose hands were so full of change and this particular merchandise that he dropped my copy on the floor. The dirty floor. By instinct, I found myself bending to pick it up but fortunately I again stopped myself just in time.

“I’m not having that one!” I yelled in his face; “It’s filthy!” This gave him such a shock that he promptly dropped all the rest of them on the floor as well. And I’m sure his instinct will be to justify doing this and looking for someone else to blame, the moron…

I became aware of a small crowd gathered round a TV screen nearby, watching football on Sky. I couldn’t hear what was being said. And today – armed with my new Mark’s-ist philosophical outlook – this was a situation which I was no longer prepared to tolerate. This was somebody’s fault, after all…

So I found myself shouting at the individual I deemed to be responsible for this. People stopped. People stared.

“Human instinct is always to justify our own actions and look for someone else to blame!”

I shrieked into this individual’s ear “But this is YOUR fault and I expect you to take responsibility for it! Do I make myself clear? ”

Well – whether I had or not, I’m not really sure – the little girl I was yelling at was only about five I should think. She just stared back at me with terrified saucer-like eyes – and then burst into tears. But thanks to Mark’s-ism in action, it’s a lesson she will have learnt for life, as I loudly suggested to her distraught Mother when it actually happened. She will thank me for this in time, Mark (sic) My Words, she really will! (As promised earlier, Mark My Words is our new Party Slogan – pretty catchy, isn’t it?)

Well – she’ll thank me for it as soon as she stops crying and her Post Traumatic Shock syndrome is finally addressed, I suppose.

I pushed into the queue for beer next, right at the front, ignoring the protests of people who had been patiently waiting for ages. Queuing is for losers after all – or “Queuesers is for Losers!” as I sneered at the time before turning to the barman.

“A pint of hand-crafted organic IPA my man!” I demanded. (If it’s good enough for FGR, it’s…) He looked blank. So I repeated my demand. He looked even blanker and proffered me a can of Carling instead.

“You are to blame for this, you clod! Human instinct is always to justify our own actions and… Oh – what’s the point? Get out of my way! ”

So saying, I elbowed my way to the front of the adjoining queue for food.

“Give me the vegetarian option!” I commanded the woman behind the counter. She looked dumbfounded.

“Get the Supervisor!” I yelled.

So she did. This woman was familiar. The mascara; the false eyelashes; the tattoo of an Anchor; the rippling biceps… Just like that Prop Forward in the Castleford versus St Helens match Way Back When in the 1970s…

“What do you think this is – Forest Green Rovers?” she yelled in a very strong Yorkshire accent through her fag ash. “We don’t have a vegetarian option ‘ere Sweetheart for Plebs like you tha’ knows! At this bit of the Globe Arena you either tek it… or you leave it!

(Unless you `ave a spare forty-eight quid for the full Vegan works in’t posh bit wi’ Nobs).”

(She almost whispered this to me at this point and actually looked slightly embarrassed to admit that she was contractually obliged to impart this information.)

“This is an outrage!” I protested, “Human instinct… ”

“Save it Sonny Jim!” she retorted, “I know: “Human instinct is always to justify our own actions and look for someone else to blame!” – I hear it every day of me wretched existence! If you’re a bleedin’ Veggie, that’s your fault!” (`Fault’? – surely the word was ‘choice’? ) “Your lot and Mr Spock mek me puke!”

Mr Spock? Wasn’t he a Vulcan?

“Vulcan; Vegan; Veggie – you’re all weirdos, the lot of you! Now bugger off before…”

“Before you send for Security!” I suggested sarcastically.

“I don’t need Security to deal with a Gret Big Pudding; like you!” she yelled (except that she didn’t actually use the words `Gret Big Puddin’;  just as she didn’t actually say `wretched’ in the bit quoted above either: the Editor made me remove the terms she actually used…)

And she didn’t need Security either. Grabbing the nearest object with one sweep of her brawny arm, (the one with the tattoo on it) she threw it at me from point-blank range with phenomenal power and accuracy.

Until this very moment, dear readers – despite an obvious hint in the last thing she’d said – it had not occurred to me that there might be a Mrs Marksman as well – and this Marksman scored a Direct Hit.

There’s nothing like a pie in the face to bring you to your senses. Particularly a steaming great lump of a hot one. Beats a Great Big Pudding any day. Irony upon irony, it tasted remarkably like spicy bean to me…

So, there and then, lying on the floor of the Globe Arena under the main stand, I unilaterally renounced my new found ideology and Party. Mark’s-ism is definitely only for those human beings whose instinct is always to justify their own actions and look for someone else to blame! Oh yes it is.

And if you don’t agree and think reading this article has been a complete waste of your time and effort, I’ve only one thing to say to you. No, it’s nothing to do with Human instincts or any of that twaddle. It’s much more succinct:

TOUGH CHEDDAR, LOSER! – IT’S YOUR OWN BLOODY FAULT!!!!

Thank you again, Mr Marksman.

My match report follows…

http://d3d4football.com/d3d4-match-reports-17022018/