Fanzines - Leon Bell

[evadne]

The thread about the death of fanzines prompted me to dig out the "Leon Bell" correspondence that featured in Banging With Manning. For those who were not around, the fanzine described Leon Bell as a dreadful player (or worse), who came on as sub for us in one match and was never seen again in an amber shirt. I'll post the later letters at regular intervals.

 

Leon Bell

 

Banging With Manning

 

7 May 1999

 

Dear Sir

 

A friend of mine, a Slough Town supporter, has just passed to me a copy of Issue Number 23 of your publication.

 

I have to take exception to your comments on my performance in Slough’s match against Fleet Town. I have a mate who works for Opta, who helps to compile their footballing statistics, who’d come along to see the game, hoping I’d get a run out. He said that, in the small amount of time I was on the pitch, I achieved a successful pass completion rate of 90.9%, tackles won 66.6% with 100% successful dribbles (admittedly only the one). If you look at the figures for most Premiership players, you will see that these compare very favourably.

 

I admit my career with Slough Town was very brief. Unfortunately, immediately after the match, I heard that my girlfriend had been involved in a serious accident in Palmers Green. Some idiot driving a Granada failed to negotiate the bend near the bottom of Bourne Hill, just before it runs into Green Lanes. By a huge and provident coincidence, my girlfriend and I share the same rare blood group. I was thus able to give her two pints (she lost about three in the accident, the doctors at the North Middlesex reckoned) but, because of my weakened state, I asked Paul Hardyman not to consider me for the replay.

 

The medics were marvellous and managed to save the life of the baby my girlfriend was carrying but my girlfriend (now my wife) spent the next six months unable to walk. Looking after her and the baby (who we named Bo, after Bo Derek) meant that football had to take a back seat – as, indeed, did my wife, her wheelchair and little Bo in our specially converted Renault Espace. You may be pleased to hear that both mother and baby are now doing fine.

 

In view of the abuse heaped upon me in your publication, you will understand that I am reluctant to let you know my new address. If you wish to apologise for your slur, I can be contacted via Tottenham Hotspur Football Club with whom I have just signed a three year contract. Alternatively, you could publish this letter and any response you care to make in the next issue of your journal.

 

Yours sincerely

 

 

Leon Bell

[brighton_rebel]

I'll dig up the article in our fanzine - Rebels without a clue - that got banned because it was so offensive to our old fat greasy git of an MP John Watts.

[mats]

brighton_rebel;

 

Just to let you know that your fanzine 'Rebel without a clue' even reached Sweden.

 

I got a few copies of it. It was a good read. In which year was it banned ?

[Guest]

We at BWM remember that! We make a comment that wasn't the first time we made in such a way about any player and wasn't the last and was any comment you may find in any fanzine across the country and he went off into one and mentioned things that had no releveance and not our fault. I can't really remember but we didn't sort of apologise, but stated as a paying fan we had the right to critisize. We did have further letters that actually if I remember were quite nice!

 

We almost got banned a coulpe of times too!

[Don Juan DeMarcus]

I remember the Rebels Without A Clue attack on John Watts-- I found the most amusing part of it was the following issue, where (Knowing they were about to be banned) The title on the front page was "The 5HIT HITS THE FANZINE" Did make me laugh..

[evadne]

This was the next letter - the clue to their voracity is in the names (apart from Leon):

 

8 September 1999

 

Letter from Leon

 

You may wonder why I have not figured in the line-up for Tottenham Hotspur this season, following the signing of my contract with them. Unfortunately, at the time of writing my previous letter, I had not yet had the medical. The day before I was to be assessed by the men in white coats at White Hart Lane, I was looking after my little daughter, Bo. I had just dumped her soggy Pampers in the swing bin and had left her lying on the changing mat on the work surface in our kitchen, airing her bottom, whilst I made myself a prawn and pickle sandwich. I was straining to open a new jar of Branstons, when the baby spotted a stray prawn. Her little fist stretched for it but she overreached and rolled off the edge of the mat. The mat flipped itself over – and the momentum took baby and mat plummeting towards the floor. I dropped the Branstons. Dived across. I just got my hands underneath Bo and saved her from smacking her head on the quarry tiles. Nodding a prayer in thanks, covered in glass and pickle, I levered myself upright. But, as I did so, a bolt of pain shot through my knee. Quarry tiles might be pretty and practical but they’re not the best surface for goalkeeping practice.

 

I slapped some ice on the throbbing joint and wore a blue ProSport elasticated support overnight, which I took off ten seconds before I knocked on the door of the medical room. Everything seemed to be going swimmingly, until they asked me to jog 800 metres on the running machine. I managed 623 before the knee gave way and the machine whipped me off its back and spread-eagled me onto the floor. The medics’ report said that I went down “like a ton of potatoes”. I thought that this was a bit harsh, although I have put on a couple of stone, due to the cortisone treatment for my psoriasis. The knee’s still in plaster, they’ve had difficulty realigning the patella.

 

My wife, Barbara, continues to improve. Bar was fit enough to go nightclubbing last week with my sister, Geraldine. Bar and Ger got chatting in Sluffs to a couple of former Slough Town players, Billy Fiore and Lee Endersby. They all got on the floor when Saturday Night Fever came on, strutting their stuff. Bar said that the lads had a very distinctive dancing style. They threw their arms around a bit but, basically, sort of just revolved on the spot. I told them, it’s like when you’re rowing a boat and you’ve lost an oar. You’re bound to go round and round in circles if you’ve only got the use of one leg.

 

Anyway, better sign off. I’ve got a mate who’s playing in Scotland at the moment. He reckons he can fix me up there, so long as I can put on a Scottish accent. So, och aye, I’m heading up to the land of the kilts for a trial as soon as the plaster’s been sawn off, provided I’ve completed the anti-tetanus course from when the dog bit me.

 

 

 

Leon Bell

[evadne]

Sorry, I meant veracity

[Crazy Fool]

Leon Bell. Bless.

I do not have in my possesion one copy of any of the Banging with Mannings. Quite stupid seeing it was my baby. I cannot remember my response to Leon's first letter? Does anyone have it, or does anyone want to put it on here?

All I know is, that he wrote the original letter after I did a players review and mine for his said ( I think ) 'He came, he played, who cares'

Now that IS heaping abuse on someone!!!

[evadne]

As I wrote last time, the veracity can be seen from the names:

 

Bo Bell, Bar Bell, Ger Bell and, below, Dessy Bell and (maiden name) Bar Barrick.

 

Anyway, here is the third "Letter from Leon".

 

15 November 1999

 

Letter from Leon

 

Greetings from Bonnie Scotland!

 

Life started off pretty well for me here in the Highland League. Brora Rangers is a friendly little club, although the playing conditions take some getting used to. The wind whipping off the North Sea is raw enough to turn your face blue and it plays havoc with your crosses from the wing. Though the kit lady says it does mean the shirts are only ten minutes on the line.

 

I suspended the cortisone treatment, so lost most of the weight I’d put on. The psoriasis has almost gone. There’s one remaining area of inflamed skin but if I need to hide it in a hurry, I only have to sit down. The kneecap still moves around a bit during a game, although it never goes far and hasn’t impaired the quality of my performances. I was voted Man of the Match for my first two outings (at home to Clachnacuddin in the Scottish Qualifying Cup and away to Fraserburgh in the league – unfortunately, we lost both) by the Brora Rangers’ Fanzine, “Rob Roy of the Rangers”.

 

I’ve had to come down a couple of steps, though, from the dizzy heights of those opening games…

 

First small problem came in my next match. I went up for a corner with the Buckie Thistle goalkeeper, who clouted me on the side of my head. The doctor said it’s a form of tinnitus and the whistling in my ears should die down eventually. Trouble is, I keep pulling myself up for offside, when the ref’s not even blown.

 

Secondly, a couple of weeks back, my brother Desmond came to visit. Dessy was watching the reserves at home to Wick Academy, when our ageing midfield dynamo got arrested, ten minutes before the break, for violating his parole, so Dessy went on for the second half. He tried to get on sooner but it is very difficult removing a shirt from someone while he’s handcuffed. Of course, my brother played a blinder. The gaffer decided to put him in the first team but they couldn’t afford to print any more shirts. So, as long as he’s wearing the one with BELL on the back, I’m in the Stiffs.

 

Our baby is now a toddler. Whilst I’m writing this letter, I can see little Bo peeping through the banisters. I’m playing the househusband while Bar is down in Urmston for her dad’s funeral. Old Tom Barrick was a lifelong Manchester United fan and his final wish was to be buried wearing United’s away shirt. Apparently, in his will, he’s left enough money in trust to pay for him to be dug up every six months when the club brings out a new strip.

 

Cheers.

 

 

Leon Bell

[evadne]

This was the last Letter from Leon and I don't think it was seen in Banging With Manning, which ceased publication around this time. The letter from Lleon was because Lloyd Owusu had an irregular column in the local paper called "Letter from Lloyd".

 

 

31 January 2000

 

Letter from Lleon

 

Whoever said “Life is just a bowl of cherries” hadn’t snagged their teeth on the pips. There I was, enjoying battling for my first team place with my brother, Desmond. Brora Rangers fighting against relegation in the League. Me and Barbara, thinking of trying for a wee brother or sister for Bo, our toddler. Hogmanay in the Highlands. New millennium, new hopes. What could go wrong?

 

The club was holding its end of century bash at the Royal Marine Hotel (on Golf Road, towards the beach). Bar had been forced to stay at home. The baby-sitter had said that, as it was just once in a thousand years, instead of her normal £3 per hour, she wanted £250 for the evening. Plus another £100 for the taxi home. We tried protesting, especially about the taxi. The babysitter said that it wasn’t her fault, the driver’d be charging extra, too. The fact that the local cabby is her father didn’t seem to come into the equation.

 

I must admit I’d gone a bit overboard on the heavy. Maclay’s is such a beautiful beer. We’d had the meal, the speeches. Just a fight or two, a few more beers and we would be counting down to 2000. Some of the lads had decided, since they were highly trained athletes whose bodies were temples, they’d stop after their sixth pint and go for a swim in the pool. To give them a thirst for the next six. I should have gone with them. Instead, I slipped out to the verandah for a breath of fresh air and a gaze at the stars. I was trying to find the Plough, to determine which direction was north, so I’d know which way to stagger home, when I heard a rustle of cloth and detected a hint of that new Scottish perfume, Auld Reekie. I turned round and there, a foot or so in front of me, hovered the Chairman’s wife. Purple cigarette between carmine lips. She was blowing perfect smoke rings and wearing one of those white blouses you can read the washing instructions through. The name was Janet. 47 years old. Big hair, blonde. Mutton dressed as mutton.

 

You must remember, I was still suffering from partial tinnitus and had also become fascinated by the speed the smoke rings were being dispersed by the Force Seven gale once they’d climbed above the fence, so when Janet murmured “Do you fancy a quick one?”, I assumed she meant a cigarette. By the time I realised my error, my non-iron chinos were round my ankles, her tongue was in my ear and the Chairman, unlit cigar in mouth, was stepping through the French windows. He bawled for reinforcements. Our goalkeeper and his coach, 6 foot 3, the pair of them, held me over the railing of the verandah while the Chairman waved his lighter under my shirt tails. I suppose I was lucky that I was in the grip of a Scottish goalkeeper because, true to tradition, he proceeded to let me slip through his fingers and I was able to dash to the shore and sit in the ice cold surf to douse the flames. It was a very unusual sensation. The bits of me that weren’t burnt, had frostbite.

 

Gingerly, I picked my way to Casualty. I asked the doctor, who was slapping on the Savlon with rather too much enthusiasm, whether I’d be transferred to the Burns Unit, a signpost for which I could see through the window. She said that I’d have to be content with A&E, the Burns Unit being part of the mental hospital in the grounds. She told me it was full of people wandering around reciting “My love is like a red, red rose”, believing they were Rabbie Burns. She pointed out the signposts underneath. They also had a Napoleon Unit and a Jesus Unit.

 

I got home about four in the morning and was packed and ready to fill the Espace by the time Bar and Bo awoke. I decided Bar didn’t need to know the whole story. She’s a gold medallist in the Leaping to Conclusions from a Standing Start event. I mumbled something about “Personal Differences”. She did query why I needed three cushions on the driver’s seat but I think she was happy with my haemorrhoids explanation. The long haul south gave me time to cogitate about my future. So, after Bar had taken over behind the wheel at Watford Gap, I dialled Steve Browne on my mobile. A trial has been arranged. Slough Town Football Club here we come!

 

 

Leon

[Reading Rebel]

Excellent...LOL