The Goldberg Variations. Mark Glanville

you heard what happened to Mark today?’ he answered, as if in explanation.

      ‘Yes,’ Mum sighed.

      ‘It’s always there, ready to rear its ugly head. I just thank God for the blacks and the Asians. They’ve taken the heat off us.’

      ‘Visible targets,’ I chimed in.

      ‘That’s right. As long as I don’t show my profile,’ Dad chuckled through his chicken. ‘You know what your godfather says? “Er, nobody knows I’m Jewish, er, until they see me.”’

      We did, but we laughed anyway.

      ‘At least you don’t have that to contend with.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Well, you don’t look Jewish.’

      ‘Of course I do.’

      ‘Darling, you don’t.’ Mum’s sweet tone heightened the provocation.

      ‘You should be grateful for that,’ Dad continued.

      ‘For what? I’m not going to hide. They can all know I’m Jewish as far as I’m concerned.’

      ‘But, my dear, you’re not Jewish.’

      ‘What do you mean? Of course I am.’

      ‘By Jewish law you’re not. Your grandmother was the Ethiopian in the fuel supply.’

      Mum chortled.

      ‘Seventy-five per cent of my blood is Jewish. It’s what I am.’

      ‘The wrong seventy-five per cent, schmendrick!’

      ‘And why are you, who never goes near a synagogue, so keen on upholding Jewish law? Only when it suits you, so you can have a go at me, undermine me, take the things I care about away from me.’

      Dad simply sat there laughing, his poultry-filled belly heaving. It was always the same when he was cornered, his last defence. I pushed my chair over and kicked it aside, slamming the glass-panelled door behind me as hard as I could in hope it might break.

      Upstairs I lay on my bed, watched from above by my own Holy Trinity of Best, Law and Charlton, centrepiece of a shrine dedicated to the saints and apostles of Manchester United. Silk and woollen football scarves pinned to the picture-rail framed the altar. Although this wasn’t a great time to be supporting United, that only intensified the passion. To me being a United fan meant suffering, assuming the stigmata of the martyrs who’d died at Munich. I’d been too young to fully appreciate the glorious sixties that culminated in the European Cup triumph of 1968: my most cherished memory was of their winning the National Five-a-Side championship in 1970. Ever since dubious refereeing had disallowed a perfectly good Denis Law goal that would have sent us into the 1969 European Cup Final, the club had been in decline. Watching them on their trips to London was a joyless experience; regularly drubbed at Spurs and Arsenal, usually beaten by Chelsea and QPR, sometimes squeezing a draw at West Ham. Worst of all was the 5–0 thrashing at the hands of co-relegation strugglers Crystal Palace that left me weeping bitterly into my hand-knitted scarf. Ironically, we stayed up while they went down that year, but it felt as if it wouldn’t be long before the bottom of the First Division opened and we were received into the maw of the Second.

      At that time United fans were regarded as the most violent in the country. In reality they were no worse than many others, but there were so many of them. Ten thousand regularly travelled when the club played away, swamping rival supporters’ ends. It was an environment considered too dangerous by my parents, so I’d watch them from the stands, part of me terrified by the red-and-white-clad northern hordes, a lot of me yearning to be in there with them.

      Twenty minutes’ walk from home we had one of the best sides in the country. The years since I watched Rodney Marsh score his hat-trick against Watford had seen QPR’s fortunes wax as much as United’s had waned. Stan Bowles was a worthy heir to Rodney, and the club had a plethora of fine players to carry on the good work of the late sixties. My parents thought (wrongly) that QPR’s terraces met their safety standards. It wasn’t the Shed, it wasn’t the Stretford End, but I soon got to know the hundred or so regular faces that made up the Loft. I didn’t really support them – love for United brooked no rival – but I was becoming hooked on the thrill of being accepted by clubs that wouldn’t have me as a member, and on the adrenaline that flowed from fear and aggression.

      ‘You’ll never take the Lo-oft!’ was one of the emptiest chants ever heard at a football ground. Chelsea, United, Arsenal and West Ham regularly did. Spurs were the most fun. There were so many of them we never had a chance, but we had a go anyway, holding the citadel just above the entrance while they repeatedly charged, trying to overwhelm the blue-helmeted line that separated us. Inevitably the dam would burst, sending wave upon wave of Doc-Martencd skinheads pouring over us, boots and fists flailing indiscriminately. The big thing was not to go down. We’d retreat, leaving a sinister no-man’s land while the coppers formed a new line and the Spurs fans filled the vacuum. Then we’d regroup and charge back at them, knowing it was futile, but the sheer exhilaration of racing across the terraces, not knowing quite what to expect, made it worthwhile. Eventually we’d merge into the crowd, little pockets of rebels for the Spurs fans to seek and destroy, and the game would continue to the accompaniment of the sporadic explosions that followed whenever they found us.

      If the opposition were less well supported we might go hunting ourselves, though it normally ended in farce, as in the home Cup tie against Orient.

      ‘The only way we’re going to get the Labour Party back into power is by hanging onto our pipes,’ announced one of our main faces, pipe between his teeth, in an imitation of Harold Wilson worthy of Mike Yarwood, but we were supposed to be looking for the opposition firm at the time. A small mob suddenly appeared on the other side of White City Way. They charged into us and a few seconds of the usual indiscriminate kicking and punching ensued until we realised it was Paul O’Reilly’s firm and we were fighting our own side. Occasionally we’d run into individual fans who seemed up for it, but a code of fairness operated and it normally ended up one on one, even if our one tended to be the top boy.

      Music was the catalyst for my first trip to Old Trafford. United v Spurs was my reward from Dad for gaining a distinction in my Grade Five clarinet exam. I practically had to run to match his pace as he headed for Holland Park station like an Olympic walker in training.

      ‘Come on, panther!’

      Just as I’d learned to eat and talk fast, so I’d been forced into an unnatural stride.

      ‘But Dad, the train doesn’t go for an hour and a half!’

      I was speaking to my accompanying breeze.

      By the time I turned into the station he was standing by the lift gate, green cardboard tickets in his hand, blue 1964 Olympics bag over his shoulder crammed with pink Italian sports papers and our packed lunch. As the lift operator pulled the heavy gates apart we heard the vacuum-cleaner sound of a train leaving the platform. And Dad was away, like a sprinter off his blocks.

      ‘Dad! The train’s gone!’

      I was left, talking to a backpacker. There was no sign of Dad. As I reached the platform he was scurrying awkwardly towards the far end in anticipation of the change at Oxford Circus.

      ‘Come on!’

      He turned round anxiously as another train clattered into the station and I was forced to sprint the final yards. Shuffling along the edge of the platform as the train came to a halt, he secured a position by the opening doors and long-jumped on ahead of the opposition to reserve a couple of seats. A copy of The Times was thrust into my hands. It was several stops before I’d managed to restore it to its original, pre-breakfast form, and I’d barely established that Bobby Charlton was fit when we were at Oxford Circus, leaping like TV detectives through the opening doors into the crime scene.

      As the escalator at Euston finally brought us back into the light 1 noticed groups of lads scattered about the concourse, most not wearing