United With Dad

An extract from Simon Lloyd’s new book

Friday 27 October 2023

NEXT HOME GAME: Tranmere – Saturday 28 October, 3pm

NEXT AWAY GAME: Swindon – Saturday 11 November, 3pm

Simon Lloyd is a lifelong Manchester United supporter who attended countless United games alongside his late father. More recently, he has been able to return to Old Trafford with his young son, Ethan. Simon has worked as a feature writer since 2015, covering a range of issues across football. United With Dad is his first book and is inspired by a widely shared article he wrote for JOE Media shortly after his father’s death in 2019. 

United With Dad is an emotional tale of football fandom and fatherhood. Detailing his father’s agonising final months of life, Simon Lloyd draws on his and his father's memories of their shared love – Manchester United – attempting to make sense of why, at such a bleak time, a bond with a football club should matter so much.

My thanks to Simon for allowing me to share an exclusive extract from his book with you today. It’s obviously United-related, but I’m sure County supporters will resonate with Simon’s words, along with lots of other football fans who read The Scarf My Father Wore on a daily basis.

Today’s edition is sponsored by SW Appliances. A big thank you to Steve. If you’re looking for a new oven or a washing machine at the moment, have a look around Steve’s showroom on Castle Street before the Tranmere match tomorrow.

Finally, I’m currently walking every street in Stockport to raise money for mental health charity Mentell. If you’d like to make a donation to help me reach my target, please click here.

Total distance so far: 38.66 miles

Total steps so far: 67,558

Total raised so far: £693

Further information on the walk can be found by clicking here.

Des Junior

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Manchester United 3 Brighton 1

Towards the end, it became a routine. On the weekend days when United were playing and I wasn’t in work, I’d drive over to the nursing home in time for kick-off and pull up a chair to the foot of Dad’s bed. He’d lie there, completely still, sometimes able to murmur a few barely decodable words but usually near-comatose due to the increased morphine doses.

After I had said hello, I would pick up the remote control and turn his TV on, flicking it over to the digital radio channels to find the commentary on 5 Live. The volume on low, I’d sit with him until the game was over, relaying any major developments. Occasionally he’d respond with a grunt or a gentle squeeze of my hand.

After a couple of such visits, I’d wondered to myself what the point in it was. Even before the dementia was factored in, there was a decent chance the drugs he was on had taken Dad somewhere far away, where United vs Crystal Palace or whoever else didn’t reach. Even if it did get through, what did it really matter? It wasn’t as if he’d be around to see if they’d sneak into a Champions League spot the following May. Again, I was aware that, like the chats we’d shared throughout the summer, this was fuelled partly by my own selfishness. It was something I did to help me cope as much as anything.

Then had come a game against Leicester on a Saturday in the middle of September when a nurse had pulled me to one side on arrival and explain he’d been having a particularly bad day. When I got in the room, he’d been crying and asking for his mother. Realising he wasn’t settling, I’d put on the radio. Within minutes, the faint hum of the commentary had seemed to soothe him.

I did this for a final time on a bright Sunday afternoon in late November. Just before the last international break of the calendar year, United had hosted Brighton. When I’d arrived, the curtains were drawn, the only light coming from a dim table lamp in the far corner of his room. One of the nurses had been at his bedside when I entered, trying but failing to feed him several teaspoonfuls of yoghurt. Seeing me, she’d set the yoghurt down and ushered me back out into the corridor to update me. He’d eaten next to nothing for two days and had needed near constant pain relief, she told me. She assured me nothing was imminent but had followed this by asking when my mum would next be visiting, which had seemed to suggest otherwise.

I’d re-entered the room and sat by Dad, grabbing his hand to shake as I said hello, aware as I held it of how frail it had felt. His half-open eyes had briefly looked over at me, drowsily.

“You want the game on, Dad?” I’d asked, and he’d forced a wheezy, one-syllable noise out in response which I interpreted as a yes.

The 2019-20 season had begun with United sweeping aside Chelsea 4-0 in their opening fixture. After not renewing my season ticket I’d half expected to feel some kind of regret that day, that the long summer break might have washed away what I’d been feeling in May. That hadn’t been the case.

I’d been working up in Newcastle on the morning of the Chelsea game. By kick-off, I was aboard a crowded TransPennine Express train bound for Piccadilly, keeping up to speed with the goals via the occasional glance at Twitter. That in itself had felt significant; in years gone by I’d have almost certainly postponed my journey home in such circumstances, finding a pub to watch it before getting a later train. That it hadn’t even crossed my mind to do this confirmed that the detachment I’d felt towards the end of the previous season hadn’t been temporary.

Victory over Chelsea had been flattering and was followed by a draw at Wolves, then a shock 2-1 defeat at home by Palace. August ended with another draw, away at Southampton. United hadn’t won a single game away from home since Paris Saint-Germain in March. Despite growing concerns within the fanbase, I felt nothing. The need to be at the matches hadn’t returned; there was no real disappointment when United played shit and dropped points. I’d still watch those games that didn’t fall on a weekend day on TV, but more out of habit than any burning desire to do so.

I knew that, in a way someone who understands psychology far better than I do could probably explain, the disconnect was related to Dad. Those how are United getting on chats I’d craved so much had dried up by late August. Physically, it was evident by September that the cancer was progressing quickly. The pain was the main giveaway, but there were obvious signs in his appearance. His face, which had filled out over the summer after his chemo had ended, had looked gaunt again, the skin sallowed and hanging loose below his jaw. His mobility had suffered, too, and from the start of October he remained permanently confined to his room.

The week after the Leicester game, United lost 2-0 away at West Ham. At half-time, just after West Ham had scored their first goal, Dad had been in such a deep sleep that I’d stepped out of the room for a while, taking myself down the corridor to make a cup of tea in a small kitchenette area. In had walked one of Dad’s nurses, making polite small talk for a while, asking how the football was going. I spent about ten minutes chatting to her, giving her a concise backstory of Dad and I and how we’d gone to the football together for years before everything had caught up with him. I’d explained the lack of feeling I’d felt since he’d become more seriously ill, and how I’d ended up relinquishing my season ticket as a result. Aware that I knew he was terminally ill, she’d asked if I was familiar with the term anticipatory grief. I wasn’t. As she began to explain, everything had made sense. Anticipatory grief is the distress a person feels in the period before a loved one dies. Essentially, it’s an awareness of a loss before the loss has actually happened, the way our minds attempt to cope and prepare ourselves. Not everyone experiences it, but it can occur in those who have, for example, seen someone close to them diagnosed with a form of dementia or Parkinson’s. They grieve for the essence of the person they were, even though, physically, that person is still there. Everything I’d felt – the guilt, the frustration, the numbness – could be attributed in some way to the fact that, harsh as it was, the Dad I knew had in reality gone away long ago. Only remnants were left.

The Brighton match began. In his dimly lit room, Dad’s eyes had remained open but heavy-lidded for the early minutes, blinking intermittently. His mouth hung open constantly – a new thing. Occasionally I’d pick up the sippy cup from his bedside table and, giving him a warning before I did, drizzled a few drops of water inside his lips.

Fifteen miles away, United seemed to have started well, creating and spurning two or three early chances. Beneath the radio commentary the crowd were lively, which was a good sign. With a quarter of an hour gone they scored. The ball had fallen to Anthony Martial inside the Brighton box, left of goal. After one touch to set himself, he’d decided against a shot and slipped the ball back towards the edge of the box, where Andreas Pereira had wandered into an area of space. His shot had taken a horrible deflection, deceiving the goalkeeper and dropping into the left corner.

“United have scored, Dad,” I said, softly. “1-0.”

He’d made another faint grunting noise after that, following it up with a chesty cough which I tried to pretend wasn’t as bad as I’d thought it was.

Almost immediately, United scored again, Scott McTominay bundling the ball over the line after Brighton had failed to head clear a free-kick from just inside their half. I updated Dad. He raised his eyebrows slightly, which might have been totally unrelated but I decided to read as him being pleasantly surprised at a second goal coming so quickly.

There were no further goals in the first half. I think he fell asleep in the lull that followed the second goal but I couldn’t be certain with his eyes not completely closed. I’d sneaked out, made a half-time cup of tea, then retaken my seat in time for the second half.

Dad didn’t stir at all, looking so peaceful that I decided against telling him about Lewis Dunk pulling a goal back for Brighton. Soon after, Martial burst into the Brighton box but was forced too wide by the advancing goalkeeper. Turning back, he’d cut the ball to Marcus Rashford, who fired home via the underside of the bar. I leaned over towards Dad, “3-1. Rashford.”

This time, there came no grunt of acknowledgement or raising of his eyebrows. The drugs were doing their work. Dad was very definitely asleep, totally unaware that he’d missed what would prove to be the final United goal of his lifetime. The full-time whistle had sounded. United, a commentator announced, were now up to the dizzying heights of seventh in the Premier League table. I waited a few moments, then picked up my car keys from the side, stalling in the hope he might wake.

“I’m going now, Dad,” I’d told him, but nothing came back. I tugged his duvet up over his hands and left.

United With Dad is priced at £18.99, published by Pitch Publishing.

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CHILL OUT! (with this brand new fridge freezer)

I don’t want to be accused of slander by a man with significantly more money than me, but I reckon Jeff Bezos has never set foot inside Edgeley Park. On that basis alone, don’t buy your kitchen appliances on Amazon. Get them from SW Appliances instead, a business owned by County fan Steve Gibbons.

Whether you visit Steve’s showroom on Castle Street, or purchase online, SW Appliances have hundreds of products in stock. You won’t get a personal service from Bezos if you buy a kettle off him, but you will if you do business with Steve. He’s the appliance version of a train spotter and what he doesn’t know about appliances simply isn’t worth knowing. (That’s not an insult by the way, it’s on his website.)

Perhaps you’re in need of a new fridge freezer at the moment. How about the one in the picture? With a total combined food storage of 280L, this Zanussi ZBB28441SV integrated fridge freezer certainly has the capacity to store family-sized quantities of food. It’s divided 70/30 between fridge and freezer, and features a low-frost freezer and a low electricity consumption as shown by its A+ energy rating. And it’s currently on sale for £399.99, reduced from £499.99.

Visit swappliances.co.uk for further details.

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Today in SK

🎶 DJ

The Nelson Tavern (SK1) have their resident DJ playing on a Friday night, with Dicko (Ian Dickinson) on from 8pm till 1am.

🍺 Food and drink

It’s Monsters Weekend at The Petersgate Tap (SK1), in association with Torrside Brewing. Start your Friday night with a Dramorama (9.5%) or a Contingent Sincerity (10%).

Lunch deal at The Dog & Partridge (SK2). One course for £7 or two courses for £11. 12pm till 2pm.

Lite bite meal deal at The Friary (SK3). Cod or haddock, served with chips, and a side of peas, curry or gravy. Plus tea or coffee. £9.95. Open till 7.30pm.

🎤 Live music

The Select Committee at The Andrew Arms (SK6). Covers band playing hits from the 1960s through to the 2000s. 8pm.

Friday Fiesta at TRUNK (SK7). Great company, tasty tapas and flowing drinks – what more could you want? Call 0161 222 9260 to book a table, and mention “The Scarf My Father Wore” to receive a 15% discount off the normal tapas menu.

The Scarf My Father Wore works closely with venues on a daily basis to bring you the most comprehensive guide to all of the best offers and events taking place across the whole SK region. Click on the links below for full details of everything taking place in your area over the next few weeks.

SK1 / SK2 / SK3 / SK4 / SK5 / SK6 / SK7 / SK8 / SK9 / SK10 / SK11 / SK12 / SK13 / SK14 / SK15 / SK16 / SK17 / SK22 / SK23

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Photo of the day

A blast from the past.

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