5# Life in plastic, it’s fantastic

I wish I was a plastic football fan.

We all know the type; delighted when their team wins, not too bothered when they don't. The type who thinks that 'Transfer Embargo' is a nightclub on Mill Lane and whose idea of a nightmare result is the signal on their Sky dish playing up.

Plastic football fans have it easy. They have an a la carte menu of football served effortlessly to their front rooms. They don't get an ear-full from the missus for leaving the house at 5.30am to travel to Barnsley on a Saturday morning, and they certainly don't have to endure 7 hour bus rides after seeing their side lose 5-1.

They get the best of both worlds; they can bask in the glory of their boys trouncing Wigan 4-0 from the comfort of their armchairs, and yet when their side goes 1-0 down at Ewood Park in February they can turn over to BBC1 and cheer on John Higgins in the snooker. The biggest headache of their summer is whether their manager opts for Wesley Sneijder or Luca Modric. Sounds lovely doesn't it?

Now I'm not one of those old-fashioned types who turns his nose up at anyone who hasn't travelled 100 miles by horse and cart in the wind and rain to watch his team in the old fourth division. Far from it. I just can’t see the logic in ‘supporting’ a team you have no connection to.

Not that I'm blaming these plastics for one moment. They live on the doorstep of the world's most powerful and media-friendly footballing machine; the Premier League. After all, if there's a Liverpool fan club in Thailand, is it really that much of a surprise that there's one in Newport?

All things considered, who in their right mind wouldn't want to be a plastic football fan?

Well, that question takes me back to one of the first times I stepped inside Ninian Park to watch Cardiff City play. It was 1992; the year that the Premier League (or the Premiership as it was known then) was formed. Whilst all the talk on the school yard was of Sheringham, Shearer and Waddle, the team I was going to watch was marooned in the fourth tier of English football.

I’ll never forget what one man told me on the Bob Bank that day.

“Son, if you want to support a team that wins things then you’ve come to the wrong place.”

“Mind you, as long as you keep putting pennies in the machine you’re bound to hit the jackpot now and again. It’s those jackpots that make it all worthwhile.”

Almost 20 years on and that advice has proved very true. In my time supporting Cardiff City I've put plenty of pennies in the machine, and the jackpots have tasted all the sweeter for it.

Mind you, a few years later another man on the Bob Bank offered me another piece of advice.

“Win or lose; hit the booze” he said.

I’m sure there’s an element of truth in that as well!

4# The man who changed Cardiff City forever

One man had a greater impact on the course of Cardiff City history than any other.

It wasn’t Bartley Wilson; the enigmatic businessman who, in 1899, established a football club in Cardiff with the intention of keeping the cricketers of Riverside Cricket Club in shape during the winter months.

It wasn’t Brian Clarke; whose famous header in 1971 helped the Bluebirds beat Spanish giants Real Madrid at Ninian Park in the European Cup Winners Cup.

It wasn’t even Fred Keenor; the Cardiff born Cardiff bred Somme veteran who led his home town club to FA Cup glory, taking the Cup from England for the first and only time on St George’s Day 1927. Oh no.

The man who had the greatest impact on the course of Cardiff City history was a quiet, unassuming man from North Wales. His name was John Hugh Evans.

Affectionately known as “Jack” Evans, he was born in Bala on 31 January 1889. In 1909, he moved to South Wales to play for Rhondda side Cwmparc.

In 1910, Jack’s life was to change forever. In the summer of that year, he signed for Cardiff City for the sum of six shillings. By doing so, Jack became the first ever player to be paid to kick a ball for Cardiff City.

Now six shillings may only equate to around 30 pence in today’s terms, but those first six shillings that made their way from Cardiff City’s coffers and into Jack Evans’s pocket changed everything forever. From that moment, Cardiff City was a professional football club, and Jack Evans its first professional footballer.

As Cardiff City careers go, Jack Evans had a pretty memorable one. He was the first player to score at Ninian Park and the first Cardiff City player to play for Wales. His infamously fierce shot earned him the nickname “The Bala Bang.”

Legend has it that his shots were so powerful that one goalkeeper broke his wrist trying to save one. Another, in goal for Manchester City, was knocked out cold when he felt the full wrath of “The Bala Bang”.

Jack’s body may have been laid to rest back home in his beloved Bala in 1971, but his impact on Cardiff City Football Club is still very much alive.

He’s the reason Cardiff City is the club it is today. He’s the reason thousands travel to places like Doncaster and Barnsley on a bitterly cold Tuesday night in November. He’s the reason the club plays in a swanky 27,000-seater stadium. He’s the reason we ‘do the ayatollah’ and the reason Michael Chopra drives a Porsche 911. He’s the one responsible for all our great memories and the one to blame for all our bad ones.

One thing’s for sure, things would have been very different had it not been for one man from Bala, and six priceless shillings.

Y Bala Bang; wedi darfod ond heb ei anghofio.

3# The best howler I never saw

Dimi Konstantopoulos and Michael Jackson were an unlikely couple but believe it or not they both had something in common. They both wore gloves for no apparent reason.

Now perhaps that’s being slightly harsh on The King of Pop. He wore gloves as part of his act. As for why Dimi ever decided to put on a pair of gloves, I'm still baffled.

Goalkeeper Dimitrios Konstantopoulos signed for Cardiff City in February 2009 on loan from Coventry City following injuries to both Peter Enckelman and Tom Heaton. He's arguably not the worst keeper I've seen play for City (and that's saying something) but he's certainly not far off.

Apparently as a youngster, Dimi’s coach at Greek side Kalamata described him as “having the potential to be the next Peter Schmeichel.” For me, that’s like saying that Mario Balotelli has the potential to be the next Mother Teresa.

In his 9 appearances for Cardiff City, the Greek goalkeeper made more mistakes than a blind man in a driving test. He made blunders look fashionable.

But for all the howlers that poor Dimi made, this story isn’t about any of his, it’s about another howler. A very famous one. Possibly the most famous howler in the history of Cardiff City Football Club.

It took place on 23 April 1927 at Wembley Stadium, London. The culprit was in goal for Arsenal, a proud Welshman from the Rhondda called Dan Lewis. The occasion was an FA Cup Final against Cardiff City in front of 91,206 spectators.

Most of us will have seen the black and white footage; the moment when Cardiff City won the FA Cup thanks to Dan Lewis’s calamitous attempt at collecting Hughie Ferguson’s tame shot. According to legend, whilst watching Cardiff captain Fred Keenor climb the famous Wembley steps to collect the cup from King George V, a distraught Dan Lewis threw his runners up medal into the crowd.

Almost 77 years later in March 2007, I bump into a man in a pub in Hertfordshire. He’s an Englishman and an Arsenal fan. His name is Dave Lewis, the late Dan Lewis’s only son. Having found out who he is, I ask him what he thinks of THAT howler from the 1927 Cup Final. His answer is not what I expect.

“I’m really pleased and proud of that moment,” Lewis says.

“How come?” I ask.

Lewis explains to me that had his father saved that innocuous Hughie Ferguson shot at Wembley all those years ago, the name Dan Lewis would have been wiped from history and we wouldn’t be sat in a pub discussing him 80 years later.

It was an interesting thought. Dave Lewis felt that it was better to be remembered for something bad than never to be remembered at all. I wonder whether poor Dimi feels the same. I doubt it.

2# Eddie Johnson and the Quarter Pounder with cheese

Anyone who knows me will know that I’m a fantastic gambler; I always lose so that I don’t get hooked.

One catastrophic bet I made came shortly after Dave Jones had signed a certain Edward Johnson on loan from Fulham in August 2008.

Having applied the usually infallible Championship Manager test, I had assumed that Eddie would be an instant hit and decided to bet a friend of mine £50 that the American would reach double figures for the year. A work colleague had explained to me how the cyber Eddie had helped his Rushden and Diamonds side earn three consecutive promotions taking them to the Premier League. Pretty impressive I thought. Fulham had paid a lot of money to take Eddie to Craven Cottage, and I was sure that Eddie would make an impression at Cardiff City. He sure did that.

Eddie’s finest hour in a Cardiff shirt came in a 3-0 victory over Doncaster Rovers at Ninian Park, when the American scored his first goal on his 23rd appearance for the club. One of those ‘I was there’ moments.

I was also there to witness possibly Eddie’s lowest point at Cardiff. I’m not talking about his half time withdrawal against the Jacks in the Carling Cup or his own goal against Derby (which theoretically cost the club a playoff place on goal difference); oh no.  For me at least, the moment Eddie Johnson hit rock bottom at Cardiff was around 11pm on 31 January 2009 at a McDonald’s restaurant on St Mary’s Street.

We’d beaten Forest 2-0 earlier in the day and I’d been enjoying a few beers with some friends in town before I decided to go home, via McDonalds.

Now for me, eating McDonald’s is a little like cheating on your girlfriend. You’re usually drunk, it feels great while you’re doing it, but you regret it afterwards. Anyway, I ordered my Big Mac, sat down on a stool and got stuck in.

Half way through my meal a dark-skinned gentleman (completely sober by the looks of it) sat down on the stool next to me.

“Eddie Johnson isn’t it?” I asked.

“Yeah man,” he responded in his thick American accent.

“You enjoying things with City?”

“Yeah things are real good. I’m loving the fans and I…” Eddie paused mid-sentence as he started examining the burger he’d just removed from its box.

“What the hell man?” Eddie exclaimed, staring at his burger in disbelief.

I peered over to take a look. Eddie had removed the top layer of bread from the bun and sat directly on top of the meat was a shiny blue unopened condom wrapper.

“That’s sick man.” Eddie looked disgusted.

It was, without doubt, one of the most surreal moments of my life; there I am sat in a fast food restaurant in Cardiff and Eddie Johnson is sat to my right with a durex extra safe in his Quarter Pounder with cheese. Actually, at the time, surreal didn’t come close.

Fair play to Eddie as well, he didn’t complain or kick up a fuss, he just bid me good night and off he went, pushing his uneaten meal off a tray and into one of the bins as he left. Perhaps not a great player, but from the very brief time he was in my company, definitely a decent guy.

If Eddie does ever return to Cardiff for a visit (and let’s hope to god that it is only for a visit) I’d be happy to wager £50 that he doesn’t order a Quarter Pounder with cheese at McDonald’s in St Mary’s Street ever again. Even I would be confident of winning that bet.

1# A fight with Michael Parkinson on Wembley Way

Some days, watching Cardiff City is like watching pornography. There's plenty of action, and you can't take your eyes off it, but when it's over you wonder why the hell you spent the whole afternoon doing it.

I've had plenty of those days down the years. I guess that's what makes the good times taste so good. And boy did the 6th of April 2008 taste good.

It was the day of Cardiff City's first FA Cup Semi Final in over 80 years and there was something strange in the air as I got out of bed that morning. Strange for April at least; snow had been falling throughout the early hours and the first thing I remember seeing through the window of a London hostel was a skyline sprinkled with the white stuff. Not that I was too bothered; I had a slight hangover after the previous night's festivities and the brisk April air was just what the doctor ordered.

However, what really diverted my mind from the 12 pints of Carling I'd consumed the night before was the sudden realisation that the day had finally come. The day when Cardiff City could make it to an FA Cup Final.

I'd come to London with a few mates and we did all the usual things that many Cardiff fans did that day; we stood outside The Globe in Baker Street aiming ayatollahs at Japanese tourists passing on open top buses, we got soaked in Dai Hunt's saliva as he explained how Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink would today need to play a 'deeper role', we got robbed of £7.50 for a pie and a pint inside England HQ, and we watched Joe Ledley's glorious 9th minute volley and punched the air as if oxygen was a Swansea fan.

It might have been the beer, or it might have been the sense of occasion, but I seem to remember very little about the game itself except for Ledley's winner and Kayode Odejayi's sensational miss for Barnsley. The feeling at the final whistle was immense, almost unreal, like you'd won the lottery and pulled Cameron Diaz in one go.

But back to the morning and the light coating of snow. As our hostel was quite close to Wembley we decided to go for an early morning stroll down Wembley Way. Even though an FA Cup Semi Final was due to kick off in around 8 hours time, the place was almost deserted, like a scene from the film 28 Days Later. I say almost deserted, because about 20 metres ahead of us down Wembley Way there was a group of smartly dressed gentleman with their backs to us.

Having spotted a fairly sizeable mound of snow, I just knew I couldn't resist. The first snowball I threw at the men was a pretty poor effort, about as accurate as a Steve Tucker exclusive. The second was a beauty; catching a silver haired guy right on the back of his head. As he turned around, his hair drenched and snow sliding down his jacket, I recognised him instantly; Michael Parkinson. Now I know old Parky is a Barnsley fan and I'd just caught him with a snowball but I didn't expect him to launch a counter-attack; which he did. He missed me. I think we can safely say that Cardiff City won the snowball fight.

Not only did Parky have to watch his side lose an FA Cup Semi Final that day, but he also took a snowball to the head, messing up his hair and soaking his suit in the process. All in all, he might have wished that he’d stayed at home and watched porn.

Next story will be: Eddie Johnson and the Bacon Double Cheeseburger