Review Of "Steak... Diana Ross; Diary Of A Football Nobody"

Last updated : 23 March 2003 By
Dave McVay
This diary of a borderline Notts County player in 1974 and 1975 is a refreshing antidote to the usual Miss World-shagging and boutique-opening capers associated with that era. Just one look at the cover - the protagonist standing like a shop dummy in a freezing and desolate Meadow Lane, looking utterly pissed off - tells you this is the grim counterpoint to The Good The Bad and the Bubbly.

McVay, was no George Best - he never really settled in the first team and ended up at Peterborough and Lincoln - and like most football memoirs, some diary enteries are tainted with sixth-form prose ("If medals were awarded for honesty, decency and being a downright good egg Andy Beattie would need a room the size of Meadow Lane to display his silverware") - but as he was fresh out of sixth form, he's got a far better excuse than most ghost writers. Mind you, he's got the music taste to match - this is probably the only football book that will ever contain the line: "Bought Unhalfbricking by Fairport and ELO's On The Third Day to lift the gloom".

He's a bit unsure about his standing in the squad, and their unsavoury habits ("Urinating over hair when washing it...urinating over body when washing it...Dumping in bath when you are underwater, emerging to turd floating... Pressing cold spoon against penis"). A shame the internet wasn't invented then, they could have made a fortune by rigging up webcams in the communal baths.

One of the highlights of Steak...Diana Ross (a reference to the Shoot!-esque pen-pics of the day) is the descriptions of Jimmy Sirrell, one of Nottingham's great unsung heroes. He comes overs as a gnomic, foul-mouthed sage who appals waitresses across the country by licking the top of ketchup bottles.

It transpires that being a journeyman footballer then put you on a social standing just above pub singer and just below local weatherman. Sure, you were paid decently, but only if you snapped up that £40 win bonus every week. Yes, you were recognised in the street, but you could also get smacked by irate fans in pubs, or have the piss ripped out of you on the bus. You got to hang out in the Playboy Club sometimes, but only when signed in by better-known players and you couldn't really afford to spend £1.40 on a Bacardi and Coke.

The only real perk of being a footballer in Nottingham at the time was having access to the first (and, at the time, only) Paul Smith shop. As for the obilgatory sexual encounters, McVay has to content himself with whoever is brought back to the house by his more experienced room-mate. Glamourous it isn't. One of McVay's team-mates works part-time as an egg delivery man, for Christ's sake.

Naturally, the book has limited appeal for non-County fans and people who don't know or care about the pub scene in Nottingham, but the man can write (he went on to work for the local paper and the Times) - and it serves as a portent of doom to the vast majority of professional players. If you're a lower league manager, and your team is on the wane, throw them this book and let them read about the career of egg-delivery.

Review by Al Needham