Paul pogba

The first £100m man?

THERE must have been 200 disgruntled Crystal Palace fans packed inside the small supporters’ social club located just across from Selhurst Park. It was a frigid Friday night back in February of 1975 and 18,000 die-hard supporters had just witnessed a diabolical Palace display in a 1-1 draw with relegation candidates Halifax.

As the sound of chatter vibrated around the hall and cigarette smoke floated lazily towards the tobacco scarred ceiling, rumors started circulating that the big man himself, manager Malcolm Allison, was to make an appearance.

“I’m gonna tell ‘im exactly what I fink of ‘im and our bloody team,” were some of the kinder sentiments that punters were promising to deliver to the so-called ‘Messiah’ if he had the guts to make an appearance.

Allison, who as a player with West Ham in the 50s fought a ten-month battle with tuberculosis, definitely had guts, and at about ten o’clock he strode confidently into the club.

As usual he was twinkle eyed and he held his head high, making him look even taller than his impressive 6 feet 3 inches. Subdued applause and the odd heckle greeted him as he made his way up onto the small stage.

“First of all, I’d like to buy everyone here a drink,” were the first words out of his mouth, as he took a bulging wallet from the trouser pocket of his powder blue suit, produced a wad of notes and gave them to the gleeful bar steward. “You’re the greatest and most loyal fans in the world,” he continued.“You deserve to be supporting a team in the First Division and, believe you me, in a couple of years’ time that’s exactly where we’ll be.

“Back at the top, where we belong, amongst the Leeds’s and Liverpool’s – and not just amongst them, but beating them as well.”

He then ended up by saying:“I’m deadly serious, if you lot stick with me and the team we’ll bring you on the journey of a lifetime.”

Yes, Big Mal had us all believing again, and within minutes every person in that club was up on their feet, seat, or table singing:“Oh Malcolm, Malcolm – Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm, Malcolm Alli–son” to the tune of Chicory Tip’s hit-song Son of My Father.

As the song reached a crescendo, the big man gave a wave, re-lit his giant cigar and went out the side door, where a waiting car whisked him away, no doubt across the river to one of the ritzy nightclubs of London’s West End; his mission accomplished.

Nowadays, after two relegations (in some cases merely two defeats), a club would sack a manager quicker than you could say ‘you’re fired’. But in Big Mal’s case it was different: he was the Messiah. Messiahs had followings and Mal’s followers would believe anything he said. Fortunately for him, even the chairman, Ray Bloye, was a disciple. There were no votes of confidence from the chairman and no chants of ‘Allison out’ from his devoted fans.

That Friday night in the supporters’ hall, the Big Fella had every one of us wrapped around his massive fingers, believing that, although we were in the Third Division, we were by far the greatest team the world had ever seen. And proving to the cynics amongst us just how much a free pint on the house can so easily sway the opinions of a baying, working class mob.

Cynicism aside, Big Mal said things were going to get better, so they were going to get better. He was, after all, the Messiah and we were his loyal disciples, who would follow him and the team anywhere, even up the road to the hostile environment of Millwall.

It was the following season (75-76) that Mal’s promised excursion really took off, when Third Division Crystal Palace almost went to Wembley, reaching the semi-finals of the FA Cup before losing to eventual winners Southampton.

Anyone on that rollercoaster journey will never forget it. The sheepskins, the fedoras, the champagne and cigars and how we went to Elland Road and not only beat the great Leeds team, but played them off the park.

Before the match Mal had walked onto the Elland Road pitch looking like (in South London parlance) ‘the dog’s b*****ks’ to salute his 4,000 disciples in the 43,116 crowd. Fedora adorning his (critics might say rather big) head, confidence oozed from his every pore.

Or who could forget Stamford Bridge, where he walked onto the pitch before the match, approached the famous Shed End and, going one better than Churchill, raised three fingers. Final score: Chelsea 2 Palace 3.

After beating Sunderland in the sixth round at Roker Park, there were ecstatic scenes on the drafty return journey.

Allison led the players through the train carriages that were mostly windowless after disgruntled Sunderland supporters had gallantly bid a fond farewell to the joyful Londoners with a barrage of bricks.

He and the players shared beers with the fans and thanked them for the support.When we disembarked at King’s Cross station that night, we bowed down to Big Mal and serenaded the players through the ticket barriers.

We then watched in awe as the great man walked out into the night and, just as he had done on that Friday night a year previously, got into the customary waiting car that would bring him to places where only the rich, famous and Messiahs could gain entry.

That winter of ’76, little Third Division Crystal Palace owned the back pages of every tabloid in London. If a newspaper had a slow day, they’d send a photographer along to Selhurst Park and there would be Big Mal, only too happy to oblige, with a glint in his eye, a glass of Champagne in his hand, a Cuban cigar in his mouth, and his arm around his latest lady