When I was about six or seven, we’d stand outside No. 140 Whitehead Road on cold Saturday afternoons, scanning the street for men parking up for the match at Villa Park. It was always men, dressed in suits with shirts and ties. Not quite their Sunday best, perhaps, but always presentable.
They’d park up, then put on their Villa scarves or bobble hats before setting off towards the ground.
As soon as a car pulled in, there would be a race to see who could reach it first.
“Mind yer car, mister!”
Sometimes the driver would give us something there and then.
“Take good care of it,” he’d say, passing us a coin or two before heading down the road towards the ground.
You had to remember which cars were yours, especially if you’d already been paid. As Whitehead Road filled up, we’d move around the corner in search of fresh pickings.
I can’t remember how much we made. I remember only the mixture of halfpennies, pennies and threepenny bits jingling in our pockets. Whatever we collected was spent on sweets and comics during the week.
Not that we ever actually minded the cars. Once their owners had disappeared towards the ground, the cars were left to look after themselves.
While the match was on, the street became quiet. We’d run up to Holte Grammar School. They didn’t lock the gates back then, so we’d go in and kick a ball around on the tarmac playground. Every so often, we’d hear a great roar from Villa Park and know Villa had scored.
Shortly before five, the match ended and the scramble began again. We had to spot our men among the crowds returning to their cars and reach them before they drove away.
“Minded yer car, mister!”
If a driver had already paid us before the match, we hoped he’d forgotten and would pay us again.
At about half-past five, my mum would shout up the street for us to come home for tea. If any of our cars were still there by then, their owners had probably stopped off at one of the pubs. There was no chance of cashing in.
Although I was, and still am, a diehard Birmingham City supporter, I hoped Villa would win. A victory meant the men would return in a good mood and we’d have a better chance of a sixpence. It was, and still is, the only time I have ever wanted them to win.
