Dear Octopus,
I've had some okay birthdays in my time. Better than okay really. In my teenage years there was something of a tradition in the Squid household, which in its own way was inestimably wonderful if only for its direct repetition of the year before. Every year on either the Saturday before or after my birthday, my father (the venerable Captain Squid) and I would board an early morning train bound for Central London, having left our car in the dubious clutches of some spotty, slack-jawed attendant at Exeter St David's Station, whom the good Captain invariably grumbled was 'totally unsuitable' as soon as we were on the train. There we ate overpriced bacon sandwiches lovingly microwaved by the train's officious dining crew, for which there was never enough ketchup in one sachet and far too much in two.
When we arrived at Paddington at about eleven, we would hop on the tube (then so exciting) and always surface at Oxford Circus, where - like a true Devon boy - I would step onto the thriving metropolitan cityscape and marvel gawpingly at the tallness of the buildings and the sheer volume of people, until the Captain advised me to follow him closely, lest I should lose him and be sold to the travelling community for a chimney sweep. Together we would peruse the wares of the trainer shops along Oxford Street, and I would buy a 'cool' pair using my birthday money.
Happy that the capital's commercial enterprises had adequately serviced our needs, we'd invariably retire to a pizza establishment in the Covent Garden area for lunch. This being accomplished and the bill paid, we'd hop back onto the tube in the direction of North London.
The first time I stepped out into the light at White Hart Lane, (1996) the first thing I couldn't believe were the colours. The pitch was so green, and the seats so blue. The Captain is an ardent Aston Villa supporter - and highly sceptical of my choice of team, largely derived from the fact that it came from my mother's side - and as such would only grudgingly accept my awe at arriving in the stadium at which all dreams culminated, and in whose confines were (and still are) all eternally disappointed. The first match was a 0-0 draw, annoyingly, but we saw a few good wins and never a loss. The best was the 3-3 draw with Leeds in 1998; 3-1 down after 80 minutes, Iversen clawed one back from the edge of the area and Judas got the equaliser with a towering header at the far post in the 93rd minute. Right by me, no less. The Captain was off having a shit, and missed the whole thing.
After the game we always strolled back to Seven Sisters with the cheering crowd, then got back to Paddington just in time for our train home. Our car was always undamaged, but the Captain still maintained that the staff was totally unsuitable. If the traffic was reasonable we'd be home in time to watch the highlights again on Match Of The Day, over which I'd force my own additional commentary onto my mother and brothers; how the pitch was so much bigger when you were really there, how green it was, how Chris Armstrong was so much shorter in real life but Darren Anderton was so much taller, even though they'd undoubtedly heard it all the year before. In the Captain's case, the hour before. And probably the hour before that. He never complained.
This was exactly the same every year, from my eleventh to seventeenth birthdays. Seven best days of my life.
Anyway, I hope maybe there's something of that old magic and the majesty of occasion still knocking around the world now. Just a little. Happy birthday Octopus. I hope that you find all of which I know you are forever deserving.
Your loving friend,
Action Squid
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