I got in touch with Paul Town, a stadium portrait painter
This’ll be a bit of a different article today. If you’re expecting me to be rambling on about Jay Spearing or Neil Lennon then you’l be disappointed I’m afraid.
One of my favourite posts on this site was done by one of my predecessors, Quentin X. He wrote about the Burnden Park Disaster- something so very tragic that may not have received quite the same coverage as the likes of Hillsborough but is equally as sad.
A while back I discovered an artist called Paul Town who paints very beautiful portraits of stadia. I talked to Paul the other day and he was generous enough to share his story with me about why he does what he does.
’29 years…..It seems just like yesterday. 11th May 1985 will live with me forever.
Excited as usual, the prospect of watching my heroes parading the 3rd Division Championship trophy was, apart from our promotion from Division 4, the most memorable moment I’d had to date as a young supporter of my hometown club, Bradford City.
Our family home at the time in the Wrose district of Bradford, around 2 miles from Valley Parade. The drive down Kings Road only took a few minutes, however the sight of the floodlights amongst the mass of mills, chimneys and terraced hoses was enough for me. It was Saturday….match day….but this was like no other, my club had achieved something special.
The usual protocol was to park the car and wander up Midland Road towards the ground, pop into the club shop to look at the souvenirs, then buy a programme outside the dressing room entrance. I can still picture the lad who used to sell them. We then tore the dog chewed ticket stub from our season ticket books and passed them through the turnstile to lovely old gentlemen who’s wise cracks we listened to every other week. We would then enter the dark confines of the old wooden stand, the old structure that around an hour later was to look so much different.
At the back of the stand was a dark corridor with narrow turnstiles entrances located at the rear. Along this corridor were the entrances to the top tiers of seating. Seating being a word I use loosely. More so a wooden plank with timber floorboards underfoot. Below these floorboards lay decades of accumulated rubbish which was discarded with a sweeping brush by the apprentices when cleaning the stadium after a game. Along the rear corridor were 2 tea bars. Dad always bought coffee, or in my case, beef tea from here before kick off. Today was no different. Those lovely ladies who worked inside this dimly lit confined spaces always held a smile when we saw them. They reminded me of my great grandma, such warmth and love serving drinks and pies on a Saturday afternoon….they didn’t have to do this, but you could tell they loved it. This was their football club, their lives almost. Helping in the tea bar was a younger looking, almost stunning blonde girl helping these ladies. I was too shy to give her a smile most weekends, however I will never forget her smile. Unfortunately I never saw her again x.
Just last week October 2014 I was talking to a friend on Facebook about this young girl who we never saw again, as she knew her and her family. For 3 whole days following May 11th 1985 this girls father roamed the streets of Bradford trying to find his precious daughter, thinking she would return home. The outcome was to be so different. I get tearful thinking about this poor man who I will probably never meet, knowing how I would now feel having a family and precious daughters of my own.
Luckily on May 11th 1985 we were located within the middle tier of seating in the old stand. A few years previously we had season tickets for the seats at the rear next to the tea bar. So Bovril and match programme in hand we strolled down the narrow concrete steps to our seats, to greet the lovely old gentlemen who sat next to me and dad at every home game. After this game I never saw this City diehard at a City game again! X
The match against Lincoln City was a day of celebration. We were champions of Div 3 so whatever the result, the scoreline didn’t matter, due to our win the previous week at Bolton Wanderers. The players came out of the narrow players tunnel to receive their trophy and medals, whilst the usual chants of that time echoed around the old stadium.
Valley Parade in 1985 was falling to pieces, however it was still our home. This stand, my home for the last 7 or 8 years was to be demolished the following Monday to make way for a more modern concrete and steel frame structure. I dreamt about the day I would take my new seat in a more modern structure at VP. What I didn’t realise at this moment in time was that it would be 18 months later.
With the game in progress, I was in my usual daydream state, gazing at the landscapes of this lopsided old stadium, wedged into the hillside. At around 3.35pm Dad would always go to the tea bar to be served by those lovely ladies and get a coffee and mars bar. Still watching the game, what happened next was something that changed my life forever, leaving the mental scars that still surface to this day.
Dad was gone only a few minutes when I heard someone shout ‘there’s a fire at the kop end’ meaning the kop end of the old stand. At first I didn’t take much notice, although a few seconds later as I looked left I could see huge flames rising from the seats. These flames now almost reaching the timber and asphalt roof. Thinking back to this I now realise that at this point some poor people would be in a real struggle and battling to save their lives. I have since met people and read many accounts that can back this up. I panic for those poor souls to this day.
As any normal naive teenager would do, I started to panic as dad had not returned from the tea bar, and the flames were coming along timber roof more rapidly than anyone could imagine. All ball of fire with almost a look of evil within it. I can still hear the sound of it. I wish this sound would go away, but I anticipate along with others it’s with me for life….Please go away! I then knew instantly I had to get out. What do I do? do I stay a little longer and wait for dad, or go looking for him? no…. I had to get out!
Moments later I felt a huge thump in my back and the forceful words of ‘ Move Paul’ in a tone I could recognised with relief. Still I was scared and void of any movement. I was scared stiff. It was dad. ‘ move now, get over those walls and run son’ he said. There was no time to think, it was now or never.
In what seemed like slow motion I managed to navigate the two 6ft high walls, although shaking with fright. Dad shouted again ‘run’ but I couldn’t hardly hear him through the noise of the flames and the people running for their lives around me. I then ran with all the energy I had left to the other side of the pitch. It was like one of those nightmares where you can’t run and you keep falling over. Thing is, this was a real nightmare. This was really happening. Once I had reached safety I turned around to see something you should never see at a football match. I won’t go into detail as if being honest it didn’t seem real, it can’t be.
I wandered around the pitch for what seemed hours, but was probably no more than half an hour. I couldn’t find dad. I didn’t have a clue what had happened to him as the last time I saw him, he had given me clear instructions on how to save my own life. I couldn’t take in what was happening in front of me. People who were so badly injured were laying in the goal mouth at the Bradford End being treated and comforted by the ambulance crew, players and fans alike. Thinking back now the panic that people would have been experiencing both at the stadium and at home was unimaginable. These were the days before mobile phones. I’d seen enough, I had to get home and be with mum, but then again, where was dad?
As I’d lost dad I started the long walk home alone. I cannot recall why I didn’t go find our car, maybe I did, but it’s all a blur. Whilst I was walking along Kings Road on my way home, one of my dads footballing mates stopped to give me a lift. ‘Paul where’s your dad’ he asked! ‘Don’t know Terry!’ I replied. The journey back was almost silent.
Once Terry’s car pulled up outside the house mum came to the door and just said ‘Paul where’s your dad’ I couldn’t answer her to make any real sense, it didn’t seem real…..it can’t be. All I could say was, he’s ok I think! How do you mean he’s ok, almost shaking me to gain some sense and response. I knew dad was probably ok, however I couldn’t get my words out. I was in deep shock.
Within minutes dads car pulled up outside to our relief. We were all home safe. The following hours many of the family and friends either visited or telephoned to see if we were ok. My parents best friends who lived opposite were both police officers. In the evening they brought some bad news. There were casualties. All they could tell us were that maybe 3 or 4 people had not made it home. Whilst we were sat watching the events changing on TV, I saw my dad break down. I’d never seen this before. Seeing your dad, the person you worship in this state started to bring home the enormity of what had happened just a few hours previously slap bang into my face.
As well all know the number of casualties changed at an alarming rate, and I needn’t say much more, however the outcome of this day has had a major impact on my life.
If I’ve ever been snappy towards anyone that knows me or acted strangely, I can only apologise. It’s not the person I want to be. The scars are not visible… like many other peoples, their embedded within. I’m thankful for these minor scars, as I know it could have been much worse for me and my family.
Since the disaster I have listened to and read many accounts of people’s experiences of both the day itself and the aftermath. The healing process is ongoing both physically and mentally. I know people personally who were hugely more effected by this, both mentally and physically. It just never gets spoken about.
Last year I embarked on a new career. One I am currently enjoying immensely. I do this for a reason. It helps me relax and eases any anxiety I’m feeling. I do feel so selfish and guilty for feeling this way, because as I’ve previously stated, many other poor souls are feeling so much more pain.
All the pictures I paint are in memory of the 56 soles we lost. I have also painted my own personal tribute to those who we lost and their families.
This memorial picture is painted from my minds eye. The landscape you see is of a northern town gripped in grief. I’ve tried to give the buildings a dullness of time.
The sunlight is to reflect a new dawn for the club since the disaster, and also a passage to heaven not only for our lost souls, but also our thoughts for them and their families. The stadium is empty. This signifies the loneliness of many, and for their struggles in not being able to talk about this.
The 56 lost souls can be found hovering around the ground. RIP.
The boy with the ball is me. A lost heartbroken schoolboy alongside his father whom he loves very much. My mum is also be my side. I always had a football at my feet as a youngster.
Painting this has eased some pain and anxiety personally. I didn’t do it for this reason…..I did it to help others and help raise funds for people who are less fortunate.
I regularly donate monies and prints to raise money for charities. I will also using this painting to auction monies for the Bradford burns unit next year, the 30th anniversary.
I would like to thank you for reading my story so far. I’m planning to write a book in the future about my life watching sport and the early years of my childhood and painting career.
RIP 56 Never Forgotten’
The painting he refers to in this is on display on his website http://www.stadiumportraits.com/ where you can find paintings of Burnden Park amongst others.
People from different walks of life often have very beautiful stories to tell and the way he makes an positive impact on the world, having been inspired by this tragic experience is amazing.
I’d like to thank him again for sharing his story with us and urge you all to have a look at his website where you can learn more about the 11th May 1985.