McCreadyandChess

‘The night grew darker. The sound of pianos mingled with the wind. I could not see the trees—I was entrapped in a town where I had once known nothing but fields and one old house, stately and reticent among the limes.‘ Edward Thomas -The Heart of England, Chapter one, Leaving Town (1909 London J. M. Dent & Co.)

First chess in the big smoke

Why I was barely 17 when my love of chess took me to London. It was late spring, May 7th in fact, a quiet sunny Sunday in the home counties and London too. Damon D’ Cruz fellow club member of Luton chess club and friend, was late in picking me up. He used his brother’s Vauxhall Cavalier that day, the number plate I still recall -E391BGS. Whilst waiting, I listened to songs on a thrash metal compilation I had bought recently, the vinyl still unscratched then; Life in Forms by Acid Reign, and Open Casket by Death being the main two. As I recall he was due to pick me up at 8 am but did so at 8.45 with play commencing at 10 am. Once collected, off to London we went, Islington, as it were.

It was all Damon’s idea, I just went along, us both well into our chess. The name of the tournament I cannot be entirely sure of, believing it to be The Islington Quickplay or The Islington and Highbury Quickplay, one of the two. Held in a school I cannot remember the name of but do remember well the streets and roads that lead you there, the affluence that draped over them, and how the morning light cut clear and crisp angles on rows of blanched stone walls besides flower beds bright in the sun, and clearly painted signs on the fresh tarmac beyond garden walls where hedges were neatly cultivated -something a few streets in Luton had only a paltry smattering of.

Run by Adam Raoof, who seemed somewhat unkempt that day, I was paired in Round 1 against someone rated 187, who insisted upon playing the Evan’s Gambit against me and won with not too much difficulty. And although I would love to say how the day went, I just can’t. All I rememeber was sat in some school assembly hall we were and I found it difficult to cope with the experience on the whole. In what I recall was the final round of the day, that being Round 5, I cannot tell you what my score was prior to it but only that my opponent played the Vienna Game against me and I didn’t know what to do against it. After the game had finished, I do remember asking Damon for his advice but with some bemusement for I had not even been playing chess for two years at that point, and had shown relatively little interest in opening theory throughout that time or so I remember.

I had left school less than one year prior to that quickplay, soon stopped cutting my hair thereafter, was now at VIth Form College and wore only heavy metal T-shirts. I knew nothing of the world and went along for the ride it could be said. What stands out most from that experience was being part of the chess scene in England was more engrossing and engaging than the chess itself, of which I was still not very good at. It was the first of innumerous forays into London for chess to come across five consecutive decades and counting. A mere six months later, Damon and I returned to Islington to watch Karpov, Yusupov, Speelman, and Timman compete in the FIDE Candidates semi-finals at the Saddler’s Wells Theatre, and although Islington heralds where my love of chess first blossomed in London it was soon to be superceded by life, which per se was shaped by chess, that in turn shaped the lives of others from Italy of all places, some years later. Before that, though, those categorically distinct; namely history and the past, both require some context of sorts.

Further back still, Islington was the first part of London I ever visited and where my first ever memories come from, as I still fleetingly recall the road I walked down with my mother as a toddler, as she took me to where the first man who would replace my father lived -a certain Terry Whitbred.

Moving forwards to 1993, Islington was the first part of London I did work of any kind, and where I had my first ever interview by the music press. Team mate Damon opened a record company called Culture Vibes Records, at an office in Leroy House, on the corner of Essex Road and Balls Pond Road. Once, the press came round late that August and wanted to interview someone from the company, being little more than hired help I was lumbered with that because no one in the office wanted to do it. They took my photo, and music aside, asked many questions, one being ‘What is your favourite day of the week?’ I told them it was Saturday. When asked why, I said it was because I got to see my girlfriend that day (a teenager called Lorraine who was well into Grunge like me and listened to the same bands, wore the same clothes, was friends with the girl I had dated not long before (Emma), and more than happy to have prolonged snogging sessions in the long shadows of Luton Town Hall across late afternoons before her bus went up to Eaton GreAnother first I am beholden of Islington for is that it has always been the part of London I said I liked the most…well until I began working in Covent Garden in 2001 that is. Much before then, many times over I took the tube to Angel station and walked up to Damon’s office, a good 1 hour walk past Islington Green until St. Paul’s park arrived and stood opposite. I liked the feel and swagger of Essex Road very much; the affluence the little roadside cafes and coffeeshops brought, with their seating outside making them look rather chic, not to mention those regal Victorian pubs on street corners and the up-market restaurants that paved the jolly little streets running away from them also. Pedestrians and those seated on park benches were often well-dressed, even the cars parked and in passing symbolised wealth. That affection held throughout the 90’s and is easily remembered when I had my first position in the education sector back in the warmest months of 99, when I was both the Hall Manager and Activities Organiser for a school all Summer long, staying in Euston Square at the time, Endsleigh Gardens I might add. Asked to entertain a group of mature Italian students one evening mid-week (one of which I had great sympathy and compassion for as she suffered with depression and needed assistance sometimes, requiring me to hold her hand and steady the ship if she became tearful), I decided to take the 10-20 or so up away from the UCL to Islington for the night out as I knew it was cosmopolitan but also an authentic experience in real London, as opposed another meander through a touristic area, something which the students wanted to wander away from. After exiting Angel Tube station, it was not long before we found a swanky little bar full of well-to-do city-commuters enjoying their beer and conversations. One gentleman in particular was very pleased to meet one student, Marco from Milan, long, curly hair and very Italian looking, and was most welcoming, keen on practicing his limited Italian as well as shaking hands with whoever he could with that unsober smile of his. Wine and beer went down, cultural exchange went on, and moods went up amidst the decor between the bar and the open front end that led onto the street. That evening we sauntered through for the evening panned out as I hoped it would, all because I knew Islington well enough to know it was exactly what our students were looking for through connections to chess and friendships formed from it, which altered my experience of London irrevocably: through chess, Islington was were I first gained a grounding in the big smoke before off I went to university and before work placed me elsewhere around the city, and life, in general, took over in all its guises… .

‘How noble the long, well-lighted streets at this hour, fit with their smooth paved ways for some roaring game, and melancholy because there is no one playing. The rise and fall of the land is only now apparent. In the day we learn of hills in London only by their fatigue; in the night we can see them as if the streets did not exist, as they must have appeared to men who climbed them with a hope of seeing their homes from the summits or of surprising a stagbeneath. The river ran by, grim, dark and vast, and having been untouched by history, old as hills and stars, it seemed from a bridge, not like a wild beast in a pit, but like a strange, reminiscential amulet, worn by the city to remind her that she shall pass.’ Edward Thomas -The Heart of England, Chapter one, Leaving Town (1909 London J. M. Dent & Co.)

M J M

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It is undeniably true that my love of chess has shaped both my experience and understanding of England more so than anything else. A corollory of that pertains to how it crossed over into other passions which took me further afield too. Some of those at my local club (Luton) have become life-long friends. Unsurprisingly, then, we did things together other than play chess. We also went to football matches to watch Luton play, with A-Team player Damon D Cruz behind the wheel as always. This happened at matches away from home four times, the second of which I would like to focus upon.

In Reflections 6, I chronicled for how Matthew Payne, Damon D’ Cruz and I went to watch the FIDE candidates semi-finals at the Saddler’s Wells Theatre in Islington, London in Autumn 1989. Same old season but fast forward 15 years, and all three of us went down to Southend-on-Sea to watch The Hatters play in the F. A. Cup first round. United by a love of chess and football, we cheered on our home team, the day being one not forgotten.

That Autumn I was commuting to Cambridge daily and can only assume I must have dropped a day’s pay and requested that Friday off. It was a televised, evening match, Damon and I left Luton not long after midday, the drive itself not worth mentioning. I recall we arrived easily enough and went for mid-afternoon drinks at some unglamorous boozer on the sea front. I always remember sitting outdoors with a black leather jacket on and eating bags of roasted peanuts which I washed down with whichever lager I was drinking. The sky was as grey and deadening as Southend itself…nothing more than a cheap seaside town with little to offer I thought. Conversation was mostly chitter-chatter about nothing in general, most probably something was said about my upcoming trip to Thailand at some point, how often chess cropped up I cannot recall. Darkness fell with drizzle around five, the evening sky soon miserable. Off we trundled to collect Matt at the train station…say sixish? In being early, that did not stop us having a few more jars at that small pub just inside the station -accompanied by even more bags of dry roasted peanuts of course. In finding chess fan numero tres, a short stroll in dismal weather to Roots Hall was had, the fever and noise ricocheting through the streets we walked as one.

I liked it how we hung out as chess friends, but chess was not on the agenda -we were there for the footy. The game was great as Luton won convincingly (see below for highlights). There is, however, one memory that stands out so much more than any other, even as I type these words, it’s hard not to smile or laugh. As anyone can tell you, when football fans go to away matches in their hundreds or thousands, a lot of drinking gets done, especially when it involves a well-supported club from a rough, working-class town like mine -that match was no exception. I must have had at least 5 pints myself before the game, probably more, but enter the guy in the navy fisherman’s jacket in the row in front of us -it’s hard not to laugh even after all these years! With his head of unkempt grey hair, he looked late 50s, early 60s maybe. He had a flushed red face, that of an alcoholic and an enormously buldging stomach to put it mildly. How many pints he had before the game I didn’t know but would find out in the break. He was one row down and off to my left slightly. To his right were two office type looking guys, both went off to get coffees during half-time. The old guy, who I shall never forget, then couldn’t control himself anymore and started spraying out vomit left, right and centre. Not little amounts but high powered sprays, short bursts lasting a second or two. He couldn’t stop himself, how many times it happened I could not count. When the office type looking guys returned to their seats, chatting away looking all happy holding their paper cups of coffee -the sudden look of sheer horror on their faces was absolutely priceless! Their seats were by now caked in puke, and I do mean caked -that is not an exaggeration. Not just their seats but the floor around them and other seats too. There were stunned and looked for a culprit instantly, perhaps in fear of perpetual puke! Straight away they clapped eyes on the the guy sitting next to them, who had stopped spraying it about by then, and who couldn’t have looked more like an alcy if he had tried. But the instance they clapped eyes on him, he looked away all innocent and up to the sky too -it was hard not to take amusement in it. They had no choice but to stand for the whole of the second half, glancing around suspiciously for other potential culprits, visibly less happy than they were before the half-time whistle. The old bloke next to them continued to spray vomit but far less often and was much more discreet about it. At one point Matt and I looked at each other, smiling away -you couldn’t not! Talk about taking the biscuit!

The atmosphere was jubilant, the weather awful but bearable, Luton were victorious, we didn’t get puked on! Round two it was, we were all singing away together, most of us pissed up. I liked how our working class roots combined with our more middle-class lives and interests, and how a great night was had, full of friendship and action on the pitch – it was a great combination that we played.

This account of that day, Friday November 12th 2004, is written because it exemplifies how chess not only broadened by understanding and experience of my culture in chess events but also non-chess events with chess players I knew well, had stayed friends with for decades by then and would for decades more. Chess brought us together and from that we enjoyed our football in each other’s company.

M J M

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Early one morning in May I set out,
And nobody I knew was about.
I’m bound away for ever,
Away somewhere, away for ever.

Edward Thomas, Early One Morning

October 14th 1989 was a sunless Saturday. An overcast Autumn day where lifelong chess friends Damon D’ Cruz and sidekick Matt Payne, went with I to the Saddler’s Wells Theatre down in deepest, darkest Islington, London to watch the FIDE Candidates Semi-finals: with the winners of Timman v Speelman and Karpov v Yusupov competing for the chance to dethrone Kasparov the then FIDE world champion.

We drove down. Damon was at the wheel. And with the journey instantly forgettable, we soon found ourselves paid up in the theatre foyet with tickets in hand and ready. Once in, we plonked ourselves down to soak up the chess pronto. I found the venue more elegant and magnificent than the chess itself, which I attempted in vain to follow on a small, cheap, green magnetic set I had bought earlier that year, months before one of the pawns went walkabout! We sat at the front with the theatre only half full at best, and because Matt was relatively inexperienced at chess, a cocksure teenage me kept offering up unwonted commentary. Just a move or two before the Karpov game ended, I announced ‘Draw!’ to Matt a bit too loudly -to which Karpov gave me a stone-faced glare full of Soviet seriousness.

https://www.chessgames.com/perl/chessgame?gid=1068725

The other game, however, aroused much more interest with local boy GM Speelman turning on the style and snatching victory, levelling up the match with one game to play. I distinctly remember the finale, but must have gone for a wander prior to it because when the game ended there was I standing by the entrance to the auditorium with GM Speelman walking up the passageway towards me. As he drew near, his blue jumper becoming increasingly more visible, you could hear spectators congratulating him ‘Well done Jon’ I kept hearing and ‘Good on ya Jon‘ also, then he looked at me as if in anticipation of further congratulations, but being so shy, teenage me couldn’t offer any up and froze instead as he exited. I still remember that moment very clearly and how GM Speelman was very happy with his win, the light applause he received, and the patriotism that filled the air.

https://www.chessgames.com/perl/chessgame?gid=1130235

After play had ended, Damon, Matt and I scampered off to a little cafe nearby for some scran. Cocksure me couldn’t shut up at the table, so much so that an accompanied and rather well-dressed woman on a nearby table began looking at me with some amusement, as if to say ‘who is this jumped up teen that thinks he’s an expert on chess’. What fading memories found thereafter flicker only between a return to Damon’s motor parked across the road, how the weather had become inclement, that I had no idea of which part of a giantesque London I was in, and how happy I was to be heading home with the action over.

The past is the only dead thing that smells sweet,
The only sweet thing that is not also fleet.
I’m bound away for ever,
Away somehwere, away for ever.

Edward Thomas, Early One Morning

M J M

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