I’m a bit of a glory supporter at the moment. I suppose anyone would do the same, jump on the bandwagon of a team that you’ve always attached your name to as soon as they’re doing well. I have to admit – much like a lot of people that support a lower league team as well as a Premier League team, my focus is mainly on the premier league team. I always keep a lookout for the football league scores but it’s more of a quick glance.

But my early footballing memories were all at Adams Park. I had a namesake in the Wycombe side as a child, and as a result my dad would sit there singing “There’s only two Matt Lawrences”, perhaps not quite at a volume that might’ve encouraged a rendition from the Blues’ faithful, but loud enough for the fellow Father and Son duo next to us to enquire about its origins.

I always felt like the trips to Adams Park were my dad’s way of bonding with me. We are polar opposites. He makes friends with everyone, says hello to random strangers in the street as if they’re old friends, and makes a habit of letting everyone within a 10-mile radius know exactly what’s happening during the game.

If we’re going in the style of an X Factor Sob Story, my dad had an illness when I was a child. We lived on the edge of a tiny village in the middle of rural Devon. He suffered from Chronic Fatigue Syndrome for several years throughout the 90’s and early noughties, meaning he spent much of that time in bed or resting. I went to a tiny village primary school, and as a result there weren’t many people in my life at that time. Outnumbered by a count of three to two in the household gender stakes, my lesser-spotted father was my only form of male company for a long time.

I can still remember my heart sinking a little bit when I asked him to come outside for a game of cricket, and he responded that he’d come out for “one over”, which I hoped meant “we’ll play an over and then see how I feel”, but the moment the sixth ball had been bowled, he immediately headed back inside. I was a hyperactive child with a vivid imagination, and so getting lost in my own thoughts wasn’t difficult – and so I was quite happy to play outside on my own for hours on end.

Fairly recently, my dad wrote a piece about his illness and I had a chat with him about the experiences I’ve just mentioned and about how a lot of it now added up. I never held any resentment – he had shown me enough affection during my upbringing to almost provide me with an unspoken explanation for his actions. Somewhere in my mind I had understood it all.

But to return to the football supporting stuff, we shared Spurs with everyone else – they are our family team. Two of my cousins are also big fans and even my aunt and mother, who are entirely unfazed by sport in general, usually stick their head around the door if spurs are playing.

But Wycombe is just the two of us. We’ve been at Adams Park for all manner of games – I can recall a 0-3 drubbing by Bristol Rovers in the mid-noughties, as well as a handful of lifeless, overcast draws. I can also recall attending a packed-out, buzzing stadium for a game where promotion to League One was at stake.

We were even at Villa Park when Wycombe made the FA Cup semi-finals in 2001.

Spurs drew Wycombe at home in the FA Cup in 2017, and I immediately had a message from Dad asking if I could get us tickets. I succeeded. But unfortunately, he couldn’t make the game due to illness. It was an odd occasion, we’d gone to the pub to soak up the pre-match atmosphere and I’d had a friendly chat with one of the away fans in the queue for the toilets – which felt a little strange given how many times I’d been in that pub before a game and not seen a single person who wasn’t wearing home colors.

Half an hour later, I ended up sat in the old White Hart Lane stands next to a man who admitted that he also had torn loyalties. We exchanged a wide-eyed glance when the Blues quickly went 0-2 up and we watched the noisy away support going berserk in the corner of the ground. After the break, it turned out there were a couple of empty seats next to one of my friends – I hadn’t been able to get seats that were all together. I looked back at my previous seat in the row in front during the second half, but the man I’d been sat next to, who had disappeared at half time, hadn’t returned.

We had to leave early because we all needed to get back to different parts of the country. It was 2-2 heading into stoppage time. I excitedly discussed the prospect of going to the replay. Then I checked twitter only to discover Spurs had scored a late winner and I found myself forcing back tears in the middle of Tottenham High Road.

I had said beforehand that I’d prefer Spurs to win comfortably so I didn’t even have to contemplate the idea of a tense finale like that and would be able to remain neutral. But that was never going to happen was it?

When the playoff final came along, I was full of nerves. I’d bought my dad tickets to the previous playoff final, back in 2015, as a 60^th birthday present. That time it was me that had to drop out at the last minute due to illness. It’s a shame that we’d miss out this time. On the morning of the game, I wasn’t sure if I had the right to be nervous. I’m not a regular at the games, I didn’t even own a proper Wycombe shirt. But…. I have been a supporter through thick and thin. Going to the games was always a bit of fun as a child, we’d give the rest of the family some time with the old folks while we escaped for a lads afternoon.

Wycombe Wanderers gave me my first shot at sports journalism. The first ever published piece that went onto my CV. It was an occasion where I’d infamously agreed to pen a review of an away game – which happened to be on sky sports that evening. I nearly tripped up when they asked for photos of the ground and include marks out of 10 for the facilities. I managed to talk my way out of those bits and they published it in the matchday program a few weeks later. My Grandad had immediately contacted the club’s media representatives, requesting a copy of my work.

As much as perhaps in a sentimental sense I thought it would be a lovely tribute to my late grandparents were their local side to be promoted, we’d usually receive an entirely uninterested nod of the head or a “oh, that’s good” when we told them the score afterwards.

We had some bubbly via video call after the game. It was just a nice evening, a bit of much needed euphoria and celebration, having only seen my parents through a computer screen for months on end. Something that I could never have imagined happening during some of the lifeless, rainy games back in the early noughties.

My Grandad was a special person. He was kind, loving and caring. He was very charming, and he had a fondness for the ladies – in a nice, albeit slightly quirky way. We once got into the car and my grandma asked:

“Where’s Allie?” to which my dad responded “I think he’s still in there, chatting up one of the women”, my grandma replied, very casually “oh that’s good, he likes doing that”

He saw people as people, regardless of gender, size, shape or ethnicity. He loved everyone and he was hugely popular in his local area.

He was surprisingly computer literate, by which I mean he could navigate a computer as long as the screen remained on his email inbox. We used his handy tech knowhow to keep in touch. I once figured out how to translate an entire email into Polish and he rang my parents in astonishment to ask if I’d become multilingual at the age of eight.

We had a strange relationship. Well, we were close and we got on very well, but, I don’t know, there was always something missing.

My Paternal Grandad was born in Kiev, to a Ukrainian Mother and Polish father. When he was approaching adulthood, his family had to flee from the Nazis and my Grandad ended up in the U.K., where he would eventually become a British citizen, via a trip around the world and a ten year stint in Africa, where my dad was born. I’m quite proud of myself for summing that up in one short paragraph.

Fast forward to Autumn ‘91 and the final Lawrence grandchild appears, in the shape of Yours Truly. The youngest of six in my generation, and the only boy.

My parent’s were based in Bath at the time, but soon decided that the grass was slightly greener in Devon. Mainly because it rains a lot. This meant moving further away from the family, who all resided further east.

I didn’t see my grandparents very often. Maybe once every few months. I remember being sat next to them on a plane to the Canary Islands as a child, a trip which turned out to be famous for Grandad’s continuous trips to refill his plate during dinner.

I describe our relationship as “a bit strange”, just because I strongly suspect that he struggled to understand me. Whilst we got on very well and there was a strong mutual affection, I think part of him wondered why I wasn’t developing at the same speed he expected. I was very shy as a child, which is often the case, but my lack of confidence continued as I began adolescence.

At my cousin’s wedding, in summer 2012, he took me around the party and introduced me to as many people as he could, giving me social tips every now and again – including, obviously, advising me to “always kiss all the girls!”. He was a master of big crowds. He’d come away with hundreds of new best friends.

He often gave me a bit of stick for my lack of confidence as the mystery grew over my poor social ability. I knew he wasn’t trying to be nasty. He was old-school and traditional, with the view that shyness could and should be overcome.

He died when I was 22, and shortly afterwards I discovered that I am Autistic… well, I have Asperger syndrome. I was diagnosed a year later. It was initially a shock but, suddenly, my confusing life began to make sense. I’m still very new to the condition and I’ve always struggled to explain it to people who have no knowledge of the autism spectrum. But it is, in essence, a condition which severely limits the development of social skills. Someone with Asperger’s will have no natural knowledge of how to socialise. Thus, it can make life rather difficult.

I have no idea what my grandad would have made of my condition. I’m sure he would’ve been sympathetic. I’m sure he would’ve drilled it into me that I needed to ensure I had any help that I was eligible for. He was very determined and competitive. To the point he wouldn’t give in until he had won. He taught us all to never give up.

But he will never know.

What he did know, was that his only Grandson went to university. I wanted to be a journalist/writer, and initially he was somewhat disapproving, stating that the ability to read and write should be a basic skill for everyone anyway. But as soon as he started to read some of my stuff alongside the relative success that followed, he changed his tune a lot. This wasn’t him doing a U-turn, it was simply a case that he was proud of me for doing so well.

He often used to call me into his office, sit me down and lecture me on my lack of interest in news and current affairs. He encouraged me to read newspapers. Politics had never interested me as a teenager. My dad used to come in occasionally, often to call us for dinner, and I’d attempt to signal my discomfort. My dad would respond by taking me to one side later on, and advise me to simply humour his father; just nod and smile. He wouldn’t be around forever.

In my speech at my Grandma’s funeral, I mentioned how I’d always felt a bit deprived for being the youngest in the family. I’d never been able to see any of my grandparents in their prime. They were all pretty ancient and getting used to their Zimmer frames by the time I began to grow up.

We’d have three hour car journeys to see them and, the moment we arrived, I’d be getting a few glares from my parents for not instantly helping out with the housework. I was a moody, sulky, eye-rolling teenager at the time. Saying that, I was surprisingly alright for a moody, sulky, eye-rolling teenager. I would guess this was down to my sensitive nature. I had a good heart. I had strops for days, as the cool kids say, but I was never overly unpleasant to anyone, especially my parents.

There was one photograph of me and my Grandad which got me thinking about all of this stuff, and I never even knew it existed until his funeral. It was taken, judging by my fashion sense, when I was about 12-ish. I think we had gone out for lunch somewhere. We were sat next to each other, I was grinning from ear to ear, giving a double thumbs-up to the camera. My grandfather was sat there, a bit stony faced, the standard way that people from his generation posed for photos. The first time I ever saw the photo was on a slideshow from the projector at his funeral. I stood there in amazement.

These were the days before the Selfie Craze, you see. It was less common in those days to suddenly whack out a massive camera and get everyone to pose.

I don’t feel like I ever truly reached adult maturity until I was well into my twenties. I was a very naïve youngster, which was possibly down to a sheltered upbringing in villages and small towns.

Towards the end of my teenage years, I had an urge to get away and start fresh. I hadn’t even originally wanted to go to university but, for whatever reason, one day I changed my mind.  

I needed to get out into the real world in order to make some sort of sense of who I was. I’d always been a mystery to myself, let alone my grandfather, or anyone else.

I’ve never regretted moving anyway either, even if it hasn’t always been the smoothest ride.

In my first year at Bath Spa Uni, we attended another cousin’s wedding in London. Afterwards, I went back to my grandparent’s house with one of my siblings, so that we could go back to Bath together the next day.

When it was time to catch the train, my grandparents insisted on coming all the way to the station with us. it was a five minute walk, and we only had about five minutes. My grandad had suffered with limited mobility ever since I’d known him, but he found the energy to come all the way and to get us there on time.

It’s approaching five years since Grandad passed. When it all happened, I was fresh from the loss of my maternal Grandmother 18 months prior. During that time, I’d pressed self-destruct and had to spend a bit of time piecing myself back together. I felt more prepared this time. But when it happened…. I don’t know, I felt a bit empty. I didn’t really believe that it had happened, even after the funeral.

My early life was so much of a blur that sometimes I wonder, just for a second, whether he was even real. I didn’t feel like I knew him that well. I had missed so much of his life.

By Matt Lawrence

Today, 11 November 2018 is the hundredth anniversary of the end of the First World War.

I have mixed feelings about this day as I am sure many have. In my mind no one has summed up the conflict better than Wilfred Owen in Dulce et Decorum Est:

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

This not only summons up the futility of war but this war in particular which was the apotheosis of European wars with European powers having been enriched by their colonial possessions vying for top dog status.

It could be argued that this war was not satisfactorily concluded and required a second war to bring about full catharsis. Nevertheless the number of soldiers needlessly sacrificed had a profound effect on Britain and accelerated Her decline as a major power.

My Grandparents on my father’s side were more affected by the Russian Revolution, which along with the First World War was a symptom of a World in transition.

They were based in Kiev, They were Jews although not especially religious. My Grandfather moved to Gdansk (Danzig) on the Baltic in 1921 when my father was a baby to start a business importing tea most probably because the regime establishing itself in the Ukraine was dangerous to business and the middle class.

My Great Grandparents and the rest of the family moved from Kiev to Kazimierz Dolny in Poland where ultimately they were exterminated by the Nazis.

The terms of peace after the First World War meant that Danzig was no longer part of the Weimar Republic but became a Free City under the auspices of the League of Nations.

The City was populated mostly by Germans and a minority of Poles with whom my family identified. My Grandfather employed many Germans and my father went to a local German Gymnasium (Grammar school) where many of his mostly German friends joined the Hitler Youth. Father was assaulted on a number of occasions.

Ironically my Grandparents’ lives were saved by an ex-employee who had joined the SS and had the grace to tell them to flee when they were in imminent danger of arrest.

Dad, Alex came to England in 1938 to learn the language and work in the British side of the business. War broke out and Father was rejected by the Polish Air Force in Exile for not being Polish enough. Through his ex English tutor from Gdansk he was able to join the RAF and there he met my Mother, Essie.

Despite owing our existence as a family to Hitler, Stalin and Clive of India (another story) there is residual grief in the family as a result of the upheavals of the early 20^th Century. Nevertheless these events created new allegiances from humble families to new nations.

As we pass the 100^th Anniversary of the cessation of hostilities of “the war to end all wars” and as we enjoy nearly three quarters of a century of relative peace in Europe we must turn our concern to the future for our children and grandchildren.

I feel that their challenge will be to stem the on-going destruction of the environment and to head off the danger that competition between nations for dwindling resources is bringing.

By Jonathan Lawrence

The best herrings come from Holland (Matjes) which are most delicate but

more expensive. Eastern Europe imported herrings from Scotland. The

herring, as caught, were placed in barrel in layers. Each layer

was covered in salt. These herrings were cheap and a great favourite

with the poor Jews. It was filleted, cleaned and soaked in water, milk

or tea for 24 hours to get rid of the salt. Then dried carefully,

cut into diagonal slices, some  2 cm or so wide, sprinkled with

vinegar and covered with onion rings. However, to stretch the herring

dish further, they were prepared as a salad.

Today all you need is to buy a packet of Nadler filleted Matjes herrings (the best)  from the Italian and Continental Delicatessen shop in Maidenhead.  You get the smaller packet of Matjes fillets, 300 grammes.  You get these packets in any continental (Polish) delicatessen shop.

Ingredients of salad.:   One packet of herrings (as above)  2 hard boiled

eggs, 1 small cooking apple, peeled, 1 small onion,  4 tablespoons of

very finely crushed digestive biscuits  (TUC),  lemon juice to

taste (not vinegar, although it was used in the old country because

lemons were expensive), 2  or 3  gherkins,  pepper (NO SALT), 1 table

spoon of olive oil,  an egg spoon of castor sugar, ( optional), 

handful of dill ( you get it from the Italian shop), finely chopped

(or parsley)

You will find that with experience you can vary the ingredients according

to taste, eg, a little more biscuits, more onions, gherkins, dill, etc.

You cut open the packets, drain (they are packed in vegetable oil) and

soak in water for 2 to 3 hours. Pat them dry and chop them  finely.

Chop the hard boiled eggs,  add the apple and onions, chopped. Place the chopped

herrings, eggs, apples, onions and gherkins into a bowl, mix them up,

add lemon juice, pepper, then add the finely crumbled biscuits. Then

the chopped dill or parsley. Mix them all up, add the castor sugar,

if you so prefer, and place into the fridge for some 2  to 3 hours.

If you find that the mixture is too wet, add some more crumbled

biscuits, if too dry add oil and lemon juice. Instead of all the

chopping by hand, you can, of course, use a food processor, but it

becomes, to my mind, like a pate, not quite traditional!

Serve on a large platter, garnished with sliced tomatoes, gherkins, olives,

sprigs of dill and, if you so wish, another hard boiled egg, finely

chopped, sprinkled over the dish.

You can, of course, decide to have the fillets as they are (see above). Put

them on an oval plate and cover them with plenty of onion rings,

chopped dill, plenty of lemon juice or vinegar and a couple of

tablespoons of olive oil.

Bon Appetit,

Alex Lawrence