I had two tickets for yesterday’s Women’s FA Cup Final between Chelsea and Manchester United; both seats in the lower tier of the United end, just behind the goal. They were as close as we could get the ones we had last year when United won the trophy for the very first time. I was excited, though thoroughly daunted by the quality of our opposition, at the chance to see my girls triumph again.

We had plans to set off at 0630 for the drive to Wembley. First stop, though, was dropping Basil – our youngest mutt – at Sarah’s mum’s for the day. Both Basil and #MaInLawNo1 enjoy their play dates. #DaughterNo1, or #SonInLawNo1, whichever of the dynamic duo was available, had been tasked with dropping into ours several times during the day to attend to our remaining three dogs. Parking at Watford had been secured and pre-paid and train times noted. As I said, arrangements for our day out at the cup final had been made. But, as in the words of John Lennon, “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”

It is a rare night when at least one of our mutts doesn’t want to pay a visit to the garden at some ungodly hour, usually between 0330 and 0530. The early hours of this particular Sunday morning brought no change to their annoying ritual and saw me letting them out just before four o’clock. I finally got them all inside and snuck as stealthily as I could back into bed. Despite my ninja-esque skills, Sarah stirred.

“I can’t face the drive today. Eight hours or so, there and back, in a hot car.” I spoke into the darkness. “You’re under the weather, too. Shall we stay home and watch on TV?”

And, thus, our plans changed. John L. was right about a good many things.

Despite all its vagueries and uncertainties, the game of football is, in the main, really quite consistent. You know exactly how long a match will last. Two halves of fortyfive-minutes, each followed by a period of additional minutes decided – oftentimes this number is quite surprising – arbitrarily by the referee. Sidenote: Why do these additional minutes seem to increase as each season goes by? But, ninety-minutes, give or take, that’s what you expect from a game of football.

Life, though? Well, that’s a different kettle of fish altogether, its rules are largely known but its duration is kept from us. A life’s span is unspecified, unknown and the moment of its ending is, nearly always, quite unexpected. You never know just how many minutes you’ll get to play before the Big Ref decides to blow His – or Her – whistle and, in doing so, signal full-time on your individual game.

I’ve known Phil since September of 1979. For those you now ripping off your shoes and socks to work out how many years that is, I’ll help you out. It’s almost forty-six years. A little shy of a half-century.

In terms of days, it’s around 17,000. Or, if you prefer, it is 24,041,340 minutes. More or less but, who’s counting?

Assuming just 90 minutes per football match – no time added on – that’s about 267,126 football matches. Over a quarter-of-a-million games of footy. Staggering numbers. Whichever way you view it, that is a long time to share a friendship.

 It was around midday on the Saturday – less than twenty-fours hours before we decided to cancel our Wembley trip – when I learned that the Big Ref – Him, or maybe, it was Her – had decided to blow full-time on Phil.

I think it was this news, working away in my mind at 4 a.m., that was instrumental in the “Shall we stay at home?”question that I posed for Sarah. I simply had no desire to travel all that way and then be part of a huge crowd of football fans only hours after hearing that a lifelong pal wasn’t around anymore.

Phil and I met on our very first day at senior school. I can’t remember if we bonded straight away or if our friendship took a little longer to form. Whichever it was, I now can’t recall a time when Phil wasn’t part of my life.

There is, sorry, was – everything about Phil will forever now be in the past tense – very little between us in age; I was younger than him by just a few months. We lived minutes from each other, got the bus to and from school together and mucked about after lessons, at weekends and holidays. The usual things, footy at the park, riding our bikes, generally mooching around doing nothing in particular.

We once got set on by mods outside that very same park. Not proper mods from the sixties, these were the 1980s “lite” version – mod wannabes. To this day I still have no idea why they decided to whack Phil and I around our heads with their crash helmets. Ho hum!

Phil and I got “nicked” together one night while looking to call on a friend. It was a case of both mistaken identity and “wrong place, wrong time”. We laughed about it in later days but, as fourteen-old-boys, it was a tad frightening to be hauled into a squad car, accused of breaking and entering and threatened with deportation to Devil’s Island and a life of hard toil on a chain gang. (That last “Devil’s Island and chain gang” bit might be my memory deceiving me). It seemed we matched the descriptions of the real varmints based, almost solely, on the fact I was wearing my brand new Harrington jacket, a jacket exactly like one of the real miscreants had worn. I never wore it again.

As we grew into older teenagers we would spend Friday evenings at the home of our best friend, Nick. The three of us would decamp into Nick’s garage and play pool on a three-quarter size table. Phil and Nick were talented, or maybe just lucky, but I was absolutely terrible at pool. But it was fun. Sarah became part of these Friday nights a few years later.

Phil was alway mischievous, a smile never far from his face, a glint of devilment in his eyes. He could, and would, make you laugh at the daft things he did and said. He wasn’t a comic or a clown, he was simply easy-going and a joy to be around.

I didn’t go and watch football with Phil, that was something that Nick and I did; it was Nick who first got me into watching Bradford City, a habit that stayed with me for the best part of the next four decades. Phil was into running; a bit of track, I think, but mainly cross country and a bit of orienteering (chasing around the countryside with a map and compass searching for checkpoints). Phil had a natural ability for, and affinity with, running. His physique and temperament was ideally suited for the loneliness of the long-distance runner. He became quite proficient at it and joined a local running club to further his enjoyment.

Around the time we were finishing our O-levels, Phil announced – quite unexpectedly and completely out of the blue – that he had signed up to join the Marines. We were stunned! Our skinny Phil? A Marine? The notion seemed absolutely absurd!

But, a Marine he became. And a damn good one too, I believe. There was a “bit of a do” – a trip around the pubs and clubs of Halifax I recall – to see Phil off before he set off to undertake his basic training.

It was many months later that Phil resurfaced. He was home on leave and Sarah saw him one day in Halifax. She couldn’t believe how he had changed. Once a skinny little boy Phil was now all muscle and brawn. His face still cheeky but now ruggedly handsome. I think Sarah was quite smitten! His new physique and look allied with his easy-going charm and gentle confidence made him very popular with the ladies.

Our paths crossed repeatedly over the years, initially with some regularity but these occasions became more infrequent as Phil’s service life and my life went in different directions. Despite our meetings becoming ever rarer and shorter – life, plans and all that stuff, remember Lennon’s words? – when we did meet up it was as if time had stopped; we simply picked up again as if the months – then years – had not passed since last we met. That is such a magical thing to share with another person; a bond which transcends time and distance.

While in the Marines, Phil suffered an horrific leg injury after a training exercise went wrong. Though this ended his days as a member of one of the country’s elite fighting forces, I never once saw him unhappy about it. I’ve no doubt Phil experienced despair and doubt in private but he was always the person guaranteed to lighten any occasion and to bring joy and laughter to proceedings. He was always ready with a tale – most likely a tall tale or, if not tall, then certainly stretched – and he was a natural raconteur.

I last saw Phil seven years ago at Nick’s fiftieth birthday. I can’t believe it was that long ago but, sadly, it was.

Phil was diagnosed with cancer on December 20^th 2024. They gave him between one and two years. As was his way, he chose not to tell anyone at that time as he did not want to spoil Christmas for anyone.

I learned the news through Nick as the new year began. Then, when I spoke to Nick on the morning on the last Bank Holiday (Monday 5^th May) I learned that, despite a tough course of treatment, chemo had not worked. Phil now had only months remaining. Later that same evening, I was told his end would be soon. His ninety-minutes was nearly up and it was down to the Big Ref to decide just how many minutes He/She would add on.

Fearful of calling Phil and of hearing his struggling voice – oesophageal cancer is a rabid, rampant beast – the next day I contacted him on WhatsApp. (Yes, I really am that much of a coward.) Even with his death imminent Phil rapidly turned my tears of sadness into tears of laughter. We messaged back and forth for a while, catching up and reminiscing. Those lost years disappeared instantly, our friendship relaxed and easy. I thanked him for that friendship, told him how much he meant to me. But he soon got too weak to continue and had to go.

It was the same Tuesday that Sarah, and I along with #DaughterNo1, #SonInLawNo1 and #GrandDaughterNo1, were in City Park, Bradford, celebrating Bradford City’s promotion success. In the midst of the celebrations I missed a video call from Phil. I sent him a picture of me at the celebrations, little Emilia sat on top of my shoulders, giggling at the sights and sounds.

“I’m at City Park Bradford for the “promotion party”. City went up on Saturday.” I messaged.

Phil replied, “Yep, was chatting to Nick about it yesterday. Leeds going up and Halifax doing well. It is looking rosy!”

A minute later he sent the last words we would share.

“Enjoy yrself.” (sic)

Phil got married that Friday after spending the intervening days in hospital. It was hastily arranged, the urgency ensuring everything was last minute. Thankfully Nick managed to get there and had the honour of being his best man. 

Then, a mere eight days later, the Big Ref blew His – or perhaps it was Her – whistle on Phil. His game was over. But he played with heart and conviction and joy until the very final whistle.

So, what has been the point of this particular blog entry?

I don’t know. I really don’t.

I think writing about Phil has – or will, maybe even just “might” – help me process the loss of someone I have known and loved for so long. Hopefully it helps me grieve quicker, better….whatever I need…. I don’t know. I just wanted to mark Phil’s effect on my life in some way. Few people will even read this – there’s only about six who regularly take the time out of their day to read the words I write.

And that’s okay. It’s more than okay. As long as one person reads about Phil. That’s more than enough for me – to know that he will have touched, however briefly and however faintly, someone else’s life – will help keep his memory alive.

“It’s my life, don’t you forget.”

Rest in peace, Phil. Take care, mate, enjoy running over Yorkshire’s hills. Until we meet again and can once more play pool on an under-sized table with too little room to place a cue.