“I just thought it’d be a laugh”

The full, first hand account of the infamous 'Yorkie Bike Stunt' of 2005.

Late season encounters don’t come much more drab than City’s inane affair with Dagenham in mid April of 2005. Promotion and relegation a foregone conclusion, both sides sat mid-table, neither with anything to play for on a humid, unstirring Spring day at Bootham Crescent. 

Still nursing the effects of the evening prior, I opted not to even bother donning the fur before the game, the lion remaining in his den (a bag at the back of the Club Shop), choosing instead to drink in the sunshine of the beer garden. There appeared zero logic in attempting to rouse or amuse a crowd who were blatantly there under obligation rather than desire, a sentiment seemingly shared by the players, officials and staff, all of whom seemed positive the game would play out in the way everyone anticipated - goalless, soulless, pointless. For the opening 45 minutes, it was just that - monotonous, tedious, mundane, all contributing factors in my being in the Burton Stone WMC with minutes still on the clock in the first half. 

Bemoaning the absence of any atmosphere or entertainment, a friend (himself vastly intoxicated) jovially announced “go get yersen dressed and ride your bike up t’ pitch!”. A preposterous suggestion: I didn’t even have a bike. 

But my parents did. Sat safely in their garage, which just happens to be 100 yards from the BC gates.

Half time had passed and with it any rational thinking, completely devoid of a plan, the fur was swiftly donned and the bike wheeled from the car park, crashing into the uninhabited Social Club. Furniture barged to the canvas, and the Fire Doors to the pitch kicked open. 

Now, I’m a fairly quiet individual, and cannot boast a particular wealth of self confidence, but I’ve always maintained that wearing the Yorkie attire was akin to the Clark Kent transformation; an alter-ego bestowing an air of invincibility upon the wearer, and basically, a licence to get away with pretty much anything. Any cognitive processes were abandoned - well and truly surrendered to the Furry Phenomenon. 

The peripheral vision within Yorkie’s head was actually pretty decent, but served little purpose that day as the focus was only directly ahead. No blueprint, just head down and pedal like hell. The opposition manager stepped from the dugout, a collision averted by perhaps an inch. Incensed cries of ‘oy, oy OYYY’ (each ‘oy’ bellowed with increased fury) to whom they belonged I’ve still no idea. They were ignored, we were far too invested to stop now.

The bike hurtled at velocity towards the Shippo, glancing up, I noticed Darren Dunning lining up a corner. I was suddenly stone cold sober. “A bloody corner! Timing couldn’t be better. Skid round the corner. I don’t know how to pull a skid. Shit. I’m going to hit him. Put your feet down!”. 

The cycle ground to a halt and I allowed myself a nervous laugh at the absurdity of it all, and more so the relief that I hadn’t bombed into one of our own players at speed. For a brief moment I thought I’d ‘got away with it’ before a steward promptly appeared and, despite protest, wheeled the offending article away. From behind the goal I could see the Safety Officer barreling down the steps of the Main Stand, despite the distance between us it was evident his body language was somewhat disgruntled. He then took up residence outside the St Johns hut, eyes firmly on the fur, and there they remained for the remainder of the game. 

I sensed an almighty bollocking, the final whistle blew and he immediately strode in my direction, yet as he grew closer I noticed a wry smile. Unfortunately, any design to escape without reprimand was short lived as he explained “I thought it was hilarious, but the referee would like to see you in his room. Right now.” Thirty minutes later I still stood waiting outside the officials changing room, every part the naughty schoolboy. For the second time that afternoon, I found myself beside Darren Dunning as he passed in the tunnel - “that was fucking mint mate” - obviously unperterbed by his recent rendezvous with a fleeting feline.

Gestured into the room, the interrogation began immediately with a question I perhaps should have anticipated - “Can you take your head off?”. Tempting as it was, it seemed futile to contest his flippant disregard for the first rule in the Mascot Code of Conduct,- you NEVER take your head off, besides - the bloke already looked ready to erupt. He then launched into a lecture of biblical proportions, detailing my apparent vast “ignorance, irresponsibility and complete disregard for the safety of those in the stadium”. He demanded a motive, as though it was carried out as some form of political statement. 

My attempt to calm the situation and provide a satisfactory reason proved woefully inadequate and just enraged him further - a sizable purple vein protruding from his steaming maroon temple. He then proceeded to bombard me with the potential repercussions of such a “reckless act”. I assumed my days as Yorkie were numbered, I was young and naive, but even I couldn’t resist a snigger when he made the outlandish claim of “the club could even be docked points”. Even I knew that was bollocks.

Dismissed in disgust, I trudged down the tunnel with the Safety Officer, who by now had softened to more of a ‘what are we going to do with you’ demeanor, even managing a chuckle when asked “can I have my bike back now?”. 

The Lion discarded in the Club Shop, a retreat was made to the Social Club where my role retention (and in a roundabout way, celebrating a successful ‘stunt’) was toasted before the bubble was (yet again) burst as a friend, and fellow club employee, informed me that “Billy wants to see you in his office”. It transpired not to have been the opposition manager almost wiped out on the touchline, but our very own, and being in trouble with Billy McEwan was like being in trouble with Vladamir Putin. I felt bloody sick. 

Dead Man Walking. Thankfully, she acknowledged the colour drain from my face and declared the wind-up. It was a cruel joke but, to her credit, it was a bloody good one. A few of us set out into the night, and I was able to do so with my mind at rest after Sophie (McGill) rang later on. Still laughing at the chaos the stunt ensued, she declared her comic gratitude along with the assurance of “if anything comes of it, we’ll take care of it”. 

Ardent historians will delight in the knowledge the cycle is still alive and well to this day, a loyal and trusty steed, functioning as my ‘Pub Bike’; a chariot from home to hostelry, often preceding yet another deplorable defeat at the hands of supposedly inferior opposition. 

When talking about the ‘bike incident’, folk often ask the same question as the referee: the reason behind the stunt. Their subsequent reaction is generally one of mild amusement rather than the furious indignation it provoked that day from the man with the whistle…..

“I just thought it’d be a bit of a laugh”.