We sat in the Executive Stand, upper tier. I can remember the seats.
My dad bought me a bar of chalky Nottingham Forest chocolate. He bought me a programme, and he pointed out the advert in the back of it, where Gary Crosby—my favourite player—was moonlighting as a joiner.
And on that sunny April afternoon, we watched our team—our dazzling, breathless team—put seven goals past Chelsea.
I was ten years old. It was my second Forest game, and one of the best day of my life.
Not for the game, or the goals; not for Gary Crosby, putting Frank Sinclair on his arse. No—for finally being a part of this thrilling, grown-up thing. A thing that I’d only ever glimpsed through my dad. The wild and visceral mystery that took him away, every other weekend: the one that returned him home, hours later, smelling of the cold.
This was what he’d been up to.
And I knew, instantly, that there was no going back. From those first moments—the glossy programmes and the crappy chocolate and the throng of bodies in the Trent End, shouting and singing and moving as one—I knew that this was how I wanted to spend every Saturday, every week, forever.
Until recently, I’d always thought of that afternoon as mine. But it wasn’t… because there was somebody else there that day, starting his own story.
As we emptied into a rich, warm evening, Colin Fray was filing his first ever match report for Radio Nottingham.
Once I knew that I’d been sold a lie—some two years later, in the spring of 1993—it was already too late.
It had all turned out to be bollocks. Every little bit of it. The grandeur, the weather, the romance, the hope; the exhilarating newness of it all, which seemed like it could never, ever get old.
Things had changed. Forest were getting beaten now—heavily, and often. And it was cold—constantly bloody cold. Hopeless football, played beneath a bruised and solemn sky. I knew just enough to see that things were going wrong, and nowhere near enough to understand why.
I’m a wallower by nature, and us wallowers—we tend to lash out. We ridicule and punish the optimism of others. One day, after an especially bleak defeat to Southampton, my dad—the king of the optimists—copped for it.
It must have been hard enough for him, watching his team turn so suddenly to shit, but now he had me to contend with. And on the drive home, I gave him both barrels—the full-on hysterical wrath of a twelve year-old. I was angry, and worried, and I wanted something to believe in: some sign that it would all be alright.
It was life and death—it was the worst I’d ever felt, about anything. I can remember telling him that I hated football, and Forest, but I wanted him to read between the lines—to know that it was him I hated, for lumbering me with them.
Every question, I left a space for him to make it better: every answer, I didn’t believe.
When will it get better?
When will it all go back to normal?
And finally, his fists flushed around the steering wheel, my dad burst.
“I don’t know, alright?”
He didn’t shout often, but he shouted then.
“I don’t know.”
And then: “you don’t need to come. Stay at home and listen to it on the radio, if it’s that bad.”
Neither of us said anything else. We just drove, in sullen, stony silence.
He didn’t offer to renew my season ticket, that summer. I think he knew I’d had enough of them. And he’d probably had enough of me.
I thought I’d had enough of them. That, it turned out, was just the first of a hundred-such promises I’d make to never step foot inside the City Ground again.
I didn’t renew… but I couldn’t let them go. So I took my dad’s advice, and turned to the radio. That’s how, after a wobble, I fell thoroughly and emphatically back in love with football.
Listening to Forest on the radio that season—it changed and it saved everything.
The matchday presenters were Martin Fisher, and Colin Fray. They took a half of a half each, and whilst they were both great, Colin was my favourite. There was a rumour doing the rounds at school that Fisher was actually a Derby fan, and whilst I didn’t want to believe it, he did sound noticeably less pleased when we scored. That was weighed against Colin, though, whose voice would wind to a tight shrill. It was the shrill of a child, narrating a goal in his own back garden: the shrill of surrendering to the moment. We’ve all done it.
Football on the radio—there was a behind-the-cushions comfort to it. A volume knob that could be turned all the way off, when things were going wrong… and turned back up, minutes later. The noise and the pitch of the crowd, which spoke for itself. And most of all, it was fun: they played a Brazilian-style ‘GOOOOOAAAAAAL’ clip—set to the Radio Nottingham jingle—whenever Forest, Notts, or Mansfield scored. It framed the games in a completely different way.
Turning on the radio and the Sega Megadrive, every other Saturday.
Colin at the Baseball Ground, for Gary Charles’ own goal.
Colin, the voice of that sun-drenched triumph at London Road.
Colin: when we went to Old Trafford, and Stan beat United on his own.
Colin at Hillsborough, for the 7-1.
Colin in Europe.
Through the penalties at White Hart Lane—Colin. Through the triumph of ’98, and the pitch-black comedy of ’99; through those barren years in the third division, reporting from strange, grounds, and small towns; our Forest correspondent, Colin Fray.
I don’t know if he was a fan when he started—back on the long-gone afternoon we shared in 1991—but how could he not be now?
Everybody’s got an opinion on what makes a good commentator; everyone agrees he is one. Colin doesn’t moralise or lecture, like Barry Davies; he doesn’t witter, like Motson; he doesn’t sneer or drain the joy from things, like Lawrenson, or Alan Green.
He’s not a Robbie Savage, or an Ian Wright: he doesn’t fill space with incoherent, half-baked reckons. Colin’s willing to not know; to wonder, and to hope. As football’s modern discourse demands that ex-pros shout over each other, Colin remains unflappable. Colin is zen.
He doesn’t mind Steve Hodge interrupting him. He doesn’t mind explaining to Brian Laws—for the hundredth time—how FFP works. All those years, sat next to John McGovern: not once did he turn to him and scream: “OBJECT. BLOODY OBJECT. ABJECT LESSONS AREN’T A THING”.
He’s a miracle of self-control, placed on this earth to explain the inexplicable—to chronicle the insanity of Nottingham Forest. For all those years, and for all the high-piled embarrassments, the fact that he’s never once erupted with an “oh, for fuck’s sake” is worthy of a Nobel Prize. Because in the blackest moments, and the lowest lows, he’s had to be there. There’s no hiding for Colin.
All of us—casual fans, season ticket holders, even the ones who put in the really hard miles—have had the luxury of saying, at least once in our lives, “I’ll give this one a miss”. Not Colin, though. He’s there, so we don’t have to be.
There can’t be many people who’ve done Plymouth at home in 2005, and Chester away that same year, and Boundary Park in 2007, and the 8-1 against United, and the 5-0 at Pride Park, and the 5-0 at Burnley (and then the 5-1 at Burnley), and the 6-0 at Portman Road: even fewer with opinions that were fit for public consumption. But by the next game, he’s ready. Always buoyant: always believing.
But every now and again, you hear a glimpse of it—the honest pain of caring. Like after the Preston game, when Robin Chipperfield was asking him—again and again—what Forest were going to do. What could they change? Where, exactly, did they go from here?
“I don’t know,” he replied. He sounded sad, and small, and drained. “You keep asking me, but I don’t know.”
And when I heard that, it took me right back to the car, twenty-three years ago. Robin was looking for a glimmer, just like I was. A reason to believe. And hearing that from Colin—that resignation, and that weariness—hurt more than the loss itself.
I hope that Forest make it back to the big time one day, and I hope that Colin’s there when we do. He deserves it, as much as any of us—he’s better than what he’s been talking about, these past fifteen years. So let it happen, and happen soon, before Forest’s holding pattern of wild self-harm finally defeats him: before he has a nervous breakdown, and gets shunted onto The Beat with Dean Jackson.
However bleak the circumstance, however tall the odds—let his optimism and his enthusiasm ring out. Because us wallowers: we need it. He’s the voice that reminds us—every game, and every time—of football’s basic truth; of why it is we get excited, in spite of all we think we know.
The truth that says: we’ve got a chance, here.
12 thoughts on “The Spirit of Radio”
Excellent article. I was lucky to work with Colin in Nottingham before he moved full time to the bbc.
Trust me he is a proper forest fan, we used to go to games together before he started for the bbc.
I might be biased but he is very good at his job and we are lucky he never buggered off to sky or somewhere else. However, he will be the first to admit he has a face for Radio !!
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Hahaha… Ash, just by confirming he’s a proper Red, you’ve made my day. I always suspected as much.
Btw Martin Fisher is a derby fan 100% true. Tbf another good commentator.
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He was genuinely very, very good, as born out by his career thereafter. Colin always pipped it for me, though. I just wish they’d bring the jingle back!
Hes responsible for a couple of my favourite moments as a Forest fan, the ‘Cheltenham have scored’ line in 2008, the ‘Camp Saves It!’ at Pride Park is another favourite to, although his Ben Osborn goal commentary at Pride Park was fantastic.
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I was trying to work in the “Cheltenham. Have. Scored.” thing. A masterpiece of drama, and painting with space. He didn’t need to qualify it, or explain it – we all knew what it meant. I’ll never forget the eruption in the ground, whilst Forest were faff-arsing around the halfway line, all prompted by Colin. Wonderful.
His semi-eulogizing of Julian Bennett from the same game is fantastic. His interview in the programme the other week about how he rarely reaches ‘full throttle’ when commentating was excellent as well.
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Agreed. Norwich at home last year, I thought… in my memory, that was the last time he got *really* visceral. From the gut, that was – absolute relief and joy.
A few years ago I used to moonlight occasionally for the BBC Nottingham football team. I can confirm that Colin Fray, as well as being a lovely bloke, has a pretty mean left foot!
Great piece, this. As a precocious teenager in the 90s I used to sometimes bunk off school and go and hang around the Forest training ground to try and bag interviews with players for Forest Forever, the fanzine I was publishing at the time. Martin Fisher would often be there too – he was always generous with his advice.
As for Colin Fray, I moonlighted for a while with the BBC Nottingham football team. As well as being a lovely bloke, I can confirm that Colin has a Thor’s hammer of a left foot!
Great website this – now become essential reading and on my favourites bar. Do keep up the fantastic work.
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That’s very kind of you mate. I generally try to get one out every couple of weeks – work commitments stop me from writing as much as I’d like, but ho hum. Thanks for the support – honoured to have a place in your Favourites bar!