Warren Aspinall

Legends come and legends go, but none more so than that which surrounds the wearer of the number 8 shirt. Stories handed down over the ages tell that the original number was sewn on with a thread of pure gold, and that its wearer will be blessed with a special God-given talent.

Little, Shaw, and now David Platt, all have been witness to this age old fable.

But surely, greatest of them all was the man whose departure caused widespread redundancies throughout the wine bars and night clubs of the Midlands and permanent overtime for the Hampshire Constabulary.

Here, faithfully reproduced from October's 'Hit The Bar' we present a tribute to the one, the only, the immortal, Warren Aspinall.

"He fell to earth at Wigan and was quickly transferred by Everton who believed they could bargain/dupe Aston Villa into taking him on permanent loan. From then there was only one way he could go. Down the atlas of Great Britain by one hundred and sixty miles to Portsmouth where he settled upon an unknowing seafront.

At first he took the penalties (later he was to receive them), then he became centre-forward and this is where our story really begins. He got into the usual habit at Portsmouth of being booked, getting sent off, getting other players sent off, suffering suspensions and enabled the fickle fans to move on to symbolic hanging, drawing and quartering enacted on the terraces as fans, their passions inflated, began to commit all kinds of egregious acts in order to effect. his dismemberment.

But to no effect.

Chasing a through ball was fun - from behind the goal. From the side view, it was as if a doughnut was spouting cheeks of jam and accelerating with all the regressive speed of an ascending bathyscape.

Doubtless the bends became a further scheme of self abuse employed by the enthralled fans as their stomachs churned when the man in question shot over the bar from five yards with not an opposing player within yards of him.

Flick-ons and through balls came thick and fast to our shocked hero as he sprung the sweeper system once more and the ball landed at his feet as he sped towards goal with arms upraised amidst total uproar. Without the ball.

Even Mike Fillery took to passing to him with the 'keeper, by now mindful of Aspinall's accurately, sat with his feet up and reading a copy of Match Weekly, nodded in passing to the ball as it ballooned over the floodlights for a corner - to the opposition.

Ultimately, a back pass resulted in Warren 'Who called me a donkey' Aspinall being left on his own in front of goal. The other team had since left the pitch for a siesta and there stood our doyen, before him one hundred and ninety two feet of goal.

He anticipated the back pass with crimson-jowled glee, steam pouring from his armpits, and advanced the two yards to the centre of the goal line. From six inches, the ball was powered with such ferocity that it smashed into the woodwork, causing damage beyond repair. Luckily, the club had had the foresight to obtain before the game a spare corner flag."

Taken From "Hit The Bar", reproduced in The Best Of H&V