Nathan Jones and a close encounter with mortality

Hours before the crowds arrive, a restless figure stalks the Valley’s main stand corridors.These are places, high above the dressing rooms, where no staff or public ever venture. Not quite forgotten, but only periodically disturbed.

The stranger, his mind elsewhere, wonders how he got here. And more importantly how he will find his way back, for duty calls. The players will be arriving soon.

Frustrated, he pulls on a door that is stiff from recent disuse. Reluctantly, it opens a crack. Inside is gloom, but the pictures scattered around on the walls reveal its designation. Nathan Jones, for it is he, has stumbled upon The Valley’s Last Chance Saloon.

Each image is obscured by a cross. Were the subjects traitorous or faithful? It hardly seems to matter now.

The first man pictured, Iain Dowie, was certainly a traitor. Palace chairman Simon Jordan thought so anyway. Dowie seems to be running down the side of a motorway.

Next to him is Les Reed, unique in this company for now in having tasted succcess in the dugout at the club. Who ever doubted he was faithful?

There’s Alan Pardew, definitely a villain, his head seemingly bigger than all the others. Perhaps it’s a trick of the light. There’s Phil Parkinson, a desperate look in his eyes. Strangely, he is wearing a Wrexham tie. Perhaps he is reliving his experience here 16 years ago.

A reminder that this was once a Belgian bar, which served drinks not very much to the taste of English patrons, is provided by the balding visage of Bob Peeters. Next but one to him is Guy Luzon, squatting on the touchline. But who is that between them?

Jones doesn’t recognise him. It is Karel Fraeye, the Liz Truss of Charlton managers, who may not have outlasted a specfic vegetable but might as well have been substituted by one. There’s Jose Riga – not really sure he belongs in here.

The next frame is empty. Nigel Adkins seems to have gone for a walk. Then Ben Garner, almost hidden from view behind a collection of empty glasses. Dean Holden, one along, may have drained some of them. Finally, Michael Appleton, or at least it may be him, as all Nathan can see is a pair of hands firmly in trouser pockets.

But where are Chris Powell and Johnnie Jackson, he wonders? Ah, but they had no last chance because they never had any chance at all, he realises. Karl Robinson and Lee Bowyer? They must have walked away before opening time.

Russell Slade is missing too. But an axe fell on him without any warning. It was even announced by rebel fans, hours before the club would confirm it had happened. 

Along the wall there is a fading slogan: “Every decision has been proven correct.”

It is a timely reminder of the years when dear Katrien Meire pulled the pints of finest hemlock on behalf of her absentee patron Roland. On the bar sits a red telephone with a direct line to Colorado. The police have long since requisitioned the call records.

Today there is no name above the door. It is unclear who would pull the pints, and perhaps those who control the licence like it that way.  

Jones has not crossed the threshold. He tries to pull the door shut but it will not budge for now. As he does so, he hears approaching footsteps. Are they coming to help or simply to thrust him inside? 

Outside the car park begins to fill up. Perhaps he will come back on Saturday.