First Team Regular
Apr 10, 2013, 11:04 PM
Team(s): Brentford (for my sins - obviously done something really bad in a past life
Chris Kamara is a legend in Bradford. He took us to Wembley for the first (and until this year the only) time, and turned a team that was going nowhere into a promoted team within a few months. He played and managed with his heart on his sleeve, and we loved him for it. Why the animosity?
I know... you need to be a Bees fan to understand. Chris Kamara was part of the dream Brentford midfield (we've had dream defences, dream attacks and dream midfields, but sadly never all at the same time) of the early 80s of Kamara, Stan Bowles and Terry Hurlock. Think about for a minute and you'll see what a stunning midfield that was (respectively, that'd be realism, fantasy, and brute force) in the context of a third division side... as good as most in the country. Sadly, the rest of the bunch were fairly ordinary.
Anyway, Chris spent the best part of 5 seasons at the club, and was a universally well respected and well treated player.Then he left, then he went into the media, since when he has never wasted an opportunity to pour scorn on the club. Our view has been... well, if that's the way you want to play it...
Kamara in his role as a pundit has had many opportunities to spout his bile. However, he has only rarely returned to GP. To illustrate that it is not just me, but widely felt, a few years ago Sky were covering an FA Cup match and Chris was to be the expert summariser. Facilities at Griffin Park for TV commentary are rather rudimentary (a bit of scaffolding, and a ladder to climb up). So the TV gantry (ie scaffold) was just above me. Chris had just got himself settled down. Little old lady next to me (you know the sort, early 60s, marmite sandwiches, flask of tea, hubby in tow) started waving and shouting "Coo-ee, Chris... coo-eee....", at which point Kamara deigned to look down, smile on his face, probably expecting some kind words, only to be met by little old lady transformed into a figure of hate, shouting "Why do you f***ing hate us so much, you...." well I won't carry on, suffice it to say that (a) she continued with a diatribe involving words you would not expect to hear from an upstanding matron in her 60s with a hot flask in her hands and (b) her words were drowned out by an even ruder (if that was possible) chant from the neighbours in an otherwise Bovril-drinking, programme-reading part of the ground.
So, no, we don't like him because he doesn't like us.