By Henry Gardner // Originally published in ‘Gnome Life’ magazine, April 2017 [Retrieved 09/09/2021]
“They’re coming to take me away, ha-haaa!” My shrill cackle permeated the tiny house as I glided across the kitchen linoleum. The winter sun flooded in through the gaps in the vertical blinds. Its beams made the dust particles dance; it had been a while since I had cleaned the place.
I stopped before a small mirror in the hallway, and checked myself out. My eyes were beady but still shone bright, my nose was pointy with a bulbous end, and my beard was an unkempt mess of patches that sprouted from two wiry tufts of hair on either side of my tiny head. I was the spitting image of a garden gnome, with my diminutive stature and stocky build, so it would be pretty easy for me to blend in at the local football stadium this evening.
I had heard they were hosting an important football match on Saturday night, and as such there would be thousands of people in attendance. I may have been a tiny, old gnome with no hope of regaining my former position as a Whitehall Godfather, but that would not stop me from having a few adventures of my own.
My plan was to disguise myself as one of the plastic garden statues that sit atop the vast majority of British terraced houses, and then sneak into the stadium with the rest of the crowd when they opened. I would blend in amongst them, not giving my presence away until it was too late…
“Hahahahaha.”
I flew out of the house before my cackling became so intense that it attracted police attention. It was a twenty-minute taxi ride to St. James’ Park, and I sat in the back seat marvelling at the sheer number of people who were already making their way into the venue. Large groups huddled together waiting for their friends, while many single-figure stragglers tried to catch up. These people were all garbed in football colours, some in replica kits with shorts that barely covered their large beer guts. I quickly realized there was no way I could sneak past them all, so I had to think on my feet…
“Please take me to the nearest garden centre,” I requested of the taxi driver. He nodded and off we went.
The taxi driver dropped me outside a venue half an hour later. I thanked him and sent him on his way, but not before giving him a hand-written receipt under one of my many aliases. There was no telling when the taxman would eventually catch up with me again, so it was best to stay ahead of the game where I could.
The large garden centre was doing a roaring trade as people bought flowers, shrubs and other exterior treats to spruce up their homes for the summer months. In truth it was too cold for most of these items right now – they should really have been sold in the spring – but that did not stop shoppers from sipping on their Starbucks lattes and perusing the capitalist delights on offer.
I zeroed in on a branch of Chelsea Folly, and found my way to the garden gnomes section. It was here that I found an exact replica of myself from head to toe, which made me chuckle heartily. The price tag gave it away as being made in China, which meant that I could afford it without having to sell my body on the streets.
I swaggered over to the checkout with my miniature shopping bag, and plonked down all of my pockets full of loose change onto the counter. The cashier was a pretty young thing who had obviously left her glasses at home; she looked me up and down before turning her eyes towards the gnome.
“That will be four pounds please, sir.”
Miniature replica of myself in one hand, it was time to make my way back to the stadium.
I met up with a few friends in the queue, and we casually walked towards the entrance together. The security guard gave us all a cursory glance before allowing us through, despite my gnome-sized body not blending in as well as I would have liked. Perhaps I was small enough after all.
I walked through the turnstile and into St. James’ Park, ready to complete my plan in front of seventy thousand fans…
“Oh, Christ,” said the lady behind me as she clocked what I was holding in my hand. “That is a gnome.”
She was right. That gnome, which I had spent all of my money on, was most definitely a gnome.
“You’re holding a garden gnome,” she said with an air of annoyance, like I had just spat in her hair. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s a garden gnome?” I asked innocently.
“That is a garden gnome.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, still acting naïve. “What’s a garden gnome?”
She just shook her head in disbelief and pushed past me, snapping the gnome from my hand in the process. The cheap plastic hit the concrete a metre or so away from where I stood.
A red mist fell over me. I launched into a tirade of abuse towards the lady, telling her that she had no right to be so rude. The trickle of people entering the stadium became a torrent as they all tried to avoid this small-scale disaster area.
I turned around and pushed my way past them without making eye contact, and made my way to the nearest toilet cubicle. The rage still hadn’t left me, and I kicked the door open with such force that it hit the back wall and broke off its hinges.
I walked over to the mirror and looked at what had caused all of this trouble; a small garden gnome stood there, embedded into the concrete by my foot. I looked at it, and grinned from ear to ear.
It reminded me of the time Alan Shearer had scored a hat-trick for Newcastle United against Manchester United back in April 1995.
I had to recollect myself.
It was time to put my plan into action.
I took a deep breath, and calmly walked out of the toilet cubicle, to a chorus of boos from those who had witnessed my outburst. I ignored them and carried on walking, knowing that the football was about to start.
I found my seat, and sat down between two very attractive women who had booked their tickets online weeks ago. The lady on the left looked at me before turning back towards her friend; no doubt she was telling her what she had seen.
The woman on the right kept looking over at me, but not like normal fans do. Her eyes were filled with disgust; I could tell she would rather be anywhere in the world than watching football with a gnome-toting moron.
Discreetly, I made my way to the home dressing room, where nobody had thought to check for anything as small as a small, gnome-sized man. I had my plan A, B, C and D ready to go if necessary.
“What in the name of God are you doing in here?” asked Steve McClaren, manager at the time.
“I’m just out for a stroll.”
“You can’t be in here, this is where we keep all of the players’ stuff,” he said with an air of annoyance. It reminded me of that time when Sam Allardyce had lost his temper with another smaller gentleman, Craig Bellamy.
“Why don’t you just get out of here?”
I took a step back. “Are you threatening me?” I asked innocently. It reminded me of the time when Kevin Keegan had been threatened by Albert Luque after he picked up an injury during the 2006 Netherlands v Argentina World Cup quarter final.
“I’m not threatening you,” he said through gritted teeth, “I’m asking you to leave.”
“You’re a crap manager,” I said triumphantly, recalling the quote from a newspaper article in which Alan Shearer had called him a wally with a brolly.
My plan successfully deployed, I decided that it was time to exit stage left. I walked out of the dressing room and down the tunnel, to a chorus of boos from the Newcastle faithful.
I got back in my car and drove home with a smile on my face; I had put in almost three years’ work into this one moment. All these years later, I can still see the look on McClaren’s face as I told him to go fuck himself.
I had started my career as a professional Newcastle United garden gnome, and I’ve never looked back.
Leave a Comment