Forget about  D.H. Lawrence and aristocratic birds having it away in the potting shed with the gamekeeper, as far as Town fans of a certain age are concerned there will only ever be one Chatterley, as this article by Rob McIlveen from SWWF issue no. 13, first published in 1990, shows.  

Turning to my right, the body from which the voice emanates stands like some human Dock Tower.  There stands Lawson, sorry ‘Lew’, Chatterley.  Taking my pass he speeds off, bound for the Pontoon End goal still shouting, though to no-one in particular, “SON, SON, SON.”  Just outside the penalty area he swings his right leg…

I can trace the origins of the dream back to February 1972, and our phoenix-like rise to Division Three.  For the first, and since I have no intention of going back, only time, I went to see the Mariners at Hartlepool.  Though Town won 1-0, courtesy of another Matt Tees goal, it was the impressive debut of Lew Chatterley that was most talked about on the long journey home to civilisation.

McMenemy signed Chatterley from Northampton for a fee of around £8000, a veritable bargain given the extravagant fees that have been paid for some of the rubbish that has performed in Town’s colours.  Though not gifted intellectually – a 1974 programme tells us Lew thought that because Grimsby was near the sea it must be north of Blackpool – his physical strength and skill on the ball lent a certain air of superiority to the Town midfield.  When his winner at Colchester virtually secured the Mariners’ promotion, he effectively paid off his transfer fee in one go.  His effort, the third goal in the carnival against Exeter, merely confirmed that McMenemy had unearthed a real gem.

In the following season, Chatterley’s most endearing and enduring characteristic manifested itself.  Whenever the ball was some 30 yards out and Chatterley was steaming towards it, Blundell Park hushed.  If he got it right the opposition goalkeeper never knew (sometimes literally) what had hit him.  Russian submarines might not have been able to break through Cosalt’s nets, but a Chatterley special could.  For a while, you could see the young, and not so young, kicking a football about and periodically shouting, “CHAT-TER-LEY” as one of them hit a screamer.  If Lew got it wrong though, 10,000 people simultaneously ducked, knowing that their insurance policies did not cover death by means of a football travelling at the speed of light.

Fortunately for Town, it went right just about as many times as it went wrong.  Lew’s hat trick against Walsall and his winners against Scunthorpe provide perfect illustrations.  But when it did go wrong it was a complete disaster.  A few weeks ago I was chatting to a (the?) Swansea supporter who recalled three efforts on the occasion Town lost 6-2.  The first went in, an apparently stunning goal.  The second left the Vetch and ended up somewhere in Cardiff.  The third was, by all accounts, pure theatre.

Having attracted Boylen’s attention with the omnipresent cry of “SON, SON, SON.  GIVE IT, SON” etc, Chatterley approached the ball in Basil Fawlty-style, arms outstretched, neck craned, and legs courtesy of the Ministry of Silly Walks.  With his eye very definitely not on the ball, he swung his right leg.  Like an edge from a Malcolm Marshall bouncer, the ball flew off in the direction of gully or, in this case, a group of Swansea fans enjoying a flask of tea.  Since they were at a virtual right angle to the intended direction of the ball, they had no reason to expect to see it travelling in their vicinity.  The shot apparently knocked three of them clean over and, I imagine, necessitated a replacement flask.  The small band of Town fans missed the comedy.  They had wisely taken cover as Lew cocked the trigger.

Chatterley left Town in January 1974, his last game being, fittingly, a 5-1 victory in which goals flew in from all directions and distances.  From Grimsby he teamed up with McMenemy at Southampton and then coached various clubs in the art of long-range shooting.  The Who’s Who indicates that (at least in 1985) he was the owner of a Torquay boarding house, a suitable occupation and location for our Basil Fawlty act-alike.

How does my dream finish?  The last thing I remember is a deathly hush and 10,000 people all diving for cover…