Chris Stanley's Bazaar

Euro 2020 begins today, and with the final at Wembley it seems somehow right that the tournament had to wait a year to create a 25 year gap with the last one. During last year's lockdown Euro '96 was repeated on ITV's streaming services to deflect us from the enforced emptiness, and although I made a start on watching it, it was nowhere near as good as I remember it being. But with excitement building, I thought it might be a nice idea to share a few memories of the summer of '96, partly before I go ga-ga and partly because the highlights of these events are so much different from the reality. Mine, I'd argue, was a perfectly normal Euro '96 experience, and if you take a read of these eleven nuggets of memory, you might find yourself nodding along. And, y'know, it's something to do at half-time. An Opening Day Win – In 1996 I lived in a very small world, one which encompassed about half a dozen streets between home, school, friends and grandparents. The...

Hi all I set myself a challenge today: could I come up with a horror story from nothing and get it posted before the end of Hallowe'en? The results are below. Read on if you dare! I Hear You Knocking I’ll see your flaming Buddhist, and raise you these pics from Tuol Sleng. Very grim. Drew’s pointer hovered over the upload option, as he mulled over whether this would put him ahead of the curve. This was Dark Night, after all. This was no time to be squeamish. He clicked it anyway, reasoning that even if he got called out for being dull, he hadn’t gone through his Cambodia folders for a while, and it had been nice to revisit old memories. The Khmer Rouge had given him some of his first cheap scares, and over the years he had added to the vacant, battered skulls and stacks of limb bones with some lesser-known delights: audio files, testimony and translated confessions from some of the two million. But he wasn’t giving those up without some serious leverage. Almost im...

Leo reached across the table to a paper cup full of wooden stirrers. His hand met long, slender fingers tipped with candy apple red. ‘Sorry,’ he blushed. ‘No problem,’ she said, her mouth widening into brilliant white. She patted his arm, running her hand down to his wrist, where her touch turned to electricity. ‘You’re new here. I spotted you when you walked in. You have a very sexy stride.’ She smiled again, placing her hand on her hip. ‘I’m Beatrice.’ There was an acute on the “a” in her name. This complemented the question-mark of her black cocktail dress. ‘Leo,’ he murmured, looking down at the floor. His trainers were scuffed and he could see the frayed hems of his jeans had been muddied by a hundred unnecessary journeys.m  They turned from the refreshments table and Leo looked around the room. Others were beginning to take their seats. None of them looked particularly friendly, but they all seemed wary of one another, as if one of them – nobody could tell who – w...