tomclare
3rd May 2005, 16:47
This is the piece that I wrote for the Programme Notes for the Annual 606 Substitute Dinner which was held in Manchester on 22nd April. Thought I would share them with you all.
“ So Are The Good Old Days Nothing More Than Rose Petaled Nostalgia?”
A few months ago in one of our discussion threads, the question was asked at the end; “So Are The Good Old Days Nothing More Than Rose Petaled Nostalgia?” For those of you who know me, you know that I wallow in nostalgia regarding this great game of ours. I’ve said, and written it so many times before; nostalgia is a disease with no known cure. It might well dwell on things past, but it makes them seem like next-door neighbours rather than visitors from a different land. There’s so much to be said for it, and the wondrous quality of nostalgia, is that it is unchallengeable! Like beauty, it rests in the eye of the beholder.
I was 5 years old when I paid my first visit to Old Trafford. It was nothing like today’s magnificent stadium, but it was the little acorn from which today’s tree blossomed. My Brother often reminds me of that first visit when he recalls that at half-time, he said “I think we’ll go now.” To which I replied, “I don’t think we will” and he was miffed because he had missed going fishing that day just to take me to watch United Reserves! That decision to stay was really the condemnation to a lifetime’s addiction to the game! Out of that first tentative visit grew a love affair that has lasted until the present day without showing any kind of weakness. I have loved football like my favourite barmaid! It’s so easy these days to switch my mind back to those far off days when I caught the bus at All Saints, and made the short trip up Stretford and Chester Road, to Old Trafford. Those buses were always crowded with men in big hairy over coats and flat caps, smelling of Woodbines, Turf or Nosegay, and also, of last night’s beer! At The Trafford pub, I would alight from the bus and join the noisy, chattering throng going down Warwick Road to the ground.
When I look back, Old Trafford in the mid-fifties could never have been called a pleasant spot, but no sporting sight has thrilled me more, before or since, than as I cross over the railway bridge and my eyes rest on the place where all my heroes live. Aston, Carey, Rowley, Pearson, Byrne, Berry, Whelan, Taylor, Viollet, Pegg, Charlton,Cantwell, Quixall, Setters, Gregg, Dunne, Stiles, Crerand, Best, Law etc., etc, and of course two men who for me were the epitome of Manchester United – Bill Foulkes and my all time number one player – Duncan!
Inside the ground you would be joined week in and week out by “the regulars” – people who had seemed to be rooted to the same spot forever! There was a guy we christened “The Maniac”. He was so charmingly named because of his towering outbursts of rage which seemed to always coincide with arrival onto the pitch of the match Referee! “No justice from this prat today people - No justice at all” was always his opening gambit, and once the game started, he would always be questioning the Referee’s parentage – “Who’s your Father? Who’s your Father?, Who’s your Father Referee?” was just one of the more milder expletives that he used. And God forbid that any opposition player committed a foul – in an instant he would be off into a tirade of obscenities! Then there was “Wobblygob” – a spotty character much in physical stature to Mick Jagger! He had exceptionally prominent full lips. This unfortunate act of nature was remarked upon by none other than the “Clown Prince of Soccer’ – Len Shackleton. It would have been around 1956 in a game against Sunderland, and I can clearly remember “Wobblygob” giving Sunderland, and Len in particular, plenty of the verbals. Shack must of got tired of hearing this, because he had to come down onto the running track to retrieve a ball so that he could take a throw in, and “Wobblygob” seeing Len’s arse stuck in the air as he bent to pick up the ball, yelled “I never knew you were so good looking Shackleton”. Len obviously tired of hearing the abuse for so long stood up quickly and looked directly at “Wobblygob” and shouted “Tha’ could ride a bike round thi’ ******* gob!” Laughter all around and a red card for “Wobblygob.”
We all shared the infinite pleasures and dark despair that every fan goes through following the fortunes of his or her team. It was standing in those same spots over the years that I saw many things beautiful and ugly, sad and comic, and with every passing Saturday, grew more in love with the game. It was at Old Trafford that I first saw Bert Trautmann, who although he played for City, became a hero and icon of mine. It was here, where I first watched in my opinion, what I believe was the best team ever (but you all know how biased I am!) – my beloved “Babes” – On every visit to the magnificent stadium today, I still genuinely sit there before the kick-off and see the ghosts of my past and ponder what I would give to see those wonderful boys take on the Chelsea’s and Arsenal’s of today’s modern game – believe me, they would have made the London teams look like selling platers!
During the 60’s Manchester was alive, and for all of today’s so called “immortal” “World Class” and “Great” players – tell me any local rival teams that could boast six forwards of the caliber of Summerbee, Bell and Lee, (all Englishman which is as scarce as rocking horse crap in today’s game!) and Best, Law and Charlton? I salivate at the thought of seeing those six wonderful players out on the same pitch – and the memories and the nostalgia comes flooding back!
Watching football today, I am constantly reminded of all the changes that have taken place, not only in the game itself, but in the actual physical appearance of the players. Today’s young men are slick, and sleek, streamlined, and there’s nothing in their appearance that tells you who is the right full back or the inside right. When I first started watching and playing the game, you could normally tell from a player’s physique, which position he played in. The ‘keeper was always a light heavyweight, muscular, but not muscle bound. The full backs were what I termed “Bulldogs” – short, squat men with block heads and narrow eyes, no-nonsense faces and bandy, fearsome legs! The centre-half was always the tallest man in the team –having a forehead hammered flat by the constant contact with thousands of muddy footballs – a large majority of them had cross eyes and seemed to be in a daze – it was only in my later years that I realized that most of these guys walked around with permanent concussion! Flanking him were the “frighteners” – the wing-halves – they were invariably built along the lines of dance-hall bouncers. The wingers were always small, fast, but very tricky with the mandatory bandy legs, whilst the centre-forward wore the look of the haunted desperado who was expected to run through brick walls and was fearsomely roundly abused if he shirked it! The inside forward were the aristocrats! They seemed to wear their hair a little longer than the rest and carried with them an air of intellectual superiority, like college boys playing in a pit team!
Throughout all of these years, on every Saturday afternoon throughout the season, when back in those days it always seemed to be dark and raining, this motley, assorted crew of human beings decided the mood of thousands of fans for the following week. If they won, we went home happy, buzzing, full of optimism and my old man would be more than happy to take my Mum out to the boozer and treat her to half of mild! If they lost, well it was like going home with a funeral cortege, the bus being the hearse and the report in that night’s “Pink or “Green” an obituary to a loved one!
Football has been so much a part of my life. There are thousands more of my generation just like me. All I have done is to try and describe a symptom known to every person who gave their heart to a football team. I am luckier than most, being blessed with a good memory, having played the game at a decent level, being able to follow my favourite team to countries all over the World. My therapy is what I write about my nostalgia. I remember lots of my contemporaries who back in the fifties went to watch football as much as to be out in the open air than for the football itself; others like “The Maniac” and “Wobblygob” went to rid their frustration on somebody who couldn’t hit back; many, like me, went because we were caught up in a daft love affair which defies reason but gave us colour, movement, humour, drama, dreams, and a million memories. This last few years, I have shared those memories with you all, and I’m pleased that there is some record of them. For as long as I live I hope that you will still hear me argue “Great player – you never saw Big Dunc!” or “ Full back – he was never as good as Tommy Banks”
So are the “Good Old Days” nothing more than Rose Petaled Nostalgia? I’ll let you decide.
“ So Are The Good Old Days Nothing More Than Rose Petaled Nostalgia?”
A few months ago in one of our discussion threads, the question was asked at the end; “So Are The Good Old Days Nothing More Than Rose Petaled Nostalgia?” For those of you who know me, you know that I wallow in nostalgia regarding this great game of ours. I’ve said, and written it so many times before; nostalgia is a disease with no known cure. It might well dwell on things past, but it makes them seem like next-door neighbours rather than visitors from a different land. There’s so much to be said for it, and the wondrous quality of nostalgia, is that it is unchallengeable! Like beauty, it rests in the eye of the beholder.
I was 5 years old when I paid my first visit to Old Trafford. It was nothing like today’s magnificent stadium, but it was the little acorn from which today’s tree blossomed. My Brother often reminds me of that first visit when he recalls that at half-time, he said “I think we’ll go now.” To which I replied, “I don’t think we will” and he was miffed because he had missed going fishing that day just to take me to watch United Reserves! That decision to stay was really the condemnation to a lifetime’s addiction to the game! Out of that first tentative visit grew a love affair that has lasted until the present day without showing any kind of weakness. I have loved football like my favourite barmaid! It’s so easy these days to switch my mind back to those far off days when I caught the bus at All Saints, and made the short trip up Stretford and Chester Road, to Old Trafford. Those buses were always crowded with men in big hairy over coats and flat caps, smelling of Woodbines, Turf or Nosegay, and also, of last night’s beer! At The Trafford pub, I would alight from the bus and join the noisy, chattering throng going down Warwick Road to the ground.
When I look back, Old Trafford in the mid-fifties could never have been called a pleasant spot, but no sporting sight has thrilled me more, before or since, than as I cross over the railway bridge and my eyes rest on the place where all my heroes live. Aston, Carey, Rowley, Pearson, Byrne, Berry, Whelan, Taylor, Viollet, Pegg, Charlton,Cantwell, Quixall, Setters, Gregg, Dunne, Stiles, Crerand, Best, Law etc., etc, and of course two men who for me were the epitome of Manchester United – Bill Foulkes and my all time number one player – Duncan!
Inside the ground you would be joined week in and week out by “the regulars” – people who had seemed to be rooted to the same spot forever! There was a guy we christened “The Maniac”. He was so charmingly named because of his towering outbursts of rage which seemed to always coincide with arrival onto the pitch of the match Referee! “No justice from this prat today people - No justice at all” was always his opening gambit, and once the game started, he would always be questioning the Referee’s parentage – “Who’s your Father? Who’s your Father?, Who’s your Father Referee?” was just one of the more milder expletives that he used. And God forbid that any opposition player committed a foul – in an instant he would be off into a tirade of obscenities! Then there was “Wobblygob” – a spotty character much in physical stature to Mick Jagger! He had exceptionally prominent full lips. This unfortunate act of nature was remarked upon by none other than the “Clown Prince of Soccer’ – Len Shackleton. It would have been around 1956 in a game against Sunderland, and I can clearly remember “Wobblygob” giving Sunderland, and Len in particular, plenty of the verbals. Shack must of got tired of hearing this, because he had to come down onto the running track to retrieve a ball so that he could take a throw in, and “Wobblygob” seeing Len’s arse stuck in the air as he bent to pick up the ball, yelled “I never knew you were so good looking Shackleton”. Len obviously tired of hearing the abuse for so long stood up quickly and looked directly at “Wobblygob” and shouted “Tha’ could ride a bike round thi’ ******* gob!” Laughter all around and a red card for “Wobblygob.”
We all shared the infinite pleasures and dark despair that every fan goes through following the fortunes of his or her team. It was standing in those same spots over the years that I saw many things beautiful and ugly, sad and comic, and with every passing Saturday, grew more in love with the game. It was at Old Trafford that I first saw Bert Trautmann, who although he played for City, became a hero and icon of mine. It was here, where I first watched in my opinion, what I believe was the best team ever (but you all know how biased I am!) – my beloved “Babes” – On every visit to the magnificent stadium today, I still genuinely sit there before the kick-off and see the ghosts of my past and ponder what I would give to see those wonderful boys take on the Chelsea’s and Arsenal’s of today’s modern game – believe me, they would have made the London teams look like selling platers!
During the 60’s Manchester was alive, and for all of today’s so called “immortal” “World Class” and “Great” players – tell me any local rival teams that could boast six forwards of the caliber of Summerbee, Bell and Lee, (all Englishman which is as scarce as rocking horse crap in today’s game!) and Best, Law and Charlton? I salivate at the thought of seeing those six wonderful players out on the same pitch – and the memories and the nostalgia comes flooding back!
Watching football today, I am constantly reminded of all the changes that have taken place, not only in the game itself, but in the actual physical appearance of the players. Today’s young men are slick, and sleek, streamlined, and there’s nothing in their appearance that tells you who is the right full back or the inside right. When I first started watching and playing the game, you could normally tell from a player’s physique, which position he played in. The ‘keeper was always a light heavyweight, muscular, but not muscle bound. The full backs were what I termed “Bulldogs” – short, squat men with block heads and narrow eyes, no-nonsense faces and bandy, fearsome legs! The centre-half was always the tallest man in the team –having a forehead hammered flat by the constant contact with thousands of muddy footballs – a large majority of them had cross eyes and seemed to be in a daze – it was only in my later years that I realized that most of these guys walked around with permanent concussion! Flanking him were the “frighteners” – the wing-halves – they were invariably built along the lines of dance-hall bouncers. The wingers were always small, fast, but very tricky with the mandatory bandy legs, whilst the centre-forward wore the look of the haunted desperado who was expected to run through brick walls and was fearsomely roundly abused if he shirked it! The inside forward were the aristocrats! They seemed to wear their hair a little longer than the rest and carried with them an air of intellectual superiority, like college boys playing in a pit team!
Throughout all of these years, on every Saturday afternoon throughout the season, when back in those days it always seemed to be dark and raining, this motley, assorted crew of human beings decided the mood of thousands of fans for the following week. If they won, we went home happy, buzzing, full of optimism and my old man would be more than happy to take my Mum out to the boozer and treat her to half of mild! If they lost, well it was like going home with a funeral cortege, the bus being the hearse and the report in that night’s “Pink or “Green” an obituary to a loved one!
Football has been so much a part of my life. There are thousands more of my generation just like me. All I have done is to try and describe a symptom known to every person who gave their heart to a football team. I am luckier than most, being blessed with a good memory, having played the game at a decent level, being able to follow my favourite team to countries all over the World. My therapy is what I write about my nostalgia. I remember lots of my contemporaries who back in the fifties went to watch football as much as to be out in the open air than for the football itself; others like “The Maniac” and “Wobblygob” went to rid their frustration on somebody who couldn’t hit back; many, like me, went because we were caught up in a daft love affair which defies reason but gave us colour, movement, humour, drama, dreams, and a million memories. This last few years, I have shared those memories with you all, and I’m pleased that there is some record of them. For as long as I live I hope that you will still hear me argue “Great player – you never saw Big Dunc!” or “ Full back – he was never as good as Tommy Banks”
So are the “Good Old Days” nothing more than Rose Petaled Nostalgia? I’ll let you decide.