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cad
12-12-2010, 05:52 AM
30 Years Ago



A phone rings in a cold, claustrophobic hotel room in the Polish mining town of Lodz.
It’s London calling, after a delay of an hour, rather than the normal three.
News that John Lennon has been murdered overnight slices through the static.
Russian tanks are massing on the border.
An invasion, designed to ensure the stillbirth of democracy, is apparently imminent.
Poland is threatened with repression, like Hungary and Czechoslovakia.
I’m on the front line of the Cold War, to report a football match.
Thirty years on, that third round UEFA Cup tie between Ipswich Town and Widzew Lodz, has a strange significance.
It is the symbol of a different time, a different world.
Back then, football was a source of inspiration, a vehicle for protest.
Its innocence is beyond comprehension, in an age in which we associate football with corruption, cynicism and cronyism.
Change is inevitable, constant, and horribly revealing.
It was minus 17 on December 10, 1980, when Ipswich went out to protect a 5-0 first leg lead.
The pitch, frozen and covered with compacted snow, was unplayable.
Today, it would cause an international incident. Back then, everyone got on with it.
The Ipswich kit man dislocated his shoulder, twice, ferrying the skips in an ancient van, which had a magnetic attraction to roadside ditches.
The pre-match meal was wild boar casserole. Isotonic drinks were the figment of a marketing man’s imagination.
Most of the Ipswich players, including our very own Terry Butcher, wore woollen tights, mittens, and bobble hats. Kevin Beattie, described by manager Sir Bobby Robson as “the best English-born player I’ve ever seen”, wore a short sleeved shirt.
Modern sports science would have warned him off constant cortisone injections into an arthritic knee, which curtailed his career at 27.
He earned buttons, ended on benefits and nearly drank himself to death.
He was twice the player that John Terry is, on 170,000 a week. Fans, bouncing off each other on steep, unprotected terraces, kept warm by necking litre bottles of vodka.
They sang songs in praise of striking dockworkers in Gdansk, and Lech Walesa, the trade union leader who would become president.
They threw snowballs at sullen soldiers, who were sufficiently peeved to make a show of waving their machine guns. Lodz won 1-0. They had beaten Manchester United and Juventus in the early rounds, an impossibility in these days of Champions League cannon fodder.
Robson, given time to build a club, made the team bus wait for journalists. We all sang Beatles songs on the three hour journey to the airport.
The Cobbold brothers owners with cut-glass accents and formidable thirsts — served Georgian champagne and port.
They famously decreed a crisis at Portman Road involved running out of white wine in the boardroom.
Today the club is in turmoil.
Roy Keane is morphing into Forrest Gump, with press conferences that should be conducted on a psychotherapist’s couch.
Marcus Evans, its secretive owner, has made millions out of the unofficial corporate hospitality industry.
When he suspected cameras were trained on him, at the last home game, he fled in his helicopter before the final whistle.
Ipswich went on to win the Cup in the 1980-81 season, an achievement now out of reach for a provincial club.
Beattie missed the final, and was refused a medal.
It was not until 2008 that Michel Platini, the UEFA president, thought to right an historic wrong.
Imagine.
Football was a game, back then. Now it’s a business.
Can it be reclaimed, wrestled away from the spivs and speculators? Let’s hope so.
You may say I’m a dreamer But I’m not the only one!

from Sunday Mirror Sports writer (http://www.mirrorfootball.co.uk/profile/?uAction=register)Michael Calvin (http://www.mirrorfootball.co.uk/profile/?uAction=register), (http://www.mirrorfootball.co.uk/profile/?uAction=register)
sadly I can remember all this . (http://www.mirrorfootball.co.uk/profile/?uAction=register)
The Beattie and Terry reference hit a nerve , but as they say dont blame the player blame the game ,but someones to blame . (http://www.mirrorfootball.co.uk/profile/?uAction=register)
To offer Tevez and actually pay Wayne Rooney 250,000 per week to play football is shameful , and disgusting IMHO
(http://www.mirrorfootball.co.uk/profile/?uAction=register)

MrHibs1982
12-12-2010, 07:24 AM
quite right - i was never around then but i wish i was, i love football as much as i am frustrated by it and the antics that goes on. i dont think we will ever see the likes again.
Another story i always like is this one, very funny and sure some hints of truth in it too:-

Clarence, Kieron, Warren, Christian, Sylvain & co take note...... I'm feeling all angry about these modern day footballers. I know why they have gone all soft - it's because of poncy names. That's what it is. Remember in the old days, when footy players kicked a *****ing ball made out of ten pound of clay stitched inside a steel-reinforced leather shell with laces made out of piano wire? Well, in them days players could only survive the rigours of the game because they were called things like Albert, Arthur, Bert, Harry, Bill, Eddie, Bob, Jack and Tommy. *****ing tough names for tough men, them was. And what do we have now? Gareth, Jason, Wayne, Dean, Ryan, Robbie. *****ing tarts' names, they are. Great big *****ing puffs. No wonder the ball's like a *****ing balloon and shin pads are like slices of bread. In the old days you never saw a Len Shackleton or a Billy Wright with a puffy little Sondico piece of paper down his little thin socks. *****ing shinpads in them days was made out of library books, and socks was like sackcloth. Same with the jerseys. *****ing shirts with holes in 'em now so they can breathe. Yes, so that little Jody's hairless chest can breathe and he doesn't get a chill. ***** off. Stanley Matthews used to dribble round Europe's finest wearing a *****ing tent and shorts cobbled together from the jacket of his de-mob suit. Aye, he *****ing did. No wonder players fall over all the time whenever an opponent comes anywhere near them. And they never used to show their ar*es at one another either. Can you imagine what might have happened if Don Revie had flashed his ring at Nat Lofthouse during a City-Bolton Wanderers game? He'd have got one of them size-13 hobnail *****ers up his bas*ard chuff. *****ing therapy for stress my ar*e! Stan Collymore slaps his missus about and he takes three seasons off with stress counselling. What the ***** is that all about? In the old days it was expected for footballers to belt the old sow about a bit, specially after a bad defeat. And the women used to expect it, and so they should have. They was lucky to be married to footballers. Ha! Trevor Morley got a kitchen knife in his back off his wife and was out of action for three months. Soft twat. Archie Mc****t of Port Vale got run over with horse and cart one Friday night and he still turned out against Bradford the following day. And he scored two goals. hat's cos his name wasn't Trevor". Good old Archie. roke his hip, both his legs, murdered his wife and buried her under the patio and still made the England team for the Home Internationals. Did he have any "stress counselling"? Did he bol*ocks! And drugs? There was none of that in the old days. Oh, no. In them days it was a quick shot of morphine before kick-off and you was lucky if you got that. By half-time it had all but wore off so they pumped you full of laudanum. None of this cocaine sniffing and shooting up class A narcotics. Goal celebrations? Don't talk to me about goal celebrations. Crawling on the floor and thrusting their hips at the crowd. Huh! I'd like to have seen Cliff Bastin do that after a run down the left flank and crossing for Alex James to fire home a winner. Handshakes...and that was all you got. That and a wa*k in the showers afterwards. But it was a proper wa*k...all man stuff. None of these puffy wa*ks between blokes that you get nowadays with players like Graeme Le Saux and Stephen Gerrard. Allegedly. In them days, there was nowt wrong with it cos it didn't mean nowt. They used to say there was a "gay atmosphere" in the dressing room after the match. But it didn't mean owt mucky. Just a bit of harmless spanking the plank among healthy young sportsmen. Aye. I know. Me dad told me. Sixty grand a *****ing week! Ha! I wouldn't pay 'em tuppence. Two bob is what Tommy Lawton used to get...a month! And Tom Finney still worked as a plumber four days a week when he was playing for England. It's true, you know. *****ing is. Players had to work them days just to make up their money. Not like today. Stan Pearson had to clean sewers and doubled up as Old Trafford shi*house cleaner. He had to go off during one game because some ***** had built a log cabin and blocked the U-bend. And that Eddie Hapgood was a male model...though he never liked to talk about it. So I say we start calling kids real male names again. If you're having a kid, don't even consider puffy names and shi*e names like what people call their kids these days. Otherwise what we gonna get in twenty years' time? The England team full of players called Keanu, Ronan, Ashley and *****ing Chesney. ***** that! Call your kids Alf, Herbert, Len, Frank, Fred and Wilf. And let's get the puffs out of the game once and for all

cad
12-12-2010, 08:23 AM
quite right - i was never around then but i wish i was, i love football as much as i am frustrated by it and the antics that goes on. i dont think we will ever see the likes again.
Another story i always like is this one, very funny and sure some hints of truth in it too:-

Clarence, Kieron, Warren, Christian, Sylvain & co take note...... I'm feeling all angry about these modern day footballers. I know why they have gone all soft - it's because of poncy names. That's what it is. Remember in the old days, when footy players kicked a *****ing ball made out of ten pound of clay stitched inside a steel-reinforced leather shell with laces made out of piano wire? Well, in them days players could only survive the rigours of the game because they were called things like Albert, Arthur, Bert, Harry, Bill, Eddie, Bob, Jack and Tommy. *****ing tough names for tough men, them was. And what do we have now? Gareth, Jason, Wayne, Dean, Ryan, Robbie. *****ing tarts' names, they are. Great big *****ing puffs. No wonder the ball's like a *****ing balloon and shin pads are like slices of bread. In the old days you never saw a Len Shackleton or a Billy Wright with a puffy little Sondico piece of paper down his little thin socks. *****ing shinpads in them days was made out of library books, and socks was like sackcloth. Same with the jerseys. *****ing shirts with holes in 'em now so they can breathe. Yes, so that little Jody's hairless chest can breathe and he doesn't get a chill. ***** off. Stanley Matthews used to dribble round Europe's finest wearing a *****ing tent and shorts cobbled together from the jacket of his de-mob suit. Aye, he *****ing did. No wonder players fall over all the time whenever an opponent comes anywhere near them. And they never used to show their ar*es at one another either. Can you imagine what might have happened if Don Revie had flashed his ring at Nat Lofthouse during a City-Bolton Wanderers game? He'd have got one of them size-13 hobnail *****ers up his bas*ard chuff. *****ing therapy for stress my ar*e! Stan Collymore slaps his missus about and he takes three seasons off with stress counselling. What the ***** is that all about? In the old days it was expected for footballers to belt the old sow about a bit, specially after a bad defeat. And the women used to expect it, and so they should have. They was lucky to be married to footballers. Ha! Trevor Morley got a kitchen knife in his back off his wife and was out of action for three months. Soft twat. Archie Mc****t of Port Vale got run over with horse and cart one Friday night and he still turned out against Bradford the following day. And he scored two goals. hat's cos his name wasn't Trevor". Good old Archie. roke his hip, both his legs, murdered his wife and buried her under the patio and still made the England team for the Home Internationals. Did he have any "stress counselling"? Did he bol*ocks! And drugs? There was none of that in the old days. Oh, no. In them days it was a quick shot of morphine before kick-off and you was lucky if you got that. By half-time it had all but wore off so they pumped you full of laudanum. None of this cocaine sniffing and shooting up class A narcotics. Goal celebrations? Don't talk to me about goal celebrations. Crawling on the floor and thrusting their hips at the crowd. Huh! I'd like to have seen Cliff Bastin do that after a run down the left flank and crossing for Alex James to fire home a winner. Handshakes...and that was all you got. That and a wa*k in the showers afterwards. But it was a proper wa*k...all man stuff. None of these puffy wa*ks between blokes that you get nowadays with players like Graeme Le Saux and Stephen Gerrard. Allegedly. In them days, there was nowt wrong with it cos it didn't mean nowt. They used to say there was a "gay atmosphere" in the dressing room after the match. But it didn't mean owt mucky. Just a bit of harmless spanking the plank among healthy young sportsmen. Aye. I know. Me dad told me. Sixty grand a *****ing week! Ha! I wouldn't pay 'em tuppence. Two bob is what Tommy Lawton used to get...a month! And Tom Finney still worked as a plumber four days a week when he was playing for England. It's true, you know. *****ing is. Players had to work them days just to make up their money. Not like today. Stan Pearson had to clean sewers and doubled up as Old Trafford shi*house cleaner. He had to go off during one game because some ***** had built a log cabin and blocked the U-bend. And that Eddie Hapgood was a male model...though he never liked to talk about it. So I say we start calling kids real male names again. If you're having a kid, don't even consider puffy names and shi*e names like what people call their kids these days. Otherwise what we gonna get in twenty years' time? The England team full of players called Keanu, Ronan, Ashley and *****ing Chesney. ***** that! Call your kids Alf, Herbert, Len, Frank, Fred and Wilf. And let's get the puffs out of the game once and for all



:agree: No sure aboot Wilf tho

hibbybrian
12-12-2010, 08:40 AM
A ripping football yarn - Part 1 :greengrin


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wmLDlpapPKE

Phil D. Rolls
12-12-2010, 09:52 AM
I think they should also bring back ring worm and children begging on street corners.

Beattie ended up on benefits - I bet he's glad he bothered.

degenerated
12-12-2010, 10:03 AM
I think they should also bring back ring worm and children begging on street corners.



that you suggest this tells me you haven't been to an away match against hearts for some time :greengrin

Phil D. Rolls
12-12-2010, 10:31 AM
that you suggest this tells me you haven't been to an away match against hearts for some time :greengrin

Cough, er, well, I work you see........:blushie: