Dear WSC
Your piece on the delights of terracing in Germany (WSC 171) provided a stark juxtaposition with the book I am currently reading, Nick Varley’s Parklife, where remorselessly he denies the reader any escape from the fact that Hillsborough is the pivotal moment of modern English football. For a moment I bathed in a tide of nostalgia, wistful for the excitement and overwhelming passion of terrace culture. Seats were for spectators, not fans. I also recalled the crush amidst the Tottenham fans at the Leppings Lane end in 1981 referred to in Varley’s book as the disaster that nearly happened. Last month I watched another semi-final, this time sitting in the Stretford End with my children. I’m proud they share my undiminished enthusiasm for the game, but we would not be together, either at Old Trafford or in the Members end at White Hart Lane, if we had to stand. We go to every home game in perfect safety and the view is excellent. Earlier that day they had for the first time been exposed to a fraction of the experience of the old days, and the famous adage that clubs never learn. Several thousand fans arriving for the official coaches formed an orderly queue round the ground. Well past departure time the random arrival of coaches, no stewards, no information and only three police meant that we joined everyone else roaming up and down the High Road. The best informed copper had not been told where the coaches would pull up and advised us to wait and “scramble for a seat”. The club were sufficiently organised, however, to open up the club shop from 5am. Thanks to the fans there was no trouble. My kids were bewildered at this lack of organisation because their experience of supporting their team is so utterly different, and I am glad this is the case. They already know about the contempt with which football treats the fans (left home 4.30am, back home 12.45 am). The game remains indifferent to Hillsborough and the Taylor Report in so many ways, but if terraces return we will still be sitting down.
Alan Fisher, Tonbridge
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Stories
Cris Freddi dredges up some of international football's worst mismatches. If you come from Guam, it's probably best to look away now
Gotti Fuchs must be kicking himself in his grave. Back in 1912, Germany seem to have taken their foot off the pedal immediately after he’d scored his tenth goal against Russia. There were still 20 minutes to go (around the same as when Archie Thompson hit double figures against American Samoa), but Fuchs’s tenth was their last. They probably thought enough was enough, but if they’d set him up for a couple more he would have broken the world record instead of equalling it, and they wouldn’t have fallen one short as a team. A more genteel era? Only relatively – 16-0 isn’t exactly what you’d call merciful.
After 22 years of sponsoring the top division in English football, Barclays is as big a part of the football fraternity as the clubs themselves
When Barclays first sponsored the Football League (as it then was) in 1987, the angry young men (as we then were) at WSC wrote: “What the deal says about the League is this: they believe that Barclays Bank enjoys more warmth and respect in society than football itself.” It was a fair point, particularly as the sum involved was only £4.55 million over three years, which might just be enough to attach your company’s name to Patrick Vieira’s socks these days. It seemed that it wasn’t so much the money the League needed, but reassurance from the corporate world that football had not sunk irredeemably beneath its notice.
The trial of Lee Bowyer, Jonathan Woodgate and Michael Duberry has thrown an unflattering light on the values of Leeds' young players. John Williams argues the club should bear some of the responsibility
In one sense, of course, the coverage of the trial of Jonathan Woodgate, Lee Bowyer et al in Hull has been faintly ridiculous. Since when did a post-nightclub brawl, of a kind which takes place pretty much everywhere in this country every weekend, become the stuff of front page tabloid stories, day after day? Even with the suggestion of racial overtones – unfortunately by no means unusual either – this hardly stands up as a big spread. Except, of course, that these young guys are already B-list celebrities, actual or prospective England international footballers. Well, here’s more than a start: in a celebrity-fixated, reality-TV culture, this already offers enough for the full media treatment.
Dear WSC
On January 13, Paul Alcock officiated at the Northampton Town v Bury match. During the obligatory photo just prior to kick-off, home mascot Clarence the Dragon made as if to push Alcock à la Di Canio but actually made no contact. Alcock’s reaction was to spit out: “Oh very fucking funny! I haven’t heard that one for at least ten fucking minutes.” This in front of the two young mascots who immediately told their parents as they came off that the referee had sworn at Clarence. Unbelievably, Alcock actually reported the “incident” to the FA with the result that the club has been fined and Clarence handed a severe reprimand and cautioned as to his future conduct. Just what planet does this prissy little pipsqueak come from? Talk about double standards.
Peter Smith, Northampton