“Work. Went up Nigs. Mart P. came up, went to have a game of football. Mart R joined us”
2-a-side football eh?
Jumpers for goalposts?
2-a-side football eh?
Jumpers for goalposts?
1973’s FA Cup Final has always been lauded as one of the best in the competition’s history.
Leeds United were (then) amongst English football’s ‘heirarchy’ (between 1965 and 1974, the team never finished a season outside the Top 4 of the First Division!) and were squared up against Second Division strugglers Sunderland – and thus were expected to “walk it”
However, a first half goal from Sunderland’s Ian Porterfield and a tremendous save from goalkeeper Jimmy Montgomery denied Leeds their expected success.
It’s perhaps most memorable though for Sunderland’s manager, Bob Stokoe‘s reaction at the final whistle.
Wearing his customary pork pie hat and a trenchcoat over a figure-hugging red tracksuit he ran from the touchline – in quite a strange jumpy fashion – to hug the goalie.
Here’s some highlights from the match.
It’s perhaps no surprise that I still have the watch that my grandmother gave me 36 years ago.
A terrific (indeed, “bludy smart“) Huntana model suitably engraved – in Danish – on the back.
Time and date, 25 jewels and “automatic” (not “atomatic” as I wrote).
It has to be said that for a kid in 1973 “automatic” was quite a revelation – the whole notion that you didn’t have to wind up your watch anymore, that it would wind itself just by wearing it. Would technology ever end?
I wore the watch for years afterwards, really only retiring it from use when I got into the whole “Swatch” watch phenomenon. I have popped it on a few times more recently, only to discover on each occasion that it (sadly) loses time. When monies allow I should really get it repaired, and the scratched glass buffed out.
As someone who has just joined a proper gym – for the first time ever – at the ripe old age of 51, I feel somewhat amazed that I appeared to have expelled so much energy 36 years earlier.
No idea what sport Dick & I beat Nob & Clodge (Clodge?, what kind of name is “Clodge”?) at… table tennis maybe?
If that wasn’t enough exercise for the day, I then played football in the evening.
Blimey, this post makes me feel worn out just reading it.
Wow, specs were expensive even then! £10.80 is the cost of 4 or 5 albums in 1973. I secretly suspect, however, that my Dad forked out his own hard-earned money on my behalf.
I had totally forgotten about retail chain Rumbelows (from where I ‘bort’ a new record cleaning cloth). The chain was as utterly ubiquitous as Dixons or Comet ‘back in the day’ with branches on almost every high street.
The one in Eastleigh (now, I believe, home to a Carphone Warehouse?) was a weird mixture of mainstream record store and cheap electrical white goods.
It seems strange that, for something that was ‘everwhere’, there is scant mention of the chain online these days, although one research page reminded me that the chain was once owned by (Thorn) EMI, sponsored the Football League Cup from 1990-1992 and gave up the ghost as (shockingly, to me) recently as just 1995.
In other news…. damn that bloody Roger!
Of all the jobs at Lancaster & Crook, having to make deliveries around the neighbourhood – using the ‘bloody’ bike – was by FAR my most hated.
I was used to riding a bike with sit-up-and-beg handlebars and with an element – only an element mind you – of cool. The shop bike was the exact opposite. The frame size was completely inappropriate for me, the seat height (set for the 6ft+ Roger dude) too high for my teenage testicular area and the look as ugly as hell. Get a few households grocery deliveries in the rack on the front and the bike became as unstable as you could ever imagine.
I also became a figure of fun for the local gangs of ‘thugs’ with catcalls heading my way on a regular basis, only adding to my lack of confidence when riding it.
Indeed, I’ll go so far as to say the bike ID’d me as a “bit of a twat” in the eyes of the ‘hard kids’ in the neighbourhood, a stigma which I never lost until… well, really until I left. (35 years later, when I return to England and stay with my Dad, I sometimes recognise a few of those wankers – now balding and as fat as hell – grimly walking the same streets with their fugly wives and even fuglier children and consider karma to have worked)
They say that the key to success in sport is “consistency”.
As you can see, I was terribly consistent in my ping-pong play against Sned, perfectly losing by the same score three times in a row.
I would like to point out that that image of the table tennis bat on the right is in NO WAY representative of the bats we used to play with at school. Ours were somewhat more… how should I put this?…. bloody worn out! Indeed, if the bat you happened to pick out of the box had any rubber covering on it your chances of winning were dramatically enhanced. The balls too varied from “slightly shagged out” to “misshapen work of the devil”, although in this regard at least the disadvantage was a shared one.
Table Tennis was perhaps one of the very few ‘sports’ I enjoyed participating in during gym. Probably because it involved FAR less physical effort than football, rugby, hockey or basketball AND I was unlikely to be roughed up by the opposing team. (No guarantee of that, of course, but I’m hard pushed to remember anyone leaning across the ping-pong table to punch me in the arm?!)
Table Tennis appears to have been this particular day’s highlight. An eye test and a dental appointment all in one day is now my idea of utter hell. I have no doubt it was back then too as I have never been a fan of visiting either.
I am intrigued by the inclusion of “GF3” tucked away in small letters in the corner of the diary entry. I have no idea to what it refers, and further inspection of the diary prior to this date shows no “GF1” or “GF2” so as to hint at some kind of time/event lineage.
I’ll leave you to imagine as much as I have been. Was it my own special code for something rude? The third date? (I have made no diary references to dates with Angela, or anyone else) The third girlfriend? Perhaps it simply refers to my drubbing at the ping pong table, suggesting I “Got F…… erm … Frustrated three times over?
Oh no! Got muddy? Quelle horreur!
I bet when she saw my gym clothes my Mum used an inappropriate swear word or two.
36-years later and “set up two” is now described as “a pair of assists”
TEN! (Sign me up Scolari!)
In “soccer” too. Shame it wasn’t in football?!
Why the hell, in 1972, would I have called it soccer all of a sudden?
In an ironic twist, I have spent my (so far) ten years in the USA trying my hardest NOT to succumb to the American habit of calling the beautiful game “soccer“. Bah!!